Read on Twitter
When the old Black man who is mayor of your block sees you trimming your flowers and says “Hey, where’s my bouquet?” you bring him the best of what you have.
It’s Biblical first fruits or something.
#BaltimorePorchLife
It’s Biblical first fruits or something.
#BaltimorePorchLife
In all seriousness, I love the interactions I have with my neighbors. I am, without question, a gentrifier. My presence here makes developers more likely to flip these houses, and richer whiter people more likely to buy them, and call the cops on my neighbors for just living.
But they make me part of them anyway. It’s both gracious welcome and stern expectation: you live on our block, you’re part of our community life.
And I am grateful for that.
And I am grateful for that.
And the power dynamics are screwed: it’s their block, but I’m the white woman who can call the police on them at any time. So they mostly communicate expectations in playful teasing, “you need help trimming that grass?” but I know what they’re asking is serious too.
(There are interactions not about yard work, of course, checking in on each other’s day, who got a package, which house is for sale now, and more. And sometimes the playful communications have messages I’m still unraveling.
I’m posting the least complicated ones, and also the ones that protect their privacy. But there are still times I’m confused what’s being asked of me.)
