Gentrifiers aren’t just developers — they’re us

This is the second part of a two-part review of Vanishing New York: How a Great City Lost Its Soul by Jeremiah Moss.

Here’s a quick jump back to Part 1, if you missed it.

Vanishing New York was both a personal reckoning and a mirror, reflecting my own 25-year journey through a city transformed—its heritage eroded by hyper-gentrification, yet still holding fragments of the neighborhoods and landmarks that shaped my life.

The texture of New York has always been in its collisions: cuisines brought by immigrants, traditions layered into block identities, the mix of people whose ways of life give neighborhoods their personality. Those textures are harder to preserve when development treats culture as an aesthetic to be packaged, marketed, and sold back to newcomers—a form of virtue signaling that can feel like an affront to those displaced to make room for it.

Reading this book also made me confront my own complicity.

I’ve been on the front lines of these transformations—not just witnessing them but, in some ways, participating in the same cycles Moss decries. I moved into neighborhoods when they were in flux, when rents were lower, when the “edge” was part of the draw. My presence, my rent checks, my choices—they’re part of the churn. That’s not easy to sit with… certainly not while sipping a Starbucks.

And yet, I believe—as Moss does—that the answer isn’t to stop change. New York has never been static. The answer is to ensure those who live here have a real voice in shaping it. That people protest when something feels wrong. That they elect leaders who balance growth with preservation—protecting small businesses and affordable housing as fiercely as they court investment.

New York will never “get it right” entirely. But it’s at its best when it’s a mix of cacophony and melody—when difference, not uniformity, fuels its vitality.

This is why I call the Lower East Side home.

It’s where my ancestors passed through over 100 years ago. It’s where people who’ve lived here all their lives raise new generations while holding on to traditions. It’s where—even in a city where anonymity is easy—there’s a feeling of belonging, community, and connection.

It’s a place where boutique galleries like Kates-Ferri Projects can still open, and where Franks’ Bike Shop—around since 1976—still serves first-time and long-time cyclists.

It’s also a place with Trader Joe’s, Target, and now LIDL… not to mention Essex Crossing and the buildings springing up around it—clear signs that gentrification isn’t just approaching, it’s here.

Having a dual perspective, and making this vibrant neighborhood my home, is the best way I know to be both an empathetic advocate for the existing community and a representative for those curious to become part of it.