I’ve lived a rather privileged life. I grew up in the bubble that is Westchester County; a county so privileged that when its name is spoken out loud it's almost instantly met with groans and eye rolls. My childhood was left spared from the harsh realities of the world and I’ve never been more grateful for it. My parents both worked extremely hard to provide me with the life that I’ve been given, but my Dad in particular is who worked the hardest. A first-generation American, my Dad was born and raised in the Sumner Houses in Bedford-Stuyvesant, right next to the elevated tracks that symbolize the start of Bushwick. To put it lightly, New York in the 70s wasn’t cute. Bed-Stuy and Bushwick specifically were really intense, right where my Dad spent his childhood. My upbringing is what he dreamt of as a kid, as his childhood was cut short given the immense responsibilities he was faced with. Leaving the projects was already impressive enough, but leaving the projects for Westchester was really beating the odds. However, while my Dad did everything he could to leave, my grandmother did everything she could to stay.
A pivotal part of my childhood was driving down to Bed-Stuy every other Sunday to see my Abuelita. Driving down Broadway under the tracks was always jarring as a kid. Seeing an urban community was an almost comical juxtaposition to what my neighborhood was like. I won’t lie, I used to be very scared as a kid. I would be overly cognizant of the flaws of the neighborhood. The occasional cockroach in the kitchen, the urine-soaked stairwells, the rumble of the J train, it was all very overwhelming. I would always ask my Abuelita why she wanted to stay in Bed-Stuy and she would always say “My friends are here. My memories are here.” My brain couldn’t understand what she saw about her neighborhood
It was only until Bed-Stuy started to change that I realized what she meant. Gentrification swept Brooklyn fast. As I grew older, each Sunday drive down to Brooklyn was met with a different restaurant, a new juice bar, and twenty new hipsters with unhealthy rave obsessions. It was only then that I started to see the beauty of the neighborhood. I could feel the culture slipping away from the fingers of the community. I started to miss the reggaeton blasting from cars that passed by. I missed the little Puerto Rican hole-in-the-wall restaurants. I missed the brownstones bearing Caribbean flags that were torn down to make room for aggressively modern apartments. I missed the grit of it all.
Through my Westchester lens, it took me a while to appreciate the sheer beauty of Bed-Stuy. But as I matured, I started to understand my Abuelita more and more. While she passed the summer of 2019, Bed-Stuy and the Sumner Houses will always have a special place in my heart. As I left her apartment for the last time, I took a picture of the building. I look at that picture now and I don’t see the flaws, I see the beautiful community that Bed-Stuy once was.
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