CLIFTON

My first day in America, I stood on unfamiliar soil, and unbeknownst to me, I had already filled a role. I was black.

I was and am still a lot of things. An immigrant kid whose family had landed in dc, for better or worse, to escape conflict, better economic opportunities, and all those other things people emigrate for; Another East African on my block, a vibrant neighborhood, a tapestry woven with the stories of El Salvadorians, Ethiopians, and African Americans.

It wasn't jarring at first. I had left one black city and arrived in another, where the familiar faces and busy streets felt like home. But the people began to speak, and a cacophony of incomprehensible words assaulted my ears.

What the fuck was everyone saying?

How do you tell a child that everyone around him can't speak the same language as him? How do you even explain the concepts of languages to him? Everyone in my family spoke Tigrinya, Arabic, and Amharic. And while I could only communicate in Tigrinya, I could find solace in the sounds and scripts of Arabic and Amharic because they were words I heard and saw back home.The similarities in their words, expressions, and commanding tones bridged the gap between languages.

In hindsight, Tigrinya was my uptown, and English, their Georgetown.

It sounded ugly, and it still does, but I learned it quickly, as one does at that age, but I found myself in a peculiar situation. Everyone in my ESL class was Hispanic, including my teacher Mr. Sugaray. Learning English from someone whose mother tongue was Spanish posed a challenge, and I found myself adopting a version of English influenced by Spanish. It was inevitable, given that my classmates had been primarily Spanish speakers for the first two years in America. But, I thrived thanks to Mr. Sugar Ray and some new friends. My English improved, and I transitioned from ESL to my regular-degular elementary classes.

Among these new friends was Kavon, whose recent passing has me recalling memories of when nothing mattered.

I met him skipping ricks on an unwelcoming playground during my second year in America. I didn't have friends, and I barely spoke English. While Meyer Elementary was a diverse school, the playground was a microcosm of segregation — and segregated might be a harsh term, but 6 and 7-year-olds don't have a history of being patient when it comes to peers their age and aren't able to speak the same language. Language and culture created these invisible divides. This was hard for any immigrant kid but especially for an African one. African booty scratcher, anyone? 

So when we were allowed to speak our respective languages, the Spanish speakers hung out with each other, and the English speakers did the same.

Recess became a time for me to throw rocks across a field onto Sherman Ave, aiming for cars. It was mindless, maybe an attempt to escape the alienation. One afternoon, I hit Kavon on his head, and he started bleeding. Panic set in, and Ms. Dember immediately sent me to the front office, a liminal space where time seemed to warp. I sank into the chair and waited for the inevitable, feeling a mess of sadness and guilt. Calls were made, and phone calls were answered. Kavon's parents showed up, but my mom didn't pick up.  

I was a mess, anticipating a punishment. But it never came.

Kavon's father laughed it off, understanding I was navigating a difficult adjustment. I vaguely remember Kavon saying, "It's all good." While we lost touch after middle school, we reconnected during my senior year at Cardozo, where he played Basketball for Roosevelt and I for Cardozo. We got dogged. He must’ve had 3 oops thrown at him and he just kept making them. At one point I was in the paint and he was running the baseline when I saw the ball thrown above my head.

I knew the dunk was coming. Everything was moving in slow motion. I look up.

He grabs the ball with one hand, and so I slip my hands in my pocket.

He grabs the ball with his other hand, I take my hand out my pocket.

He’s about to dunk and I know what I had to do.

I throw a rock at his head.

Nah, I got embarrassed haha. I’m pretty sure we lost that game by 20+.

RIP, Kavon Glover, my first friend in America.

Second Act: DC Government Hates Black People

I will never forget my first interaction with the Police. In 7th grade, as I left Howard's campus and made my way home, my usual route took me through a series of landmarks:

• Banneker Rec Center

• Parking lot next to tennis courts

• The backside of Meyer

• Cardozo High School

But the Police stopped me before I left Meyer's campus. They searched me and eventually let me go. I didn't think much of it, as teachers and counselors often conditioned kids to trust the Police. But as I entered high school, these encounters escalated and became a regular occurrence.

Instead of going home after school one day, I decided to ball at Banneker, where I experienced my first Jump Out. This tactic employed by the Police involves packing themselves into unmarked cars, suddenly jumping out, and swarming groups of people, subjecting them to unwarranted searches. I was 13, and a group of these officers popped out of the parking lot and ran onto the basketball court. In a flash, fear overtook me, and I instinctively hopped on the fence, running for my life, believing that I could be shot at any moment.

