The Old Neighborhood

When I was in 2^nd grade, I recall living in a dingy apartment with my parents and two sisters. My parents were getting massively ripped off since they didn’t speak English. But it was the same guy who rented us the apartment also leased the restaurant space my Dad just bought down the street. So it was easier to deal with.

We lived above a hair salon. During the summers the place was so hot and muggy we had to walk a few blocks down to the community pool to cool off. We had a token we’d sewn to our swim trunks to show we had paid the fee for the use of the facilities. The Pleasant Ridge community center was a nasty predominantly Black place where I’d get into fights constantly. At first I thought it was because I was an Asian dude in that community. Only to discover later on, ALL kids got into fights, all the time. Being 7 years old sucked. Too small to fight like they did in movies. Too big to beat up the little kids in frustration of getting walloped on by the big guys.

I recall being a pretty timid kid. I would shadow my oldest sister Jenny. She was a pretty cool calm person. Quiet mostly. She would walk me to the community pool and keep an eye out for me. Parents would be at work all day. SO we were on our own. Debbie, my other sister ventured out on her own. The place was usually packed. It was the 80’s so Madonna or The Cars would blast through the speakers at the pool. Can you imagine that? Today it would be brain-deadening shit that electronica drone. Or low bass hip-hop that riles up beehives.

I didn’t realize this before, but it seemed all so different now, the lifeguards were probably 18 years old, but they seemed like legit adults. I thought they were old. But, they were just kids. I can’t even imagine how my niece sees me. Like some old guy. But I only know this, because an ex-girlfriend of mine lifeguarded at a similar community pool in Maryland, and when I went to visit one year, she told me they were cheap bastards who paid teens to watch over the kids. They were CPR trained, but I can’t believe an 18 year old today would be that responsible.

During the winter, our apartment was so cold, we’d huddle next to the clawfoot radiator. The thing hissed through the tubing. It was painted over with some sort of sealant. Probably lead based. And we’d hang socks on it, then quickly throw them on our feet, then pull blankets over ourselves. My parents had their own room, the three of us shared. I’d usually end up on our 70’s style sofa. I don’t recall ever taking baths in the winter, because it was so cold. Plus, at 7 you don’t really have B.O. yet.

I remember also one day my parents being out. My sister Jenny usually hid out and read a book and generally ignored us, unless Deb and I would cause noise. I got the bright idea one day to mop the hardwood floors. Deb dumped a bucket of water on the floor as I ran the mop across it. Clean floors and the folks would be happy.

A few minutes later we heard a pounding at the front door. Jenny leapt out of wherever she was hiding and came into the living room. We stared at each other, freaked out to who could be on the other side. Our folks had drilled into our brains “NEVER OPEN THE DOOR!!” Jenny is a pretty fearless person. So she crept to the door and peeked into the peephole. Jenny turned to us. Hard to read her expression. She shrugged. Deb and I took positions behind the couch. Me, still armed with mop. To Deb and my surprise, she clicked the lock and pulled open the door. There we were standing and looking in mouth open awe. Two grey-haired ladies standing at the doorway visibly angry. I’ve never seen White women angry before, to my recollection…well, not THIS angry. The fatter of the two pointed to me “You!”

I was taken back. I understood English but had no idea why she singled me out.

“Don’t mop the floor. The water is leaking from our ceiling.” I didn’t have time to snitch out Deb for pouring the water on the floor. And I was too scared to move. So I just stared at the mop, hoping they would stop looking at me. Old White ladies are scary. At that age, they could be aliens. I think they were more shocked to see three little kids at the other end of that door.

“Where are your parents?!”

We didn’t answer. Jenny was the more defiant one of us all and just stood there smirking.

The skinnier one seemed to be the kinder one. She simply said “Well, don’t open the door for other strangers. And stop mopping.” They looked at each other, almost perplexed at what they saw. Three Asian kids just standing there…alone. When my folks came home around the afternoon, I recall Jenny got an earful about opening doors to strangers. To which I recall Deb maybe defended her by saying it was a couple of old ladies downstairs. That didn’t really soften their position. Immigrants don’t need any spotlight on them.

I went back to that neighborhood now 34 years later. A hair salon is STILL there. I didn’t venture to see if those are rented apartments now. Only that the neighborhood is gentrified into a hipsters paradise. The bar around the corner has a bazillion craft brewery. And the comic book shop, where I spent countless hours staring out of my window praying I could cross the street to look inside, moved away, came back and moved away again, and then came back again. It had a really cool corner spot, that was the angle of the corner. Old school looking. The building was old, but it had some awesome memorabilia, once I was old enough to venture to it, a few years later and when we moved to a house a few miles away.

It gets me thinking about the independence of children today. There are none. The town where I grew up, the kids banded together and went out into the woods to explore. We’ve found old abandoned houses, played in junkyards, made treehouses. Never under the heavy hand of adults. They were pretty much what you saw in most “Muppet Babies” show or “Charlie Brown” a disembodied voice of authority through some filter. We would go to construction sites and set up shop. Go play ninja and sneak into the ol’ country club golf course under moonlight. I pity the children today who will never experience that freedom. Either we’re too scared now, or things have gotten worse through what we know. The world, and generations below us really need to feel empowered with the fact that a psycho religious zealot isn’t going to shoot up a school or club. It seems nowadays, the knowledge we’ve got at our fingertips make us more fearful than less.