Random Ramblings of Madness...

Gentrification

Wed, 14 Nov 2007 10:10:22 -0500

Brooklyn is changing, again. So too is Bedford Stuyvesant. It’s difficult to see the changes outright, nevertheless slowly, systematically and some might argue deliberately the fabric of this neighborhood is experiencing a metamorphosis of sorts. Gone is the fear that once kept this neighborhood steeped in crime, poverty, neglect and public condemnation. Affordable housing, and the reduction of crime have led to an influx of yuppies and buppies eager to experience the “other side” of New York City. As such, the rents have climbed steadily causing some long-term residents who have found it difficult to keep up with the economical changes, searching for a new neighborhood to call their own.

As a long term resident and proud product of the neighborhood, I am in a constant state of flux over the changes. Here’s why.

Roughly ten years ago when I was working in corporate America and living in the heart of Bed-Stuy I wanted out. I wanted to live in a neighborhood absent of crime, the threat of crime, and minimum convenience. My eyes and my heart were set on Clinton Hills and Fort Greene, two neighborhoods that catered to the artistic, the educated and the ego. I chose these neighborhoods partially because whenever I told people I lived in Bed-Stuy their face would contort into shapes that overtly revealed their shock and disapproval, and because I really wanted to be in an “in” neighborhood. But, as luck would have it, all of the apartments I was shown in those neighborhoods were either too small, lacked significant character or were located too far from the subway. Frustrated, I decided to expand my search, and on my first outing with the real estate broker found Decatur Street and my dream apartment, in the heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant.

My years spent on Decatur Street reaffirmed my love affair with Bed-Stuy and the people that lived there. Sure there was and is crime. Sure the the noise levels at times reached and reach heights that mandate a call to the police. And yes, there are times when I must leave my neighborhood to utilize services readily available and accessible in other neighborhoods, but, there was and is something special about Bed-Stuy. Something I can’t quite articulate, but I feel every time I cross its borders. It’s similar if you will, to the feeling I get every time I return to the place of my birth. I feel safe there. Understood. Literally, at home. And as such I am and have been overly protective of that space and the spectacular feelings it provides.

Which brings me back to Bed-Stuy’s ongoing gentrification. Like most people I want the accessibility and the convenience of restaurants and coffee shops in my neighborhood. I want to walk into my local liquor store and examine my wine, not point to it through a bullet proof window that not only protects their merchandise, but confirms their complete distrust of me. I want jazz haunts, and internet cafes and believe me, more and more, but what I don’t want, is gentrification giving it to me. I don’t want whiteness, and the wealth of privilege, benefits and entitlements that comes along with it righting the wrongs in my neighborhood. I want these things because the hard working people that make and have always made Bedford-Stuyvesant what it is, deserve these things.

The influx of white folks does not make Bed-Stuy better, despite what some might believe, it simply makes it different. And different, much like the grass on the other side, is not always better. It just is.

The Cafe

Wed, 7 Nov 2007 18:42:08 -0500

Admittedly, I still have a lot of growing to do. As much as I like to think of myself as a caring, responsible member of society who is not only concerned about his individualistic concerns, but of those of the village, I still find myself operating within a very selfish paradigm.

Today, as I scurried out to lunch, thoughts of securing a comfortable seat in the local café occupied my every thought. A busy haunt, if you don’t arrive at precisely the right time, you might as well buckle up and prepare to eat your tediously prepared food on the grimy sidewalks of New York City. Since this was—and never is an option I hoofed it as fast as I could. Success! I ordered my $6.00 salad (can you believe it?), located a seat in the recess of the café and pulled out my laptop. Two bites later a man appeared out of nowhere and filled the empty seat beside me. At first I paid him little attention, but that passiveness would not last for long. The smell, his smell, like that of the bottom of a two-year-old un-emptied garbage truck assaulted my nose like no other smell I’d ever experienced in my life! I had to look. Next to me sat a man I imagined to be somewhere between thirty and forty years old, with blonde scraggly hair, a black hooded sweatshirt and a look of depletion on his face. Every part of me wanted to feel sorry for him. I wanted to understand his dilemma. I wanted so desperately not to judge him, but, at that precise moment, I wanted my salad more. But the smell, his smell, prevented me from achieving this goal. My eyes darted around the café for a manager, a busboy, or someone to rectify this situation. I had paid good money to enjoy my lunch in a clean, relaxing environment, and somehow this wasn’t happening. I was annoyed, and furious and disappointed all at the same time. But why?

