Day 328 - Where Have All The Front Porches Gone?
I live in the suburbs, but I sure don't belong here.
Next to parenting, it's probably the most uncomfortable struggle I've endured. That's because it seems that only in the suburbs your neighbors can simultaneously feel little to no obligation to knowing you personally, but still be thoroughly committed to monitoring your behavior as the neighborhood watchdog. And as is evident by one closed CPS case, five or more police calls, and one more CPS case still pending over the period of the four years since my divorce, my parenting is highly questionable in the suburbs.
Ok, the truth is, I don't actually know for sure who called CPS and reported my negligent parenting. It's an anonymous report and CPS doesn't reveal the WHO, only the WHAT.
I get it.
It's a hard, hard conversation to have to confront someone about their parenting, and adults are just as scared as children when it comes to our defenses. So we call the police on each other (or hold grudges because someone called the police on us) instead of having those hard, hard conversations.
This is why I feel so deeply about the value of real front porch sittin' in our communities.
If we had talked more, maybe you would know my story a little better. Maybe you would understand my stress. You would certainly see my flaws, of course, but also my bravery and my willingness to listen to a friend. If we had spent more time sharing our vulnerabilities, I would have heard your stories and your perspectives. Maybe I could have helped in the things that I'm good at, like yard work. Maybe you could have offered to let my kids play at your house when you grew concerned that they were home alone in less than adequate circumstances.
I'm not saying all of that would have been fun or easy. I'm just saying that that is what a neighbor really means to me.
Our house was at a tee in the road where you could finally see a little more blue space in the sky and hold on to the slim hope that a garden might actually get enough daylight here to grow. To make matters worse, we never had a house phone and only got a second vehicle shortly before we moved again. So while my dad gathered us girls and drove us out to school on his way to work and back each day, my mom stayed home...alone...with a baby...with no way to get out unless she wanted to walk seven miles to town, which she did on occasion out of sheer desperation to combat the isolation. Fortunately for all of us, but especially her, about a mile or so down the road we had two neighbors who became some of the best front porch sittin'est people our family ever knew: Rosie and Peter.
Rosie was in her 70s, widowed many years ago,
poor as a church mouse,
and she cared for a severely handicapped adult daughter all by herself.
Peter lived in my dad's childhood home from back when my grandparents were Mennonite missionaries to the Kentucky holler folk.
He lived alone, was thoroughly and brusquely German, had been through cancer, and barely had two nickels to rub together most of the time. But both of these neighbors had generous, big, front porches.
We only lived at that house for 14 months, but that was a long time for us and despite the brevity of our stay, Rosie and Peter often shared their food with us, their time, their company, their stories, and they welcomed us, flaws and all, to be their neighbors. I've lived in my neighborhood for five years now and while I know the basics about my neighbors, I have no friends like that.
Next to parenting, it's probably the most uncomfortable struggle I've endured. That's because it seems that only in the suburbs your neighbors can simultaneously feel little to no obligation to knowing you personally, but still be thoroughly committed to monitoring your behavior as the neighborhood watchdog. And as is evident by one closed CPS case, five or more police calls, and one more CPS case still pending over the period of the four years since my divorce, my parenting is highly questionable in the suburbs.
Ok, the truth is, I don't actually know for sure who called CPS and reported my negligent parenting. It's an anonymous report and CPS doesn't reveal the WHO, only the WHAT.
I get it.
It's a hard, hard conversation to have to confront someone about their parenting, and adults are just as scared as children when it comes to our defenses. So we call the police on each other (or hold grudges because someone called the police on us) instead of having those hard, hard conversations.
This is why I feel so deeply about the value of real front porch sittin' in our communities.
If we had talked more, maybe you would know my story a little better. Maybe you would understand my stress. You would certainly see my flaws, of course, but also my bravery and my willingness to listen to a friend. If we had spent more time sharing our vulnerabilities, I would have heard your stories and your perspectives. Maybe I could have helped in the things that I'm good at, like yard work. Maybe you could have offered to let my kids play at your house when you grew concerned that they were home alone in less than adequate circumstances.
I'm not saying all of that would have been fun or easy. I'm just saying that that is what a neighbor really means to me.
Because when I think of the ideal neighbors, I always think of Rosie Bishop and Peter Penner.
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| Sophia, when I took the kids to visit Kentucky this past summer. See? A shining example of horrible parenting. |
One of the most remote places I remember from my childhood was when we lived seven miles back in the holler of Newfound, Kentucky. Seven miles may not sound that far, but wind those miles into hairpin curves, single car sections of a dirt road, a steep mountain on one side and a sheer dropoff on the other, it took us half an hour to drive those seven miles each and every day to and from work and school. Now, add to that, every neighbor was practically invisible, houses tucked back in the crevices of the Appalachians, hidden below treelines among winding valleys, or further up, up alongside shale cliffs and between rocky gorges. So, while the hills were very much alive, you could reside back in these woods and hardly ever see a soul.
Rosie was in her 70s, widowed many years ago,
poor as a church mouse,
and she cared for a severely handicapped adult daughter all by herself.
Peter lived in my dad's childhood home from back when my grandparents were Mennonite missionaries to the Kentucky holler folk.
