Open Wide

A story about neighbors

When my husband and I moved to Iowa from British Columbia, we bought a sweet, small bungalow in the heart of town. One of the reasons we left the lower mainland of the west coast of Canada was because life in rural Iowa was so much more affordable. We could buy a house! I could stay home part-time with our baby (and quickly growing family)! My husband could walk or bike to work! We were new parents, young and in love, and completely smitten with our very first home.

Because outdoor living is our jam, we were able to (with a lot of grit and determination) transform our postcard-sized backyard into a private oasis complete with brick patio, pergola, and gorgeous gardens. My husband worked for a landscaping company in another life, and he personally set each brick and stone while I added flowers, an outdoor furniture set I found on clearance at Walmart, and a profusion of white lights that I strung from the pergola. It was our own little paradise.

One of the very first afternoons that we were able to enjoy our new backyard, we sat together on the tufted love seat with books in hand and marveled at what we had created. Our baby was napping, the monitor was on the table before us, and we had at least two hours to just relax. The day was warm and quiet; the space exactly what we wanted.

Until our neighbors turned on their radio.

Because our home was on a tiny lot, the house next door (which was on the corner) was mere feet away from our backyard. We had a fence, but their driveway was just on the other side, and they were working on a car. That afternoon, they blasted mariachi music, often singing along—loudly and not always in tune. I swallowed tears thinking of how our perfect, tranquil respite was ruined by the music and sound of laughter and shouts as our immigrant neighbors rebuilt an engine not far from where we sat.

We debated asking them to turn it down. But it was a Saturday afternoon, and my husband and I both knew that they had worked hard all week. There were several people living in the house (we could never quite figure out how or if they were all related), and they left very early and came home very late, using their scant free time on Saturday to mow the lawn and keep the house neat. They were good neighbors, kind and usually quiet, and it felt wrong to tell them what they should do with their free time. They were clearly having fun. And they had every bit as much of a right as we did to enjoy their weekend however they wanted to.

Still, I was sad.

“Where are you going?” I asked when Aaron finally put down his book and got up to leave.

“I have an errand to run,” he told me.

I was irritated that he wouldn’t stick it out with me and stay in the backyard we had so intentionally created. Fine, I thought, sourly. This isn’t what we wanted, but I for one am not going anywhere. I opened my book and tried to read.

Aaron wasn’t gone long. When the back door opened and he descended the stairs to our patio, I saw that he was carrying grocery bags and wearing a grin. With a flourish, he whipped out tortilla chips and salsa, a six-pack of Corona and a fresh, glossy lime. “It’s like we’re in Cancun,” he told me. “We have a resort in our backyard.”

We leaned into it.

That summer, we strung multi-colored paper lanterns from the pergola, planted hibiscus in the whiskey barrels that flanked the patio, and even bought outdoor dinnerware in a bright pattern that resembled Mexican textiles (we still have them). And every Saturday we were serenaded with a mix of mariachi and live music from our neighbors. We grew to love it, and were disappointed when they moved.

I don’t tell this story to boast about what understanding neighbors we were. In fact, I’m ashamed of how I behaved during that time. Beyond a smile and hello when we saw one another (which wasn’t often), I did not reach out to my neighbors at all. I never brought over cookies or stopped to have a conversation on the sidewalk. I more or less ignored them—except for deigning to not make a fuss about a bit of music on Saturday afternoons. I’m embarrassed that I was so cold and selfish, and that I thought the world should revolve around me.

It strikes me that being a good neighbor (the process of opening your heart even a little to someone who is different from you) is a progression. For us, twenty years ago, it looked something like this:

• Annoyance - I don’t like: fill-in-the-blank. These people are different/loud/weird. I wish they looked, acted, and lived like me. I wish they weren’t my neighbors.

• Acceptance - We’re stuck. Looks like they’re not going anywhere and neither are we. I don’t like it, but I realize there’s nothing I can do about it.

• Adjustment - These people are familiar. I know their patterns, their comings and goings. We wave and smile. There are still things I wish were different, but it’s fine. We’re fine.

Sadly, we never moved beyond adjustment with our first neighbors. We fit our lives around them (as I’m sure they did with us), and we each went our separate ways. I wish I would have known that life could have been a whole lot richer if I would’ve been willing to crack that door open just a bit wider…

Today, we live in a different house with different neighbors, and this time, we share a spare lot. Between our homes is an expanse of lush, green lawn, interrupted only by my small vegetable garden and an ancient swing set. Most nights, my neighbors play soccer in the side-yard, and it’s quite the affair. The lot fills up with dads and kids, the odd mama in a hiked-up wrap skirt, and (on occasion) a gray-haired grandpa or grandma. There’s shouting and laughter, and sometimes the ball whacks the side of our house or topples one of the stakes around my garden.

I moved quickly through annoyance - acceptance - adjustment this time around. Probably because I’m older and softer, and the giggles from the kids are worth the odd ball in our yard. Sometimes, we even sit on the driveway and watch the games. And the strangest thing has happened: we’ve moved beyond adjustment into affinity.

• Affinity - We know our neighbors’ names and they know ours. We share food and yard tools and lots of laughs over our silly dogs and how the kids adore them.

A few nights ago, Aaron and I were just leaving to take the dogs on a walk. Our neighbors were in the yard, celebrating a birthday if the banner strung over the garage could be trusted. Dozens of people were milling around, and we smiled and waved from the sidewalk. But when the kids caught sight of us, the youngest one shouted, and soon we were surrounded by a mob of littles. Hugs and excitement all around, and then one of the girls threw her arms around my middle.

“I love you,” she said, surprising us both, I think.

“I love you, too!” I replied, hugging her back.

And then it was a chorus, all the kids lining up for hugs and I love yous.

I hadn’t even realized we’d moved from affinity to real affection.

• Affection - These people are my friends. I care about them and their wellbeing, I want what’s best for them and feel fiercely protective of them.

³³ When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. ³⁴ The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.

Leviticus 19:33-34

I am wrecked by what we are seeing unfold in LA and across the country today. We Choose Welcome recently posted: “What happens when we peer through the holes and see the image of God?” I know the answer to that question. We fall in love.

My mind is swirling with a dozen things I could say, but I’ll leave you with this: don’t become immune, don’t look away, don’t give up. I’ll see you in the streets on Saturday. We belong to each other. And in America, we don’t do kings.

Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, a roundup of world-class journalists who call Iowa home. I invite you to check out the group and become a paying member of one or more of our pages.