Emblazoned over it, in fat paint marker, a tagger threw up his name. The work of art was ruined.
Ruined.
People commented on the atrocity of this defacement. How dare someone tag over this work of “improvised art?” Lamentations were exclaimed about how cool this neighborhood is, and how awesome it is to have so many cool, nerdy people living there, that someone would use a thin paint marker to throw up this beautiful piece of art on the wall, only to have it defaced by some miscreant.
But just because you live there, does not mean you belong there.
I remember the nicest house we lived in when we were kids. It was in West Covina. A corner house, which someone told me was very sought after as they sat on larger properties. I don’t know about that, but there was a beautiful storm drain behind the backyard. Probably why we were somehow able to afford it.
A yard. We didn’t always have yards. Rarely, actually. I remember playing catch with my little brother Alex, like real normal american brothers. Of course, for some reason, I wanted him to be left handed, so I spent hours making him throw with his left hand. It didn’t take.
I remember a dining room. A fucking dining room. Like a room, away the kitchen. Every kitchen table we had was usually about three steps from the stove. But this mansion had it’s own room for dining. We didn’t use it much.
The house seemed to sprawl on and on. My older brother Ernie and I would sometimes sneak up on my mother and grandmother as they watched their novellas. We’d crawl from the dining room, to the… I don’t know? Living room? Den? To this day, I don’t know about these rich people rooms. Bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens. That’s all I know that comprise a home. The den/living room was separated from the dining room by a wall. A wall that was about three feet high, seemed odd then. But it was great for sneaking up on mom and grandma. We’d crawl right up to the couch that faced away from that wall and we’d spring up and yell to scare them.
They never seemed to get mad at us for this. I remember them laughing when we’d do this. I think my mom felt at that moment that she finally made it in america. She got the house she dreamed of for her family, in a nice neighborhood. All those years of working hard in homes not unlike this one, cleaning it for people too lazy, or perhaps too good to clean it themselves. The pain of living in so many apartments that seemed to sag with the weight of its own poverty. All of it was for this. For this home. This palace.
This was it, she’d won.
That what it seemed like, anyway. It wasn’t our home, it was rented. The memories I have in that home seem to be good. Maybe because we had room. Because we could finally breathe. Because we had a home to be proud of.
After about six months of living there, we had to move. Again. To an area much more suited for us. It’s difficult for me to remember the chronicle of homes we lived in as a kid, but I do remember that house being the pinnacle of luxury for us. Who knows, maybe my life would be much different, had we stayed there. I don’t know. Chances are excellent I’d be much more of a dick.
I do know that the blur of homes from then on seemed to get worse and worse. Like Sisyphus pushing that boulder up the mountain, and celebrating the moment of respite and triumph. Savoring it for just an instant, before the inevitability of his sentence forced the boulder back down. Perhaps even in that moment, the boulder was finally happy to stop moving and enjoy its place in existence atop the mountain. Sisyphus was the one that had to push that boulder, but it was the boulder that had to feel that dizzyingly sad roll back down the mountain to await the next trip, hoping for respite every bit as much as Sisyphus.
I remember a small house that seemed to forever be mired in squalor, no matter the enormous efforts of my mother and grandmother to make it nice. Turning on the kitchen lights in the kitchen, to be met with the sight of dozens of roaches scurrying away into the crevices. Opening a kitchen drawer to get a knife for dinner, and seeing another insect crawl across the only knife left. Rinsing it off, so I could use it.
Insects don’t really scare me.
The gnawing in the middle of night did.
As it turns out one of these “homes” was also the home to many rats. Soon I became accustomed to them as well.
In one apartment, we lived upstairs, and I remember a group of drunken, older kids, teenagers, hanging out in front of the only staircase that led to our two room apartment that housed six people. I asked them if I could please get by. They wouldn’t. Instead, they pushed me and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t go away. So I did. I waited in fear around the corner, where I had hoped they couldn’t see me. Stealing glances to see if they had gone. After a while, they did, and, like a beaten dog, I furtively walked back and up the stairs.
Whenever these things would happen, I’d remember the corner house in West Covina, and angrily shed a tear for the place that may have made us a happy family.
We lived a rather transient life, because we couldn’t always afford the rent of the places in which we lived. Many places I was happy to leave. A few, hurt me to leave. But I was never able to love a home, as I was never able to live in one long enough.
