I've been taking walks in the evening with a friend and last night we drove over to a neighboring community which has an excellent network of trails. It was my first time over there.
We started out at the community park and followed the trail around the edge until it entered a wooded area. Just beyond the wooded area we found ourselves in the middle of an upscale subdivision full of McMansions. We kept going as the trail wound through people's backyards--there were no fences, only here and there some trees and bushes planted for privacy. There were swingsets and other play equipment but no children. Nobody was in sight. It was eerie. What kind of people live here? we wondered. We agreed we would not like to have a trail like this through our backyards. A little while later we met an Indian man and two Indian women in saris. They smiled at us. Then we saw more people, families on bicycles. All friendly, all waving, "good evening."
We were in shock. This trail, so clean, so immaculate, did not have fast-food wrappers (or worse!) thrown here and there. These people clearly lived in a bubble world. Yes, they might have security systems in their houses and a sign at the entrance warning people that the neighborhood was patrolled by Neighborhood Watch, but they clearly were living in a state of innocence. They had NO IDEA what was outside their nice little world, what they were possibly inviting in. My friend and I knew all too well that there are people out there who don't have any sense of boundaries, who don't give a damn about others. We've learned NOT to be trusting and open like these people were. My friend, whose yard adjoins the trailer park, had to erect a privacy fence to keep out neighbors--MY neighbors--who acted as if her yard was their own personal thoroughfare and garbage dump.
My mind went to the recent Travon Martin-George Zimmerman case. It was in just such a neighborhood that the fatal altercation happened, except "Cherrywood" is not a gated community--at least not yet. I do honestly believe both sides were spoiling for a fight and they got it. It was not racial, it was cultural. Martin basically died because of the actions of unknown people--the people who were burglarizing that community. Zimmerman was suspicious and had good reason to be. "Oh, you were being watched all the time," said another friend when I told her of our walk through "Cherrywood". "They are nosy, nosy, nosy. Just step off that path and see what happens."
My friend and I were welcomed in "Cherrywood" because we were both white and middle-aged. People could tell by the way we dressed and acted that we presented no threat to their neighborhood. But had we been thirty years younger, covered with jail- and gang-related tattoos, wearing clothing commonly associated with that subculture, it would not have mattered what our skin color was. We would have been stopped and questioned, and if we got belligerent, asked to leave and/or cops called. And if we insisted on coming back, if we insisted on invading the place, you'd better believe there would be a fence put up across the trail and it would no longer be open to the public. This is what people don't understand about the Trayvon Martin case. When you are dealing with a gated community, it is gated for a reason. As I said in an earlier blog, I live in the kind of community people move to gated communities to get away from. And I can't say I blame them.
Not long ago, I went to a town meeting about the fate of a small hobby farm. A couple had bought a run-down piece of land on the outskirts of town and, after getting what they thought were the proper permits, went through a great deal of time, money and energy turning it into a showcase mini-farm. And then someone complained. This was actually the second of the town meetings about this farm. I did not know the family but I went because if James Howard Kunstler and others are right about "Peak Oil" and "The Long Emergency", farms like this are going to become increasingly important in the next few decades. It was rather interesting. Fox News was there and so was the John Birch Society, handing out pamphlets on the dangers of the United Nations. What the UN has to do with the "Williams" farm I have no idea but I am sure that someone could explain, if I really wanted to know (I don't). The woman handing out the pamphlets looked at me with disgust when I turned her down. "Do you believe in the United Nations?" she asked. "Yes," I said. From her reaction you would have thought that I said I believed in eating babies for breakfast. Oh, well. Lady, it's worse than that. Far, far worse. I am your worst nightmare but I don't have time to argue that. So I went inside.
The meeting started with an announcement that there would be no interrupting and that anyone causing a disturbance would be immediately removed by the sheriff, no warnings. One by one people rose to say how they supported what the Williams family was doing with their farm. Then, a woman stood up and took the microphone. "Several years ago we found our dream house," she began. "And everything was going well. Then--those people--moved in next door and our lives have been a living hell," she sobbed. "The animals smell. There are flies everywhere. There are chicken feathers everywhere and I'm allergic to chicken feathers. And we can't sit on our patio anymore because (sob) there are HONEYBEES (sob) in the flowers." She sat down amid a cascade of sobbing, her husband patting her on the back.
Well, I tell you, when she got to the BEES part, I just about lost it. In the first place, honeybees are scarce around here--I haven't seen one all summer, lots of bumblebees, but not one honeybee, and in the second place there are worse things than honeybees, chicken feathers, flies and animals. So I stood up and I said, "I wasn't planning to say anything at this meeting, but now I am. I want to say that there are worse things out there than bees and animals and feathers. I have had to deal with METH LABS on both sides of me and people coming in all hours of the day and night being loud and using the F-word and urinating on my vehicle. I would MUCH RATHER deal with the animals." And you know, the audience cheered. Especially as there were quite a few who know me and know where I live and what I have had to put up with. This is what lies beyond "Cherrywood's" boundaries. This is what they are risking inviting in with that trail.
