Your Interpersonal World: YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD, YOUR OTHER HOME
By the time I was eighteen and left home for good, I’d lived in three countries, eleven houses, and gone to nine different schools. I knew what it was to be an outsider. I thought people who never moved were limited, naive. I could cut my losses, forge a new path, find one true friend. But I didn’t know that your neighborhood could sustain you, and become another home. Even when I settled down and had kids, I found my own way to stay on the move. I was always searching for better grocery stores, different laundromats, new places to explore. But finally my old car died and my wings were clipped. Now I was stuck in a rut, grounded.
Then the unexpected happened. I caught myself looking forward to seeing the same cashier at the grocery store; the amiable, limited kid who mopped the laundromat floor; the older woman at the second hand store who always had something interesting to say. Where had these people been all my life? They’d always been there, but I’d never slowed down long enough to notice them.
My immigrant parents prided themselves in having a few close friends, and invested little in short-term relationships. Moving takes a lot of physical and psychological energy, and so does meeting strangers and making connections. It’s easier to be self sufficient, and reach out only when necessary. As a kid I learnt to walk with eyes straight ahead, shielding myself from stares and ridicule when I became, once again, the new kid on the block. Neighbors gossiped, judged and excluded you. Casual acquaintances were a waste of time. How was I to know about the good-natured camaraderie of nodding to mailman, or rolling your eyes in mock torture with another mum at the checkout while a grumpy pensioner complained about prices?
But I didn’t learn to turn my neighborhood into a support system all on my own. I was taught by the best.
I once knew a boy named Charles, in my social work days. At 14, he was six feet tall with limited verbal skills, and still believed in Santa Claus. He appeared to have few interests, no close friends, and seemed a babe in the woods in the tough downtown neighborhood where he lived. I worried that he’d never make his way in the world, until the day I asked him to pick a coffee shop near his home for our weekly chat.
I sat there waiting for him, watching all the comings and goings, wheelings and dealings of a neighborhood hangout. I wondered why he picked this place. But it was a family business, and they greeted the regulars by name. Eventually Charles strolled in, like a local celebrity. With a smile, a nod, and his trademark few words, it was clear he was in his element here. “A special place for a special kid”, I thought. But I was wrong.
After our talk, Charles wanted to walk me to the bus stop. En route, he said, “I forgot. Mum needs bread.” It seemed he had a following in the grocery store too. He took the long way around to the bread counter, making sure we intercepted everyone in the store so he could greet them, and announce from time to time, with a grin in my direction, “She’s my worker.” Two doors down, he said, “I have to get a paper, too”, and treated me to the same performance. When he wanted a chocolate bar at the pool hall on the next block, I drew the line and said good-bye. I’d never get back to the office.
Next year, Charles had a big teenage dream of working at Canada’s Wonderland, a huge amusement park fifty miles from home. He’d gone there on a school trip, fell in love with the place, and thought he’d seen a job he could do. I forgot about this until three months later, when he burst into my office with “I got it!”
Someone at the coffee shop had got the application form. The streetcar driver he liked to ride with had a buddy at the regional bus center help him get to the interview. By the time I visited him at his new job a few weeks later, he seemed as connected as he’d been in his own neighborhood.
Charles never said much, but could make a little go a long way. With only warmth, charm, and small talk, he used simple daily exchanges to create a place to belong.
Why is this all so important? When you’re well, neighborhood interactions grease the wheels of daily life, and add a light-hearted diversion. When you’re ill, they’re a lifeline.
Sickness is a cocoon: insulating, isolating. Indignities of the body, burdens of the soul, move you into another realm. At times this separation is necessary for physical healing and psychological adjustment. But when the worst is over, we need to reconnect with the outside world again.
Family and friends may seem the logical starting point. After all, when your energy is limited, windows of well-being are small. Shouldn’t your nearest and dearest be your first concern?
But sometimes our closest relationships are the most loaded; illness can generate a lot of baggage. Like that phone call you haven’t made to a friend who thinks you should be better by now.
An expedition into your neighborhood is different. The slate is clean. It’s a chance to re-establish your place in the world, on the simplest of terms. As you see infants and the elderly struggling along, the world no longer splits into the disabled and the mobile. You may be trapped in your house most of the time, but a trip to the milk store reveals cashiers trapped behind counters for hours on end.
I get really isolated in the middle of winter. The weather slows everything down, making visiting, driving, walking, difficult. I feel like a “shut-in”; my cabin fever is at its worst. I wait for a break in the weather to coincide with a lift in my health. Then I bundle up and strike out to look for a place in the sun. I head for the park, a bench outside the coffee shop, or my front step. It’s a chance to see old and new faces, experience the weather, and get a much-needed change of scenery.
Each person walking by offers a few seconds of camaraderie. With just a smile, a nod, or a bit of eye contact, burdens are shared, and the world seems a better place. Each time you acknowledge a neighbor again, you both get a little more from each other. Like a snowball being rolled along the ground, growing on its own, with hardly any effort at all.
Poor health results in low energy, short interactions, and limited exposure to what is new and different. None of this matters in brief neighborhood exchanges. All it takes is the right attitude, and the rest will follow. As Frank Andrew, says in his book “The Art and Practice of Loving”:
And if Charles could do it, so can you.
REFERENCES: Frank Andrews, The Art and Practice of Loving; Jeremy Tarcher Inc. USA 1991
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