But I do know what it feels like to live in a home that made me happy. If, only for a short time.
I cannot imagine the pain of moving from a place in which you lived long enough to love, and truly made you happy.
Lakes and parks, these seem to be the places most prized by gentrification. When I first heard about this, I remember Toluca Lake. Once upon a time, it was just North Hollywood. But as more and more well to do (and white) folk moved in and wanted to entice more of the same, they changed the name. I don’t know if there’s an actual lake named Toluca there, or whom Toluca is, but that’s what’s it called now. Soon, the next lake region fell, Silverlake. Then Echo Park. Presently, Highland Park is the new victim of this great move “forward” in urban development.
Now, I won’t lie to you, I don’t know the intricacies of what goes into creating these new homes for young, hip, white folk. But I do know what it feels like to be displaced because you can’t afford your home.
Funny thing about segregation: the areas cordoned off for darker toned people are often the less desirable areas. The mantra of real estate people has always been: Location. Location. Location. But in these areas, it was probably: Not here. Not here. Not here.
So wherever they allowed us to live, we lived. And we made it home. We created a community. Complete with businesses and culture. Okay, yes, and sometimes gangs, granted. But even in this, there was a sense of community. Yeah, I said it! If you lived in the Avenidas ‘hood, there was an uneasy alliance that was made there. Oh sure, you might get hit by a stray bullet, but if another gang came rolling through, they’d take care of it. And likely, quicker and more effectively than the cops that refused to come to that part of town would. Yes, these neighborhoods would be safer without these gangs, but they became a fact of life. And they had to live with each other.
The grand percentage of the population, however, were always working class Latin folk, just trying to survive and raise their kids.
I remember when I first moved out to Los Angeles from San Gabriel Valley. I would sometimes go to Echo Park, way on the east side of Sunset Blvd. I remember a vibrant, beautiful scene of food and shops with Spanish names, everything in Spanish. Latin people everywhere, street vendors, selling all kinds of goods. CDs, bootleg movies, clothes. It was a place of energy and culture.
Walking down that same street now is… Weird… Sometimes I feel like the only Mexican in the area. White twenty-somethings coming out one of the innumerable record stores, looking at me oddly, with my shaved head and tattoos. Perhaps thinking, Didn’t we get rid of all these people?
Where once you could buy CDs of Ramon Ayala and Los Alegres de Teran, their music blaring out of speakers in front, now you can buy the music from the latest band only cool people have heard of , that play music that is oddly reminiscent of another band you once heard before, but can’t remember.
I’ve noticed that gentrification comes in a few stages. First, the horizontal fencing. Don’t know why, but this seems to be the symbol of the upwardly mobile. Then, naturally, the record stores. Finally, the supposedly “artisanal” food replacing the places that already made food that could be considered “artisanal.” Except, made by, you know, Mexicans… Which I imagine nullifies the artisanal flavor for that white kids from the midwest. We don’t know what you mean by “artisanal.” We only know how to make Mexican food from scratch, like my mom and grandma did.
But somehow, even Mexican food made by Mexicans is not good enough to be inducted into the gentrification food hall of fame.
Jesusfuckingchrist. Look. I get it: Mexican food is relatively easy to prepare. I mean really, there are only a few ingredients to choose from, so I can see why young white kids think they can make the food. Okay fine. Make it. But, this isn’t enough. You have to fucking “improve” on it? Oh! You’re an “Urban Taco Manufacturer,” are you? Really? Your sign reads, in six feet high letters: “Better Latin Food”? Where do you fucks get your balls big enough to think you are making “better” Latin food?! (These are actual signs, by the way, one of which got taken down because they got clowned too much). You can’t just add wasabi and make my mom’s food “better.” Yes, they did that.
Our Mexican culture took thousands of years to develop. Through blood and torment and rape and genocide, my culture adapted and became the most sought after food in this country. Probably. I more or less made that up, but it sounds about right. And now, some white kid from Michigan, who moved here six years ago on mommy and daddy’s dime, thinks he can make my culture better?
Then again, maybe he did. Maybe he made it better for white folk.
And, in the end, isn’t that what’s it really about?
I’ve gotten into many an argument (always with white folk, shockingly) about the pitfalls and supposed benefits of gentrification. The word “but” is always involved.
