Making Friends in Unlikely Places

There were a couple setbacks, like the time he sabotaged our attempt to rent out the basement. (Salami parked himself at the front gate in a swivel chair and introduced himself to would-be lodgers as the local “crackologist.” Naturally, no one wanted to sign a lease.) Eventually, Salami accepted our claims on the house and we found tenants who weren’t intimidated by his act. I wouldn’t say that we became close friends, but Salami drops by periodically to sweep up broken glass outside the house and helps me carry groceries up the front steps. When my book about the neighborhood, Home Girl, came out, he demanded a signed copy.

We had similar luck with another crack addict who loved books. He couldn’t get a library card because he was homeless, so we lent him reading matter—he particularly liked detective novels—in return for protection. In exchange, this ex-con looked after our car to make sure no one stole the hubcaps. Once I left the keys in the front door of the house and he sat on the on the steps for several hours until I got home to make sure no one broke in. Now that’s a good neighbor!

Naturally, we simultaneously built alliances with law-abiding residents. These included the elderly black folks who had lived on the block for a quarter of a century. We made sure to have them over for barbecues, and my husband offered to shovel their sidewalks when it snowed. In the process, we grew to appreciate the village flavor. People who don’t have a lot of money often stick closely together and the pavement here resembles an extension of their tiny apartments. Kids play on the street because they can’t afford after-school piano lessons. That means people actually know each other, a delicious rarity in New York City. When I was on pregnancy bed rest, the neighbors would drop by to ensure I had enough to eat. The street matriarch maintained such a close eye through her back window that she’d phone and order me to get back to bed if she saw me slinking into the kitchen. 

Aside from the chumminess, there’s a lot to be said for a working class neighborhood where tacos and babysitters cost less than in nicer parts of town. We save a lot of money by going to parks instead of enrolling in gyms. The local coffee costs less than a dollar and tastes better than Starbucks. Oh, and did I mention the baseball Little League? The local Dominican teams cost a fraction of the downtown white ones, and my kid is perfecting his Spanish in the bargain.

The foreclosure crisis has sent a lot of affordable property on the market and people are always asking for advice on navigating what used to be called “slums.” Without a doubt, we got lucky with our particular set-up. Our rougher characters are a tame bunch compared to, say, the drug crew that terrorized a nearby building. Those thugs were so mean that residents were scared to leave their apartments. The brutes harassed women and openly brandished weapons in the halls. In contrast, Salami is a bunny rabbit. During a recent frank discussion about first impressions, he was astounded that I once feared he might stab me. “Whaddya crazy, Mama?” he blinked. He then confided that he first thought I was a stuck-up racist. “I’ve decided you’re okay, after all,” Salami conceded.

The moral of this tale, I guess, is to keep an open mind and not be scared off by first appearances. Negotiation goes a long way. Most people, when you get down to it, simply want a bit of respect.