SPARKLE MAG BLOG

Hip Things in Brooklyn, 2011:

Ja, so you’ve heard. Brooklyn’s got some stuff — and I’m only talking about hip stuff. Not like stuff in, say, Brighton Beach. That’s just different.

The Civil War:

It may be 2011, but it’s still 1865 in Brooklyn. You want your your old jackets and epauletted shoulders? Check. You want your vintage nautical, railroad, hunting lodge, or Oregon Trail bars? Check. You want the British housing troops in your house? Nope — don’t got that — that was the Revolutionary War. Find a newsies hat. Find some knickers. 

Blouses:

Ok, Brooklyn has blouses. Last week I went Christmas shopping for my mother. My mother was like, “I’d really like some fresh tops for ‘going out’ in.” I reassured my mom and told her not to worry. Brooklyn has some great blouses, tops, and tanks for ladies of all ages and sizes. I waltzed through Williamsburg and had every twenty year old SVA student shop girl helping me find the best tops for my mom. Big black and puffy, pirated runs, 60s prints, and criss-cross designs. It was all too much to handle. Too many blouses and tops. Merry Christmas.

Western Europeaners:

If you wanted to see a graphic design student from France wearing a blouse from 1865, come to Brooklyn. These ladies and gents are everywhere in North Brooklyn and some of the softer central neighborhoods of BK. And can you blame them? It’s like the Civil War is happening all over again and that’s rad. You can eat off a cannon ball or polish bayonets in your house and you can do it with your Spanish, French and British compatriots.

Happy New Year from Sparkle Mag.

XO,
SM

Seriously: Just be a honky.

Dear Sparkle Mag —

Somedays I can’t just shake the feeling: I am just your average, white male. A non-race, a race with no decorum.

Each day I wake up and join the 74% of Americans who are white (there are 169,000,000 of us). I like music that is loosely considered “indie rock” and I am health conscious (I eat avocados, mangoes, sprouts, and I avoid salt). Unsurprisingly, I am also a young, white, creative professional. I live in an urban neighborhood that is gentrifying through the processes of other like me. Most of my close friends are young, creative, white people, or white people nonetheless. I live in a city that is incredibly diverse. New York City is 25% black and 25% hispanic, and almost 12% Asian.

So why do I live in a tower of whiteys? Do I feel race shame? Aren’t we all post-race anyway? 

Well, as a teacher at two colleges that are largely minority, I interact with others that are different than me all day long. Sometimes, ridiculously so, I feel like I am this bizarre teacher-puppet who is putting on some boring or bizarre dog-and-pony show to get students to read literature and write better. Sometimes I feel like students do not connect with me at all because I have enthusiasm for a subject they do not, and above all, I come from a completely different race and class background than most of my students, and research suggests that students learn best from teachers that are “similar” to them. Hmmm.

So, what can a white boy from the suburbs do to be successful teaching at a minority college in the city? 

Well, just be a honky I suppose, because that is all you can do. I have to own the fact that most of my students think that I’m from the whitest parts of the Midwest, (last year: “You’re from Buffalo? I thought you were from, like, Nebraska (even whiter)). I can’t pretend to have seen every Dave Chappelle movie, so I’ll slowly begin Netflixing the ones that people talk about in class. Most of my students think that I live in lower Manhattan, a rich whiteboy area — ha, this is a trick: I live in an even whiter neighborhood: Greenpoint. 

Well, beyond all this, at least I am not a white guy with a bad embroidered shirt:

Whitely,

The White Nose