Believe it or not, but the old French word genterise, meaning ‘of gentle birth’, is responsible for the term ‘gentrification’, a word I’m beginning to hear more frequently these days.
Although the word gentrification, one learns, dates back to only 1964 — the year I graduated from little-boy short pants to proper full-length trousers — gentrification itself has been going on since Roman times, I’ve discovered. (Discovered, that is, via some armchair research. Not, as some readers might wrongly construe, from a foot-slog trip to Italy and a traipse through the ruins of Roman villas. Impoverished writers like yours truly turn to the internet to make discoveries.)
Of course, when I say ‘since Roman times’ one is not alluding to the days of, say, Silvio Berlusconi, but to a more distant period. Old Roman times. When an array of Caesars held sway, and the only people deemed braver than the Caesars themselves were their food-tasters, many of whom had their lives terminated by an array of poisons so that the Caesars might live.
Anyhow, sociologists tell us that gentrification was taking place even in those times. Old shops and buildings in working-class neighbourhoods were being overrun by stunning Roman villas and the inflow of an affluent class of people. Such a move elevated these small towns, caused the price of things to skyrocket to unaffordable levels for the poorer sections of the gentry (or the gentle people) who, in such circumstances, were forced to up and relocate to neighbourhoods more suited to their diminished economic statuses... a move, of course, that in 1964 someone decided could aptly be termed ‘gentrification’.
Which is exactly the word my neighbour used the other day on the kerb abutting our houses. “The curse of gentrification has struck, mate,” is what he said.
You know how it is when you’ve heard a word before but, somehow, cannot tell what it means? You have two options: either say, “What’s gentrification, for goodness sake?” Or, nod.
Seeing me nod he, nevertheless, insisted on providing a hint, albeit obliquely by saying, “We’re moving, mate. Can’t afford the rent in this neighbourhood any longer.”
It’s the first time I learnt he was renting. I thought he owned the place. His backyard which I can see from my bathroom window looks every bit like a place ‘owned’ by the users not just rented. It has every kind of junk one’s become used to seeing in underused backyards.
Old lawnmowers (two), children’s swings (disused and rusted), an ancient car (with bonnet up and nothing inside), barbecue ovens (two, junked and taken apart), old gas cylinders, three dog kennels (all used), three dogs (all dangerous, which is why I know so little of said neighbour.) Anyhow, a day later I watched a team of workmen descend on the place and commence ‘Operation Clean Up’. Seven small truckloads of stuff they filled in one work day.
The following morning, they were back. Another six maximum load trips to goodness knows where. By the sixth morning the place was so spick and span, it was like looking upon a new creation altogether.
Thank goodness the dogs have gone, I thought. They were a menace and barked at my movements in my own yard. Now I was able to water my rose plants in peace. And it was while doing exactly that, that I detected a movement, in the grass near the rose bush. It turned out to be a mouse. Two mice. Looking bereft and homeless. I knew where they’d come from! I’d barely gone indoors when I detected a large magpie alight on the fence with an unmistakable ‘mouse for lunch’ attitude in its posture.
Meanwhile, a new occupant has arrived next door, with a poodle that looks pampered. It’s in the nights I miss the dogs. Their presence gave the place a safe feel. I guess those left behind too have to cope with the effects of gentrification. Like losing the neighbour’s dogs and possibly gaining his mice.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