The stop-and-frisks never really stopped. I was a dark skin kid with big hair and a bit of a beard when I was 14. Colorism has a chokehold on DC cops, especially the black ones — they've harassed me and my peers more than anyone else.

I've kept an open mind for so long, understanding that escaping poverty is a challenging endeavor and that becoming a policeman or even joining the military is enticing to a lot of black folks when faced with limited choices. I understand. People have to eat -- I just wish it wasn't at the expense of civil liberties and lives. 

But the Police weren't the only issue. 

For the better part of 2021, I moved back to my aunt and my mom's spot to save money to travel a bit (another reason why I want to leave DC). They still lived on Clifton all this time. I met my friend Lloyd outside my building to give him my camera; he travels through West Africa often and documents life there. We're catching up outside, and having forgotten my keys, I have my hand on the entrance door to the building. A car pulls out from the back of the building and stops where the alleyway intersects with the street — it's a bit of a blind spot, so cars stop to ease their way onto the road. My next-door neighbor, my literal next-door neighbor, gets out of her car, blocking the alleyway, asking us if we live in the building.

I don't answer. First, I'm shocked I'm getting this question. I'm her neighbor, she's black, I grew up on this block, who the fuck is this bitch, — all thoughts I had in the brief 5-second pause before I yelled, "I'm your neighbor [Her Name]. I live right next door. She apologizes and moves on. 

This wasn't the first time something like this happened. I've gotten accused of stealing packages in the same building. Stealing packages on a block I grew up on, in a building where my mom and aunt reside. Why the fuck would I steal anything?

So many stories like this in all settings. Shops like Commonwealth, where they'd lock the store until you paid for your item (my brother's experience), Madewell on 14th, where you would casually be followed (little ass store, it's obvious you're following me), or Alero, where they demanded your ID and credit card before allowing you to order from the menu. 

DC really spoils you, but I'm tired. Yes, Black folks make the most money here. Yes, there's adequate public transportation. Yes, the venues are great. Yes, yes, yes. I'm tired.

The harassment by Police, the erosion of the community due to gentrification, and the influx of transplants — I hate all of it. But I could live with it because that's just life here, and to be fair, I was okay. I have no considerable debt, a good job, and I've achieved the dream my mom was searching for 23 years ago. Stability. 

I could tolerate the setbacks, could love the tiny bumps in the road.

I have a deep affection for DC. It has been my home for the past 23 years, and without a doubt, this 23rd year has been the most remarkable of my life. Reflecting on my journey in DC, I've realized that this city isn't home anymore. Many of my friends have either been pushed out or are struggling to find their place amidst rising costs and the waves of gentrification that have swept through. I've witnessed firsthand the impact of transplants on the city's fabric. I've gone through two apartment buyouts; in the last apartment, I paid $1050 for a room in a 2br/1ba; now, if I were to live in the same apartment, it would cost $1500. The incremental price hikes systematically push out local Black residents, eroding the city's diversity and heritage and allowing more affluent transplants to take their place.

Transplants (I'll keep it short). Transplant culture cuts across race lines. While I love my new black folks that moved here, y'all do not engage with your communities, but at least you don't call the cops on us (some of you). 

One specific date and time etched in my memory is October 8, 2022, at 15:29. On Clifton Street, I witnessed something I had never seen before—a white baby. The street I used to walk down to go to Meyer Elementary, where over 75% of the kids received free lunch. With its overcrowded classrooms and a student-to-teacher ratio 32:1, that school was the cornerstone of my early education. And there, on that very street, emerged a white baby, leaving a luxury apartment complex where studios start at a staggering $2325. That very building was where my family had made our home 23 years ago. The same building where my sister had her first steps, the same building where my brother and I used to throw watered-down yellow books from the 3rd floor to the first, the same building where we had our first Thanksgiving and Christmas, and many more after. The same building where we were offered a buyout but decided not to take it (thank you, Mom). 

The landscape has shifted. 

Clifton Street had become safe enough for white children to exist—where they could live in luxury apartment buildings boasting central AC, sleek kitchens equipped with top-of-the-line Blomberg appliances, quartz countertops, and custom-fit cabinets with ample storage. Those buildings now housed stacked front-load washers and ventless dryers discreetly tucked away. Resident lounges, unsoaked rooftops with LP lounges, private dining rooms, grilling facilities, chef's kitchens, controlled-access bicycle and garage parking, cutting-edge fitness centers, and concierge services were all part of the package. There was even a fully equipped pet spa. Yes, a pet spa.

