There used to be a time when New York City was a refuge. A sanctuary for the weird, the brilliant, the queer, the bold, the misunderstood. The transplants of yesteryear weren’t perfect, but they came to this city with soul. They arrived with a dream and a backpack full of trauma, identity crises, and anti-establishment angst. They were the gay kids from Ohio who couldn’t come out at home. The artsy Black girls from Texas with Southern mamas who just didn’t get them. The white boys with blue hair who read bell hooks and refused to become their dad. They came here to live authentically, not Instagram it.
But the transplants of today? Oh baby, they’re different. They’re not here to live—they’re here to consume. They’ve turned this sacred, messy, chaotic, beautiful city into their own personal Six Flags. It’s not about building community or contributing to culture anymore. It’s about vibes. Aesthetics. And overpriced Aperol Spritzes on rooftop bars with fake views of a skyline they don’t even care to understand.
They move into Black and Brown neighborhoods, raise the rent, complain about the noise (in NYC? be serious), and start every conversation with “I just moved here from Chicago!” like it’s a flex. It’s not. It’s gentrification wrapped in a recycled tote bag. These folks are modern-day colonizers—but instead of smallpox, they bring overpriced lavender matcha, Canva-made logos, and a deep, deep love for The Wing energy. You know the type.
Gone are the quirky transplants who came here to escape the heteronormative hellscapes they grew up in. Now we get the people who moved here just to have a “phase.” You know the ones. They date one DJ, go to one drag show, experiment with bisexuality for a semester, and suddenly they think they understand queerness. Then, two years later, they’re back in Jersey with a golden retriever, two kids, a Subaru, and a bumper sticker that says “Love Is Love”—but voted to ban books in schools. The math is not mathing.
And don’t even get me started on how they treat local businesses. They move into our hoods, slap some succulents and string lights into a formerly Black-owned storefront, and rename it something like “Bean & Bloom.” Then charge $9 for drip coffee and tell your cousin’s bodega to “get more organic options” while refusing to learn the deli guy’s name.
I’m tired. Tired of watching the Bronx, Harlem, Brooklyn—all of it—get swallowed whole by people who don’t care. People who treat the city like it’s a content farm for their little post-grad rebrand. People who refuse to pick up their dog’s shit because it’s the Bronx. People who look at New York not as a home, but a phase before their real life starts.
If that’s the case, do us a favor and let your real life start somewhere else. We good love, enjoy.
