I love to host people at my house so it’s been a really long, difficult transition of not doing that, and for no particularly good reason except some belief that houses have to be in perfect condition before it’s alright to invite folks over. Since we’ve been renovating our kitchen ever since we moved into our new house, I figured we had to hold off on hosting any gatherings.
That changed just recently when I said to heck with it, we’re holding a potluck dinner, and I don’t care if the kitchen looks really cruddy and the old, rotting counter we’re throwing out is warped and the lath is showing because we tore off all the plaster on the walls in a few places. New drywall is up and mudded and sanded and painted with primer and it all looks pretty raw even in the parts that are nearly done. Temporary counters (very unattractive medium-density fiberboard we have repurposed over the years for many uses) are screwed down onto our new IKEA base cabinets. The kitchen really looks like hell but some who came tonight said, “Oh, what a beautiful house!” conveniently ignoring the crazy walls here and there and the wacky color of rose that adorns the entry room and stair well as one walks in. Folks were so polite about that stuff and it did help me.
But I’m still a freak about wanting things just so, being as some of us like to put it politely, an HSP, which stands for highly sensitive person. It is not that I am a “type A” but rather that I am constantly worried about whether others are comfortable or whether spaces are arranged in a manner that makes things efficient and easy for everyone. Is the music too loud, too soft, too drumming, too untextured? Is this elderly guest tired and in need of a seat? Is this toddler thirsty—and will this cup work for her? Are the children yelling too much and making parents concerned that they’re insane and dangerous? Are the adults mingling and friendly? Is there enough food? For the vegetarians?
While trying to chat with a mom of three who I was meeting for the first time (just about everyone who came over I was meeting for the first time, it seemed), her children were squabbling over where to sit or stand, and this was really very distracting for me, so I had a hard time with the conversation because I kept darting around trying to find little kid chairs to make these children more comfortable and reduce the distraction. I probably looked silly, but that is the way I am, and it does tend to make me very easily distracted in general.
I spent a while wondering whether our house has enough room to accommodate whoever would show up to this potluck we felt ready to risk (not having a “finished” house yet and all). I rearranged a few chairs, then put them back, then convinced myself that no one would really want to sit down anyway. As it worked out, the people who needed to sit, sat, and those that didn’t, stood or managed some other way. There were a lot of kids of all ages and they managed okay too. I liked it.
Maybe we’ll have more potlucks more often. It’s nice now, too, to live in a neighborhood where I am not concerned about other people being concerned about their safety in order to be able to park and walk to the house. In my last neighborhood this was an issue.
One person who came told me she’s “in the ghetto” when I asked where she lives. She didn’t even really want to tell me where. I said, “You mean you live in Hartford?” (A lot of people who came to our house tonight are from other towns nearby.) She eventually told me roughly what street she lives on and shared that it’s tough because her husband serves in the military and she’s at home by herself with children. I could relate to the frustration of not feeling safe in your own neighborhood, and having that desire to escape. She sounded unhappy, like she can’t wait to get out of Dodge, get herself an education and move on up.
Part of me felt bad at that point for having moved to a nicer neighborhood. I’m always feeling guilty about that when I dwell on it, as though I should always strive to live somewhere that feels unsafe. I don’t know why I have that complex. My life is a lot less stressful now that I’m able to walk around by myself without constantly looking over my shoulder—even though when I did look over my shoulder all the time in my old ‘hood, there was never any trouble for me, directly, personally. Just lots of vibes that something, anything, probably bad, could happen at any time, and the strong suspicion that drug deals were happening on a perpetual basis right around me, on the sidewalk in front of my house, and so on, and how long would it take before it impacted me? Wasn’t it already impacting me? And even so, I didn’t want to leave, and felt an affinity for the neighborhood and the people living next door who were trying to be lawful, good neighbors, because there had to be more of them than there were drug dealers. They had to be in the silent majority.
Now I can invite my friends from other towns to come over and not feel like I’m intimidating them or scaring them away, so that’s nice, although that isn’t everything life is about either. I miss the silent majority of good people in the old neighborhood. In my new place, people almost seem to take a bit of comfort and safety for granted in comparison, which can lead to complacency and an obsession with traffic calming over the value of community bonding. Then again, in almost any diverse neighborhood there is a struggle over how to bond as a community, because people tend to want to hide, and we all feel awkward, with our cultural equivalent of two left feet.
One guest who lives close by shared with me her stories of having to call the police fairly often when she witnesses cars idling outside awaiting drug deals. When I heard her talk about that I knew I was somehow “home.” This was familiar territory. I don’t see it outside my front door anymore, but having friends and neighbors who deal with that is oddly comforting. It’s funny how it’s an easy thing to bond over, and an easy first way to get to know a neighbor.