Wide spaces don’t make easy neighbors

Jennifer Ditlevson Haglund

Last year when my brother-in-law drove through the Midwest for the first time to visit my husband and me, we asked him what he thought about this part of the country.

He thought for a minute, and then answered.

“There’s so much land,” he said.

Gary has always preferred his version of civilization to mine. For him, easy access to food, entertainment, and jobs come at the price of privacy, quiet, and space. I find it much harder for me to make that kind of trade.

Friends of mine who have lived in Shanghai, Beijing, and Bangkok all their lives can’t believe the comfort and spaciousness many North Americans enjoy by owning land. They, like Gary, often don’t know what to do with it. Those who aren’t bored by it, view it as idyllic.

All this open space we have in the Midwest, however, doesn’t always make it easy to close the gap between the “us” and “them.”

When my friends from other countries tell me they’re astounded by the kindness of Midwesterners, I know that some of it is sincere, but much of what they often perceive to be “nice” is only proper etiquette for most Americans. It’s being neighborly and respectful to say “hello,” to look people in the eye when you talk with them, and to ask them about their days.

After passing in the street, leaving the store, or heading into the house, the conversation ends, and private life restored.

Moving into a small house Maryville relieved some of my frustrations with apartment living in Dallas. It incensed me when my downstairs neighbor used to complain to me about how noisy we were when her boyfriend always stole my covered parking spot.

Whenever I squeezed into the back of my narrow closet, I wondered if my clothes had started to smell like pot yet because the neighbor in the adjacent apartment sure did like to smoke.

My husband and I lost hours talking to people about their child support situations or the ever-increasing rent when they caught us heading to and from our cars. Once, my husband was questioned for 20 minutes by police officers who were staking out our next-door neighbor who had been dealing drugs.

While living there, I couldn’t wait to have a yard to mow and a time when I didn’t have to wait to turn on music in the morning.

Yet increasing the physical distance from my front door to my neighbors’ changed something else for me.

With my own space, it’s been a lot easier to leave and enter my home without creating any inconvenient or uncomfortable relationships. On my watch, I don’t have to know or see anyone who doesn’t live a life like mine.

Anymore, other than when I’m at church or work, I don’t see, let alone talk to, many people. I enjoy moving my daughter’s high chair to the back yard for breakfast, and when I have spare time, I read and exercise. My activities of choice are frequently solitary. The older I get, I realize I’m even more tight-fisted with time and space than I am with money. It’s easier to write checks than to start a relationship.

I don’t long for a return to an apartment, but I spent priceless time with all kinds of people simply because I couldn’t avoid them when we lived so close together.

There was a young man aspiring to be an undertaker who challenged my husband to swimming races in the pool. A couple in one of the downstairs apartments took care of us on frequent occasions. Hector taught Tim about cars and offered us beers, and Gloria cooked for me when I’d just had my little girl. We drove each other to the hospital and airport, checked each other’s tires, and moved each other in and out, up and down stairs. Together, we ate meals and checked on people we hadn’t seen for a few days.

Living with the intention of helping others while packed like sardines in the city has its own struggles. People learn to turn up the television when neighbors start fighting again, and throngs of people passing on the sidewalk are indistinguishable after a while.

It’s easy to hide or retreat in small towns just by shutting the door, but there’s plenty to see. From cases of all kinds of abuse to people with mental illness and those just having really bad days, it’s all here. Choosing whether I want to see it and risk caring enough to do something about it is another story.

Even as a grade schooler, I longed for the weeks we’d spend at our farm in the summer. I had a sense of pride about not going to the beach because the introverted part of me has always thrived in solitude and in nature. I’ve never thought of this as a bad thing, but I’m starting to question my need for drawing such wide margins around my living space, both physically and interpersonally.