Neighborhood Watch



The Nancy Drews chasing me...
yes, in my usual outfit

 My neighbors thought I’d died. They banged on my door and loudly wondered why I wasn’t answering. Unfortunately there would be no dramatic story for the dust bunnies to tell at my funeral. In fact, I was very much alive and hiding under my second floor window, since I assumed they were burglars of the Golden Girls variety.

“Her car is still here,” I heard one say, like she was searching for survivors on the Titanic.

“Maybe she went to her parents’ house.”

“Look at all her shoes!”

These misbegotten Nancy Drews didn’t sound like robbers, so I finally opened the door. They smiled like I had been missing for years. I didn’t even know who they were.

Apparently, the daughter of my home’s previous owner had called to say that fire trucks were in the vicinity of “her mother’s” house. First, she didn’t even live in my city. Second, I’d lived in this house for two years. Her mother passed away a few years ago and her surviving children had sold me the house as part of the estate. Why was the daughter still watching my house?

“I saw that your security alarm was on,” the dust bunny said. “I saw it through your window so I thought you must be fine!”

How about my house was not engulfed in flames? Or that there was not a fire truck to be seen or heard? Cagney and Lacey meant well, but this wasn’t the only incident of me being blacklisted on Neighborhood Watch.

My 83-year-old neighbor said he looks through my window on his way to the mailbox. As if this is as natural as waving to someone you know at the food store. He even judged my home décor choices. However well-intentioned, and even though he may get a seniors discount, I am not a museum attraction. I am a 26-year-old living in the Smithsonian.

Some days I wish for that octogenarian bluntness. An anonymous AARP Gold Card member will tape hand-written citations on my recycle bin when I haven’t taken them in on time, even when others who do the same don’t get so much as a post-it on theirs. Someone told me my first day on the block, that, once I had changed from my romper into jeans and a shirt, I had “Finally put on some clothes.”

Neighborhood Watch is a slippery slope into profiling, as we are all too aware of today. On Feb. 26, George Zimmerman, a neighborhood watch volunteer, shot Trayvon Martin because he suspected wrongdoing. Martin was unarmed and not dangerous as he walked through the neighborhood wearing a hoodie and carrying a bag of Skittles. Zimmerman followed him even when 911 told him not to. Outraged Martin supporters, which include celebrities and politicians, are demanding Zimmerman’s long overdue arrest and a fair investigation.

Some even blame the fatal shooting on Martin’s appearance. Geraldo Rivera said the African-American teen’s hoodie contributed to his death. Photos of him wearing a wife beater, flashing his gold teeth, and sporting tattoos also circulated. Despite what Martin did or didn’t do in his life, it seems he didn’t harm Zimmerman.  New police footage shows that Zimmerman, who claimed Martin assaulted him, did not have any of the injuries. As far as we know now, Martin didn't “have it coming" as some want to believe.

Yes, I’m fifty years younger than most of my neighbors. I wear my husky boy's sized tank top and eat Cheddar Ruffles on power walks. That doesn’t mean I’m up to no good or should catch the ire of suspicion. While what the oldies are doing is wrong, I had to be the one to throw down an obstacle to their ogling. Now I have a lovely gold shade for that window. While I’m striving for privacy, I’m sure they’ll make something else up about me. Maybe playing a reclusive Grey Gardens-sque character wouldn’t be so bad. I’d finally be just like them.

Q: Do Your Neighbors Spy on You?

Don't Sweat It (Much)

Lights, camera, don’t sweat. Keeping cool was my mantra as I waited for the Access 21 studio to open. I was going to be a guest on “The Paul Brown Show,” my first TV interview (check it out here, parts one and two). I had prepared for this moment since, well, birth. I channeled the grace of my idol Diane Sawyer even as my face started to run into my pumps. Host Paul Brown agreed it was hot for March, dabbing his face. I loved sunny days, but today I would have killed for a breeze.

Plus, there was the matter of a one Blow-Dried Hair. My sister Eva, the Roy Helland to my Meryl Streep, styled my ‘do to perfection the night before. I had covered my hair with a silk wrap held with bobby pins. I slept awkwardly on my side to prevent my hair from tenting into a horrifying triangle. Now I felt like Cinderella and, without air-conditioning, midnight was about to strike and my head was going to turn into a pumpkin.

At 1:30, the studio mercifully opened. The show’s director Sonya, who had been with Access 21 for five years, was a fantastic whirligig. She paced the studio from end-to-end while giving orders into a headset. Then she turned her attention to me. “Keep talking,” she said as she duct taped the microphone cord to the back of my dress. I had a sophisticated conversation with myself: “I’m talking, you hear me talking, and I’m talking to you.”

Now cool and sufficiently amplified, I focused on final touches. Without a mirror, I had only one way to look at myself: The judgmental studio monitor, like my own “Toddlers and Tiaras” mom plying me with pixie sticks and correcting my posture. I kept a strategic hand on my lap, going for Kate Middleton modesty and avoiding Britney Spears danger.
 

Cue the energetic opening graphics and the lump in my throat. Think of Diane, I said to myself. Diane would speak slowly and say what she means. She doesn’t rush through ABC News like she has to catch the late bus home! Then a camera lit up red. Showtime. Paul introduced me and asked questions. I took two beats to think about my answer to be sure I didn’t fill the silence with a spastic joke. After fifteen minutes, I started to live in the moment. It’s like Paul and I were brunching on a Sunday afternoon, minus the two Darth Vader cameras and (regretfully) Mimosas.

 When we wrapped, Sonya shook my hand and said, “You are a good person.” Her validation meant a lot to me, since I could tell she had seen many a guest on that sofa. 

I toiled over my answers on the way home. Paul had asked what my ultimate life goal was. I could have said “to be famous” or “to live in a mansion where Diane and I are awesome next door neighbor friends.” Instead, I said to be happy and keep working. And maybe, most importantly, to not let them see you sweat.