Last night, as Mark and I were making our way to the Reds
game from 14th Street, I was bemoaning the frantic pace at which
citizens had been frequenting OTR, the restaurants, tours and theatres, and the
frequency of phone calls and emails we had been fielding from colleagues,
friends, those living out of the city, who were interested in making OTR their
home.
Bemoaning? Yes. Four
years ago, we had been met with scorn and derision as we made a long-term
decision to buy property in OTR. And now, we appeared to some, to be brilliant,
a smart investor, how lucky.
But we never planned to live in a tourist destination, never
knowing if we would encounter someone speaking about our house or a
neighboring entity, as we stepped out our front door. Though huge fans of
Findlay and all the creative dining concepts, we never planned to live in a
foodie hot spot. (See kitchen expenses on that one.) We never planned to entertain
other Lovelanders, as they all thought we were crazy anyhow.
What we did plan on, was this. To save a house and a little
bit of history. To engage in the community. To become activists for a better
life for all around us. To partner with those who needed lifting, and to take a
helping hand when offered.
Just the other night, we sat at Salazar’s, drinking a
grapefruit Prosecco spritzer, when the wind whipped up rain, and water whooshed
down the street. We were comfortable. We were dry. We had been fed.
And then I watched a young father, pushing his stroller down
the street against the driving rain. Did I notice the color of his skin? Yes.
Did I take note he had his pants only halfway up his hips? Of course. Did I see
his tattoos? You bet. They were an impressive array of snakes and roses.
But I also saw a family, a child. I saw a young man who, for
better or worse, lived in the same neighborhood as I. And was pushing on
towards life. And for a moment, I felt shame for feeling comfortable, knowing
so many were not.
And thus, the lesson, which we KNOW we will be learning and had
fully expected to learn, the same as when one attends med school, or publishes
a novel, is how to co-exist in this dichotomy. How does one not look the other
way? How do you say, "no," to the homeless
person and wish for a better life for the young man pushing his stroller.
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night. I am not
worried about how will I move my precious book collection, the doll collection
saved since my grandmother’s days, all my pots and pans.
As we were discussing our life fraught with possibilities,
we crossed the street between cars, a traffic jam in OTR, and were joined by a
middle age African American male, wearing his skull necklace and flat billed,
red, non-Reds hat, who offered for me to cross in front.
We asked about his day, and he told us, “Well, I live over
there at City Gospel Mission, and did you see my video up on the TV?” Watch it here.
City Gospel Mission had been in the news as of late, as the
city petitioned HUD to allow them to move into new quarters. One could debate
the merits of the intentions of 3CDC, the mission of CGM, and the logic of
defining a zone that has a protected use.
But this man, when asked, what his thoughts were on the move, mentioned,
“Well, I think it will be a good thing, to start over.”
He proceeded to tell us how God came into his life, and
brought him to CGM, and through his songs, wanted to celebrate the work of God
and those around him.
Before we parted ways, he held out his hand, “I’m
Tommy. I hope you get to hear my songs.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find it,” I echoed back, while Mark shook
his hand and patted him on the back, wishing him farewell.
Tommy’s bright smile stuck with me a while, and soon, I realized
we knew each other from another life. He
was not only a songwriter but also a writer who had attended one of our
community writing workshops.
We continued our march down Race Street, and I felt like I
had been struck by the Divine. Here I had been complaining, about what I saw on
the surface, how I felt overwhelmed by the frenetic pace in OTR. But in that moment, I was reminded of why
were moving to OTR. I was reminded of a
piece I wrote when the Anna Louise Inn was under fire by Western-Southern.
Neighborhoods
are built one sidewalk block at a time. They emerge one shop owner at a time. They
grow one resident at a time. A neighborhood succeeds best when people who live,
work and play in it define it.
W-S had argued that for a
really successful neighborhood to develop, the neighborhood has to provide a
consistent experience. But I disagree. Neighborhoods work best when you have an
experience that changes every day. When neighborhoods become too comfortable,
people stop working together.
So, I am heading to OTR (not
today, after a string of 6 days), but finally, soon. And I plan to be a root, and also
plan to shake some trees. And encourage more visitors to check out Price Hill. I hear that’s the hot new place, and I think the mayor would agree!
