Dear Neighbor on Kenneth Avenue,
We don’t officially know each other, but I am a flight attendant that lives seven houses north of you. I see your house every time I go for a run. It’s unusual, your house. In a neighborhood full of 50’s boxy brick houses, yours is a 50’s brick house with a wheelchair ramp that leads to your front door, adorned by a small turret. I’ve passed by your house an innumerable amount of times and I’ve always been enamored by the idea that I live less than a block away from a handicapped accessible castle.
Earlier this year I knew about your house for another reason. I came home from running errands to find Kenneth Avenue full of police cars with helicopters circling above. On a sunny May afternoon, three men knocked on the door of the garden apartment attached to your house. One was dressed as a postal employee. When the young woman who lived in the apartment answered the door, one of the men shot her in the chest. She closed the door. The men proceeded to come in. The last I heard the woman was in critical condition, then I heard she died. I couldn’t confirm that anywhere as a single shooting in an airport neighborhood was not sensational enough to warrant any follow up on the news.
In front of our house there were several United States Postal inspectors talking to passersby as it is a federal crime to impersonate a postal worker. As they went door to door questioning people in our neighborhood, I wondered if you were home when this happened. The news said you declined, in Spanish, to comment about the situation.
In 2005 when I first considered relocating to Chicago for work, many of my co-workers warned me against it.
“There are gangs who will attack you when you walk home from the airport,” I was told. “They will shoot you for no reason.”
I was surprised when I walked through my Westlawn neighborhood to find kids on bikes at twilight, older people sitting on their stoops talking, the sounds of the ice cream truck and the smells of carts selling tamales. All my senses indicated this was the opposite of a war zone. One story had tainted everyone’s perception; it happened a few years before in front of the house I live in right now.
A flight attendant had been walking home after a trip, she reported she was aware she was being followed when she left the airport. She ignored her apprehensions and continued walking. In front of our house, several young men begin to hit her and try to drag her into a car. Our neighbors called the police and the flight attendant, although badly shaken, was unharmed. It was rumored that those who had beaten her had intentions of killing her as part of a gang initiation. This did not scare me as it did many people, people who wrote off this whole area as dangerous due to this one story.
A few years later, our side door was kicked in when no one was home. We surmised it must have been done by teenagers as opposed to savvy criminals as their only score was a jar of change after opening many drawers to find nothing. This did not scare me as kids do dumb things no matter where you live.
The rest of our neighborhood breathed a sigh of relief when we heard the woman who was shot at your house knew those men. I suppose there should be some comfort in hearing it wasn’t a completely random event.
But I did not find ease. I was still rattled to the core. For weeks after I could not sleep if I was alone in the house. I lay in bed listening for noises, making plans of what to do if someone were to break into the house. I would obsess on every car driving through the alley, every creak the house made. I locked my bedroom door from the inside and I investigated how difficult it would be to open my bedroom window and remove the screen to jump out. I would never buy a gun, but I now understand why people do. Then they can sleep at night without having to continually go over the plan of how to react if the worst were to happen. The gun is the plan.
As I get older, I have far more fears, perhaps because I focus more on what can go wrong, perhaps because my ability to physically defend myself or get away quickly is more limited. I can’t imagine how you must have felt living in the house where that shooting took place, knowing that you could not flee the scene quickly in any scenario.
I ran by your house recently and I saw you in your wheelchair next to an SUV. You were with a woman who I assumed from the resemblance was your mother. She was unloading a case of bottled water from Costco, it looked almost as big as she was as she carried it towards your house. She smiled as I ran by, as did you when I ran between you and your car. You gestured for me to stop.
I took my earbuds out and said, “Hi. What’s up?”
You pointed to the only thing left in the back of the car, a large bag of peanuts in the shell.
“Can you hand those to me please?”
“Sure”, I said as I reached for the peanuts.
Then you asked, “Can you close the back of the car? My mother can’t reach.”
At 5 foot 8 inches tall, it was a stretch for me to reach the top of the hatch door. I had to stretch up on my toes to get a grip on it. I understood in that moment you must put your faith in the assistance of strangers fairly often.
After I closed the door you said, “Thank you so much. Enjoy your run.” And you smiled.
In your smile, I begin to find safety. I wonder if you are often afraid, perhaps to the point that your fear is an everyday given. Perhaps you wear your fear like you wear your clothes. Perhaps your fear has been so prevalent that it has been stripped of much of its power, that it no longer drives your decision making. When you are exposed to anything for long periods of time it becomes routine, even the worst of things.
I take a page from you and try not to judge this area on this one incident. Lately when I lie in bed at night, I hear the drunken Polish neighbors shouting over their fences, the cheers from the soccer field up the street, the squeals of the kids enjoying a bouncy house nearby. I blanket myself in these sounds and I quiet my mind as I listen.
Sincerely,
Eileen, your neighbor
(I chose this letter from a file full of old letters because I celebrate that although I am far more physically vulnerable now than I was when I wrote this, I am also far less afraid. How cool is that?)
Thank you for sharing this Eileen - and I’m so sorry for your entire neighborhood. I can’t even imagine how that must have felt.
I smiled reading your interaction with your neighbour - and found joy in the small act of kindness that led to a feeling of safety. I’m so glad you two had that moment.
There is so much to appreciate tucked in here, Eileen: How you noticed the house and its unique features; how you wondered about the person who lived there; how, as a younger woman, you leaned into optimism, or immortality; how you found resilience. When we were younger, we were less consumed by negative news and, as you note, less inclined to think it would ever touch us personally. I wonder, do we get back there on the bottom part of the bell curve, when we've lived all the life we have to live? I'm glad you brought this one into the light. Thank you.