I am the “other.”
Chances are that you are the other as well. Unless of course you are Native-American, then that is not the case. So, it is quite possible that your ancestors arrived on these shores in shackles and chains, victims of the abhorrent institution of slavery and indoctrinated into a new type of “otherness.” Or it may be possible that you or a family member arrived in North America, in these United States, seeking a better livelihood, a desire to escape war or flee religious persecution. You or your ancestors came by land, air and sea to The United States of America because it stood for hope in the face of suffering. Still the other but with a chance to assimilate and have the opportunity to access life, liberty and freedom in the messy experiment called The United States of America.
My grandfather, Israel Galperin, came here from Poland in March 1921 as a “transmigrant by bond.” When he landed at Ellis Island he was the other. I was very young when he passed away so we did not have any conversations as to why he left Poland as a young man to come to The United States of America. I can only assume that he came here because he felt it gave him the best shot at a better way of life.
He eventually settled in the Bronx, New York and worked in the garment industry in Manhattan. To assimilate better my grandfather, Israel Galperin, became “Sol Alper.” He married my grandmother Lillian, another other from Russia. Her family arrived here on the heels of the Russian revolution. She told me that as a young girl she was chased by soldiers in the woods near her home and separated from her family. She wound up for a short time in an orphanage until her family could be located.
Sol and Lilly raised three children, not always in the best of circumstances or with the best of finances. They tried their best and that is all that one could ask for. Their children went on to have children of their own, who have done their best to raise families of their own and contribute as best they could to the diverse fabric of The United States of America. That is the simple story. That is the story of who I am and how I came to be here in the United States of America. That is the story that must continue in order for The United States of America to survive, at the very least, comparably speaking, on moral high ground.
Lately, many people who were once others or came from a family of others have found it hard to identify with this generation of others, even though these people are interested in coming to The United States of America for the same reasons our ancestors did. The overwhelming majority are here for good purposes and, as in the past, this is a benefit to our nation. It is what has made The United States of America great. Yes, there may be a very few that wish to come here for nefarious reasons. That is a statistical reality and should be dealt with by immigration officials using the tools they have at hand. However, a ban on those traveling to the United States, especially one that singles out individuals according to their religion is divisive, antithetical in regards to terrorism and most importantly unconstitutional.
Today we stand at a crossroads in The United States. Banning individuals from entering our country because of their religion and origin challenges much more than legalities and constitutional rights. It challenges our collective compassion, empathy and humanity. It challenges us to decide what side of history we want to be remembered as being on. The side of the braggart without a heart, the showman who was able to tap into the irrational fears of 62.9 million voters to gain the presidency, only to begin the dismantling of everything The United States of America has stood for, leaving us on the doorstep of totalitarianism and global warfare. Or will we be on the side of truth, love, justice and the defense of liberty and freedom, not only in our country but across the globe. The future dangles in the balance.
This past summer I vacationed in Washington, D.C. with my wife. While I have worked in D.C many times over the years, I had not taken in the sights since at least the early nineties. Other than the stifling heat and mini-blackout that affected the hotel we were staying in, it was a fun and informative trip. Some of the exhibits we checked out had extra special significance given that we are in a particularly divisive presidential election cycle.
I have a keen interest in history and politics and there were more than enough museums, memorials and exhibits to keep me interested for the three days we were there. That being said, there were some highlights that stood out. The Smithsonian had a special exhibit about the history of U.S. presidential elections. It focused on the issues that surrounded each particular election, the agenda of the candidates and the views of voters. My wife and I also waited in line to view the Bill of Rights and The Constitution which were kept in a climate controlled case. Seeing the documents up close that are part of the foundation of our republic reinforced what freedom and liberty mean to me. Finally, we spent time at the Holocaust museum. Following the timeline of the rise of Hitler and fascism was particularly significant. The historical footage from that era and the personal accounts of how people were affected made me realize that you can never let your guard down when it comes to politicians and what their true goals are when they seek power.
