Outside On Purpose: Why I Chose the Periphery
There’s something hollow about fitting in when you know you don’t belong.
I didn’t build my artistry in the hopes of being accepted. I built it to survive. To communicate. To honor the culture that raised me, shaped me, and made me who I am. My roots run deep through the blocks of Brooklyn, the beat of real Techno, the lens of experimental cinema, and the rhythm of a city that never gave handouts, only opportunities to prove yourself.
Since moving upstate to the Hudson Valley—specifically Newburgh—I’ve been navigating what feels like a foreign land. Not geographically, but culturally. It’s a region where white mediocrity thrives under the guise of creative community. Where cliques form quickly. Where criticality is dismissed as hostility. Where history is erased for palatability. And where Black and Brown voices are often tolerated, but rarely celebrated.
I’ve tried. I’ve pulled up to events. I’ve extended my hand. But what I’ve found, more often than not, is surface-level engagement. A kind of passive-aggressive politeness that masks insecurity, envy, or outright ignorance. And when you carry yourself with conviction—when your sound is unapologetically Techno, your aesthetic isn’t curated for trends, and your voice challenges the status quo—you quickly become the "other."
What’s worse? The subtle hostility. The dismissiveness. The fake support. The performative allyship. You feel it in the silence after you post something honest. You feel it in the way people turn away when you speak the uncomfortable truth. You feel it in the way they skim over your résumé like it means nothing, because they’ve already decided you don’t belong.
But I’m not here to chase acceptance.
I’m here to speak to those who see through the veneer. Who recognize the difference between culture and cosplay. Who know what it means to struggle for space, identity, and self-respect in rooms that were never built for us. Those who know that authenticity carries a weight—one that lightweights can’t lift.
The few connections I’ve made up here that matter? They’re with people from the city. People who have depth. Insight. A sense of shared code. A lived language. Most of them are older or at least culturally seasoned. They don’t move with entitlement—they move with purpose. And I don’t have to explain myself to them. They already know.
I’m writing this not for sympathy, but for clarity. For others like me who’ve been displaced—geographically, culturally, or creatively. For those who’ve felt alien in a sea of cultural appropriation and empty accolades. For the ones who’ve been called difficult, aggressive, or unapproachable simply for holding the line of integrity.
Let me be clear: I didn’t get pushed to the periphery. I chose to stand there.
Because from the outside, I can see everything. I can move freely. I can keep building my world without compromise. And I can connect with those who are tuned into the same frequency—authentic, honest, and unrepentantly creative.
This is the path I walk. And I walk it proudly.
Because I’d rather be outside with purpose than inside by permission.
