Thirteen years
ago, after a short stint of semi-homelessness (homeless by federal definitions,
but I only slept in bushes a few times), I moved into a house which was to
become my home the better part of my adult life.
I have stories
of the place, for a place is not just a background or setting for a story, but
it is a story in itself. Sun-soaked
evenings upon a porch overlooking a lake and the mountains, clinging to the
edge of the most interesting and living neighborhood in Seattle.
Strangers have stopped and stared, taken photos and waved, sometimes
looked longingly, sometimes shaken in frenzied prayer at the abode before them,
a hundred-year old house with (Viking, pirate, prayer and upside-down American)
flags waving in breezes which spun storms of dancing sun-motes reflected from
an ancient disco ball. Salvaged plants
and bells adorned the crumbling banister over which I’d look, sipping tea,
sometimes unclothed, at the strange, adorable urban world into which I’d
rooted.
And I’ve paid
250 dollars a month for my place in this house, this city, this world.
And Then Progress Came
I’ve been here
long enough to remember the economic collapses and downturns and recessions or
whatever words we summon to describe what happens when each new wave of
“progress” ebbs out back to the sea of failed ideas. With each new surge came some grand plan
whole classes within the city embraced, a new idea (which seemed always an old
idea, one those old enough might remember) to usher the ambitious into the
future. I got here just before the
internet start-ups started ending-down.
Money everywhere, new restaurants and clubs and stores to sell to all
the sorts of people who knew what they were doing, knew they were living the
future.
And then that
ended, and people fled. I’ve never
really figured out where most of them went.
I didn’t know many of them, because they had more money than I did.
Then
biotech. Suddenly the largest university
here started down-sizing its liberal-arts department to make way for all the
new science students, canceling its direct-transfer agreements with the
community colleges to attract more out-of-state, out-of-country tuition. Whole streets were razed to make room for the
future, and people who’d lived in places like mine found themselves scrambling
to find new places to live. But there
were fewer and fewer places to which to run, because with all the new
“industry,” all the new progress, came the new buildings replacing the old.
A little later
(when the rush for bio-medicines began to lag, when we all realized it would
take decades to make medicine from genes, not weeks) came the “housing
bubble.” Suddenly everyone wanted a
house, even if they didn’t want to live in one.
Suddenly it was the “thing to do,” and I couldn’t escape the conversations
at bars discussing how it was an easy way to make money. Middle-class white homosexuals started
leaving the “gay” neighborhood for other places where there were houses, and
when people decried the change of the neighborhood’s character, ridiculous and
irresponsible articles in the local alternative papers (written by white gay
men) declared “the gay ghetto” to be a dangerous notion, a primitive throw-back
to the time when people didn’t like gays.
Gays had to progress, and home-ownership was the future.
That didn’t last
so long, either.
The Spirit of Place
Recently,
there’ve been a few brutal crimes against sexual-deviants in my neighborhood,
accompanied by utter shock that such a thing could happen in our brave new
present future.
Under all of
this has been a completely different change, unmarked by most because it is not
a measure by which we mark things.
Spirit of place is not something many people can speak of without
getting blank stares. It can be defined
in multiple ways, cannot be scientifically measured, and is therefore not
quantifiable and does not enter into most conversations when one discusses
displacement of people.
But it is
something that is felt, anecdotally, by those who stay in a place long enough
to become part of it. Live somewhere long enough and you will know
it. Participate in its growth, open yourself up to its personality, and
you will know it well.
“The
neighborhood has changed,” goes the most common complaint, the most common
remark. “I don’t recognize it any more”
is another. And sometimes, “The Hill is
dead.”
Buildings go up,
buildings are torn down. Streets are
widened, narrowed. Faces change, faces
flee. Conversations between strangers
diminish, conversations into wireless devices increase. Familiar bars and cafes disappear. New ones arrive, different, sometimes
adequate, sometimes less so. But things
are different.
It’s facile,
puerile, and utterly shallow merely to utter “people don’t like change.” I love change, I love things being different,
but I do not like things disappearing, being torn down, being destroyed and
rebuilt. I don’t like prices increasing,
I don’t like rents getting raised. I
don’t like feeling unsafe, unfamiliar in the city I’ve chosen to make my
home.
What I do like,
what I crave—is being part of the spirit of the place. There is a simple yet profound joy in tending
a garden which needs (really) very little help from a human to
grow—participating in its existence, being part of it is much of the pleasure
and provides much of the meaning. On a
larger scale, a neighborhood requires the people within it to exist, and
requires certain things of certain people to maintain it. The old man wearing skirts and bells is one
of its shepherds, as is the old hunch-backed lady who still manages to smile
despite being bent at an almost perfect right-angle. The bartenders, the shop-keeps, the baristas,
the bus-drivers, the leather-queens and street-punks and all the “normal” people
in between them tend the Spirit of Place.
