RIO DE JANERO - The saleswoman smiles ironically while pointing out the best-selling product in Zecabiju, one of the dozen accessory shops in Saara, the most crowded open-air market in Rio.
"Suelen’s earring, of course. I didn’t even need to tell you, right?” she says.
A long golden earring on the right ear -- this is one of the trademarks of Suelen, a popular character from the new soap opera "Avenida Brasil," the top-rated show in Brazilian prime-time today.
Suelen lives in Divino, a fictitious working-class neighborhood in suburban Rio that has become THE reference for fashion, music and slang.
This is quite a change for Brazilian television. Always shot in upper-class neighborhoods, mostly in Rio and São Paulo, prime-time soap operas, called telenovelas, are for the first time featuring middle and lower class characters. In Avenida Brasil, out of 41 characters in the last episodes, only nine belong to Rio’s high-priced ritzy neighborhoods.
"When we portrayed poor people, they were always dreaming of leaving their suburbs and striking it rich. But now we want to show a place that, in spite of being poor, is cheerful and warm, a place where there can be prosperity,” says Ricardo Waddington, coordinator of Avenida Brasil.
The soap opera, produced by Rede Globo, the leading TV broadcaster in Brazil, is watched by 65 % of viewers.
Along with the show’s resounding success, its characters’ new style has become a reference for all social classes.
Sporting a tank top and sunglasses, character Leleco laughs out loud to punctuate his sentences. Actor Marcos Caruso, who plays the part, has noticed a change in the way telenovelas portray working-class neighborhoods. "It’s different. We don’t criticize the suburbs, or make fun of the way people there speak, the catchphrases they use. The idea now is to mirror their lives, without stereotyping.”
At the beginning of the year, Caruso spent two months in working-class Santíssimo, west of Rio. He took subways and buses, walked through the neighborhood and talked to people at bars. He became familiar with the vocabulary and slang that would later become Leleco’s.
Actress Fabiula Nascimento did something similar for her character, Olenka the hairdresser. She changed her way of talking, altering the pronunciation of several words. The actress tries not to overemphasize the grammatical errors her character makes, though.
"My intention is not to show that she’s grammatically impaired, but to reproduce the dialect spoken in these neighborhoods,” says Fabiula, who was surprised by the audience's interest in the clothes and accessories worn by her character.
"I’m the champion of lipstick. Everybody wants to know what brand Olenka uses," says the actress, laughing.
The show’s costume designer, Marie Salles does her research in Bangu e Madureira, north of Rio. She also looks at what pop stars and soccer players are wearing, as they often come from working-class neighborhoods.
Last week, walking around Saara, she noticed that some shops had banners advertising “Suelen’s pants”, to attract buyers. The licensing department of Rede Globo has six lines of products associated with Avenida Brasil, selling over 50 different items. "Working-class clothes are the new fashion," Marie says.
A new soundtrack
In Avenida Brasil’s soundtrack, a working-class repertoire is also prevailing. Among the main hits are songs like "Assim Você Mata o Papai" (This way you’re gonna kill daddy), a pagode by group Sorriso Maroto—pagode is a subgenre of samba, usually with catchy lyrics about love and sex.
With over 80 songs played in Globo’s soap operas, composer Michael Sullivan points out the change in prime-time soundtracks: "Before, soap operas shown at 9 P.M had more traditional Brazilian songs. Now the songs, like the plot, have become more low-rent."
Anthropologist Everardo Rocha, a professor at Pontifical Catholic University Of Rio (PUC), is optimistic about this new trend. "These people are being well-treated on Brazilian TV because they are getting wealthier. This is good news for the Brazilian economy,” Rocha says.
Avenida Brasil director Ricardo Waddington says his only objective is to provide good entertainment. "The show portrays working-class suburbs, but it’s not for their viewership only, it’s for everyone. I think we have achieved this.”
In San Diego, California, a researcher tracked how in the city's low-income neighborhoods that have traditionally lacked dining options, when interesting eateries arrive the gentrification of white, affluent and college-educated people has begun.
SAN DIEGO — Everybody, it seems, welcomes the arrival of new restaurants, cafés, food trucks and farmers markets.
What could be the downside of fresh veggies, homemade empanadas and a pop-up restaurant specializing in banh mis?
But when they appear in unexpected places – think inner-city areas populated by immigrants – they're often the first salvo in a broader effort to rebrand and remake the community. As a result, these neighborhoods can quickly become unaffordable and unrecognizable to longtime residents.
An appetite for gentrification
I live in San Diego, where I teach courses on urban and food geographies and conduct research on the relationship between food and ethnicity in urban contexts.
In recent years, I started to notice a pattern playing out in the city's low-income neighborhoods that have traditionally lacked food options. More ethnic restaurants, street vendors, community gardens and farmers markets were cropping up. These, in turn, spurred growing numbers of white, affluent and college-educated people to venture into areas they had long avoided.
This observation inspired me to write a book, titled The $16 Taco, about how food – including what's seen as "ethnic," "authentic" or "alternative" – often serves as a spearhead for gentrification.