Homelessness is a serious problem in the United States. We like to think those who fall through the cracks are somehow at fault for their situation. They didn’t work hard enough. They didn’t apply themselves properly. They are lazy, good-for-nothings that exhaust societal resources and have the audacity to expect others to come to their aid and solve their problems. However, we fail to consider the policies that are in place that make it difficult for many to afford the high cost of living we all are experiencing. In New York City, according to the Department of Homeless Services, “the average number of homeless families sleeping each night in the municipal shelter system reached nearly 9,300 families”, an all-time record. Tonight, nearly 35,252 people will settle down in a shelter somewhere in New York City. With nearly 8 million residing here, those numbers sound small, but as residents in one of the most advanced countries in the world should any of us have to scrape by?

Eventually the gentleman gathered his gold and brown knitted blanket from the floor and left. Somehow I knew he knew his presence wasn’t appreciated. I sat there for a while contemplating my actions—justifying them on one hand, chastising them on another. My privilege, what little I am afforded in this white industrialized society, had blinded me. Funny, I often stand firm denying with every fiber of my being that I am nothing like the rest of them, today, however I was forced to see that I am.

I never did finish that salad.

Goldie Locks

Tue, 6 Nov 2007 19:16:29 -0500

Rightfully so, it’s none of my business. However, curiosity’s got me wondering.

There used to be a time, if a black woman was walking ahead of me, I’d know it. There was something about her strut, her way of taking on the world that revealed her to me. Today, well, it’s not so easy. I’ll give you an example...A few days ago while keeping a steady pace along Lexington Avenue, a woman with long flowing bouncing auburn hair, the type you’d find modeled in a Pantene commercial, traveled mere feet ahead of me. For roughly the three blocks I trailed her, I believed, based on her hair color, texture and absence of skin (she wore a coat) that she was indeed a white woman. Imagine my surprise when she turned the corner and I realized she was not white, but black.

A few months ago during Fashion Week, Steve and I were walking past Bryant Park just as Tyra Banks exited the tent. For a second, I didn’t know who she was. Both her hair and skin were absent of color. I kept thinking, “Wasn’t she black?” Actually, I’ve asked the same question about Beyonce, Lil’ Kim and Kimora Lee Simmons. What happened? Did I miss something? Is black, black features, black hair, black representation out of style? I’m amazed by the number of weaves I see on a daily basis in the subway. Sometimes I don’t stare, but shit, there are times when I can’t help but stare--some of them are just fucking terrible! I’m saying, am I supposed to see the tracks? Am I supposed to be impressed? Are you (the wearer) impressed?

I recently read a special report in the Miami Herald about Afro-Latin Americans. The content disturbed me. “Nearly all Dominican women straighten their hair,” the article declared, “which experts say is a direct result of a historical learned rejection of all things black.” Another woman insisted a professional Dominican woman just should not have bad hair, "If you're working in a bank, you don't want some barrio-looking hair. Straight hair looks elegant. It's not that as a person of color I want to look white. I want to look pretty."

Reading this article clarified the recent influx of Dominican Style hair salons that have descended upon my neighborhood--and into the lives of quite a few women I know. And, well, honestly...I’m not so sure how I feel about either. Again, as a man I know I’m treading in extremely dangerous waters. I’ve been told by more than one woman that hair is a very sensitive issue to black women, and that as a man I just wouldn’t understand. Still the question begs to be answered: Is black hair really that bad?

Comments, criticisms and insults are welcomed, and encouraged!

Damn You to Hell AT&T

Fri, 2 Nov 2007 18:23:29 -0400

Three years ago I was cursing everything Apple. I hated the iPod, wouldn’t think of purchasing a mac, and frowned on anyone who thought windows was anything less than genius. To prove this point I purchased a Dell Jukebox instead of the overhyped, overexposed, fancy smancy iPod and never batted an eye. Until of course I realized how utterly frustrating it was to download music to that beast. Sure Dell provided software, but to say it was antiquated is far too kind--the software sucked. Windows media player was a tad bit easier, but for whatever reason I never learned how to create playlists on the jukebox. Which left me with Musicmatch Jukebox, which was much better than Windows media player, but still slow as all hell! It would literally take me an hour or more to download twenty songs. Eventually I gave up trying to download songs altogether, and listened to whatever happened to be on my player; it just wasn’t worth the stress.

