Thoughts on Graffiti...

As a kid, I remember growing up in a middle class family on a middle-class block in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. Mostly Irish, many Hispanic, and a few Asians families lived harmoniously and up kept our street, a joint effort. In the summer of seventh grade, a few of my middle class friends wanted to tap into a culture that was alien to our own; a graffiti culture with its roots in lower class neighborhoods and claws taking a hold on Hip-Hop. I remember racking my brain for a tag name: something that summed up my personality but could also give a nerdy, effeminate Irish kid some street cred. I decided upon Do-Do, like the bird. They were known to be a little off-center, as was I. It was also easy to write in bubble letters, something I was pretty terrible at.

Together, my friends and I would walk around the corner of our street and "tag-up" on the brick walls of the sweat-shops that lined the abandoned block. Truth be told, having a father who was patrolling the area in his police car was quite a deterrent, and therefore, my tag-up was more of a tag and run. I chuckle as I think of how I'd react today to see myself, an Alfalfa lookalike at the time, running from the authorities.

I didn't fit into the culture, I knew that. When I read "Bombing Brooklyn...", I, for the first time, opened up to the acceptance of the expression/outcry that graffiti provides certain groups of people. (the paper was super-enjoyable, a great read!) What struck me as interesting was how graffiti as a paycheck-producing art form has replaced the tagging up I once tried to do.

Whenever I have the opportunity to walk past the house I once lived in, no longer my parents' property, I'm amused by what an amateur I was. Who in their right mind would right "Do-Do" on their own house? Yep, that'd be me. Just don't tell my mom.