Yesterday I moved to the Fruitvale District in Oakland. As Wikipedia
puts it, Fruitvale is “southeast of Downtown, and is home to the city's largest
Hispanic population, with Hispanics comprising 53.8% of Fruitvale's population”
(Wikipedia).
As I put it “Everything in this grocery store is in Spanish”. That’s fine by me;
I’ve lived in Spanish speaking countries before and I wanted the good tortilla chips anyway,
but me being the only white person in the store was indicative of the problem
of gentrification.
Usually you have to go to school or read a book to understand socio-economic issues, but I’ll give you a crash course on why gentrification is bad.
Imagine if you’ve lived in your apartment for 5 years,
paying $500 a month, and now your landlord wants you to pay $1000. You can’t
afford that. So you have to leave. And so do all your neighbors. And your
neighborhood has a lot of young people moving into it because you have nice
coffee shops and theaters and community centers. In fact, your community has
made it so nice here that it’s profitable to knock down those coffee shops and
theaters and put up big condominiums. Thereby destroying the value you created
And also everyone moving in is white because they can afford
it. Also the reason why your rent is increasing is because white people made a
fancy company and the value of the neighborhood is going up. Also the land is
owned by white people. Also they’ve made you move out before.
I got into a little bit of real estate mismanagement there,
but hopefully you get the idea. Gentrification is forcefully moving people out
via rent increases, usually to people of color by white people.
So what does this have to do with me? The question on
everyone’s mind.
Well turns out I am white, and I’m moving in to Fruitvale
(if only briefly). I’m like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,
Gentrification. And I’m galloping in on my gaudy overpriced education and
access to health care.
And I mean literally galloping through the streets. I like
to run, it’s fun. But I realized I was wearing something especially insulting. I was
wearing a Tough Mudder t-shirt like some sort of self-celebratory asshat. Do
you know what kind of a nipple rubbing pompadour you have to be to run through
a poorer neighborhood with a Tough Mudder t-shirt on?
To compete in the Tough Mudder you have to pay ~$150. That means you have an extra $150 just lying around, plus whatever it costs to get there. That’s $150 to just go run around!
That’s an exaggeration of course, because I am the absolute
best, epitome, number 1, king champion of exaggeration.
Tough Mudder races aren’t just running around. They have
numerous obstacles, including an ice plunge, a slide through a ring of fire,
and electrocution. That’s some Mike
Pence chicanery. If you’re living pay check to pay check, you’re probably
not going to take the gamble that the kid who wired up the “Electroshock
Therapy” obstacle double checked the amperes. Really, the idea that you can
take a day off of work to run a course designed to be physically difficult is a
privilege and a half.
I used to think that running was a fairly egalitarian sport. And in a lot of ways it still is. No fees, teammates or equipment needed. But
running does require time and a decent place to run. I looked goofy as hell
sprinting down Main Street today, and if you’re pulling your third shift at the
grocery store for minimum wage today and you see me prancing down the street,
the last thing you need to know is that I do this for fun and pay money to
spend a day soaked in mud careening through mountains. But that’s what my shirt
says.
I’ll probably still wear the shirt though, cuz it’s soft and
doesn’t chafe my nipples like my other shirts.
