There Goes the Neighborhood: Chapter 31–Epilogue

Or maybe part of me has some nostalgia for the sanctity of the pinky promises that we’d make when we were little.

He lacked vision—he would’ve turned this place into a sterile, boring shell of a neighborhood.

All of the tenants in my building and in Lupe’s are participating. And after last night’s events, more people than ever are riled up to put an end to this...

The cops round here are still recovering from their last scandal when it came out that they falsified evidence to claim that people who they stopped were gang members. The fact that the city’s war on gangs has been shown to be a huge racist sham will work in your favor—people will fight for Zeke, even if they do believe that SOSI is real and that he’s affiliated.

Gangs are a complicated part of our neighborhood’s history, baby girl. They gave some people a sense of belonging during a time of rampant, systemic disinvestment when opportunities of any kind were scarce, but not without a cost.

A silent scream leaches out as a strained exhale between my gritted teeth.

I don’t want some heartfelt reconciliation.

There’s a hint of heartbreak and desperation in his voice that makes my chest contract.

The invisible magnet within my body flips and I find myself moving toward him, pulled by a force that exists beyond the constraints of my own anxieties and fears.

And then I’d wake up and realize that none of this is really happening—that it’s all just a heat wave–induced hallucination.

We talk and it’s normal at first, but then he starts getting touchy. I tell him to cool off and he freaks out, talking crazy about how he knows so-and-so and I should watch my mouth, yada-yada.

So that’s where that last chunk of money for her house fund came from. No wonder she didn’t want to tell us right away; she can rightfully call it reparations, but others might call it blackmail.

He hits all the buzzwords: resilience, #KnowJusticeKnowPeace, empowerment.

There are people communicating in Spanish, Tagalog, Patois, and Amharic.

Lou’s hands tremble as he shuts his eyes and starts humming to himself. His breathing grows more and more erratic.

I can see from the veins twitching in his neck that it takes a Herculean effort to pull his eyes open, but he does it anyway.

“Can you do me a favor?” he asks in a strained voice.
“Sure.” I try not to sound as apprehensive as I feel.

“Ah, a fellow cynic,” I say.
“Not all of us are made of sunshine.”

Troy raises his hands in a ridiculous attempt at a gang sign, but he can’t seem to coordinate his body enough to actually bring his fingers together. Normally, this would be sort of funny, but there’s a level of contempt in his voice that makes me nervous.

His face breaks into a sleazy smile though his eyes seem distant.

Guttural gurgles rise and fall from his throat.

“We need to help him.”
I guess Marley’s vexing sense of compassion runs in the family.

“Your ‘vision’ isn’t for the health of the community here right now—it’s for whatever richer, whiter people these initiatives will bring in to displace everyone’s who’s been here for decades.”

It’s like the college admissions scandal from a while ago when all those famous white-lady celebrities bribed universities, blatantly committing sloppy fraud over email without a care in the world.

“None of this will ever work,” Lou says, his voice faltering.

“I’m just tired,” I say. Understatement of the year. I’ve never been so exhausted in my life.

Gentrification triggered the need to start SOSI to save Zeke, and Troy and Amelia are practically the patron saints of unabashed greed and megalomania.

Gentrification triggered the need to start SOSI to save Zeke, and Troy and Amelia are practically the patron saints of unabashed greed and megalomania.

My heart rate accelerates, the force of my pulse wreaking havoc through my contracting muscles.

Lance stands shakily just beyond the threshold.

“Your story is just hearsay. So, when Troy’s fancy Ivy League attorney starts digging around, they’re going to realize that the parking lot where they found Vic is far from the park.”

Lance makes that indignant expression that all white people do when you call them out on their racism.

“Amelia’s Community Revitalization Plan is much better.”
“Better how? Because a cute white girl is curating it? Because a community of color can’t possibly be trusted to direct its own development, right?”

He doesn’t have to spell it out any clearer: a Black teenager versus a white hipster who owns a new local business and votes blue. He smirks, knowing that he was born with the trump card.

My stomach lurches as she lands facedown on the floor.

Lance’s face turns a violent shade of pink that makes his splotchy complexion look more like a tongue than skin.

She saunters over to her phone, cracked and vibrating, a few feet away.

We wave at the couple in the car, umber skin shining beneath the late-afternoon sun, and they wave back.

The news coverage of the movement was enough to get local politicians to enact an emergency policy restricting landlords’ ability to spike rent prices for the next year.

She’s helping provide guidance on potential litigation strategies to sue the city for racist zoning policies that encourage gentrification and reduce the amount of affordable housing in the county.