Perched on the front porch of the house I occupy in a small-city, residential 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 respond to the question, surveying them discreetly as I do. He: handsome, middle aged, African-American, brimmed hat atop warm brown face. Collared shirt, striped vest and white pants present a dashing figure. She: also middle aged, also African-American, gentle creases across forehead and mouth, salt and pepper hair to the shoulders. Dignity accessorizes her dark hoodie and gray sweatpants.
“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 near my feet. “My grandmother put eggshells in plant water. It makes the leaves nice and shiny—like those.”
I intuit the couple’s desire to linger, and a scene from the play “Best Christmas Pageant Ever” comes to mind. In it 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.
Yes, 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 compels me to add, “Thousand. Two-hundred fifty thousand.”
The woman’s face hints at disappointment, perhaps pain. The man emits a low groan and steps back as if 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,” he repeats, as if to make it more palatable.
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 and tree-lined streets.
“How much is that a month?” she asks.
I recall my mortgage payment and share the number. The couple holds a brief side-bar conversation and compare it to what various friends and family members pay for rent. The woman turns back to me, annnouncing, “That’s not so bad.”
Relieved, only later do I realize the amount I put forward is conveniently absent any consideration of down payment, association dues, property tax 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 largely-clerical job in familiar terms, I tell her I work as a secretary in a hospital.
Her eyebrows arch in astonishment, “You can live here as a secretary?”
I rush to defend myself with a partial truth about a former husband’s help.
“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 could manage the costs.
“Yes,” came her reply. “I want to work on that. I really do.”
Parting ways
Our conversation slows and the woman 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, certain I received more than I gave.
“God bless you!” she calls as they resume their stroll.
I enter my home and close the door, feeling blessed by the couple’s visit. I reflect on the difference between what is modest to me and out of reach to them, and my impulse to minimize the gap. Their help uncovering what I had unconsciously or conveniently hidden, moves me toward greater honesty and understanding.