After an eventful night out in Fish Island last week, I stopped at a street-food stand in Hackney Wick, buying myself some time to soak up the cocktail of vodka and paranoia that kicked in as soon as I began to really look around me.
I noticed the active construction sites, the serialised apartment buildings, the people coming in and out of the off licence. I tried to process that image. Trouble ensued.
My brain is going through a time of hyperactivity, and my tendency for overanalysis is made worse by the fact that, since I moved back to this bit of Hackney, I am once again exposed to stimuli I had naturally suppressed when I crossed to the park and moved to Roman Road.
In telling this story, I remind myself to separate the personal from the general, to push back the instincts to explain the whats and whys and whens and to stick to the topic at hand. This is Hackney according to me, a place held together by the memories of all the life I lived in these streets and by beliefs I haven’t felt strong enough to update since I first embraced them back in the day.
I professed unconditional love for this area many years ago, in a way that I would describe today as uncharacteristically romantic. I welcomed it because it allowed two realities to coexist in the same place, one in which the comfort of the familiar never limited the potential for the unexpected. The perfect backdrop for the life I wanted to live as a creative 20-something in London.
To put this in the plainest possible terms, I thought this place would mean something to me because it seemed to mean so much to a specific group of people I so badly wanted to identify with. The artists, the minds, the beautiful bodies. The main characters.
So what happened? If I were to turn this story into a novel, this would be Chapter 13: the plot twist, the crisis of faith. The pivot point of this narrative encapsulated in a simple question: is this still my place in the world?
Is it anyone's?
You see the ease with which big developers (and in some case, a single landlord with a criminally large portfolio) get their dirty hands over everything, the way in which the local community is exploited in the process, while contemplating the inevitability of its outcome, one in which the community will be sidelined and eventually replaced by something totally different: rich people in nice flats. And let me tell you, my friends, there is no coming back from that. The image is lost.
This is not a claim to moral superiority or a denial of the role I play in this problem. People who have been here a lot longer than I have are the only ones who can truly speak to the effects of gentrification. And as a young person who likes vintage clothes and flat whites I could easily be seen as a by-product of the problem.
I once lived in a nice flat just round the corner from here. I rented a box room for £375 a month, thanks to an exceptionally rare stroke of luck, which as we know is often itself the product of privilege. It doesn’t matter that I’m back on the council estate. Even intruders are intruded upon, it’s a karmic cycle of self-reckoning.
And after all these years, I still struggle to feel fully assimilated into the substance of what the community is becoming. Maybe because I haven’t done a good job at refining my role in it, maybe because the community here is an invisible entity, a party of ghosts. I am aware of its presence because I hear it through the walls, but I’ve never actually seen it. So do I believe in it?
Then I began to receive the truth just as it came to me, naturally. I welcomed the dilemma, and made peace with the fact that I don’t have an answer. You can’t make an escape plan if you have no idea where to go next - so I stayed put.
Living here is a way to reinstate my belief in the old narrative, to renew my commitment to the original gamble, and resign myself to a practical reality: we have unfinished business.
Time to get on with it.
VAL’S FOOD GUIDE 🍖
Preeti Patty, Fish Island.
Pretti Patty (often wrongly advertised by me as Petty Patty in the group chat) is nothing more than a window in a graffiti-covered brick wall, looking in on a wonderful world of neon lights and saturated fats. Every night, two cheerful gentlemen hand out dozens of brown paper bags soaking up the fragrant juices of these life-altering Indian fusion burgers.
I had a beef burger with crushed samosas in it (which my greedy ass prevented me from photographing). Plus more samosas on the side, just to be safe. The state of intoxication I was in at the time may explain the disproportionate feeling of bliss I experienced when I took the first bite. I even shed a tear or two (probably because I don’t handle the spice too well, but still).
Anyway, if I had to invent a burger, this would be it. Too bad they beat me to it. Very petty, Patty.
READING LIST 📚
I rarely have time to read for pleasure these days - and let me tell you, this flyer I was handed the other day did not make for a pleasurable read. Here’s the local community fighting for their place in the area, pushing back against redevelopment plans for Vittoria Wharf.
This aggressive push for “regeneration” may make Hackney Wick unrecognisable in just a few years - and it’s fundamental that the community is heard and involved in the decision-making process.
The deadline to object to these plans has passed, but the struggle goes on. If you want to understand what’s happening, this may be a good place to start.
VAL’S JUKEBOX 🎧
I normally try to have at least a new release in this section but, given the theme of this week’s newsletter, I thought I’d go with a couple of throwbacks from the recent past - something that would match the vibe. Just a couple of entries, perfect for a late-night walk in the Wick.
Survive, M!R!M
This is the work of an Italian producer based in East London. Familiar much? This release was described as “weirdo lullabies for broken hearts”. Go to 2:35, close your eyes and have a dream.
So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings, Squirrel Flower
We all know this as Caroline Polachek’s masterpiece, but this rendition by this indy-er version by American musician Squirrel Flower - with her modern sound and vintage look - may be my favourite of the two. Perfect for when you’re feeling hot enough to hurt someone’s feelings.