On gentrification and shame
When I moved into my house in the Baker neighborhood, it was clear to all who smelled me that I stank of gentrification. I was white, drove an SUV, and had a purebred dog within the year—I might as well have planted a flag depicting a Whole Foods crushing a family of Mexican immigrants. But, for some, my stink was a welcome one, like good pussy on a finger. For dutiful homeowners who maintained their lawns and longed for higher property values, I was a welcome addition.
Put another way: The white people loved me.
But to others on the block—those who allowed their houses to fall apart or (even worse) rented—that gentrification mark might as well have been a swastika carved into my forehead. Those not caught up in the civic push toward building up the neighborhood into an array of fancy professionals and hot yoga studios recognized that my arrival spelled doom for them.
Put another way: The Hispanic people did not love me.
Is this a racist generalization I’m making? Absolutely. Is it true? Absolutely.
If I’m the first person to point out to you that economics is shamefully tied to race in this country, then you are a child. You should be old enough to realize that, unfortunately, the nicer a neighborhood gets, the less likely the minorities who first inhabited it are able to afford it. And this causes divisions. With a handful of exceptions, neighborhoods like Baker are split into two worlds: the white world and the Hispanic world. One camp races toward adding on a nursery, and the other struggles to pay ever-rising property taxes.
And it sucks because this is precisely how neighborhoods lose the flavor that makes them so interesting in the first place. When a place gets too expensive for the working class folk, they move on. And seeing as those folks are increasingly Hispanic, that means their culture goes with them, including the awesome food and sweet Hispanic ass.
Which is why I’ve always been so accepting of the shithole house across the street from my own. Sure, it’s an eyesore. Sure, the Hispanic children living there run wild and throw glass bottles at pigeons. Sure, the cops show up every so often—but who am I to judge? Plus, there’s that whole thing about the sweet Hispanic ass.
But some days even we, the heroically tolerant, falter.
This past weekend, I picked weeds in the front yard under the hot sun. Across the street, the porch was abuzz with 13 different residents ranging in age, from about 3 to 70 years old. There was also a little, yappy white dog that kept escaping through slats in the broken fence. I paid him no mind until his third escape—which came during the sweeping portion of my yard work—when he darted across the street and began irately yapping at me.
I tried talking doggy talk, and I tried to crouch to allow him to get to know me, but the little fucker only grew shriller and started baring his teeth. I kept looking across the street at the dog’s owner(s), smiling helplessly with that unmistakable, come-retrieve-your-asshole-dog look in my eyes. But they all just sat there doing nothing. Then the little fucker charged, and I had to fend him off with the broom. And it was at precisely that moment when the taunting began.
“Güero!” one of the neighbors yelled.
I was blown away. Güero is a derogatory term for white boy and is akin to gringo, a term I’ve heard many times in my travels to Latin America, and that many of you have heard from Beck.
“Güero!” they called again. “Güero! Güero! Güero!”
There I was being attacked by their dog, politely fighting the urge to crack the little wolverine over the head with a broomstick, and my shithole neighbors were not only not doing a thing—they were actually taunting me? Firing racial slurs at me? Like we inhabited such different worlds that they didn’t even have the decency of calling their dog off? Like I didn’t deserve even that? I was livid.
“Can you come get your fucking dog already?” I screamed, realizing then that I was swearing in front of toddlers and not caring.
A teenage boy sheepishly trotted over. “He never bites,” the boy said. “He’s just a crazy barker.”
“Yeah, even so, I don’t think calling me güero really helps now does it?” I snapped. He looked at me, confused. “I speak Spanish,” I said, “and I know what güero means.”
And then realization dawned across his face.
“We weren’t calling you güero,” he said. “That’s the dog’s name. We call him Güero because he’s white.”
With that, the boy picked up little Güero and trotted back across the street.
And now I have to move.
