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I also prefer patronizing black and Latino local businesses, from new, crepe-serving cafes to the endangered black gay nightspots. I've even joined a historically Black tennis league in Harlem, and I plan to volunteer at the tennis camp that they have for youth at Marcy projects. They have white hipster, yuppie, New York magazine-approved versions of all of these things, but as a transplant living in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood, I try to go Black whenever I can.
Part of the reason I do so is selfish -- generally, Black landlords and (NON-WEST INDIAN) business owners treat me better. For example, my landlord has rented most of the apartments in our building -- situated in what has become a disconcertingly trendy location -- to 30-something Black folks like me, and he charges us hundreds of dollars less than what the hipsters pay to live in white-owned buildings on our same block. I literally trust the Black dude at the wash 'n fold with my dirty draws, on the strength of him remembering my name after only my second visit. And I'm loyal to the black juice shop a block away partly because the prices are reasonable, and partly because the middle-age Guyanese owner flirts with me as he blends my apples and kale. I appreciate an old-fashioned DL holla.
But as a young Black professional, and unwitting gentrifier, I also feel like I have some kind of duty to support the Black cultural life that existed before I got here. After all, the vision of Black folks owning brownstones, playing tennis where Althea Gibson learned the game, making art, raising families, and living out their dreams is what drew me here in the first place. And their ability to continue doing so is the only reason to stay.
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