The same is true for AT&T. I was a faithful subscriber to their service. As a matter of fact the number I currently hold was given to be by the telephone giant. There was a time when AT&T couldn’t do any wrong. I’d laugh (silently of course) at my friends who complained of poor service from the likes of Sprint, T-Mobile and at the time, Cingular. My service was always on, always clear, and always available. And then I happened upon the ugly side of AT&T. After being billed for service I did not request or approve I demanded they clear my name of the debt. Ha! That was like asking Puff Daddy, Puffy, P. Diddy, Diddy, Sean Jean, Sean Combs, oh hell, shiny suit to put down the mic and back the hell up! For whatever reason, they would not grant my request, even after I threatened to jump ship. So, I’m sure you know how the story goes...I jumped ship and moved my belongings over to Verizon, who at the time had the dopest--most freshest phones this side of techno-rama. And well, I guess I was happy.

Cut to iPhone...

So now I’m in love with Apple right. I bought a Macbook, own an iPod classic, and have even apologized to the style gods for denouncing their reign over everything apple. You’d think I’d catch a break. You’d think someone would toss me a bone, but no. I’m stuck with yet another antiquated piece of shit; A.K.A. the one dimensional cell phone. I can barely text someone; connecting to the internet is a joke; there is absolutely no room for technological advancement simply because the platform is static, and dare I say it: boring! I want a new phone! But not just any phone, an iPhone--the single best invention of 2007! But as my luck would have it, AT&T, my former corporate nemesis has right, rule and control over the distribution of MY phone for the next 5 years. What a joke!

My only hope is that their networking system will crash, forcing them to submit their contract with Apple to the next highest bidder--which will undoubtedly be Verizon--enabling me to enjoy yet another fantabulous Apple product!

Sigh...one can hope right!

Funky Fresh

Tue, 30 Oct 2007 20:54:17 -0400

Dressed to impress, ready to party...

What is it about Halloween? But more than that, what is it about Halloween and adults? When I was a child I rarely participated in costume parties and/or the trick-or-treat frenzy most kids and their parents would spend all month planning and executing. Sometimes, and I do mean sometimes, my mother would purchase me one of those plastic costumes with the cheesy mask that was held in place by a thin-ass rubber band that would pop the second time you put it on. And don’t think if it popped you weren’t going to somehow fix it, because that was your costume for the next five or so Halloweens!

**Sidebar: I am bugging--I just thought about the packaging the costumes use to come in, and why do I wish I still owned one of those costumes?!

Once I remember for a costume party at my elementary school I begged my mother not to make me wear that god-awful plastic get-up, and to instead help me create a one of a kind ensemble that was sure to win me the adoring fans I so desperately needed. Well she did, she made me a cape, out of some of her good gabardine fabric too! It was black and long and damn’ it, if I wasn’t the best Darth Vader this side of the galaxy. I mean sure I still had that same old tired ass mask from the year before, but the cape, the cape was the outfit! Mom probably never realized how much that cape meant to me, but it meant a hell of a lot.

But, somewhere along the line I lost the desire to dress-up, somewhere around my teenage years. All of a sudden Halloween was an affair for children, and shit, at fifteen I wasn’t no kid--I was a grown ass--well, half grown as teenager! I couldn’t give into the desire to don a Transformers costume and still be cool--no matter how much I secretly wanted to! I had a reputation to keep. So I stopped. I stopped dressing up. I stopped pretending to be the people I really wanted to be, and started pretending to be what all teenagers eventually become: a know it all who’s way too cool for anything and everything. And then, I grew up, and realized how utterly cool it was to be someone else, if only for one night. Sure I’d have to collect the real me the next morning, but for one evening I could be a superhero, a pimp, a serial killer, a natty dread, and this year, a hip-hop superstar!

With the help of my cousins, my nephew, his wife and my partner, we threw the best Adult Costume party I’ve thrown in the 10 or more years I’ve been throwing these parties! I laughed, I danced, I deejayed, I drank, I ate and I was merry! For a couple of hours I forgot about all the shit that has stressed me to no end in the last couple of weeks. I forgot about any and every single thing except my friends, my family and the time we had living our lives like the golden treasures they are!

Until next year people!

**Note: Additional pictures located in the photo section of this site.