It was extremely easy, based upon the D.C. trip, to start drawing conclusions about the democratic and republican nominees for president. The first thing that I thought was “this is really the best we have to offer our country and the world?” How can it be that these two individuals were on the verge of the presidency? Both seem especially damaged compared to previous candidates and one, in my opinion, seemed quite ignorant.
After returning home from our trip the election rhetoric and divisiveness really started to pick up. I have had awareness of nine presidential elections in my lifetime and this one by far has had the worst mud-slinging. The Willie Horton episode during the Bush/Dukakis election seems tame compared to what’s been going on this year. While Hillary Clinton has encouraged by her actions a great deal of worthy skepticism by the electorate, the republican presidential nominee has had absolutely no problem injecting xenophobic, racist, regressive and factually incorrect statements into the campaign debate.
Even though it has happened before, particularly in the Goldwater and Nixon campaigns, it seems particularly sad that a presidential candidate would take advantage of free speech and resort to hyperbole that tears at the very fabric of our union. Additionally, his delivery has been very alarming as it resembles authoritarian rhetoric that includes blame-shifting, historical reworking and double-think reminiscent of the novels 1984 and Animal Farm by George Orwell and Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. The design of Donald Trump’s language, crafted by many years as an actor and public figure that understands what the media feeds on, is very hard to resist without a conscious effort to question it.
I recently found a remarkable video online that features an interview of Aldous Huxley by Mike Wallace from 1958. In the interview, Huxley posits that conditions are ripe for a totalitarian regime, quite possibly in the U.S., and that the instance of this is “right around the corner.” Here we are some fifty odd years later and Huxley’s prediction can not be ignored. The factors leading up to the election are quite alarming. We have an authoritarian candidate, an alpha-male assuming the role of a father figure that claims to be the only one that can “fix the mess” our country is in. The candidate is also masterful in his use of the media and seems to not only play the media like a fiddle but also has complicit individuals willing to humanize him like Jimmy Fallon and Dr. Oz. Add to those factors voters that are hopeless and eager for change because their lives and livelihoods have deteriorated or at the very least stagnated for years. Many of these people have suffered as a result of the recession and globalization. I fear that despite what any politician says or promises, be it a change candidate or recycled candidate, the jobs and 401K’s of these disaffected people are never coming back. It seems that the world has left them behind and our smartest government officials have failed in the process.
There is a case to be made for change but it is troublesome that voters would consider Donald Trump as a change for the better. Once you get past his provocative proclamations, you are struck with the fact that he has spent his entire life working in his own self-interest and not in the interest of others. He also does not appear to have an understanding or curiosity about the mechanisms of government and leadership outside of his own business. Additionally, he refuses to reveal anything about himself other then the slightest surface details and is on pace to set the Guinness Book of World Records record for falsehoods. If we consider the presidency at its most primary distinction, that of a job, clearly he is shockingly under qualified. I doubt people would get on a plane if a pilot displayed the same attributes that Donald Trump presents to voters yet close to half the country is willing to give him the keys to The White House. The most puzzling part of Trump’s support resides in the fact that in a country that prides itself in freedom, people are willing to risk having their freedom severely diminished by giving an authoritarian their vote.
I can’t say I share much in common with the average Trump supporter. In my opinion, many of their views are misguided and based solely upon irrational judgements and acceptance of falsities. However, I do understand their disenchantment with the political status quo and their desire for change. This is also something that Donald Trump understands very well. While he may not be the smartest presidential candidate the U.S. has ever produced, he might very well be the most clever and certainly the most manipulative. Many people wrote Trump off as a “crackpot” or “dumb” when he began his quest for the presidency. I wish he was as dumb as he presents himself. The truth is that he is smart enough to understand how to get elected yet dumb enough to destroy our economy, involve us in protracted conflicts and destroy our standing in the world. He is George W. Bush on steroids.
