If you don’t have the app on your phone called NextDoor, I bet you know someone who does.
It is a social media platform of sorts that shares neighborhood scuttlebutt, so it geolocates you and tailors the experience to the local goings-on in your area.
There are postings about needing an electrician or landscaper. Others report car break-ins or catalytic converters being stolen. In December, the hot topic was porch pirates following Amazon or UPS trucks around and swiping the packages almost before the driver could get back in the truck.
To me, this isn’t usable information. It’s become a tool to further isolate us.
If your stuff got stolen, talk to your police department. Where I live, our police chief spoke to a group of residents, urging us to call them if we see something sketchy; he said “Show me a high crime neighborhood, and I’ll show you a community that is disengaged.”
That’s great, but does every problem require the assistance of someone with a gun?
A post that has bothered me for a couple of days is a variation of “Someone walked on my lawn” or “Someone knocked on my door.” And the reactions to these posts are (to me) perplexing, ranging from: “Call the police” and “I’m so glad you are OK” to “I answer my door with a pistol in my hand.”
Seriously? Has the world become THAT dangerous?
I’d like to suggest that it hasn’t.
So … how do we engage, other than calling the police?
The world today is a very different place from the one in which I grew up. When my brother and I were kids, and someone would knock, we’d race to the door to see who it was. I remember once when we went on a vacation and didn’t even lock the door.
Where did I grow up? Someplace in Iowa? Nope; Los Angeles County in Southern California.
We knew our neighbors, and they knew us. Mr. Lincoln next door was a botany professor at Cal State University Long Beach. On the other side, Mr. Sharp worked at Henry Radio, and his wife sold insurance. Mr. Paulson across the street was a Long Beach cop, and Mr. Johnson worked selling motorcycles. Mr. McCormick kept fish tanks in his garage with piranha in them.
We knew everyone, and we looked after each other.
It’s not that bad things didn’t happen — I remember the Watts riots, for instance. They were 16 miles from our house. A guy down the street OD’d on heroin, and some guy (name withheld) shot up the gas station I worked at.
But I think we had a perspective that is lacking now. I blame the relentless fear mongering.
Bad things happen, but rarely. The world is generally a pretty safe place (unless you are driving on I35-E)
I’ve lived in my house here for eight years, and, outside of delivery drivers, I’ve only had a handful of people knock on my door. None of them meant me harm. I’ve actually had some pleasant conversations.
My neighbor’s dog got out a while back; it was after dark and I wanted to let her know before her dog got too far away. When I knocked on her door, she screamed like she was terrified until she saw me. Then she thanked me later for letting her know.
I lived in Oxnard, Calif., for several years, and, every year around Christmas, “the tamale lady” knocked on our door selling homemade tamales. They were so good, we would buy all she had and freeze the ones we couldn’t eat right away.
She never tried to pull off a home invasion; we just let her in.
It’s not that we aren’t prudent. But I firmly believe the campaign messaging from the right has been to make us afraid — or make us mad. I’m exhausted from all of that, and I refuse to live my life angry or scared. I just won’t.
Those that follow me on Facebook know that I’m no longer there to follow. It has become a toxic environment. Their policy has changed to reduce or eliminate fact-checking and, further, to allow cruel and untrue comments about LGBTQ people.
So, adios Facebook. It’s not really a social network anyway; I believe it’s become an anti-social network instead.
My focus is to spend more time with people who are my friends, people I know and love. I’m swearing off emojis and going back to a good, old-fashioned hug. If you have my phone number, call me if you want to talk. When did calling someone become a taboo? Shoot me an email, I’ll answer back — always.
I mentioned earlier that I grew up in Southern California. I still have many friends there, people I’ve known my whole life. I’ve been reaching out to them because of the horrific and devastating fires that have ripped through the area. I need to hear their voices, and they deserve more than a sad face emoji.
If there is someone you haven’t spoken to in a while, reach out. Give them a call, have lunch. It’s so worth it.
Leslie McMurray, a transgender woman, is a former radio DJ who lives and works in Dallas. Read more of her blogs at lesliemichelle44.wordpress.com.