The same building with a fully equipped pet spa. A pet spa y'all.

The landscape has shifted. 

I thought I could handle it. My tolerance held until May 31, 2020.

Police shot me.

A rubber bullet impacted the outside of my left kneecap. It happened during the nationwide protests ignited by the murder of George Floyd. In response to the protest, Mayor Bowser ordered a citywide curfew and put out the following statement:

"During the hours of the curfew, no person, other than persons designated by the Mayor, shall walk, bike, run, loiter, stand, or motor by car or other modes of transport upon any street, alley, park, or other public places within the District. Individuals performing essential duties as authorized by prior Mayor's Orders, including working media with their outlet-issued credentials and healthcare personnel, are exempt when engaged in essential functions. "

Although I worked for the city, I understood I needed to show up at the protests. To protect my job and honestly avoid the gaze of the brutal police forces that roamed DC, I secured a press pass. Before this, I was pepper sprayed on the front lines, tear gassed near the White House to clear the way for Trump, and flash banged, among other things.

The press pass provided some safety, and I could document the protests and not be the focus of the Police. I felt secure until the Police decided to shoot at the press too.

On May 31, 2020, Police turned their muzzles to journalists and photographers, shooting at them. I was there, and I was hit. Photographers and journalists fled from the front lines as they faced flashbangs and gunfire. Rubber bullets are not non-lethal; they are just less lethal.

The rubber bullet tore through my pants, leaving a laceration outside my left knee the size of a salami. I was turning away from the Police when I was shot. Fortunately, I didn't sustain nerve damage, but the resulting scar tissue posed a problem near my knee joint. It temporarily limited my knee movement, and although significant nerve damage was avoided, I still experienced random moments of pain in the affected area—a constant reminder that it happened three years after the protests.

Protests are over, and life moves on. It's almost cyclical as if we just hit another trend.

Let's wait another few months until another egregious murder by the hands of Police happens; then, we can post about it on Instagram and write our think pieces on Twitter. Maybe we'll get some cute yellow words painted on the street. Then remove it, and then repaint it. 

Imagine a pendulum swinging back and forth, gaining momentum with each swing, representing the collective consciousness and awareness around racial injustice.

When an incident of racial injustice occurs, it acts as the force that pushes the pendulum in one direction. This force can be a tragic event, such as a case of police brutality or racial profiling, which brings the issue into the spotlight and ignites public outrage. People become more aware of the systemic problems and the need for change, leading to an upsurge in protests and demands for justice.

As the pendulum swings, it peaks where the intensity of protests and public discussions about racial injustice is at its highest. This is when the Black Lives Matter movement gains significant attention and support, drawing the focus of the media and the public. There are speeches, marches, and promises made by your everyday politician, and new laws are discussed, among other things. 

However, the pendulum loses momentum over time and starts to swing back in the opposite direction. The initial passion and urgency that fueled the protests may wane as other issues arise or public attention shifts elsewhere. Those laws that were supposed to go into effect are forgotten.

Police continue to harass folks, and locals continue to be pushed out. Rinse and repeat.

New businesses emerge, and old shops close. Rinse and repeat.

A stray. I stopped by Elle, what was once Heller's bakery, and it's a reminder of all these new restaurants where the aesthetic and experience take precedence over the menu itself. If I had to give it a one-sentence review, I would say the chai is as watered down as the neighborhood. Peak gentrification. Well no, more so late stage gentrification.

Mount Pleasant is somehow seen as a beacon for anti-gentrification efforts — it does have an unparalleled active and organized community that serves the creatives who often engage. Still, people forget that it is one of the "most whitened" neighborhoods in the country. 

Why am I leaving DC? It's simple. DC despises black people. America hates black people. The racial hostility that permeates this country feels like an oppressive cage; it's a dark underbelly laid bare. With its majestic facade, the city that once held my dreams harbors a deep-seated hatred toward those who aren't white — a microcosm of this country as a whole. 

The weight of this reality is unbearable, and I find myself drawn to explore the vast wonders of the world, delve into every experience, devour countless books, and tread myriad paths. It may sound ambitious, even unrealistic, but the desire to witness the beauty of every country resonates with me.

On a more serious note, I haven't yet determined if I have the strength to emigrate to another country permanently, but one thing is certain—I no longer wish to remain here.

And that's the end of my story, a personal reflection on my experiences as an immigrant in DC but foremost as a black human in America.

The end.

It's important to remember that this account represents my own journey and may not provide a universal or comprehensive perspective on DC or racism in America. I appreciate those who understand the unique complexities of my narrative.