Pacific & Albany
by
Magnetic
I often woke up in a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings lingering in my mind from the dream I had the night before. I wanted this more than anything in the world. To move back to New York. To go back home and free myself from the mundane nothingness I felt in Washington D.C. Was I depressed? I really don’t even know. I couldn’t tell you. But I left Queens in 2018 for college knowing that I had no intention of ever coming back. And not geologically, I meant mentally. I have Brooklyn roots that date back to Union Street and Troy Avenue in 1973. Where my Grandfather bounced from Trinidad, then the air force in England; deciding on Brooklyn as the place where he’d sow his royal oats. Kings County is where he decided to establish a Kingdom. My father, a product of Ebbets Field, was cutting school to wander around Franklin Avenue as a 4th Grader while my mother was attending 1st grade in Weeksville not too far away. They met back up in Queens at one point or the other where my mom was originally from. And that is where I was conceived. And I always regretted that. I love where I’m from, but Brooklyn was always the coolest place to be. And my father wore his Brooklyn flag so proudly it made me feel like I was from there too. So it’s no wonder the first apartment I lived in in New York was on Pacific Street in Crown Heights.
I’m off on a tangent, but it’s important to provide the history because my roots are oh so important to me. My girlfriend and I decided to stay in D.C. for an extra year after graduating to make up for lost time from the pandemic. But that's what I told people in my family. Honestly, I was desperate to get my own place and knew that that was the only way I could afford something decent. But it all ended up costing the same thing in the end. Inflation I guess. So when a year of the mundane life of living in a luxury D.C. apartment passed, working remotely for a company I despise. Feeling like I have no purpose. I was desperate to move back to New York for some action. And so was she. At this point I was ready to live anywhere. And Brooklyn is where I landed. A Brownstone with five roommates from all over the world. And all of my woes were solved. Hanging out in Williamsburg everyday where I rented an office/studio space to record my spoken word and work for that awful company I mentioned. Walking up Nostrand Ave for a roti just like my Grandma used to make. I mean my girlfriend and I probably spent enough money on roti to fund a war on the islands. And enough synthetic weed off Fulton to do the same. And enough Saratoga waters from the corner store to open up a new distillery.
I was in this weird state of being bothered by how different that neighborhood looked compared to how it was when I was growing up. And when I would visit my cousins and aunts and uncles. Gentrification is something that is prevalent in many places, but Brooklyn is one of the areas hit the hardest. But then I would think, am I gentrifying this area? I mean I am a young Black man walking around pants sagging. My eyes low from smoking weed everyday when I’m not working that awful job. Having screaming matches in the street with my woman when we don’t see eye to eye. Standing on the stoop politicking with my dad about who just came home from prison and the like when he came to see me that one time. Having friends over to play loud music and smoke more weed. My old cronies from Queens visiting me dressed in all Black. But I’m so much more than meets the eye. I do have a degree, I am a corporate player spending an astronomical price to live here. In this refurbished Brownstone. I am not native to this neighborhood in particular. Does that count as gentrification? Is it only gentrification if I’m white and from wealth? Questions I would ask myself on a regular basis.
This closet isn’t big enough. This room isn’t big enough. In D.C. I had a one bedroom and a walk-in closet. A gym, a pool on the roof, all the works you feel me? Moving on up, living large, all the shit Black folks say when we get access to luxury. But I was so unhappy there. And look at me here in New York where I wanted to be oh so bad, still complaining. I always fancied myself a writer. I did some blogging about music some time ago. Journaling on a day-to-day basis for self motivation and to unload all of the crap in my mind. The coming of ageself doubt and what have you. But waking up in that Brooklyn apartment everyday, looking for something to distract me from my brain I didn’t find much to fulfill me. Until I began taking writing seriously. I decided to use that corporate knowledge to begin publishing my own newsletter. And in Brooklyn I learned how to be free. I started expressing myself. I started having days where I said fuck it. And accepting my place in life as a creative person. Fuck money. Who cares about business and investing and yadda yadda. A battle I often have with myself because I am an entrepreneur. But that freedom I found in Brooklyn did everything for me. My Queens get the Money attitude and addiction to stability had finally been broken. That realization that capitalism is a construct meant to enslave our minds. Even right down to the average joe like you and me behind on credit payments. I don’t care if this room doesn’t feel big enough. I have everything I need. And then some.
And that’s what made me start spending. Having days like these. Where I woke up appreciating life. Thinking;
“My ceilings are awfully high.”
“High enough to make me feel like I live in a luxury apartment.”
“A quaint brownstone with white pre-war finishes.”
“Gold light fixtures and wall art that fool me into thinking the walls aren’t closing in.”
“Waking up already under the weather looking out the window observing this Brooklyn street.”
