Aurora Avenue

This morning, I took our new puppy Luna for a walk (more on her later), and as we were making our way back home, a short white woman came jogging up to us. She was very friendly and introduced herself and asked if we were new to the neighborhood.

I said that my girlfriend had bought a house on Aurora Avenue a few months ago, and that we had been here since the fall. We made the typical small talk about meeting people in the neighborhood, the prospect of light rail coming through University Avenue, and blah blah blah, and then she said, "God, it's so nice to see some other young white people in the neighborhood."

I thought it was an odd, sort of racist thing to say. I mean, what do young white people represent in a historically African American neighborhood? And if you want to live among young white people, move to Uptown or something, not St. Paul's Frogtown.

But I didn't say anything in response to the comment. I just sort of changed the subject, and we wrapped up our small talk. And then she said, "Feel free to stop by for a beer sometime. We like to have a few after we put the kids to bed."

I thanked her--I don't drink, but I always appreciate an offer like that. It's an extension of friendship, a really socially accepted offer of kindness. I don't usually out myself as someone who is sober in an instance like that, because it's not about whether I drink or don't drink, it's about the generous invitation.

But then she started to go on. "I mean, we really like to throw 'em back. People don't talk about drinking enough--it's like it's a taboo subject or something. Our neighbors in that house, who don't live there anymore, invited us over all the time for beers. You couldn't leave their house without getting sent home with a beer. Used to get drunk and do lines with them all the time."

Yikes. Now, this was getting uncomfortable. Five years ago, I would have planned a wild party with her on the spot. But now?

Feeling too uncomfortable to out myself as a non-drinker and non-drugger, like it would show how lame and boring I really am, I just sort of half-laughed in feigned agreement or something.

"It was really nice meeting you," I said, as I started to turn to walk away.

"You too," she said. "Don't forget to come over sometime for a few beers! Bring your girlfriend!"

"Thanks," I said, realizing how strange it is that I feel comfortable enough to out myself as a lesbian, but not comfortable enough to out myself as sober.

Then she said, as I was walking away, "Yeah, I gotta go too. My kid is at the principal's office."

Well, anyway, she was really nice, and I always enjoy meeting the neighbors. Shaking off that weird feeling of isolation that occurs when someone mistakenly assumes you drink, I took Luna home. I do like our neighborhood. I like our friendly neighbors, the lady two doors down who offered to split some plants with me in the spring, the fifty-something twins on the other side who just got two little german shepherds, the rowdy kids across the street who play football in the road, the hott young black man who lives behind us who thinks Luna is the cutest dog ever, the other pair of lesbians who live a couple streets over, the 90-year old man who has lived here for decades, the deaf family kitty-corner from us, even the notorious "yellow house" that we are convinced is partaking in illegal activity, our friendly neighbor woman who left us a Christmas card in the mailbox without even knowing our names.

I was thinking about all of these great people, about how much I like our neighborhood, and about how quiet it is, when, as Luna and I arrived at the door to our house, I heard a woman scream, "GIRL YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH ME YOU TALK TO ME ABOUT IT!"

Stunned, I turned around. No, thank God, she wasn't talking to me, but to another woman who was walking toward her. Luna and I escaped inside the house just as the fight broke out. I looked out the window and saw hair, arms, legs, tumbling on the ground. I was about to call the police when two men pulled them apart, and they each went their separate ways.

And, now, as I am finishing this blog, I see that someone else called the cops anyway. Both women have just been escorted into squad cars.

Ahhhh, Frogtown!