Look, I know gentrification sucks, “but” the cool thing is now we have all these shops that sell artisanal _________.
I mean, racism sucks, “but” hey, I can get a gourmet gluten free pizza while I shop for overpriced vintage clothing.
That word “but” does not nullify pain.
Also, this is Los Fucking Angeles. Seriously, if you can’t find some kind of “artisanal” anything, then you’re obscenely lazy. It’s all here, just look.
Oh hey! There’s a bakery here now!
There was a bakery there before!! You just didn’t know by its other name: Panaderia. WHICH IS SPANISH FOR BAKERY!! Oh wait, but they didn’t sell baguettes and cronuts, did they? So really, you’re just excited that there exists a bakery that now caters to your Euro-sensibilities. Why don’t you just say that? Why don’t you just say, Look, I know gentrification sucks, “but” the cool thing is now we have all these shops catering to us white people. Because, that’s what I hear.
And yes, I know there are still brown people in your hood, and you somehow think that’s cool, because it makes you feel less like you’re displacing poor people, but, you’re not seeing everything. See, this is where the white liberal fails: lack of imagination. I’m sorry, I know a lot of you are (were, probably now), my friends, but follow me on this. See, white liberals always want to be seen as the good guys. They don’t think they’re racist, they vote democrat (even though they’re just evil-lite, compared to their unimaginably evil counterparts), and they care. But here’s what you can’t imagine when you see the Mexican family taking wedding photos at that fountain, or barbecuing at the park: you can’t imagine the countless families that aren’t there anymore. The kids that were once everywhere, that then had to move because the rent skyrocketed 100% because the area now became the new hotspot for gentrification. You don’t see the kid, who was five years old when his family was ousted from Echo Park to a much worse area, away from his friends, from everything he knew, to an area where white liberals don’t give a shit about. What happened to him? What happened to an entire population of young boys and girls that had to move into the ghetto? Where the schools are worse, where the crime is worse, where the cops are worse. How many of them are now in gangs? On drugs? In prison? Or worse: cops. You can’t imagine what you don’t see, because what you see is what allows you to sleep at night. There are still brown people in Highland Park, so I’m not really hurting anyone.
Would, that it could be so easy.
As I see it, gentrification is just another shade of white supremacy. Black and Brown people did not ask to be relegated to areas unfit for post WWII white folk. We did not beg them NOT to give us home loans. That was forced upon them. Black and brown people were quietly disallowed to own property. See, there are two kinds of racism. The easy kind, the nazis and the kkk. They’re easy to spot and hate. They’re also a very small part of the white supremacist power structure. The larger, and much more pernicious form of racism is the quiet, unsaid, therefore unheard, racism. The kind that has been exposed in several social experiments, wherein a black family walks into a leasing office of an apartment building, looking to rent, and are told that the apartment has been rented. And soon after, a white family asks to see it, and they are welcomed in. That’s the real racism. The racism that lives in the bones, in the DNA of people whom do not even think they are racist. Who voted for Hilary. Who call the cops on black folk.
We were told to live in a given area. Told we were not allowed to own our homes. So. As black and brown people always do, we made the best of it. We created a culture from the leavings they didn’t want. Now they are moving in. They are displacing hundreds of families. Because of the walkability we created because we couldn’t fucking afford cars.
You gave to us, now you are taking away.
I wanted to belong in that area of West Covina. I liked the beauty of the treelined streets, the eery quiet of the cul-de-sacs, even the air smelled better. Of course, at the time, what I didn’t know is that I was probably also smelling the dread of debt that could not be afforded, the pain of forced upon lives that were unwanted.
I didn’t belong. Neither did my mother sadly. Suburbia found its pretenders and reclaimed that home for the it deemed worthy.
Graffiti has always been about claiming or reclaiming territory.
So when I see a fat paint marker tag over another tag (I don’t care if you white folk choose to call it improvised art) of a sentence diagram, I can’t help but disagree that this is not the atrocity you think it is, I think perhaps it is an attempt to reclaim a territory, a culture, stolen from its rightful denizens, forced to live in rental perpetuity, in an area your white ancestry thought unworthy of them.
Feel free to sentence diagram that last sentence in Highland Park. Preferably in between a record store and an artisanal sausage shop.
