Gentrified Bushwick
By Ebelin Garcia
I’ve lived in Bushwick, a neighborhood in Brooklyn, all my life. Those streets are where I grew up, met the friends I have today, and chased down ice cream trucks as a kid. It was enriched with so many different cultures. It was dominated by Hispanics, meaning it surely was not a quiet or clean community. There was graffiti and name tags on the walls, garbage on the street and my apartment building was a wreck. These things made me self-conscious about any friends walking me home or even worse inviting friends over. I mean what would they think? Anyways, my mother and I always complained about how small the apartment was. A day never went by without mentioning how amazing it would be to move away. Towards the beginning of 8th grade, the streets by my school began to flood with white people. I didn’t think much on it, they were far enough from the streets I claimed as my childhood. Progressively they made their way up the streets and eventually some moved on my block. That’s when things began to go downhill.
Wyckoff Ave. became bar and pub central, all those Mexican restaurants, the Dominican hair salons and the ma and pops shops went out of business because the rent were skyrocketing. The building across the street kicked out all its tenants and renovated it and became an affordable apartment for the incoming white people, not for the minorities that filled the community. Next was the neighboring building. I woke up to a lot of noises and drilling every single morning.
Somewhere last year in May, my sister texted me saying, “Edwin sold the building.” Edwin was the landlord and it was understandable that he sold it. The building was in terrible conditions and it was reasonable to sell it and rid the ongoing problems it had. I immediately knew that we’d be the next group of families to give up our homes for the wealth and benefit of the people who were dominating the community, buying building after building and renovating.
Soon, nostalgia swarmed us all and we no longer desired to leave. This was our house, where we were raised and where we wished to live in for a couple of more years. The spring nights were spent on the front porch looking across the street. Not that it had anything special but I tried to absorb all my memories of that exact moment. The time we had there was limited and soon the apartment became more spacious like my other wanted, but for the wrong reasons. I no longer felt ashamed of my street, I just wanted to embrace it!
Now I live in East New York, in an overpriced apartment and I saw a white couple get out the train station and walk to a building. That could be the start of gentrification in this area. This shouldn’t be confused as an essay that’s against the integration of different races and ethnicities. The problem is ignoring the fact that in order for them to move in but it shouldn’t be at the expense of being forced out your home. Someone told me that gentrification was a positive thing and I want to believe so. But increasing the homeless rate and skyrocketing rents to reach an unaffordable amount of money shouldn’t have to be the price.