What I learned at the holocaust museum was that many Germans made the same mistake about Hitler when he started to gain power in Germany that our electorate is making about Donald Trump. Initially they did not take him seriously and this allowed him to gain a foothold with people that were suffering economically a great deal after WWI. Let us hope that history does not repeat itself and that The United States does not suffer the same fate that Germany did by allowing an authoritarian to ascend to the highest position in our democracy. If that is the case we may very well wind up a dictatorship.
As the gentrification process continues to move forward at an astounding rate in Brooklyn, celebrities like Michael Rapport and writers like Wendell Jamieson have taken the position that the changes have been for the better and that any negative impact, be it destruction of culture or displacement of long-time Brooklyn residents is “par for the course.” I wrote the following piece not long ago as a personal exercise to deal with the changes that have affected me, a life-long Brooklyn resident. I never intended to post it but a recent article by Mr. Jamieson entitled “My Brooklyn, Then & Now” and Mr. Rapaport’s public feud with Spike Lee inspired me to post this creative piece about a conversation between two old friends that happen to bump into each other on a Brooklyn street. While it’s more along the lines of a monologue, I think the point will come across.
A Conversation Between Two Old Friends…
Yo bruh! Wuzzzup?!?! Wow! I can’t believe it’s you! Remember me? Yes, Scooter! How long has it been? Ten maybe fifteen years? Twelve years – that’s right. You always had a good memory. Yes, right after 9-11. That’s the last time I saw you. We bumped into each other on the promenade in Brooklyn Heights. Right near that makeshift shrine with a photo of the World Trade Center. All those candles and the photos of people that were missing. Man, the buildings still smoldering, I’ll never forget it. Yeah, I try not to think about that time too much either. Kinda’ sad the shrine was removed when they started upgrading the area. It was really sincere Y’know. Real authentic. I guess you’re right though, no sense in reliving bad memories.
How am I? I’m doing great man. Got myself a steady job working for transit with all the OT I want. Yeah, I had to put the creative endeavors aside. Got a wife and two kids man and they need to eat! Mortgage, car payment, you know the deal. Oh, you paid cash for your crib and ride a bike? Wow! That’s pretty slick bruh! You were always smart about things. Smart to get out of the rap game too when you did. I hung on a little too long. Nowadays you need tons of money to be in the rap game. People coming here from all over with a dollar and a dream. Nah, make that $100,000 and a dream! Buying up all our old clothes and rhymes and then getting paid ten times what we did. Re-purposing rhymes? Ha, ha! You’re still mad funny bruh! Still got a great sense of humor! Man, remember we had nothing and we still made it happen. Didn’t need no club with a cover charge. No promoter or marketing guru to take a taste. We had a basement, a blue light and 2 turntables. And you, you were nasty with those decks! We did it for the love! Refined? Hmmm, I never thought about it that way. Yeah, things are definitely hot right now cause the scene became refined but man, we kept it real when we were coming up!
Yeah man, I agree, enough about the past. Actually, enough about me! Bruh, look at you! You look great man! And you made it! Every time I turn the tv on or look at the news there’s something about you. Man, people talking about you all over the world – even in France! Makes me feel good. Like I made it too! Man, you even met the President! Were there to greet him when he got off that helicopter in Prospect Park. Yes, he is looking out for us. Got my vote – twice! Can you believe a Crooklyn OG like you meeting Obama! Oh, sorry man I guess Crooklyn OG could give people the wrong idea about you. A reporter asked Obama about you and “O” said he said he thought you were cool. That’s awesome bruh! O saying you’re cool. You’re golden now! Good for you man, good for you. I guess good for us, right?
Well, I’m happy you’re living the life! All those celebrity party’s that you host at Barclay’s. I see all those limo’s on Flatbush Avenue now and it blows my mind. Have I been there yet? Nah, too rich for my blood bruh. Wife says we gotta’ stay focused and keep the eyes on the prize. One day though, one day. Funny, people were forced to move so the stadium could be built and now they prolly can’t even afford to sit in a place where they used to sleep. Yeah, I hear you, it’s best for the long run. In fact I’m proud we got a pro team again. Man, I think the Nets can win a championship this year. Oh, you’re not keeping up with basketball? Really, you’re the dude that stood at the foul line, threw the rock off the backboard and dunked on Jerome in Vanderbilt Park! I’ll never forget the look on his face! Oh, you’ve been watching football? That’s tough the Giants and Jets both have been sticking it up. English Premier league? Oh THAT football. You mean soccer bruh!
