pinche wally (part 2)
the rise
Photography by Ray Spears
In 2016, just weeks before Summer made its debut, I got married. Fresh off the altar, I was now living in my first real apartment, a quaint renovated space nestled between the Heights and Inwood. It was steps from the train station and the only one of its kind in the building. The block was oddly charming on one end, situated across a park lined by full green trees, but grew sketchier the further you ventured into its intersection where it was gridlocked by buildings. Nonetheless, it felt familiar to the streets I knew growing up. Most of our neighbors were elderly residents who had lived to see rent prices rise from double digits to four. I was still somewhat opposed to hood living but by then my affinity for downtown’s charm had dwindled. Having worked in the city for years made me somewhat jaded. It left me questioning my place in dominantly white spaces. Though the location was not ideal, it was within distance of our core community and what we could reasonably afford at the time.
“Whether I realized it or not, the hood had always been home to me.”
Over the course of our 2 years in that apartment, I made friends with some of the women in the building, “adopted” the neighbor’s grandson, Javien, and somehow became the president of the tenants association when a rent increase threatened to displace those I’d grown to care for. It was unnerving and eye-opening. A matter too hard to shake. At first, the rage was personal. My rent was increasing and given the not-so-stellar maintenance provided in our time, I wasn’t putting up with the nonsense, throwing a privileged fit in typical gentrifier behavior. But then I started asking neighbors about it, inquiring if they’d received the same notice, and that’s when the floodgates opened. Many of them, non-english speaking Hispanics, were burdened by years of mold, unattended fixes, and unsafe living conditions, all at the hands of cruel management. As much as I wanted to make this about me, this fight was no longer my own.
Submersing myself in research, I combed through the codes, identified relevant NYC housing laws, gathered stats and contact numbers, and any evidence of foul play to build a case against the increase. The deeper I delve into the matter, the hungrier I grew for justice. These people were once the faces of those I despised, those I swore to abandon for a world that never wanted anything to do with me in the first place. Those months were arduous. The walls of my apartment became drenched in anxiety and fear as management sought to intimidate and threaten my fight. In the end, we won, but much greater was the victory over my heart. I gave myself to a people I once rejected and in turn their love helped me to uncover a part of myself I almost lost in pursuit of status; a fierce pursuit for anything but the love of brown in an oppressive world.
“...but much greater was the victory over my heart.”
Whether I realized it or not, the hood had always been home to me. I had far more to give than I did in leaving it. This place made me. I am who I am today because of its investment. It was its people who encouraged me to step outside of myself, my fears, and its borders to experience a world beyond it. It was its sound that nurtured my love and study of music. It was its foundation of love for people and culture that inspired my boldness and determination to fight for others in a time when I could afford to preserve my energy. The hood and its people made way for my generational ascension while allowing me to experience the gift of giving back.
Unfortunately for you, pinche Wally, you’ve lost your way. Deemed yourself better than those who raised you. I pray you find your way home. May your rise hasten the inevitable fall and may that fall break your delusion. You are no better than the people that made you. Whenever you’re ready to come home, these streets will not turn you away.
