Before I moved here, I thought of Brooklyn as Brooklyn. It was one place, one thing. To my uninitiated mind, Brooklyn itself had character and an identity as a whole. It’s not that I was wrong, the Mother Borough does have an overarching identity and character … but it’s defined by the unique nature of its neighborhoods.

Brooklyn is comprised of so many distinct areas each with their own qualities that to live here and call oneself a Brooklynite is a bit like calling oneself an American. Sure, it’s true, but how much do urban New Yorkers and rural Kansans really have in common, besides that overarching American moniker? It’s the same with Brooklyn.

People from Flatbush are not people from Brooklyn Heights. Those from the Slope aren’t those from Bensonhurst. Some nabes in proximity have more in common with each other than with certain other ‘hoods, but even the like areas have their differences: the brownstones of Bed-Stuy versus the huge apartment buildings and pre-war opulence of Crown Heights, for example.

When I lived in the Stuy, the girlfriend I was living with would tell me that her students thought we were hardcore for living there. She taught in Crown Heights, and those kids thought Bed-Stuy was the baddest place on Earth. They weren’t far off; gunshots nearly every night, drug dealers doing their business in broad daylight right there in your face.  Ineffectual cops letting the crimes that weren’t murder go on because they had their hands full with more major felonies. But Crown Heights ain’t no walk in the park neither, son. Still, those kids thought their hood was tame compared to the Do Or Die.

That most recent bid in Bed-Stuy was my second tour, and I was deep in it. The first time around, I was dangling on the fringe, in the DMZ between Clinton Hill and Bedford-Stuyvestant proper. That DMZ was pretty tame, even with the Evergreen project Houses diagonally across the street. I got more grief in Prospect Heights, where gentrification was often met with violent opposition. I consider myself lucky I only got punched in the head instead of shot like some of the other invading honky forces.

I know I’ve used this before but, like Johnny Cash said, I’ve been everywhere, man. 4th Avenue at Pacific Street, “Clinton Hill”, Prospect Heights, Park Slope, Gowanus, Bed-Stuy and Flatbush. I spent a little while without a home, and I passed it sleeping on my friends’ couch in Windsor Terrace. I almost moved to Borough Park, but the realtor didn’t like the idea of inter-racial dating. I put a deposit down on a shithole in Sunset Park, but wound up bailing on that bad idea. I’ve been to almost every nabe except Starett City, and I can’t think of any other place than Brooklyn that varies so greatly within an area of about 80 some-odd square miles.

I identify with Flatbush. I don’t feel like as much of an intruder here as I did in Bed-Stuy, but I’ve definitely enjoyed living on the fringe. I’ve been far from the spoiled, trust-funded white brats that pollute Park Slope and Williamsburg, and I’ve been happy for it. My neighborhood is genuine, full of people who work hard and appreciate others who do the same. Sure, there’s not much in the way of nightlife, there’s no fancy cafe with pretentiously named beverages, but there’s also nothing keeping me from sleeping with my window open at night … except chihuahua-sized wasps, of course.

I’ve been in too many places to feel much of a bond with a particular neighborhood. I’ve been alien almost everywhere I’ve lived in this borough, either from being white in a black neighborhood, or being the wrong kind of white in a white ‘hood. As big and as varied as this place is, a niche is not something I’ve yet carved out.

But, more so than someone who’s only lived in one of its neighborhoods, I’m a Brooklynite. I may yet identify with Flatbush more than the whole, but not at the moment. In six years I’ve been too many places to have taken root in any of them. The only permanent place I’ve occupied is the borough herself. So while Brooklynite is more vague than Flatbusher, it’s more specific than American and more significant than just being a New Yorker. As far as I’m concerned, Brooklyn is my country, state and city all in one. I only go to Manhattan to get paid.

I realize, in terms of skin, that I’m the color of the invading horde responsible for the gentrification of Brooklyn … but white isn’t the color responsible, it’s green, and despite my exterior, I’m in Brooklyn because I’ve got less green than the bourgeoise whites gobbling up real estate and jacking up rents. I’m in Brooklyn because the idea of paying over a grand a month for an apartment is offensive to me, particularly when employers don’t pay their charges what would pass for a living wage in this city.

I’m saying that I’m not the enemy and, by and large, the people in my neighborhood realize that, but there are plenty of people with the same color skin as me who are the enemy: my enemy and the enemy of anyone who is living in Brooklyn because it is (or at least was) affordable. No one wants to be driven out of their homes and see the character of their neighborhood washed away by the sterilizing process of gentrification. I only just found out that Mooney’s Pub closed. I used to live around the corner and go there often. Since I moved to a different neighborhood, I didn’t get there as much and now it’s gone.

