A Place of My Own

When I first moved to Bushwick two years ago and told my friend who at the time did not live in or know much of New York thought I was kidding. It is the kind of joke I would make. Bushwick, is almost lewd. With the right tone of voice it's fairly easy to make it sound dirty. Better yet I didn't know anyone else who lived out there, so I could spin the neighbourhood however I wanted to.

'Bushwick, the place where the grass grows freely' (nudge nudge)

'Bushwick, home of many neatly trimmed shrubs' (wink, wink)

'Bushwick, where the Vikings went to shave' (say no more, say no more. No really, don't say that)

Okay, I probably wouldn't have made that last comment until I went to Scotland and learned that towns in Britain ending -wick, -wich, etc where settled by Vikings. Mind you, the joke in this whole thing is that this unbelieving friend now lives in Bushwick. Who has the last laugh now.

Two years later and I've moved back. Onto a more residential street, but I can still use the same Laundromat – they still have me in their computer – and I can still get coffee and the only trendy coffee shop in the area – and they still remember my face, but they never really got my name. The interesting part is they weren't really sure how long I'd been gone, not that I thought they would. How can you expect to know you haven't seen a customer for 14 months. After a while it all goes blurry. But they were shocked I had been gone for long and that I was back. Somethings don't change.

And something's do. Bushwick is probably now officially an artsy ghetto. Step 2 of gentrification. Which is too bad, and I hate to contribute, but I can't afford other places. The whole area reminds me of Venice beach from my childhood, except minus the crack and the AK-47's. And I'm not kidding about those.

The local grocery store has changed. When I first moved two years ago the only things in the store that looked familiar enough to eat where the cereal and the canned soup and even the soup was touch and go. But slowly the management smelled the winds of change (no my Bushwick friend, that's not a reference to anything) and granola appeared on the shelves. And dried fruit. Obvious signs that new-age yoga-class-attending people had moved into the area. Slowly this shelf expanding to two shelves, three shelves, an entire section, half an aisle. That's when I left. Now I wonder the aisles and recognize food in all of them. Mind you I still don't think I'd buy the fruit. But they have organic milk and expensive bottled water. The mysterious South American fruits have not disappeared, they are still there and that's relieving. The longer time residents still need to eat the foods they have been cooking for years. I will never deny anyone access to their native foods. It is the aisles and aisles of rice – different bags from each country in South America – whose loss I celebrate. And the endless bags of beans. How many different brands of pinto beans does one store really need to stock?

Yes, many will paint me the ruthless, white, bourgeoisie invader all copper hair and blue woad face paint bearing down at them Mel Gibson style, that is just as much a Hollywood mock up of me as it is of William Wallace. My daily life would tire easily without the confrontation of foreign fruit – and no I don't mean European Gays – in the grocery store or cat calls in a cornucopia of Spanish dialects. And while I don't entirely miss being the only white girl, or gringa, or shiksa, buying two-ply at the bodega, after a year in Scotland I just want to kiss the cluster-fuck of cultures.