While mopping my front porch I listened to the loudest domestic fight I’ve ever heard. I’m assuming the couple was about a block away but the guy was screaming so loud his voice echoed and reverberated against every house in the neighborhood. The funny thing is he was yelling about how he was ‘the original gangster.’ You know how it is when you’re overhearing a fight, you kind of don’t want to listen but you do anyway because it’s sort of thrilling. Of course, everything you’re hearing is out of context. She could very well be a no good ho who cheated on him with her baby’s daddy (sorry, that’s the worst I could think up). However, it was my assumption that he was trying to prove to her that he was ‘thug’ enough by throwing in as many f-bombs as possible and hollering at the top of his lungs. No context and I even I could tell he was a loser, gangster or not. She threw him out of her house. I know this because, despite not raising her voice hardly an octave, I heard her say, “Get out of my house, this is MY house.” And so, the shouting stopped, and I’m assuming he went away…hopefully far far away.

During this whole time I was clutching a broom on my front porch, having just dusted out all of the old spider webs and nests that had taken over the roof of the porch. I only heard the tail end of the fight, and I had already formulated my 911 plan. First I would have to sneak down the path of my front lawn and try and figure out where the argument was taking place so I could describe the location to a dispatcher. This was scary since there was no way I wanted to be seen by the ‘original gangster’ and receive any of his wrath. Plus, I wasn’t sure at what point to call the cops: do you wait until you hear someone be personally threatened? Do you wait until you’re certain someone is in near danger? Do you call the moment you hear voices raised because of the possibility of violence? Do you call regardless because it is disturbing the peace? By the time I had pondered all of these questions the fight was over.

While enduring the fight I realized I was clenching my stomach; nothing ruins a holiday more then rage. Despite the angry voices, Hobbes was rolling around happily on her back during the entire altercation (she loves being outside). One of my plans involved scooping her up and running back inside the house. ‘Domestic fights happen in every neighborhood,’ I told myself. “They usually don’t last long.” Over the weekend my brother-in-law tactfully inquired about gang activity in our neighborhood. I responded that because we don’t run with those type of crowds we’re typically unaffected. Josh and I have lived in this house for a year and all in all it’s been uneventful. We parked the Suburu on the street for several days and nothing was broken or stolen. I’ve left the front door unlocked a few times and no one bothered to steal anything. Despite a few angry neighborhood outbursts no one makes waves. Sure, I’m still stared at when taking walks around the neighborhood, but I continue to say ‘hello’ to everyone I walk by. I realized after overhearing this fight (and being scared) that we really are not part of the neighborhood. We don’t ‘run with the crowd,’ hence we’re unaffected by its low-lifes, but not included in anything else…like the good things. The trade off for being left alone is not having a community to turn to in case anything really did happen to us.

Wanting to know my neighbors became important the second I became a homeowner. I want my street to be the nice, I want my neighbors to be looking out for me, I want to be respected. The other night Josh parked our Suburu in front of the house across the street to accommodate his sister’s boat. I noticed they were generating a lot of cars; probably their huge extended family was coming over for dinner again, and our car was obviously in the way. “Here, let me move my car,” I offered to a young teen emptying bags out of his backseat. “Oh,” the kid mumbled, and while I didn’t expect a conversation I would have appreciated some recognition or maybe a thank you. I moved the car and silently returned to our house, aware that a group of teenagers were staring at me out of the windows. “It’s the thought that counts,” I thought to myself. “It’s the gesture, the act of doing something neighborly that’s more important then receiving any sort of gratitude.”

So, I want to know my neighbors but it’s not like I’ve been banging on doors or starting up any block parties. When we arrived no one except the folks who sold us the place next door introduced themselves. No casseroles or welcome wagons, so we returned the favor and sat on our hands. Is it because we obviously plopped roots down in an incredibly racially divided city? Yes, definitely. I don’t want to intrude or make any waves. I just want my neighbors to know that I’m a decent person with a job and a husband and a cat I would appreciate they not run over. But this also means I won’t hesitate to call the police if I think someone is being threatened or if it’s 1am and the bass is still bumping down the street. I would do that in any neighborhood and even though we agreed we were not going to be the ‘new sheriff in town’ I still have limits.

Being a pioneer is unsettling.