The Day the Music Stopped

I used to feel at home the second I stepped into the neighborhood. I would immediately see my mother and dad’s childhood friends. My parents had the kind of love you only see in movies, where you grow up with “the one” and stay together for years. As I walked through the neighborhood, I heard bachata spilling across the New York City blocks. A few streets were always closed off for the kids, who ran between cars and down the sidewalks. When they got tired, they lined up for an icy from the woman on the corner. She had been there for years and would chat with the kids. On the corner diagonal to her stood the barbershop, full of guys getting haircuts. Outside men sat in beach chairs drinking coronas, listening to salsa, and playing dominoes. Next door was the salon where the women in my family went for their Dominican blowouts. I got my hair straightened and my rolos done there for the first time. I never felt more grown at such a young age. Everyone in that salon knew you the moment you walked by, and you wouldn’t dare skip saying hello unless you wanted to be talked about for a week. Across the street sat a bodega and a deli – and yes, there is a difference. The bodega was classic: the aisles were small as hell, bachata blasting, a cat sleeping on some random box, and the workers were like family. The deli down the block was where I went for a classic American snack or sandwich. Nothing healthy – just junk food, bigger aisles, and whatever was on the radio. The only thing the two places had in common was the cat. 

Now, I barely recognize the neighborhood. I hardly hear bachata or kids yelling as they run along the sidewalk. Only one block gets closed off now, and no one is ever out there playing. The icy lady still stands on the corner, only now there’s no line of children waiting. The barbershop is still there and the guys still get their haircuts. Only now they don’t hang out outside anymore. The salon is still around, but none of us really go. People still know who you are, and you still have to say hello unless you want them talking about you being rude. The bodega still sells Dominican snacks, the music is still blasting, the aisles are still tiny but it’s not as filled with people. The deli is still open, but now it sells kale smoothies. Once again, the cat still remains at both places. 

The moment Columbia University students started moving in more, everything began shifting. The neighborhood isn’t lively anymore. There’s no music flowing throughout the blocks because the students call in noise complaints and it doesn’t help that we are people of color and the students are white. One night my whole family was eating pizza and talking downstairs, and someone called the cops saying we were too loud. I know loud, and we weren’t anywhere close. Now boba shops are on every corner because that’s what students like. Every deli has “healthy” options. Young white people live in my grandma’s building, where there used to only be older immigrants who had been there for decades. Prices keep rising, and the people who built this neighborhood can’t afford to stay. I barely see my parents’ friends unless it’s a big gathering. Younger me never realized how much everything would change. Gentrification has reshaped everything – the people, the music, and the food. Now I hold onto each neighborhood before the music is taken from it.