No, my friend and I, we've lost our innocence and trust.
We started out at the community park and followed the trail around the edge until it entered a wooded area. Just beyond the wooded area we found ourselves in the middle of an upscale subdivision full of McMansions. We kept going as the trail wound through people's backyards--there were no fences, only here and there some trees and bushes planted for privacy. There were swingsets and other play equipment but no children. Nobody was in sight. It was eerie. What kind of people live here? we wondered. We agreed we would not like to have a trail like this through our backyards. A little while later we met an Indian man and two Indian women in saris. They smiled at us. Then we saw more people, families on bicycles. All friendly, all waving, "good evening."
We were in shock. This trail, so clean, so immaculate, did not have fast-food wrappers (or worse!) thrown here and there. These people clearly lived in a bubble world. Yes, they might have security systems in their houses and a sign at the entrance warning people that the neighborhood was patrolled by Neighborhood Watch, but they clearly were living in a state of innocence. They had NO IDEA what was outside their nice little world, what they were possibly inviting in. My friend and I knew all too well that there are people out there who don't have any sense of boundaries, who don't give a damn about others. We've learned NOT to be trusting and open like these people were. My friend, whose yard adjoins the trailer park, had to erect a privacy fence to keep out neighbors--MY neighbors--who acted as if her yard was their own personal thoroughfare and garbage dump.
My mind went to the recent Travon Martin-George Zimmerman case. It was in just such a neighborhood that the fatal altercation happened, except "Cherrywood" is not a gated community--at least not yet. I do honestly believe both sides were spoiling for a fight and they got it. It was not racial, it was cultural. Martin basically died because of the actions of unknown people--the people who were burglarizing that community. Zimmerman was suspicious and had good reason to be. "Oh, you were being watched all the time," said another friend when I told her of our walk through "Cherrywood". "They are nosy, nosy, nosy. Just step off that path and see what happens."
My friend and I were welcomed in "Cherrywood" because we were both white and middle-aged. People could tell by the way we dressed and acted that we presented no threat to their neighborhood. But had we been thirty years younger, covered with jail- and gang-related tattoos, wearing clothing commonly associated with that subculture, it would not have mattered what our skin color was. We would have been stopped and questioned, and if we got belligerent, asked to leave and/or cops called. And if we insisted on coming back, if we insisted on invading the place, you'd better believe there would be a fence put up across the trail and it would no longer be open to the public. This is what people don't understand about the Trayvon Martin case. When you are dealing with a gated community, it is gated for a reason. As I said in an earlier blog, I live in the kind of community people move to gated communities to get away from. And I can't say I blame them.
Not long ago, I went to a town meeting about the fate of a small hobby farm. A couple had bought a run-down piece of land on the outskirts of town and, after getting what they thought were the proper permits, went through a great deal of time, money and energy turning it into a showcase mini-farm. And then someone complained. This was actually the second of the town meetings about this farm. I did not know the family but I went because if James Howard Kunstler and others are right about "Peak Oil" and "The Long Emergency", farms like this are going to become increasingly important in the next few decades. It was rather interesting. Fox News was there and so was the John Birch Society, handing out pamphlets on the dangers of the United Nations. What the UN has to do with the "Williams" farm I have no idea but I am sure that someone could explain, if I really wanted to know (I don't). The woman handing out the pamphlets looked at me with disgust when I turned her down. "Do you believe in the United Nations?" she asked. "Yes," I said. From her reaction you would have thought that I said I believed in eating babies for breakfast. Oh, well. Lady, it's worse than that. Far, far worse. I am your worst nightmare but I don't have time to argue that. So I went inside.
The meeting started with an announcement that there would be no interrupting and that anyone causing a disturbance would be immediately removed by the sheriff, no warnings. One by one people rose to say how they supported what the Williams family was doing with their farm. Then, a woman stood up and took the microphone. "Several years ago we found our dream house," she began. "And everything was going well. Then--those people--moved in next door and our lives have been a living hell," she sobbed. "The animals smell. There are flies everywhere. There are chicken feathers everywhere and I'm allergic to chicken feathers. And we can't sit on our patio anymore because (sob) there are HONEYBEES (sob) in the flowers." She sat down amid a cascade of sobbing, her husband patting her on the back.
Well, I tell you, when she got to the BEES part, I just about lost it. In the first place, honeybees are scarce around here--I haven't seen one all summer, lots of bumblebees, but not one honeybee, and in the second place there are worse things than honeybees, chicken feathers, flies and animals. So I stood up and I said, "I wasn't planning to say anything at this meeting, but now I am. I want to say that there are worse things out there than bees and animals and feathers. I have had to deal with METH LABS on both sides of me and people coming in all hours of the day and night being loud and using the F-word and urinating on my vehicle. I would MUCH RATHER deal with the animals." And you know, the audience cheered. Especially as there were quite a few who know me and know where I live and what I have had to put up with. This is what lies beyond "Cherrywood's" boundaries. This is what they are risking inviting in with that trail.
No, my friend and I, we've lost our innocence and trust.