Yo, remember Tina? I bumped into her a few months ago. She’s still fine, bruh. Still single too. Can’t figure out why she never found someone. She’s a real good girl. Always kept it real. Remember when we double dated at Coney Island and got stuck on The Wonder Wheel? We were both trying to make like we weren’t scared but two hours was a long time. She was the strong one, the one that kept us relaxed with all those funny stories. Man, everyone thought you two would be the first to get married. Yeah, I hear you, relationships can be funny things man. I see that ring on your finger bruh. Who’s the lucky lady? Her name is Chloe? That’s a pretty name bruh. Oh, she’s French? How did you meet? At a chateau while skiing in France? Nice man, nice. You must have a lot in common. Really, she doesn’t speak English? No, no I don’t parlez-vous Francais. Never thought I would need to around here.
Yo, we’re not too far from Smiley’s. How about a slice on me? Oh, they don’t use organic ingredients? I didn’t know there was such a thing as organic pizza. Silly me. Yes, I will definitely look into organic, artisanal, wood baked coal oven pizza with plum tomatoes imported from San Marzano. Well, maybe some other spot we used to go to then? Oh, you have a business brunch to go to in Bushwick for a new wine bar you’re opening that re-creates the atmosphere of southern Spain. That’s awesome man, awesome. You’re really making good bruh! I’m proud of you man! Yes, yes I’d love to come to the opening and meet Chloe. I’ll even try and learn a little French! Alright bruh, Brooklyn, it was great seeing you!
To commemorate the year anniversary of Hurricane Sandy here is a first hand account from my friend Dominique Gauvard. She was right on the front lines in the Rockaway’s and really captured the reality that nature can be unpredictable and powerful.
“For Sandy.” Part One.
1. I watch the water parade over our protective wall and trample it into oblivion right as our lights blow out. This is the same wall I‘d jump over on dares, used to rest my shoes, and frequented as a seat for a better view. It disappeared in the first surge of white wash of the salt water. At first it comes as a curious toddler – crawling up the block and inspecting every crevice it finds. It quickly matures into a ferocious, beastly parent – scolding us for not quite listening to her warnings. The water invades our homes, claiming their dry walls as property of war. We are under attack.
“This is not normal. We really shouldn’t be here.”
2. A low orange glow brightens up the charcoal coated night. It glistens like sunlight across the sooty sky. It is ominous and looming. It causes you to go numb with the kind of fear that dissipates logic and only causes confusion. You get bits of reason from slight distractions proving you’re still in reality: when you stare into your black apartment, when your phone buzzes with news of those in this with you, or when you hear your father trying to secretly assemble escape plans. It encompasses the whole sky without a trace of a source. Intrigue fades into hysteria. Helpless – you can’t get to them, the ones you love, and can’t be sure how in danger they are. Paranoia – if the orange glow doesn’t spread to you then a new flame will begin here. Fear – there is nothing for you but water and night. Flames lick the sky and clamber closer towards us, mercilessly teasing us. We are trapped by red, blazing walls. We are watching the fire hop closer forcing our flamed prison to shrink.
“We don’t know where to go. It’s literally raining fire!”
3. I’m simultaneously standing at my front door and the water’s edge. The sea has calmed her siege and lays claim over her land. We stand paralyzed at the site of Poseidon’s new kingdom, full of confusion at the drastically different landscape – there is no more earth. There is no more neighborhood. There are only canals that are stagnant and unmoving. The only threat the water holds now is as a liquid barrier for those trapped by the fire. It is her last hurrah in the fight.
“I really feel like I’m in Armageddon.”
