Neighborhood Dynamics as a Young Transplant
coexisting among a newfound opponent, as a people-pleaser
Finally, the moment arrived to introduce myself. We locked eyes again and I blurted, “I’m Arianna, by the way. I live next door. What’s your name?”
She oddly snarked, “You don’t need to know my name”
Okay, freak? Instinctively, I began walking away.
She continued, “Everyone in the neighborhood knows my name.”
Everyone knows? She has lived in the building next door for years, yet I hadn’t seen her until four months ago. Prior, my building’s basement dweller was our self-appointed greeter. He stood outside with a smile, waving, and typically repeating “okay okay okay” as he welcomed all residents and visitors. At one point, we discovered for some other residents (who he assumed more rambunctious) he exclaimed, “no drink and drive!” Regardless if it was 3 am or 8 am. I was naive to assume that his loving demeanor was permanently attached to living in our building.
Everyone knew his name. The heart-wrenching day he moved away, she instantly pounced to claim his role. As if, the block would crumble without a watchful presence. Everyday, I attempted different smirks, counting my victories when she mildly grimaced back once per week. Friends would kick their shoes off in my apartment, catching their breath after climbing four flights of stairs and speculating she had cursed them with her vicious stare. Yet, I aspired for change, alliance, or perhaps even just more insight into who she was. I didn’t want to assume the worst of a person who I had no choice but to walk by daily.
Normally, I wouldn’t initiate conversation with her. I typically honor the quiet solidarity among New Yorkers, but on that particular day: I was dog-walking. My canine friend was not prone to distraction by other humans and dogs, but suddenly halted at her steps, forcefully tugging towards her with his tongue dangling and tail swaying. For the first time, I spotted her with a wide smile. I sighed, addressing both her and the dog, “Do you want to say hi?”
He darted toward her, climbing up the three stoop steps and jumping up with a sense of familiarity. She nearly laughed, overjoyed while praising his sweetness. Brilliant. I assumed this was my passageway, my chance to break down barriers. Yet, she instantaneously became a deeper enigma.
After my rejection, I turned back and she expanded, “The neighborhood has changed. The real people of Greenpoint can know my name.” Since gentrification of the Polish area from the late 1990s to the early 2010s (the HBO Girls Era), there has been a new wave of popularity and upscale development. Last year, publications deemed one block a “restaurant row” and Manhattan elite suddenly began venturing to taste food discovered via TikTok. Often their first time taking the G train for the weekend excursion, the vintage street vendors quickly spot them to upsell clothing for two times the price as listed yesterday. Every week, four new smoke shops and three New American ($$$) small plate restaurants open.
I understand the pain. Growing up in Los Angeles, my Grandma and I would walk down Fairfax Avenue, stopping by Diamond Bakery to pick out rainbow sprinkled cookies in a pink box. After 77 years, the bakery closed last month. We bought tomatoes at the fruit store, rummaged through miscellaneous items at the bargain shop, and bought lotto tickets from the newspaper stand. As a Polish Jew born and raised in Mexico, this was her chosen community, where she could guarantee that locals would speak to her in Yiddish or Spanish. Yet, she was still always concerned she’d run into her frenemies from bingo who would curse her with the evil eye. She never left the house without a red string tied to her bra strap to protect herself.
By now, Canter’s Deli is one of the only remaining veterans. The street has long been lined with skate shops; the hypebeastification so far gone that even Supreme has relocated. The bedroom store was replaced by Dolls Kill, the Jewish book store was replaced by skateboard apparel, and the Glatt Market was replaced with $30 pizzas.
To my vigilant neighbor, I am the gentrifier. I did not grow up in this apartment, nor this state or city. I watch her share hugs and conversations with other longtime locals and quickly shift gears as young folks pass. Is it selfish to desire cooperation or is she justified in distancing herself?
While attempting to grow roots, I still often find myself among crowds of transience. By the ripe age of 25, many creatives have already cycled from their hometown to LA to eventually NYC. Last year when I visited LA, NY-based musicians recommended that a show at the Permanent Records Roadhouse in Cypress Park could not be missed. I caught up with friends while flipping meat at all-you-can-eat Korean BBQ, the same spot we’ve been frequenting since middle school. I brought up the venue out of curiosity, noting that I didn’t recall it existing. Was I out of the loop?
The tone quickly shifted as my friend’s boyfriend recalled his experience playing the last show at Cafe NELA, before Permanent Records took over the location. After an emotional night mourning the community hub for the DIY punk rock scene, he was skeptical of a seemingly more buttoned up venue geared towards recent transplants. He noted that maybe one day a visit will change his mind, but until then will remain cautious. Beyond the obvious effects of gentrification and displacement, there are the quiet, subtle tensions of any ever-changing city.
In the new year, I walked down the street lined with discarded, rotting Christmas trees, wondering how long the city will leave up the holiday lights. A subtle comfort during the seasons of frigid air. Monday through Friday passed without spotting our local guard, typically bundled in a knitted hat and mittens.
From a distance, our buildings might appear as a singular pre-war brick building. Upon closer examination, there are two separate entrances. Our door: blank, her door: covered with “no trespassing” and “protected by video surveillance” signs. There is not an inch of space between our buildings, our adjoining apartment walls are void of windows, covered with layers of white paint to mask the mere brick wall dividing us.
I realized, I’d rather have human interaction than silence. These days without spotting her felt noticeably more lonely, to the extent that I found myself engaging in friendly conversation with wrong numbers texting my cell.
For nearly a year when I broadcasted a radio show, the same retired man would call our landline weekly at 11 am with comments and occasional requests. When his calls suddenly stopped, the abrupt quietness terrified me. Was he alright? Or did just no longer have the time to listen weekly, the urgency to ring to provide feedback?
The day my next-door acquaintance returned to monitoring her front steps, I was never more thrilled to sight a scowl. The next time few instances I walked by, the classic glare was even accompanied with a nod. Thank god for normalcy again.