Take City Heights, a large multi-ethnic San Diego neighborhood where successive waves of refugees from places as far away as Vietnam and Somalia have resettled. In 2016, a dusty vacant lot on the busiest boulevard was converted into an outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44. There, food vendors gather in semi-permanent stalls to sell pupusas, lechon (roasted pig), single-sourced cold-brewed coffee, cupcakes and tamarind raspado (crushed ice) to neighborhood residents, along with tourists and visitors from other parts of the city.
Informal street vendors are casualties.
A public-private partnership called the City Heights Community Development Corporation, together with several nonprofits, launched the initiative to increase "access to healthy and culturally appropriate food" and serve as "a business incubator for local micro-entrepreneurs," including immigrants and refugees who live in the neighborhood.
On paper, this all sounds great.
But just a few blocks outside the gates, informal street vendors – who have long sold goods such as fruit, tamales and ice cream to residents who can't easily access supermarkets – now face heightened harassment. They've become causalities in a citywide crackdown on sidewalk vending spurred by complaints from business owners and residents in more affluent areas.
This isn't just happening in San Diego. The same tensions have been playing out in rapidly gentrifying areas like Los Angeles' Boyle Heights neighborhood, Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood, New York's Queens borough and East Austin, Texas.
In all of these places, because "ethnic," "authentic" and "exotic" foods are seen as cultural assets, they've become magnets for development.
A call for food justice
Cities and neighborhoods have long sought to attract educated and affluent residents – people whom sociologist Richard Florida dubbed "the creative class." The thinking goes that these newcomers will spend their dollars and presumably contribute to economic growth and job creation.
Food, it seems, has become the perfect lure.
It's uncontroversial and has broad appeal. It taps into the American Dream and appeals to the multicultural values of many educated, wealthy foodies. Small food businesses, with their relatively low cost of entry, have been a cornerstone of ethnic entrepreneurship in American cities. And initiatives like farmers markets and street fairs don't require much in the way of public investment; instead, they rely on entrepreneurs and community-based organizations to do the heavy lifting.
In City Heights, the Community Development Corporation hosted its first annual City Heights Street Food Festival in 2019 to "get people together around table and food stalls to celebrate another year of community building." Other recent events have included African Restaurant Week, Dia de Los Muertos, New Year Lunar Festival, Soul Food Fest and Brazilian Carnival, all of which rely on food and drink to attract visitors and support local businesses.
Meanwhile, initiatives such as the New Roots Community Farm and the City Heights Farmers' Market have been launched by nonprofits with philanthropic support in the name of "food justice," with the goal of reducing racial disparities in access to healthy food and empowering residents – projects that are particularly appealing to highly educated people who value diversity and democracy.
Upending an existing foodscape
In media coverage of changing foodscapes in low-income neighborhoods like City Heights, you'll rarely find any complaints.
San Diego Magazine's neighborhood guide for City Heights, for example, emphasizes its "claim to authentic international eats, along with live music venues, craft beer, coffee, and outdoor fun." It recommends several ethnic restaurants and warns readers not to be fooled by appearances.
Longtime residents find themselves forced to compete against the "urban food machine"
But that doesn't mean objections don't exist.
Many longtime residents and small-business owners – mostly people of color and immigrants – have, for decades, lived, worked and struggled to feed their families in these neighborhoods. To do so, they've run convenience stores, opened ethnic restaurants, sold food in parks and alleys and created spaces to grow their own food.
All represent strategies to meet community needs in a place mostly ignored by mainstream retailers.
So what happens when new competitors come to town?
Starting at a disadvantage
As I document in my book, these ethnic food businesses, because of a lack of financial and technical support, often struggle to compete with new enterprises that feature fresh façades, celebrity chefs, flashy marketing, bogus claims of authenticity and disproportionate media attention. Furthermore, following the arrival of more-affluent residents, existing ones find it increasingly difficult to stay.
My analysis of real estate ads for properties listed in City Heights and other gentrifying San Diego neighborhoods found that access to restaurants, cafés, farmers markets and outdoor dining is a common selling point. The listings I studied from 2019 often enticed potential buyers with lines like "shop at the local farmers' market," "join food truck festivals" and "participate in community food drives!"
San Diego Magazine's home buyer guide for the same year identified City Heights as an "up-and-coming neighborhood," attributing its appeal to its diverse population and eclectic "culinary landscape," including several restaurants and Fair@44.
When I see that City Heights' home prices rose 58% over the past three years, I'm not surprised.
Going up against the urban food machine
Longtime residents find themselves forced to compete against what I call the "urban food machine," a play on sociologist Harvey Molotch's "urban growth machine" – a term he coined more than 50 years ago to explain how cities were being shaped by a loose coalition of powerful elites who sought to profit off urban growth.
I argue that investors and developers use food as a tool for achieving the same ends.
When their work is done, what's left is a rather insipid and tasteless neighborhood, where foodscapes become more of a marketable mishmash of cultures than an ethnic enclave that's evolved organically to meet the needs of residents. The distinctions of time and place start to blur: An "ethnic food district" in San Diego looks no different than one in Chicago or Austin.
Meanwhile, the routines and rhythms of everyday life have changed so much that longtime residents no longer feel like they belong. Their stories and culture reduced to a selling point, they're forced to either recede to the shadows or leave altogether.
It's hard to see how that's a form of inclusion or empowerment.
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