4. The SOS signal beams from a barely working flashlight in a barely standing house and barely makes its way down the block to those too trapped to help. We cling to our windows, hoping to see them leave – we never do. Children cry and wail for parents. They howl with a special kind of despair that was reserved for this moment. Their cries before this were merely practice for the display this massive event required. Their voices carry blocks in a chorus of sobs – all for mom, all for dad, all for normal, all for the water and flames to go away. A car floats by with what looks like a man inside. It is the only time I’ve ever seen my father scared.
“I dunno, kid. This is kind of scary.” Silence.
5. It is almost like we briefly have light again from the rapidity of texts coming to our cells – the only way to communicate in this technologically dependent society. This final wave of updates matched the final wave crashing through our street next to our window. My phone lights up as I see the final crest fall.
“The windows just blew in. I just made it out.”
“I had to swim out of my basement.”
“I’ll have to talk to you later – we just contacted emergency services.”
6. I pray for the first time in years. The prayer was not to get out of the situation, but out of certainty that I will not see the sun rise from this night.
7. I’m outside again. The house was too confining and, maybe, if I go outside it won’t be as bad as it seems. The windows are playing tricks on my eyes and this is not reality. It is. The smell is nauseating. The oil rises and envelops my nose in a violating manner. Those ugly, rainbow ribbons of oil swirl at my feet – gliding past the posts of my fence and tops of trees in the island in the street. The smell latches onto my clothes and will not let go. Not even four months later.
“The smell is so thick.”
8. Homes float by – not full ones, but enough pieces to construct one. Their newly finished wood floor glides by another’s stainless steel refrigerator. An oven knocks past a couch and both are stuck by a truck that belongs three blocks away. A roof floats by my porch and I hope that whatever knocked it off didn’t knock the rest of the house over. I wonder what roof their Thanksgiving will be held under.
“There’s cabinets on my porch. They aren’t mine.”
9. I pass out before morning, certain I’ll wake to smoke forcing itself into my lungs. The whole night is devoid of color except for the three indistinguishable infernos. We are all wide eyed with exhaustion and fear, unable to calm anyone to sleep. Fatigue wins only when the bravest souls maneuver boats to tame the scorching homes.
“I can’t sleep. Is it coming this way?”
10. I woke up to a new landscape. We are the zombie apocolypse. We are unable to communicate past groans of pain and shock. We are unable to walk and awkwardly stagger to assess the new apocalyptic world. We are unable to think because our brains can’t understand the damage done. You have ruined us.
As an incoming freshman at Brooklyn College in 1987 I was required to be screened for inclusion into a speech course. The testing procedure was quite simple. A copy of The New York Times was given to me and I was asked to read the lead article. I confidently breezed through a newspaper that I had been indoctrinated to while attending Andres Hudde J.H.S., also in my native Brooklyn. Upon finishing, I gathered my belongings and headed for the door under the impression that I would not have to take the speech class. Much to my surprise I was handed a card that had a check mark next to Speech 3. Feeling like a batter in a baseball game that thought he would be issued a walk and instead was called out on strikes, I approached the screener and asked for an explanation.
“It’s your accent dear. It’s very Brooklyn.”
Much has changed in Brooklyn over the past twenty-five years when I was subject to that speech class screening. I am proud to say that my accent is not part of those changes. However, some changes, including the very recent rise of wealthy transplants to Brooklyn, have created not only a culture clash, but also an overall feeling that there is a dwindling number of native Brooklynites left in the borough. As one of the “natives,” I often question how and why the changes have occurred, as well as where do I, and those like myself, fit in?
As a free-lance session drummer, I have always found myself navigating within different networks of musicians from all walks of life. The language of music is universal, especially drums and rhythm. Fortunately, I have been blessed to play with many homegrown musicians as well as with those that have found their way to Brooklyn from around the world. These encounters have often led to interesting musical interpretations and mash-ups. It has also led to some strange personal experiences as the population of Brooklyn has seemingly shifted from a predominately working class demographic to an influx of transplants from the Midwest and Europe, with not only a dream to make it in New York City, but the wealth to make it happen.