Mooney’s is gone.

Gone to become something like Franny’s or another reflection of new money trumping old character and historical significance. Brooklyn is being whitewashed and eventually it’s going to spread to Borough Park and Bensonhurst and Sheepshead Bay where, yes, the people are already white, but they’re not rich like the new Golden Horde. Once they’ve completely gobbled up all of the neighborhoods nearest Manhattan, they’ll set upon the next ring, Brownsville, East New York, Mill Basin, Canarsie and so on until there’s a line of Starbucks along the shores of Jamaica Bay, which will be littered with the bodies of those too unfortunate to be able to meet the so-called “fair market value” of their properties.

Manhattan is a sanitized playground for the rich. Even things that used to be affordable, like kebabs at Bereket, have inflated to a degree that belies the simple nature of its ingredients. Katz’s has always been a joke. I could stack a package of Oscar Meyer bologna between two pieces of white bread and it would be a better sandwich than the crap they offer. Has no one any perspective? Why doesn’t anyone realize that what is happening to this city is a catastrophe? It’s the opposite side of the 1970s coin. Then, it was a plague of crime, now it’s a plague of prosperity — but only for a small minority — that threatens eviction for anyone who lives below a stratospheric level of income.

This city needs a vigilante, but not necessarily a Batman fighting petty thugs to keep the streets safe for the poor citizens, this city needs someone who can stem the rushing tide of eviction and who will protect those who struggle to live decent lives on the pittances they eke out of their jobs. There are a great many people in this town who work hard at least five days a week, some of them work six or even seven days, trying to make an honest living in a place where the bulldozing machine of “progress” cares nothing for their plight. It’s about time someone with the power to effect change took on the cause of those who aren’t rich because the poor are the vast majority in this city and once they’ve been forced out of their homes, the rich will have no one left to do their menial bullshit.

I was down in one of my old ‘hoods last weekend (maybe two weeks ago, now, I can’t remember; every day bleeds together) and I was taken aback by how much had changed. I’ve only been in Brooklyn for six years, so I wonder how many things lifelong residents have seen, the ebb and flow of “progress.”

One man’s progress is another man’s ruination. Sure, everyone would rather have new and nice bars and eateries, maybe even a Starbucks or a generic, mom-and-pop facsimile thereof. But with all of that comes higher rents and more stuck-up white people who think, because either their parents or their trust funds are paying their rent, that they’re better than everyone else.

It galls me that the price of a brownstone in Bed-Stuy has topped a million dollars. I’m dumbfounded that people will plunk down $400,000 or more for 400 square feet. And that — for my brand of white person (that is, one who has to pay for everything himself ) — an apartment that’s more than a grand per month apartment is a “bargain.”

I’m grateful I found a place affordable on the ridiculous scale of NY affordability, and when I first came to Brooklyn, some dipshit renting a place south of the Prospect Expressway and west of 4th avenue wanted $1100 for a basement apartment that’s not even as big as what I’ve got now. So, things weren’t hugely reasonable when I first came here … but if I’d looked where I should have back then, I’d be paying less than a grand right now.

But I don’t. And the ridiculous thing is that my place is the cheapest — and one of the biggest — of those rented by everyone I know. Soon enough, I’ll be priced out of this neighborhood, though, just like every other one in which I’ve lived. At some point, the critical mass of uppity whites is reached and the rents explode skyward.

Video Edge, that blessed alternative to Blockbuster, my old stand-by on Flatbush Avenue, is gone. The Prospect Cafe is vacant. Lorena’s is a taco stand. Christie’s is still around, but they moved to the north side of the street because Crunch gym bought out their old space, just like they’d bought out the independent gym that had been next to the Flatbush Pavilion theater which is now a clothing store.

To me, that’s all ruin. The theater is gone. The independent businesses are gone. A shitty, modern condo went up around Prospect and Park places.

Still, Gran Castillo is still around (the one not evicted so that a Duane Reade could go in), and though she’s not all that, Li’l Miss Muffin and her Stuffin’ is still right up from the train at 7th Avenue. Brownstone Billiards, from what I could tell, is still in business.

Yeah. So, things come and things go. I’m still here, but other things have either died in my tenure, been born and died, or were just born and have yet to die. Some businesses are going to fail, others are going to thrive. It’s always the way. Gorilla Coffee is responsible for killing the .25 cent Ms. Pac-Man upright I used to play. Some people wouldn’t have it any other way. I couldn’t care less about GC; I’d rather have an old ducan with an upright arcade machine.

Enough nostalgia and sour grapes for one day, though; I’ve got to eat. I’ve got a hockey game to win tonight.