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| My dad, as a boy |
He lived alone, was thoroughly and brusquely German, had been through cancer, and barely had two nickels to rub together most of the time. But both of these neighbors had generous, big, front porches.
Rosie had a home phone that she let Mom use to call her family anytime she wanted. Mom would then help mow Rosie's big yard in exchange. Our house was also really cold in the winter and Mom would often go visit Rosie just to warm up her toes and her need for conversation. The walls were painted bright colors of blue and green and orange, but they looked shabby chic vintage with the heavy soot from the coal stove.
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| Rosie holding Clayton's little hand as they stand together on her front porch. |
Peter's house wasn't much warmer than ours, and all I remember of his house was that it was dusty, dirty, and cluttered with boxes and the random assortment of junk appropriate for a bachelor. He came to our house more than we went to his, I think, but he helped my dad haul wood in the winter, he loved our animals, and he brought more laughter and stories to our table than you could shake a stick at.
We only lived at that house for 14 months, but that was a long time for us and despite the brevity of our stay, Rosie and Peter often shared their food with us, their time, their company, their stories, and they welcomed us, flaws and all, to be their neighbors. I've lived in my neighborhood for five years now and while I know the basics about my neighbors, I have no friends like that.
I'm trying. I realize that it's also up to me to get outside beyond my own automated garage door and deadbolts to talk to my neighbors. But I've knocked on their doors, shared yards, sat at a few tables, invited them in my home, and I've never felt quite the same enthusiasm that Rosie and Peter had for us. I know, everyone has a different story. Every location and demographic and culture is different. I understand that. But when these same nonchalant, detached neighbors call Child Protective Services on me because they don't think my parenting is up to par, well, that feels like a knife - in my face.
And here's the real truth:
I've had to apologize for some of my flaws as a neighbor too. I overstepped my bounds in "helpfully" working on the five feet of grass that really belongs to my neighbor. I glossed over any parenting criticism that may have been offered constructively even if it was so awkwardly done that I didn't recognize it as an effort to communicate person to person. I was too afraid to impose on others and just ask for the help I needed. I get frustrated by the trash in the street, the cars spilling out of the driveways onto the sidewalks, the incessant barking of ill-disciplined dogs, and the sand burrs that no one else seems to care about. In fact, I still have more apologizing and more work to do.
And here's the real truth: I've had to apologize for some of my flaws as a neighbor too. I overstepped my bounds in "helpfully" working on the five feet of grass that really belongs to my neighbor. I glossed over any parenting criticism that may have been offered constructively even if it was so awkwardly done that I didn't recognize it as an effort to communicate person to person. I was too afraid to impose on others and just ask for the help I needed. I get frustrated by the trash in the street, the cars spilling out of the driveways onto the sidewalks, the incessant barking of ill-disciplined dogs, and the sand burrs that no one else seems to care about. In fact, I still have more apologizing and more work to do.
But I don't call animal control for the dog noise disturbance. And I don't report the giant company work trailers or neglected yards to our home owner's association. I find a way to either communicate simply to my neighbors or I learn to live with it if the conflict doesn't seem worth the conversation. I understand that the city and the suburbs aren't ideal for every life situation that comes up and if my neighbor has a good job that requires him to bring his huge semi trailer home occasionally to fill up our street and make the stop sign a little more dangerous, well, I try to accept that and accommodate what he might be going through with a long drive ahead or a ruthless demanding boss, who knows?
Honestly, I'm stuck in knowing what to do. I see that my parents often moved right around the time these kinds of conflicts would start to bubble to the surface. And I'm immensely proud of myself for living in one house for five years straight. But given the evidence of my lack of supportive neighbors and the long list of public service calls to my house, I'm not too sure that I've managed to do any better than my parents did when they were moving all over hither and yon in search of their delusional utopia. Do I really see my own flaws? Do I know how I've maybe hurt my neighbors with my sharp tongue by pen or in person? Am I able to understand their stress and their vulnerabilities too?
Take the dreadful Mrs. A, for example, whose reputation still proceeds her even to this day, according to a recent graduate I met this past summer: She was awful, belittling, controlling, and shaming to anyone who threatened her authority or beliefs. But at times I would catch glimpses of her pain and agony. She often cut her hair when she was stressed. I suspect she had significant health issues. And I know firsthand how controlling I can become when I feel hurt, distraught, or overwhelmed. So, I can briefly imagine her humanity and feel some empathy toward her. But there also comes a point when, in spite of each person's need, the relationship is simply more toxic than helpful and it's better to just part ways.
I feel that way with my neighbors. I hate the thought that this will flare up again at the next place I live, as it inevitably will. I will go through this again...because I will be taking my mistakes and my flaws with me when I go. But I will keep working on my own change while also hoping that somewhere I can find another piece of the Land of the South Wind. The plains people weren't perfect either, but they endured my mistakes and loved me through my flaws, allowing me see theirs also until we gradually found our way to each other's hearts. I would live in Kansas again simply for the neighbors and family that I found on those front porches.
My dream house has to have porches. A front porch is the absolute minimum requirement, but even better if it's a wraparound porch. With a back porch too. I want to be surrounded by porches and loved by the people who understand why porches are so important to me. I hope I can grow up to be a better parent. And I hope that eventually I find a home where I belong even when I fail as a parent or as a neighbor.