I first started feeling like an outsider in my own town back around 2005 when I was attending a rooftop loft party thrown by a prominent Swiss musician. When I picked up my friend, a German ex-pat, to go to the party she said the building was in East Williamsburg. East Williamsburg? I had never heard of such a thing! The address she gave was clearly Bushwick. Maybe there was something lost in translation? Arriving at the party we were greeted by her friends that were from various European countries. I was the only townie, the lone Brooklynite. The introductions finally found their way to me and a young woman asked where I was from.
“Brooklyn,” I replied.
“But where are you really from?” she questioned.
“Well, I’m a native Brooklynite.” I answered.
“Can’t you tell? He drinks cawfee and parks his cawr!” said my friend as she mimicked my accent.
The ice was broken! Everyone laughed and in a strange way I felt like an ambassador for Brooklyn. The mood was light and people asked what it was like to be raised in Brooklyn. Their curiosity was endearing and we shared a mutual interest in the music that night, bridging the gap between cultures. There was also a shared sense and understanding that I was a Brooklyn native and they were guests and transplants in my town. While my radar definitely indicated that things in Brooklyn might be changing (rooftop loft party’s in Bushwick?), I felt that night as if I was “breaking bread” (or beats for that matter) with working class yet artsy people such as myself.
My 2005 experience lays in stark contrast to a recent encounter where my accent was once again thrust into the spotlight. I was playing a show in Williamsburg backing an artist with whom I greatly admire. Most of her fan base reflects the new Williamsburg/Bushwick demographic – mid-20’s to late-30’s, mostly white, transplants, and in all likelihood, high money earners or trust fund babies to which the working class Brooklyn ethos might appear foreign. I have played in a lot of different projects over the years and must say that the current Williamsburg music scene is a great one for musicians. The fans are earnest, support their artists by coming to see them live and are enthusiastic at shows.
On this particular Tuesday night, the room was full and the energy was live. So, here I am, a lifelong “dyed in the wool” Brooklynite amongst the “newbie” transplants that call Williamsburg “Billyburg.” On two separate occasions that night I was asked not only where I was from but where was my accent from? I thought they couldn’t be serious but I soon realized that they were. For a second I was nervous. Did I lose my accent somewhere along the way, amidst my travels and contact with non-Brooklynites?
Because of some outward markings my oldest and closest friends often joke that I am a hipster but the dead giveaway that I am not is my accent. However, the two people I spoke with thought I was like them, a transplant from another place but they couldn’t figure out from where. I was a bit shocked that these two individuals didn’t make the connection. In a very nice way I explained that I was from Brooklyn. Really from Brooklyn! I felt compelled to not only bring their attention to the fact that they were in the presence of a life long Brooklynite but also that our numbers were beginning to dwindle as transplants such as themselves began to populate Brooklyn and change the culture – for better or worse. It was too much for the both of them. The gentleman nodded and walked away as if the conversation was leading to a place inappropriate for a light social gathering. The young women smiled and stared at me blankly like a deer caught in headlights. She did not seem to understand where I was coming from. If there is one obvious quality that the new Williamsburg residents share, other than their obsession with distinctions, it is that they do not like to have their good time interrupted.
Maybe my reaction was not the most diplomatic approach but I was also mired in the difficult process of searching for a new apartment rental and I let my frustration get the best of me. The house in which I was renting an apartment in Kensington was sold, I had to find a new place to live and it was my first experience being a housing seeker in a sea of gentrification. I quickly found that as a working class musician I was not only priced out of the more desirable Brooklyn neighborhoods, but I was also on the verge of being unable to stay in Kensington, my “hood” since 1992. The price on Brooklyn rentals increased close to 7% in 2011, which does not sound like a lot but to a freelance musician, it is.
