Jay Sharma - The Diaspora of Belonging: Gentrification, Systems of Oppression, and Why Our Cities Are Out of Place

Part I
How We Settled
(or Base Fare)

Chapter 0
Authors Note

Chapter 1
Mobility in Space

Chapter 2
Chess, Not Checkers

Chapter 3
Show Me The $$$

Part II
Regional Differences

Chapter 4
the Norfeast

Chapter 5
The South

Chapter 6
The Midwest

Chapter 7
The West

Part III
Seams of the Urban Fabric

Chapter 8
Economics Part 1 :
The Growing Gradient

Chapter 8.6
Economics Part 2 :
Are We Missing Something?

Chapter 9
Comm-unity / A Glass Wall

Chapter 10
Whats That Called?

Chapter 11
Education For Just Us

Chapter 12
Epilogue

Excuse me.

Oh, my bad, I say as I duck around the stanchion, clearing the way out.

Preciate it.

North Station. Change here for Green Line. Bus Service.

Exhaling, I return to my original stance, with my back to the door. This way, I can survey the rest of the train car. If I wanted to, I could turn around to watch the city of Boston fade behind me, but I like looking around the train. I like observing the different characters and interactions. I like catching the eyes of a stranger, or even striking up conversation with some old ass townie. I like seeing who I get to share this space and time with.

Next stop: Community College. Doors open on both sides. Community College, next stop.

Growing up, it became easier and easier to take the train. It also became more fun. I spent less time studying the routes and worrying about my stops, and more time thinking about the people, their days, and what a train did for us. It was like directing a movie: Any type of character I needed would simply appear. If not now, then maybe in a few stops. What made the train even better was that every rider directed their own movie, which allowed me to be a side character. In this anonymity, I could bury myself in a book, bust a quick nap, or listen to my iPod. No one really knew what I was thinking or where I was going. And they didnt really care.

Next stop: Sullivan. Bus service.Doors open on both sides. Sullivan, next stop.

I grew up a few blocks from here. I remember the whole block was lathered with South Asian families. I remember running to the park behind our street. I remember my barber Miguel, who still works just a few blocks away, dancing Merengue as he cuts my hair.

Recollecting myself, I prepare a relocation strategy, this is the stop that sees the most foot traffic coming from Downtown. On the platform, theres almost always a chance youll see a young couple with a stroller, a cyclist, a rider on their phone, a college student, or a twenty-something-year-old security guard. Playing it cool, I dissolve into a crowd, ending up next to a businesswoman reading her Kindle.

Sullivan. Change here for bus service.

Taking the train in and around the city wasand still isliberating. Theres always been a certain sense of independence that consumes me; I never needed permission from anyone to ride. All I needed was my CharlieCard, and I could access virtually any part of the city I wanted.

Taking the train was the most leveled playing field there was. You could be a banker, a veteran, an engineer, a construction worker, houseless, a chef, or even a government official, and it didnt matter. You had to wait for the same train, sit in the same seats, and exist in the same space as everyone else. Here is where our lives intersected. To see this scene uncover itself was to see the magic of cities.

Next stop: Wellington. Bus service.Doors on both sides. Next stop: Wellington.

I plan my escape route from the train car, as if Im a running-back reading the defense. I survey the faces one last time, and make a mental note of where the vacant seats are. I scout for riders I think will get off next, wondering if theyre wondering the same. I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet. The train stops. The right side opens first and, after a few seconds, the left one does too.

Wellington, doors open on both sides.Bus Service.

If I had stayed on, more folks would start closing their books, calling their rides, and packing their things. The next stop was Malden Center, which means Id see a good amount of the Asian riders get off. Just like there was a noticeable amount of Black and Latinx folks who lived by Sullivan, or the mix of white people who lived by Oak Grove; I had noticed where folks were usually getting off.

When I noticed these patterns, others stood out too. Some were baseless, some were not. Stops were more frequent closer to the city than outside it. Minorities typically lived near other minorities. Different groups of riders boarded at different times of the day, visited different parts of the city.

Noticing these things jump-started my love for cities. I realized that I was lucky to see such trends in real life, and even luckier to have this exposure just by sitting in a single train car. I got to see a spectrum of races, cultures, fashion, behaviors, personalities, and occupations. Without realizing it, my awareness of my surroundings and my spacial understanding were being polished every time I tapped my CharlieCard.

* * *

I remember my pops driving my mom and me to South Station to catch a Fung-Wah bus to Queens, NY (which, at times, feels more like home for me). Sometimes itd be early in the morning, and Id see a sea of suits, sunglasses, and Dunkin cups. Sometimes itd be in the evening, and employees who worked there had already skedaddled, catching a train home or bouncing to a post-work work event. Every night, these single-use areas looked like a cross between a movie set and a ghost town: eerie, desolate, and overshadowed.

One thing about cities in particular that always amazed me was how quickly places could change from one moment to the next. How could such vibrant places feel so stark and cold? Why did some areas only come alive at night? What brought that feeling of familiarity and relief when I got off at my train stop? How could a single train car weave together so many parts of the urban fabric? How do cultures and spaces unite and define a city? How do cities get their feel? Why do some cities remind us of other cities? Why do some cities feel like home? What does it mean to belong?

* * *

The feel of a city is embedded in its public spaces, architectural styles, and neighborhoods. It leaks through slang and dialect, stains local restaurants, and is characterized by locals themselves. Some cities feel charming or ethereal. Others feel historic or outdated. Some cities didnt distinguish themselves until the late twentieth century; others have been around since European colonialization efforts.

But cities hold the hearts of many. Efforts to measure and quantify their impacts have been a topic of interest for ecologists, economists, geographers, sociologists, historians, and more. The idea of hometown pride is permeated across America. A look into Instagrams hashtag data found that cities like San Francisco, Seattle, Tulsa, New Orleans, and Buffalo were being consistently appreciated for their beauty, architecture, and food.