Do you feel like your life has been off-kilter this week, this month, or this year? (Yes, I’m referencing that famous Friends theme song). But as always, I’m here, and I’ll be there for you…as long as you’re resting here with me (okay, now I’m getting into creepy Roswell theme song. Ignore what I just said). Thanks for being here!
If this was forwarded to you, then you know what to do.
I’m writing this late afternoon on Friday, right after I’d spent the past few hours doing focused work that almost fried my brains. As I was eating my lunch, my brain hovered over images of watching Friends with my husband years ago (but really, it wasn’t that long ago) followed by our Harry Potter marathons and who knows what else. Most of the time, I fell asleep before the middle of the movie, so I can’t say that I remember much.
But what I do remember is the place where it all happened.
It was an apartment on the northeast side of Portland. Nestled between a shady apartment complex that sat on the edge of the I-84 overpass and a hospital across the street, the apartment was tiny, so tiny that in fact, when I first saw it, I cringed. I wondered how I can possibly manage to have a closet that only had enough space for five shirts and three pants, a bathroom where I didn’t have to move an inch in order to get from the sink to the bathtub, a bedroom with that was smaller than most people’s walk-in closets. Don’t even ask me about the kitchen.
We were promised hardwood floors at this new place. We did not get them.
Despite all of that, it was beautiful, a step up from where we were living at the time, which was a seedy one-bedroom on the east side, an apartment complex that hugged the border between Portland and Gresham. Like many college students, our incomes were low, and when I found this apartment on a random chance one day after I stepped off the bus, I didn’t think we could afford it, even after the property manager gave me a tour. Thus, I was on the precipice of a big, adult decision—stay in the crappy apartment to save money or pay more to live in a better part of town.
As you can guess, we chose the latter. That apartment would be the first of three that my husband and I lived in the course of twelve years we were there. First came the apartment that was supposed to have hardwood floors, but instead, had carpet. We didn’t mind the carpet, really. We did, however, mind the lady downstairs who played African drum music late into the night whenever she had parties, which was often. Luckily, she didn’t stay there very long. Across the hallway lived two women who weren’t that much older than us. They were very nice, and their apartment reminded me of going to your grandmother’s house—frilly, lace curtains, vintage furniture, classic rugs, and tastefully decorated trinkets and art on the wall.
Then there was the gay couple who lived below us for a short period of time. I don’t remember much about them, but I remember they were pleasant.
After about a year or so, we decided that we didn’t really want to live upstairs. And besides, we really wanted hardwood floors. So we petitioned our manager to get them. She gave us our second apartment—a downstairs one that had hardwood floors and crown molding and closer access to the parking lot.
When we found out that were expecting our first child, we (mistakenly) thought that a bigger place was the answer. So we moved back to the east side of town, only to realize how lonely we were out there, how out of place we felt. Little by little, the tiny apartment became ingrained in our character. We got used to things; our lives became intertwined with the place, the neighborhood.
The last (and third) apartment we lived in at that complex was on the second floor (there were only two floors, each in a quad-style building) that was directly across from our first apartment. Often, we’d look out from our kitchen window and chuckle at the absurdity of it. I mean, here we were, looking out at our old pre-baby life. It was cute, and funny and nostalgic at the same time.
My husband and I had settled into this place for so long that certain things became part of our lives. Everyone had their own routines, and so did we. One of my neighbors, Scott, was fond of bringing back a six-pack of beer almost every night (especially on Friday nights) with an entire pizza and spending his nights in front of the TV with it. He always kept his curtains closed. His apartment was dark and he kept to himself.
Then there was the guy directly below us who was never there. He was young, around our age, and about as bachelor as you can imagine. His apartment was very sparse. Once, when I peeked in, I saw only a leather chair and a bike propped against the wall. We never found out what he did for a living, only that whatever he did required him to be away from home a lot.
Finally, there was the mother-daughter duo who also kept to themselves. They were pleasant. The daughter was a teenager who attended a nearby high school while the mother worked all day. And when they were home, they cooked a lot, and their apartment filled up with the most delicious smells. Like our across-the-hall neighbor Scott, their apartment was also dark but it was tastefully decorated with deep violet curtains, plush sofas and throw pillows.
This week, I’m thinking about all these neighbors that I never got to know truly well, for one reason or another. How I took their presence for granted. Where I live now, there is a new neighbor, a woman with three young children (one of whom is a baby) and they are quite loud. They’ve stated this fact ever since they moved in a month ago. Between 9 and 10 pm, when I’m either going to bed or are trying to sleep in bed, they make the most noise. Even during the day, there are loud, thundering roars from all parties. The baby cries. The woman’s father yells at the kids. She’s pretty quiet, but her kids make up for what she doesn’t say.
I cringe at the fact that perhaps in the past, when my kids were young and we lived in that tiny apartment in northeast Portland, we might have disturbed our neighbors as well. Yet, nobody ever said anything. I can only assume that we weren’t that loud, and if we were, they weren’t home at the time. Somehow, we lucked out.
The new neighbors’ noises have been so disruptive that I find myself not being able to fall asleep. And with a lack of sleep, I find myself with headaches and unable to think clearly. I haven’t written anything in my novel for days, but I can’t fault them for it. I chose to live here, and so did they, not knowing what the other party is like.
That’s the thing about our environments—there are certain things we cannot change. Like who our neighbors are. Or what they do late at night or during the day. But what we can choose is to exercise empathy. The understanding that we all have our own schedules that may conflict with others, but that’s just how it is.
With all that’s going on with the world right now (see news about Russia/Ukraine) it’s much easier to pick sides and stand your ground while glaring at the other side, wondering what’s wrong with them. But what if we set aside our discomforts and try to see what it’s like for people on the other side? What if we tried to imagine what their world is like?
I imagine that my new neighbors are struggling. I know that two of their kids go to school, but the baby stays at home. I do not know who takes care of the baby, but presumably it’s the woman’s father. Raising three kids under the age of ten is really, really difficult when you only have that little help. I imagine that she’s irritated by how noisy her kids are and completely unaware of how thin the walls are between us. So when her children squeals, it vibrates our walls and transmits everything. Every thump. Every cry. Every yell. It’s there. How I deal with it is entirely up to me. It’s hard to put myself in their shoes, but I’m trying.
In case you missed it…
Question of the week:
What kind of neighbors do you have? Do their schedules complement yours? If not, what have you done to adapt to the different lifestyles? Reply and let me know!
Hoang - You've done it again; you’ve transformed my Saturday morning. Sitting down with my coffee on a Saturday morning is a little ritual I look forward to all week. Finding your column in my inbox and starting to nibble on it, as it were a delicious scone to dip in my coffee as my coffee becomes richer, creamier as if I've added more cream and put in a couple of spoons of brown sugar. Thank you.
This past week, my husband was diagnosed with an uncurbable cancer that will take his life quickly. The week has been one of the most difficult of my life. Your column caused me to smile for the first time all week. It felt so good, reminding me of the sweetness of life. I will continue to look forward to Saturday mornings with my coffee, looking for your email about your astute observations that bring laughter and joy to life.
About your exhausted, overwhelmed neighbor - you could offer your friendship which you seem to have done already. Once you are feel that you can talk openly, ask her about getting some rugs that may help buffer some of the noise. Maybe you have to put on earphones while you write. We need your novel to get finished so that you can make a ton of money and move to a place that is quieter.