I was working with several realtors during the search and they all relayed the same story – Brooklyn is a hot commodity and the transplants have the capital to acquire it. I can understand their desire. There is something about Brooklyn sensibilities and roots that translate worldwide. I have traveled as far away as Japan and people always seem to recognize my accent and Brooklyn “attitude.” When you are from Brooklyn you carry a certain “street cred” and cultural capital that is both sophisticated and down to earth.
During my search, a very dear friend and his girlfriend were in the process of buying an apartment in Williamsburg. They are hard working children of immigrants who were transplanting from New Jersey. They had scrimped, saved and borrowed to get the down payment together for a beautiful apartment right on the edge of the East River. The building (ironically enough called The Edge when the “edginess” that Williamsburg once had has since faded) was located a block away from a studio and artist space that I used to rehearse in during the late nineties. Back then the neighborhood was still a Polish and Puerto Rican enclave with only a smattering of artists who had emigrated from the Lower East Side. It was literally on the same plot of land that used to be an abandoned dock, where a girlfriend and I climbed through a fence and watched the wreckage of the Twin Towers smolder on September 12th, 2001. Now, about ten years later, a gleaming amenity-laden high rise stood triumphantly, surrounded by overpriced boutique shops and restaurants frequented by a class of people that a Brooklynite like myself used to only see when in Manhattan. The same people that likely would have been frightened to be in Brooklyn alone ten years ago now jog fearlessly at night along Kent Avenue.
My friends gave me a tour of the apartment and building and I expressed how happy I was that they got the place that they wanted. They work hard and deserve it. The conversation turned to me and how my apartment search was going. I informed them that it was not going too well, that I was having trouble finding a decent apartment, in a decent neighborhood and in my price range. Musicians learn early how to keep lifestyle expenses low so we can survive but renting an apartment for $900 a month with a bathroom ceiling that is caving in is a stretch. My friend’s girlfriend then suggested moving to Jersey City, which would be more affordable. WHAT?!?! I know she was genuinely offering a suggestion intended to help but – Jersey City? I’ve been there many times. It’s a nice place but Brooklyn is in my blood. How ironic was it that my good friends moved into Brooklyn and one was now suggesting that I, a native Brooklynite, move out?
The emerging Brooklyn lifestyle has come with a financial and cultural “price-tag” that is extraordinarily hard to bear. It appears that the rapid changes Brooklyn is undergoing were not implemented with native Brooklynites in mind. Instead they are geared to the “nu-Brooklyn” vanguard that have no interest in adding to the established Brooklyn cultural nuances but instead have a desire to create their own fantasy version of what Brooklyn should be. A utopia of trendy, bearded and bespectacled tastemakers circa the eighteen nineties. Yes, Breucklandia!
My gut is telling me that a lot of native Brooklynites have either chosen to move or have been forced to move away over the past ten years because they can no longer afford the borough. Brooklynites have never been ones to stand in the way of progress but it is quite sad that all the recent changes seem geared toward the affluent. For years I would complain that I had to go out of my neighborhood or into Manhattan to enjoy some things like sushi or a great bar with live music. Well, now my neighborhood is filled with fashonistas sporting designer dogs, a proliferation of Chicago Cubs and Cleveland Indians baseball caps, new live music venues whose programmers stay as far away from urban music as possible and several sushi and gourmet restaurants where the price of the average dish is comparable to Manhattan. The fact that The New Yorker magazine had a Brooklyn hipster recently grace its cover in a Eustace Tilley tribute has me hoping that Brooklyn has finally reached a tipping point. I for one hope that Brooklyn’s nagging hipsterism will go the way of other superficial trends and be relegated to a cheap clothing line at Target.
Brooklyn had always been a town that has welcomed transplants and immigrants looking for a better way of life. It was a town that, at its best, accepted people for who they were. When I was growing up in Brooklyn there was the feeling that despite any differences that were evident, such as race or ethnicity, the commonality of being from a working class family leveled the playing field. Now it seems as if the working class is struggling more than ever and Brooklyn is for sale to the highest bidder. Well, you can buy Brooklyn but you can’t buy the accent. In fact, you will have to get a C in a speech class if you want to own it.