Where I Sit
I’m not a good person. But our neighbors might be changing me.
Our house sits on a residential street that the road map of our small town, population 13,663, which is about 28 miles from Pittsburgh, designates a major arterial. Traffic rushes by. Ambulances back into nearby garages. Life Flight helicopters whir overhead.
Our neighbors one house over, a young Black family, recently rented their home to a wonderful neighbor and moved away. I imagine they now live in an attractive suburban home, near the schools they want their children to attend. I’m happy for them.
And I think a lot about moving to the suburbs.
But all around our neighborhood, people are at work, spending hard-earned dollars and home equity cash at Home Depot and Lowe’s to repair old homes that have been sitting neglected for generations. Neighbors stand on tall ladders and install new siding over torn-up old housewrap. They brace caving porches. They paint weathered aluminum siding. They pour concrete to replace buckled sidewalks. They fill construction dumpsters with junk from haunted-looking houses. We, too, are hard at work. We replaced our roof this year. We’re getting estimates to paint our weathered aluminum siding.
I think about moving to the suburbs every day. I think about renting our home to a responsible family and moving to a quiet, attractive street nearby.
But some of our neighbors grew up here when it was a segregated Black neighborhood, when it was one of the only places where their families could live. Today, one of these families enjoys a six-figure income. Their grandchildren attend prestigious universities. They could move to the suburbs, but they’re not going anywhere. I think about their decision to stay and all the possible reasons why.
What does this all mean for me? Probably nothing. Living here doesn’t make me a good person. I’m not a good person. But my neighbors might be changing me. At the very least, they’re making me sit and think.
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