It looked like the set of a movie. The sun shone on the tree lined street as if it were lit by God himself; the brightness of the day blinding. The street was bustling, vibrant with people, places and things. Groups of happy friends delivering resounding laughter. The clinking of glasses and forks at outdoor cafes adorned with multi hued umbrella tops. Communal water bowls accessorized the sidewalks; a deliberate fixture to accommodate the increased visitors of the fur variety. Dizzying heights of glass, metal and brick delight the eye; a magnificent display of architectural possibilities. A utopia of newness that was sleek, magnetic and alluring. It was U St. NW, Washington, DC. To me, it was totally unfamiliar.

I had been a proud DC resident for fourteen years and I saw the slow trickle of what was taking place. Gentrification had invaded previous parts unknown. With the unmitigated crawl of lava, the urban areas were being seized upon. A row house here, a store front there, a change was coming and there would be nothing anyone could do to stop it. Many of the native, lifelong residents, were unaware and unprepared for what would follow. The corridors that were once the heart and soul of DC living would be no more. Over the next decade it would become unrecognizable; giving way to a tall, shiny metropolis of the new. In truth, this phenomenon was taking place in a number of urban areas throughout the United States. Previously overlooked and under funded landscapes were suddenly gleaming with promise. Urban redevelopment had become a hot ticket. Investors with green were infiltrating inner city neighborhoods with visions of black. Profit being the goal, they’d market heavily to long time residents with financial offers they seemingly couldn’t refuse. With a high percentage of the properties in disrepair, the offerings would appear as a windfall. Slowly but surely, the overall landscape would start to transform. Character would give way to cookie cutter. Residents with history and tenure of these areas were being pushed out and displaced. Replaced by those looking to cash in on the latest and greatest of urban design and lifestyle.

“I drove past St. Roch park over the weekend. If I would’ve driven past 10 years ago, nobody would’ve noticed. Now the people are looking at me as if I am invading their privacy.” I felt real pain behind those words. Dawn, an especially dear, lifelong friend and I were doing one of our check-ins. We do this from time to time. We have to. Our bond, inexplicable and homegrown, requires us to. And it is in those check-ins that we get to reminisce on the people, places and things that have brought us the most joy. One would be our past time shared with each other honing our craft of ballet, the other our beloved home of New Orleans. Post Katrina, New Orleans has seen a transformation similar if not more so than the before mentioned one of DC. In the city’s resurgence we have noticed some strides in economic development, but a perceived loss in authenticity and cultural differentiation.

Our most recent conversation focused in on one of our city’s most historic areas of St. Roch, the eighth ward. During the height of yellow fever in 1867, a German priest, Dr. Theivis, turned to Saint Roch, the patron Saint of good health for his protection of it’s people. It was promised that if no one died during as a result of the epidemic, a chapel would be built in Saint Roch’s honor. No parishioners perished during that time or the following and the chapel and shrine were erected and stand to this day. A racially diverse neighborhood early on, it would house small farms, dairies, blacksmith shops and recreational spaces. It was also a place where my dear friend Dawn would be raised and her Maw Maw, Ms. Cerise (“maw maw” is used as an affectionate reference to grandmothers of nola) would live until her passing. As with any of us, the environments in which we were reared hold special places within us. The neighborhoods, structures and its inhabitants take real estate in our hearts and collective souls for lifetimes. They inform us, laying out specific roadmaps on how we are to navigate the world and all who fill it.

It has been quite the upheaval to adjust to the new normal. As with the change in DC, the transformation in New Orleans seemingly has no end in sight. The St. Roch Market, once home to produce and meat vendors to serve the working class residents of yesterday has been transported into a high end food hall; catering to the city’s higher tax bracketed bunch. Gone are Dawn’s recollections, which are still vibrant and fresh within her. “I wanted a glimpse of a childhood memory of a Friday trip during lent . I wanted to see it’s dimly lit insides and feel the simple concrete floor and smell crawfish boiling. I wanted to hear the big fans whirring in the background and local voices loud and soft waiting their turn in line.” In turn you will now find brightly lit marbled counters, craft cocktails and unfamiliar accents in its place. That pain is real. That longing to reconnect never leaves. And in its wake you will find yourself pushed out and met with stares of entitlement. While progress and updating are necessary in the evolutions of our great cities, the scrubbing of its intricacies and history is not. Investors, designers and transients are happily riding this current wave of fantastic urban squalor. But when the water recedes, what will remain. For it was the people, familial legacies and the rich tapestries of those traditions that made the wave swollen with promise to begin with. We are appreciative of style but yearning for substance. Finding a balance between progression and preservation is seemingly escaping us. Yet this key is imperative; the quality of our tomorrows are dependent upon it.

“So in some ways I think you’ve got it better being away from it all . You don’t have to mourn its death daily.” In many ways she is right. Life has shifted me away from the front lines of this burden to bare. That ache still remains. Luckily for both her and me, the gift of being nourished in our spaces during those times of unspoiled purity are everlasting.