They are each replaceable to some degree, but not all at once
Capitalism and Displacement
When we decide
to move from one place to another, to leave a city for a new one, or a suburb,
or the countryside, we individually weigh multiple factors. Amongst those--and I dare say a significant
part of them--are economic and aesthetic factors. Where jobs can be found is often the most
important, but so, equally, is where a good and interesting life can be lived. We each experience this as a set of decisions
based on free-will, but there is an external engine which affects these
internal decisions.
In most of
history, when there are large-scale migrations of whole groups of people, it is
usually due to war, famine, or natural disaster. But in Capitalism, in the forced-march of
Progress, this is the every-day.
Economists refer to it as "mobility," and it was recently a
thing for politicians to blame joblessness on the immobility of certain workers
living hundreds of miles from open job positions. We move for "opportunity" and flee
"cost." We re-locate for
cheaper housing, or livelier neighborhoods, or to avoid poverty.
One of the most
useful ides of Marx is his description of how the demands of Capital(ism) alter
social relations. The birth of Capitalism in the 1700's in England began
a process of endless displacement which started with farmers who rented their
land no longer able to afford these rents and fleeing to the new factories where
they could still find a way to survive off their labor. These migrations
emptied villages and flooded towns, broke apart old friendships and customs and
families and, quite importantly, disconnected people from the sense of place
they once felt. They left one location, one Spirit of Place for another,
one to which they were new and unaccustomed.
Capitialism and Progress
A short
diversion is useful here, to explain how the Progres and Capitalism
relate. Adam Smith, the first evangelist
of Capitalism, is known for many things, including “the invisible hand of the
market” and the doctrine of self-interest as benefiting all. However, one of the most important contributions
he made to the justification of Capitalism gets ignored quite often, his
doctrine of the “imperative of improvement.”
He justified the taking of native lands in North
America by the virtue that they were doing nothing with it, that
is, not improving it.
Improvement is
one of the imperatives of Capitalism, for, to compete with others, one must
constantly be producing more, or better, or more efficiently. This imperative became quickly the very ethic
of Capitalism, its command: improve or die.
An economy must grow every year or it is dying, one must make at least a
little more each year than the next, charge a little more rent each year,
etc.
And one of the
ways to do this is to destroy what was before, which cost less, and replace it
with something that generates more money.
An old apartment building housing only 30 people for which those tenants
would only ever pay $600 a month gets torn down and replaced by 60 units at
twice the price. This is improvement.
This is Progress.
This is
displacement
Modern
materialism and secular scientific pop-philosophy has left us with very few
ways to define what has happened around us.
We can point to the sadness we feel when the familiar goes away, we can
talk of our fear or frustration. We can use terms like “gentrification” or
“character” to describe the processes of our loss, but it all falls ultimately
flat.
Understanding
the external forces of this changes helps somewhat, which is why I will never
relinquish my Marxism. But even still,
it fails to describe that certain specific thing we collectively experience
when everything changes around us, the cause of the shared trauma. And it’s a “first-world problem,”
particularly, as the land we’re living on is not ancestrally ours and was taken
from people experiencing even more significant trauma (and death) from the
coming of whites. But it is a trauma
nevertheless, experienced on a numb level which leaves us full of words which
never quite describe our rage and loss.
The Genius Loci
A pagan concept
helps significantly here. In latin, the Genius Loci was the name given
for the spirit of a place, an existent guardian spirit. Many pagans believe such a thing really
exists, but one does not need to be a pagan to see the use of such a
concept. The Spirit of Place can still
exist to a materialist, a Christian, or an agnostic with as much meaning as to
one who believes it can be named and spoken to.
There are
migrations to this city from other cities, foreigners flooding in with their
strange customs and disregard for this Spirit of Place. I’m not talking about immigrants (who tend as
a whole to be more aware of the concept of Spirit of Place than most Americans). I mean, in Seattle’s
case, southern California.
But where they are from doesn’t matter (though if I hear another group of
heavily-cologned straight men shout their Orange County
zip codes at each other across the street on a Friday night…). What matters is that they are new, they do
not yet know the Spirit of Place, and they alter it.
And I would be
remiss if I did not point out these people experienced the same pressure as we
do now. While I want to vomit a little when I think of some of them being
mere refugees from other Genius Loci, displaced by the engine of Progress, it
is more-than-likely true,
Another way to
look at it exists, though—the pain of the Spirit of Place, the confusion of the
Genius Loci, the loss it experiences as whole parts of its long-time devotees
flee from its boundaries and new ones come in, too new to be known by it, too
money-obsessed to spend the effort learning of its character and personality,
maybe even too traumatized by previous loss to embrace a new Spirit of Place,
still clinging to old ideas, old familiarities.
To be fair,
admixture isn’t bad. New blood, new
ideas, new faces—these are all what keep cities alive, what refreshes and
expands the personality of a city, what strengthens and fortifies the Spirit of
Place. Change is not bad, but nor is it
inherently good.
Cities can
expand, neighborhoods can grow. But when
the guardians of the guardian of a place are chased out, when what made the
place safe, interesting, exciting and alluring to those who lived there and
those who wanted to live there flee, this is not a thing to be celebrated, nor,
really, even to be sighed at.
It is to be
mourned.
Brilliant.
ReplyDeleteThank you! :)
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