Collin McFadyen
Collin McFadyen (she/her/they/them) is a former owner/chef of a busy little diner, and the rhythm and patter of daily life influences their work. By focusing on the small moments around them, they’re often lead to explore challenging topics, emotions, and the occasional bursts of humor and joy. They have been published at Subjectiv and Tealight Press. Happily, they live in North Portland with their wife, two sons, and a wicked cute terrier. Follow them on twitter @crayonsdontrun
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Sparrows and Starlings
neighborhood regulars
a welcoming committee with something to prove
picking apart the untested hipster
his tattoos of sparrows and the St. Johns bridge
pretty and sharp, bright and clean
Where’d you go to school?
What street do you live on?
Where did you live before?
atop barstool perches, we sink our roots
in lengths of months or years,
not generations
our white faces smug when he explains
he’s used to a “rough” neighborhood
this neighborhood hasn’t been rough in years
not for us, anyway
we stumble North to the corner store,
faded 7up sign glowing like mist in the dark
window ads for Newport Menthols and Yerba Matte
mismatched offerings
us/them old/new black/white
like his parents, Charles likes to talk
from behind the cash register
family photos under the counter glass
graduations and babies
Black men in barber shops
ancestors
Where’d you go to school?
Where do you stay?
Where did you live before?
do we all feel a twist of shame?
standing in the beer cooler’s spotlight
name-dropping places
knocked down and buried
under hipster bars and coffee shops
as we were moving in
like starlings into stolen nests.
a welcoming committee with something to prove
picking apart the untested hipster
his tattoos of sparrows and the St. Johns bridge
pretty and sharp, bright and clean
Where’d you go to school?
What street do you live on?
Where did you live before?
atop barstool perches, we sink our roots
in lengths of months or years,
not generations
our white faces smug when he explains
he’s used to a “rough” neighborhood
this neighborhood hasn’t been rough in years
not for us, anyway
we stumble North to the corner store,
faded 7up sign glowing like mist in the dark
window ads for Newport Menthols and Yerba Matte
mismatched offerings
us/them old/new black/white
like his parents, Charles likes to talk
from behind the cash register
family photos under the counter glass
graduations and babies
Black men in barber shops
ancestors
Where’d you go to school?
Where do you stay?
Where did you live before?
do we all feel a twist of shame?
standing in the beer cooler’s spotlight
name-dropping places
knocked down and buried
under hipster bars and coffee shops
as we were moving in
like starlings into stolen nests.
Commentary
Collin on “Sparrows and Starlings”:
Writing this poem felt dangerous to me, a letter of confession to my neighbors and Portland in general. Inspired by my own discomfort, I explored the themes of complicit guilt and gentrification. I live in a historically Black neighborhood that’s been flattened by greed and racism for decades. Now on round three (four? five?) of gentrification, there’s a sense of entitlement among the white people who moved here in the first wave. At our local bar, whites (like myself) who didn’t consider themselves gentrifiers try to erase our guilt by pointing fingers at the newer white “invaders.” While working on this piece, I realized I was participating in these conversations and trying to prove that I wasn’t a “real” gentrifier. After writing this poem, I can no longer believe I am a blameless part of the neighborhood that used to exist.
Editor-in-Chief Christine Taylor on “Sparrows and Starlings”:
My hometown is one that has seen shifting demographics for the past six decades, and I am fascinated by the causes of these shifts and the reception that people receive once they move into town. It is most often not a welcomed one. And people are quick to justify their prejudice by claiming ownership of the area. So these thoughts came to mind when reading Collin’s poem. But I was moreso drawn to their work because of the brutally honest perspective it takes while still existing in beautiful, rhythmic language. I appreciate the questioning of the self, the challenging of motives, the exposing of hard questions. For these reasons, the editorial team was like, “THIS poem!” and we thank Collin for it.
Writing this poem felt dangerous to me, a letter of confession to my neighbors and Portland in general. Inspired by my own discomfort, I explored the themes of complicit guilt and gentrification. I live in a historically Black neighborhood that’s been flattened by greed and racism for decades. Now on round three (four? five?) of gentrification, there’s a sense of entitlement among the white people who moved here in the first wave. At our local bar, whites (like myself) who didn’t consider themselves gentrifiers try to erase our guilt by pointing fingers at the newer white “invaders.” While working on this piece, I realized I was participating in these conversations and trying to prove that I wasn’t a “real” gentrifier. After writing this poem, I can no longer believe I am a blameless part of the neighborhood that used to exist.
Editor-in-Chief Christine Taylor on “Sparrows and Starlings”:
My hometown is one that has seen shifting demographics for the past six decades, and I am fascinated by the causes of these shifts and the reception that people receive once they move into town. It is most often not a welcomed one. And people are quick to justify their prejudice by claiming ownership of the area. So these thoughts came to mind when reading Collin’s poem. But I was moreso drawn to their work because of the brutally honest perspective it takes while still existing in beautiful, rhythmic language. I appreciate the questioning of the self, the challenging of motives, the exposing of hard questions. For these reasons, the editorial team was like, “THIS poem!” and we thank Collin for it.