“I have to get outside today even if it kills me.”
“Looking over at my partner who is in a half sleep disarray attempting to get a morning smoke.”
“She looks beautiful in the sunlight I thought.”
“Wow this room gets really great sunlight.”
The next thing I know we’re getting off a bus in Williamsburg. Looking for a day drink and a possible cry. She landed on pink hair and one of my knit sweaters with no bottoms. I couldn’t stop myself from undressing her in my mind, which is a good sign. Then we ended up sitting in the back of Vanessa’s dumpling house drunk. We start unpacking our relationship dynamic like we love to do. I mean how did we end up high too?
Walking around Williamsburg I thought man life is a gift. She bought a pair of Isabel Marant sneakers from this thrift store and I’m just feeling like shit because I can’t afford to drop everything and buy her whatever she wants. Then I’m in another one of my moods. With a drunk twist now. So we drank some more. What is the difference between a Paloma and a Margarita anyway? At this point I can’t even spell my own name. I contemplated getting back on the bus for the experience. I reminisce on being a kid and seeing all those drunkards ranting on the bus about the government and pitfalls of life. I felt this was my moment to let it all out. To be another inebriated Black man on the back of a city bus speaking my truth. To whoever will listen. Then maybe I might get removed but that’s okay. Hopefully she doesn’t get too embarrassed and she’ll just meet me at my apartment. I played this all out in my head as we got in the back of a Honda CRV.
That was one of my favorite Sundays. Just doing shit. Feeling like shit and not caring. Then feeling great and basking in it. That’s all life is about at the end of the day. Just living, and feeling, and doing your best to take care of yourself. And even failing at it sometimes and knowing that it’s okay. That’s what I learned in Brooklyn. I learned how to be an artist. I learned how to love myself. I learned who my family is.
I remember one of my first nights in that apartment. Waking up to a text in my roommates group chat. About how one of my roommates got mugged and someone stabbed him. There was blood all over the hallway by my room. He was ultimately okay. But I remember thinking how does that happen to someone? I always knew I had street smarts, and I realized my awareness of my surroundings has always protected me. As fate would have it, the apartment was across the street from the apartment my girlfriend grew up in. Like I said, I always felt like I was from Brooklyn so why would I choose anywhere else to find love? It was always cute to me that she felt like her familiarity with the area kept me safe. But this paranoia has been saving my life since I was a kid following my friends into the depths of darkness. And living in Brooklyn I would always hear my father’s voice in my head.
“Don’t ever leave the house in slides again, what if somebody try you?”
“Don’t run, always fight.”
“Keep your eyes open, keep your mouth shut.”
Things like that, which saved my life. So when certain things happened to my roommates who were from other places, I realized I definitely was not a gentrifier. Not to mention, I couldn’t afford the rent anyway. I was spending a shitload of money on going out, buying myself clothes, and gifts for my girlfriend. I also bought a lot of books, so I ain’t all that ignorant. I was a frequenter of Nicholas Brooklyn, on Fulton street. It was a safe haven for books, incense, and other ethnic products from the motherland that made my spirit feel good. A good balance from the alcohol and weed and other shit I ingested into my body and mind that make my flesh feel good and nothing else.
Having that studio in Williamsburg really saved my life. For a couple months I had to move back home. And I would spend some nights there to have time to myself. To have some peace and quiet from the chaos in my mom’s house. Ironic that I left Queens for Brooklyn to get peace and quiet. Really because the loudest noises are in your mind, more than they are outside. I grew to love the noise in Brooklyn. It isn’t completely foreign to me to hear cars driving by blasting music. Quite frankly that was normalcy to me growing up. That was how I knew my dad was outside to pick me up from my grandmother’s house. I used to tell my friends to turn their radios down when they would pull up in front of my house to drop me off after a night of partying or gambling or what have you. Out of respect. But the range of music you will hear throughout the day sitting in front of an open Brownstone window, you can’t replicate that. From 50 Cent to Reggae to Ice Spice. Or even some jazz if an old head is cruising in an old school car. This is that culture those gentrifiers love to talk about when they champion their time in Brooklyn. “This is what they mean.” I realized. I only understood the impact of it after spending some time living elsewhere. Really being able to appreciate Brooklyn from all angles.
My time living in Brooklyn was monumental for my life and early adulthood development. I really discovered myself and who I wanted to be in a different way. I still look at myself as the Prince of Queens, getting free Jordans from Jamaica Avenue because I was connected like that. Getting dropped off to school in different cars. My grandfather claims to have been one of the kids who painted the boulder on Farmers Boulevard. That’s real history right there. But the Prince of Queens found his true soul in the county of Kings. And Brooklyn will always have a special place in my heart. Right next to my Brooklyn princess. Peace.
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