Perched on the porch of the house I occupy in a small-city neighborhood, a couple strolling the sidewalk sees me and stops.
“Can you tell us the name of that church?” asks the woman, pointing across the street. “Such a beautiful building.”
I answer and survey them discreetly. He—handsome and middle aged, African American, brimmed hat atop warm brown face. His collared shirt, striped vest and white pants cut a dashing figure. She—also African American and middle aged, wears gentle creases across her forehead and mouth. Dark hair peppered in gray falls softly to her shoulders. Casual in blue hoodie and gray sweatpants, she conveys dignity and inner ballast.
“I’m looking for a place to live,” she says, “… a house. We’re just looking.”
“That’s a pretty plant,” adds the man, nodding toward a basket of geraniums. “My grandmother put eggshells in plant water. It made the leaves nice and shiny—like those.”
I intuit the couple’s desire to linger. A scene comes to me from the theatre production, Best Christmas Pageant Ever, in which a father tells his children that Mary and Joseph were unannounced travelers to Bethlehem. Tired and displaced, they stood out from the people around them—strangers in need of hospitality. Moved by this recollection, I am curious about the couple before me. Where are they from? What do they need? How hospitable am I?
Surprise questions
“This a four-plex?” asks the man as he scans the old house where I make my home.
I nod.
“How much does one cost?” inquires the woman.
Momentarily surprised, our small-talk mitigates what would have been an inappropriate question in the culture with which I am most familiar. “About two-fifty,” I answer. A second of what feels like disbelief propels me to add, “… thousand. Two-hundred fifty thousand.”
The woman’s face registers hurt. A low groan escapes the man. He steps back as though gently pushed.
“It’s the location,” he says, recovering himself. “The location…the mansions are just a couple blocks away, and you got the college right up the street. That’s what it is, it’s the location.”
Strong feelings of privilege and something akin to embarrassment or shame come over me. I see myself as a struggling traveler on the economic highway and my home is modest by the white middle-class standards I am used to. But, struggle or not, I have never imagined I would NOT live in a quiet, clean neighborhood with attractive buildings, tree-lined streets and flowers.
“How much is that a month?” she asks.
I calculate my mortgage payment and throw out a number. They hold a side-bar conversation and compare it to what various friends and family members pay for rent. Turning back to me she announces, “that’s not so bad.”
Relieved, only later do I realize the number I use is conveniently absent any consideration of a down payment, association dues, property taxes or repairs.
Going deeper
More questions tumble out. How many bedrooms? How large is the large room and how small is the small? Is the kitchen big? I answer as best I can, uncertain how large and small translate to their experience.
“It’s nice and quiet here,” he murmurs. “Don’t hear so many sirens and noise.”
“What do you do for work?” she asks.
Another surprise question, and I wonder how it connects to our conversation. Seeking to describe my clerical job in familiar terms, I tell her I work as a secretary at a local hospital.
Her eyebrows arch in astonishment, “You can live here as a secretary!?”
I rush to defend myself. “Well, I had a husband for a while so the two of us bought it together.” My explanation is true but partial.
“I’m a nurse,” she says. “I’ve been a nurse and a PCA.”
Desperate for a level playing field, I suggest a registered nurse would be able to live here.
“Yes,” came her reply. “I want to work on that. I really do”
“It would be strong if you could work as an RN,” I say sincerely.
Parting ways
Our conversation slows and she asks if I have children. My answer—two—brings a warm smile.
“I have four. They’re not at home anymore and now I’d like to buy a house and help people get off the street, give them a place to straighten out. I’ve done that before, let people stay with me, but I want to set up a home with a pastor and an accountant and work with the legislature to do it. I’ve already talked to the legislator over there.” She points toward the office of a nearby congresswoman. “It’s my dream.”
“You have to dream big,” her companion adds. “If you don’t dream big, it won’t happen.”
Another pause and our encounter feels finished. I make a move to go inside.
“Thanks for talking to us,” she says.
“My pleasure,” I reply, beyond certain I received more than I gave.
“God bless you!” she calls as they resume their stroll.
Humbled, I enter my home and close the door.