I walked a bit over a mile to a favorite park today. It’s been hot lately, unseasonably so for Seattle, and it had occurred to me that the Ravenna ravine would be a perfect spot, lush and shadowed, to write.
And so under beating sun and smoke-tinged haze I walked. Down to the park, slinking into the folds of the land where big leaf maples, skunk cabbage, and sword fern reign still. I clambered up a boulder wedged at the base of the ravine, and admired the light filtered a cool green which washed the urban forest floor. And now above the trickle of the stream and shiver of the leaves, I think. About what? Well, about the future, mostly. About Germany, Berlin really. About Berlin. I want to go back. Yes, I want to go back and more than that. I want to go back and live there. To live in Kreuzberg. On a walk and Christa and Ahmed, my first time alone with them, we discussed the cost of living. Down treed streets flanked by 150-year-old apartment buildings like graffiti-doused canyon walls we wandered and Christa explained how for long this neighborhood had been very affordable, but that now things were changing and fast. “It’s known for drawing many artists and immigrants,” she explained, “but now it is too desirable and the rent is too high for many of those people.” They compared the price of a Kreuzberg studio today to that of one five years ago, and while both prices seemed quite decent to me in comparison to the skyrocketing costs of comparable Seattle apartments, it was evident in these numbers that yes, the neighborhood was becoming more expensive. I wish I understood gentrification better. I wish I knew where the line between gentrified and un-gentrified begins, which factors lead to it. More importantly and selfishly, I wish I knew where I fit in to the issue. I am young, white, educated, and middle class and like so many writers before me, have long been drawn to lower class urban spaces. Perhaps this allure is some form of exoticism or romanticism or some other “ism” forged by my own privilege. Perhaps it’s just a manifestation of a longing to live somewhere different from the neighborhoods in which I was raised— still urban, yes, but also constructed of single family homes, small green backyards, a predominantly white middle class population. Yes, perhaps it’s some form of rebellion against the lives of my parents and even more the lives of extended family members who scant leave their sprawling suburban enclaves. I’d like to think that my interest in these urban spaces stem not so much from some uninspired product of white girl fantasies as a genuine interest and love. I loved in Kreuzberg the contrast of cultures, the sounds of Turkish, Tuariq, German, Russian, Arabic on the tongues of passersby. I loved the grit of neglected buildings and angst-riddled graffiti, the incongruity of Mosques beside bars beside needle exchanges beside play grounds. This collision of culture and lifestyle, all drawn to this network of hard edged urban entanglements by a collective desire to find affordable space. As a creative-expression-oriented individual especially interested in different forms of narrative, I found myself incredibly drawn to the diversity and density, the previously mentioned “incongruities” of many older urban neighborhoods currently under threat of gentrification. And here I find myself uncertain. Is this seeking of inspiration in the complex and dense, lively and diverse urban folds what historically has drawn so many artists (white artists from privileged backgrounds, to be specific) to these places? Is it this artistic presence that has transformed such neighborhoods from hubs of diversity and minority representation into playgrounds for the privileged middle class? Is my passion for such places simply well-intentioned commodification and romanticism of lower-class, racialized communities? These are questions to which I do not yet know the answers. I have grown up with the understanding that, as a white person, I will have to note and give up some of my privileges in an effort to participate in a world with greater racial justice. Perhaps this privilege, the privilege to slide into any neighborhood I desire, is one of the privileges I will have to give up. Perhaps Kreuzberg is a privilege which I will have to give up in order to follow through on my beliefs. In the Gecekondo run by Kotti & Co, I asked Sandy Kaltenborn if artists hailing from privileged backgrounds can ever occupy lower-class urban spaces in a way which does not damage the preexisting voice of said space while simultaneously lending in some humble way to the wellbeing of the community. The man who had long worked to maintain the Kottbusser neighborhood for its economically and ethnically diverse population smiled, running a hand through his hair, “I honestly don’t know.” Sandi’s vague answer blends with my own uncertainty. But then I return in my head to Kreuzberg. I don’t know, maybe it will always be problematic, my occupying space in such an environment, but then, I remember what is so important to me about that space. Walking through Kreuzberg on that first magical day, it was not the parts of the neighborhood which lent me comfort— the gentrified fringes catered to young middle-class white girls— but the places unfamiliar— the corners and shops which forced me to confront my fears and uncertainties— with which I fell in love. Many of my favorite experiences in Kreuzberg were the moments which challenged me most, which forced me to be humble, to step back and learn. Maybe it’s all about intention. When striving to enter a new community, one must be firstly aware of their intentions behind entering such a space. Secondly, one must occupy said space with intention. Each individual’s presence is impactful, and especially when hailing from a point of privilege in which one is accustomed to having surroundings tailored to their lifestyle, which I as a white middle-class American typically am, it is crucial to act from a point of mindful humility. Like learning the language in a new country, you learn the language of the community, engaging with residents, eating their food and shopping at their stores. The alternative to gentrification is humility. We must be armed with the knowledge that this community is doing far more for us than we can do for it. At least this is my current hope, my current belief. The future is filled with lessons on humility, moments dedicated to increased understanding. Perhaps someday I will be able to answer with confidence my question for Sandi. Today though, I will sit on this rock admire the light as it streams through leaves so alive, and remember Germany, remember Berlin.
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AuthorStudent at the University of Washington, Sophie Aanerud, will be studying abroad in Berlin, Germany. Here are some of her thoughts . . . Archives
August 2017
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