Ghost Stories: A Story of Gentrification in Bushwick, NYC
On my fire escape, my roommates and I drank beers and watched Manhattan glow. I finally felt at home. But then, I heard the ghost stories
Three months ago, I left behind my life and drove 22 hours across the country.
I was hauling myself from the Midwest to New York City, a place that only knows Iowa as “potatoes?” or “near Nebraska, right?” I had packed my bags, sold my stuff, and quit my job in one week. I had no plan, a deep rent-breaking debt to pay off, and only a vague idea of what “Brooklyn” entailed.
Three weeks’ worth of AirBNB hopping later, I had racked up $200 in alternate side parking tickets and only fruitless apartment tours.
The usual suspect: Five poor suckers to a “loft” hacked together by a Doc Marten-wearing installation artist. (“Enjoy your 10 square feet of living space and, uh, by the way, this isn’t ‘legally’ a bedroom.”)
But, finally, I found a place to call home.
It was a bright three-bedroom covered in construction dust, tucked on a residential street in a truly technicolor neighborhood. Even in bleary February, the Bushwick streets vibrated with life.
Artists abounded. Everywhere, old warehouses were painted over with jaw-dropping murals that literally spilled onto the sidewalks. Men played card games on fold-out tables at every street corner. Weeds poked out of the concrete, rats ran rampant, delis beckoned with cheap cold cuts, and every local restaurant smelled divine. On my fire escape, my roommates and I drank beers and watched Manhattan glow.
I finally felt at home.
But then, I heard the ghost stories.
The first came from my newly hired dog walker.
“This old woman, she gave all the neighborhood dogs treats. They loved her. Barked every time she came downstairs. Really awesome lady.”
“Where does she live?” I asked, hoping to swing by sometime.
“Well, she lived right here,” he mumbled, motioning back up at my apartment on the top floor. “They forced her out when, uh, these apartments went up.”
I stammered, then stumbled my way back up the stairs. Spooked, saddened, and the spectrum in between.
The second ghost story I ran into like a brick wall, today.
I shuffled home after work, and came upon the usual crowd of teenagers outside my door.
Like every other day, there was nothing outside — no benches, no green space, no colorful murals to stare at. Just some rusty fence, chained up garbage cans, and a slab of concrete. But there this group stands, day in, day out, smoking cigarettes and sneaking hits of pot.
Today, I spoke up. “Do you guys live here? Are you waiting for someone? Or what’s the deal?”
They looked at me emptily. Then, one put down his cigarette and says, “These weren’t always new apartments.”
I froze.
“You used to hang out here?” I ventured.
“Live here,” they said, lost in every sense of the word. Moments of silence, then one motioned to his cigarette. “Sorry about the smell.”
“Ah, fuck,” I stammered again. I shook my head. I felt my privilege like a tacky, searing tattoo on my skin. “I’m so angry about that. I just, I’m sorry.”
I felt my privilege like a tacky, searing tattoo on my skin.
I mumbled a goodbye, punched in my key code, and wandered up my staircase feeling like an intruder to the nostalgia of someone else’s childhood home.
By now, I’ve mentally painted a fairly full picture of all the families and individuals who used to live in my unit, mostly through happenstance.
The unit was built in 1931. It’s now a barely affordable unit for me, working a decent marketing job in the city.
I did some digging, and found that since 2011, rent prices for my neighborhood have increased, well…
People most harmed by gentrification are those paying rent to property owners. As property values increase, property owners drive up rent prices; a major driving factor in gentrification of families who cannot pay new rates. At times, they resort to forceful or threatening tactics to kick renters out.
Then, the surrounding local businesses get pushed out by a slew of economic factors, which culminate in a skyrocketing of property value — bringing in new stores, restaurants, and services for a wealthier demographic.
With a rising line comes a rising tide of pushed out families, children who became yearning teenagers, old ladies who love the neighborhood dogs.
By now, this place is filled with ghost stories. But I’m the monster.
Displacement is no longer the abstract issue I can holler about from afar. I’m living it, now. I am that rising line. I am the newcomer paying exorbitantly for a small three-bedroom near the organic foods store. I am gentrification.
Last night, I had a cold-sweat dream that I was outrunning some kind of apocalypse. In my mad dash to run away, I had to pack up my bags and move, and move, and move.
It wasn’t the monsters that woke me up. It was the realization that I would keep being pushed out of a place that felt like home.
In my most honest depiction, my neighborhood has two clear demographics: Legacy residents, who are mostly Hispanic families; and newcomers, who are mostly moderately well-off white millennials.
(From 2000–2012, Bushwick’s white population tripled.)
To the best of my ability, I’ve tried to minimize the harsh contrast that my existence here creates. I buy all my home goods at the decades-old 99 cents store, frequent my favorite owners at Lucky Laundromat, bring all my friends to the beloved Los Hermanos taco shop. I’ve downloaded Latin Pop hits that I hear on the streets, and I’ve brushed up on my moderate Spanish knowledge to hold more meaningful conversations with my neighbors or pigtailed kids running down the sidewalk.
But I’m also that stereotypical newcomer who buys produce at the mostly organic, overpriced City Fresh, while local markets are abundant. I’ll splurge on $7 iced coffees at bourgeoisie roasters. I grab brunch at the vegan place that haphazardly covered up their previous tenant’s painted sign, El Restaurante de las Familias.
Every day on my morning L train commute, I’m astounded by the visual metaphor for gentrification. Mostly minority Brooklyn residents pack into the train at its farthest reaches near Rockaway. Nearer to the city, they’re shoved inwards by Lorimer- and Bedford-stop residents. The Williamsburg crowd is nearly all white, clutching brand-name bags, reading paperbacks, and tuning out the cramped cars with expensive headphones.
It’s a stunning visualization of trends reported in 2015 by the New York Times:
And again, in 2016, by the local pub DNAinfo:
As a newcomer to the cultural fabric of New York City, I think to myself, is it enough to be aware? Is it enough to scoff at rising rent prices, and sign petitions, and embrace the local cultural vibrancy that I love?
The L train between Manhattan and deep Brooklyn, it’s a gradient of gentrification. I wonder where I fall. And then, I wonder how much deeper I’m blurring the lines.
