When people who live outside of Bushwick or Brooklyn (what a concept!), they seem to possess an objectivity that annoyingly overpowers your carefully cultivated subjectivity. To a Bushwickian, his aesthetic and behavior appears utterly normal to him–that is, until a random friend or acquaintance from your brief time spent at Pratt decides he wants to try Roberta’s for the first time, so he looks to you as his Bushwick passport.
When the outsider arrives onto the scene, he or she immediately notices all the things you view as status quo. From sloppily ornate graffiti to people dressed like they just got back from the eighties, your outsider friend sees Bushwick as some sort of urban jungle safari. While all of Brooklyn has an undeniably laidback vibe that lends it certain parallels to California, Bushwick is decidedly the Fresno of the area in terms of how others see us: uncouth, lacking in social grace and ridden with sexual disease.
So when you walk your so-called friend back to the L train stop they’re closest to (lest they get lost in the jungle) and he or she leaves you with the verdict, “You’re so Bushwick,” you would do well to kick them in the groin, send them packing back to Manhattan or Prospect Heights or wherever the fuck it is they came from and tell them, “Yes, I am.” Because owning your Brooklyn white trashery is the first step to starting an impenetrable enclave that can’t be further gentrified or “classed up,” as it were.
Written by Genna Rivieccio