On the Street Where You Live

The stories that lurk behind closed doors in some neighborhoods often sit perched on stoops in Brooklyn. Yet one can still go years living as an intimate stranger. This NYT article, on the inhabitants of South Elliott Street between Dekalb and Lafayette Avenues in Fort Greene, has certainly revealed me as a hobbit when it comes to my immediate community.

I'm social, no doubt. You'll often find me on my front steps on a Saturday or Sunday morning, newspaper splayed, with designs on the adjacent farmer's market and park. But my companions are usually imports, brought in from other corners of Brooklyn, other boroughs, even other countries. And, on many an afternoon, my cheeks have turned brighter than the rosé we sip when a neighbor passes by. Not just from merry intoxication, but also embarrassment. I know many faces but few names. (Come to think of it, I rarely think to ask for names. Until now it's been enough to call them, "my neighbor.") This has caused many an awkward moment. Me hiding behind a gushy sip, aptly timed to fill the awkward silence. My neighbors choosing to either introduce themselves or wander off in a cloud of mystery cast by my absent-minded rudeness. A scenario that's repeated itself way too often, I'm now realizing.

The profiles featured in this article, and the colorful, diverse characters they showcase, have me curious about those I live amongst and have yet to truly engage with. There are stories to be told, histories to be shared, connections to be made all up and down my street and on every street. It's just a matter of listening, of opening oneself up.

In a city of "go" and "me," that can be the hardest part. But, in a city with one of the most vibrant narratives in the world, it's worth the effort.