“Time Flies” mural, painted by Los Muralistas de El Puente
Take a walk along this mural wall and experience a dive into Bushwick’s history. Created by Los Muralistas de El Puente in 2006, documents Bushwick’s history from Dutch settlement, the blackout and fires of the 1970s, to the era of gentrification and displacement. The mural explores themes of community, and ways a community is healed and hurt. The original muralists work hard to preserve the piece, periodically touching it up, because random tags and throwies come with the territory of public art.
Dear Bushwick pt. 2
By Elisabet Velasquez
There’s so much to say about you I can’t say it in a poem. I promise to write a book about you if you promise to remain my home. I know it’s hard to stay the same when growth sometimes means changing, but we haven’t grown, we are just the product of some rearranging. It hurts to see you like this sometimes you look so different. Remember when I said I’d never leave you now I barely visit. I remember playing in this park and now I’m rhyming in it. Bushwick born meant you lived to make it out or you’re dying in it. Mami still lives on the corner of Troutman and Irving. They tried to move her out; they say she’s not deserving. I’m learning, discerning the difference between danger and safety. If there’s less crime why is it still dangerous for most of us lately? That's politics, they say that as if our lives ain’t political. I write poems that make people uncomfortable so they call me cynical, but back to Bushwick I miss you man. Let’s catch up sometime. Heard there’s a Starbucks on Wyckoff, let’s get coffee to remember the times when we used to chill on the stoop on Suydam street. Waiting for Wela to grab a broom and sweep the concrete. I went to Graham the other day,I saw the record shop is still there. San German said he owns the building he ain’t going nowhere! Knickerbocker is still lit remember the sneaker spot, which one, yeah you right, that’s all there was on the block, but we had to stay fresh, we represented a people, guayaberas on the Avenue of Puerto Rico, Boricua College had us thinking Yo! Maybe we’re smart too? Theorizing over weed we called that high school. Remember summer lunches? Sweating on the line at 111. When your fridge is empty you’d wait in hell just to taste heaven. It wasn’t all bad even though when they started the war on drugs. Street curfew kept us locked in till they could prove we should get locked up. Maria Hernandez Park is dedicated to a woman who died to keep us safe. I was mad young watching mami cry over a woman who shared her name. That’s what happens when you’re abandoned by those who are supposed to protect you. When promise to serve doubles as a pledge to neglect you. Papi said they don’t gotta like you but they gotta respect you! Which meant don’t let nobody get you to that place let them sweat you! We used to walk around Myrtle talking mad disrespectful. Mister Lee’s to the Pecho, blue Hawaiians I bet you didn’t know that we knew the Piragua man by his name. If we didn’t, everybody was called Papi the same. Bodegas knew the struggle too so they kept us fed. Hood credit, fiao-economics just to get milk and bread. “Ponlo en la cuenta, que papo me debe veinte pesos, bendición mijo y cuidao si te meten preso. Yo no tengo dinero pa sacarte, solo amor para darte, salte del pecado que jesucristo te ama.” There was always a church praying to god for our Alma’s, praying to god for some calma, salud mental no se habla. Si paresco de los nervios es parque los coupones no alcanzan. I never thought I could be an artist because of systemic disdain. How could that possibly be beautiful? How could I possibly escape? They say get over it, that’s trauma porn, nobody wants to hear the same old same. But if we are trauma born, that means we know how to laugh even when we’re in pain. I’m not here to make you comfortable so you can validate my life by how many degrees I achieved by how many jobs I did right. When I fucked up I mattered. When I spoke bad I mattered. Look how I look so put together even in the midst of fucking shatter. How could you possibly understand what inclines me to rhyme, when telling my truth often means uncovering a lie. I only got my truth silence is my captivity and though I am a writer who speaks most times the best way to learn is simply by listening I don’t even really need this mic cause I’m naturally loud.
Dear Bushwick,
Thank you. I really hope I make you proud.
Elisabet Velasquez