Dear Brooklyn: You Will Never Feel The Same

Dear Brooklyn,


You know I love you right? You’ve nurtured me through the fire, reinforcing my identity, augmenting my pride. You, none other than a temple that houses my consciousness, the bridge that connects me with my fleeting diaspora. This is one debt that shall never be paid, I owe you my life!  You’ve changed however, I barely recognize you now. I subconsciously find myself grappling with the reality that you have been altered and even appropriated, leaving me with fragments of an all too fickle nostalgia to piece together what went wrong.

To say you've changed would be to admit an insufferable truth: that I am lost. Is it still necessary to look back every ten paces? Shall I still clinch my jaw and brace my spirit when I notice the shift in temperature? The dust on my code-switching abilities have become quite noticeable, practice has been hard to come by as of late. Nevertheless, I'm not sure how to feel about such affairs. Seeing as my identity is ascribed to struggle, I knowingly reject the calm waters for turbulent seas.

I fear that you are the last thread tethering me to my blackness, a thought that scares me into madness. Personally attached to your very presence, our connection has clouded my heart to look at the gentrifiers, the intruders, as usurpers of your beauty. You define me, so naturally I am worried history is repeating itself, watching another part of my identity being stripped in the process.

Interactions have unearthed the contradictions between my perception of you, and theirs. This realization has filled me with all kinds of emotions, some harder to describe, but anger and jealously are present, gears were definitely grinded. Am I wrong for being overprotective, what should one do when faced with the possibility of losing an organ; can you lose a piece of yourself and still feel whole?



The (Black) Brooklyn Millennial

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