howdy, neighbor!

People on my street are rude.

My family has lived on this nondescript Ashburn street of homogenous town homes for longer than most of the families here--about 9 years now.  My mom wanted a larger home (we used to live in the community of Countryside, in Sterling, in a two-bedroom townhouse with 4 people cramped inside) and I was delighted with my parents' decision to move during my first year of high school.  Since kindergarten I had been in classes with the same three hundred people.  Year after year, that kid who put a dead goldfish in your backpack was still in your history class--and was still trying to copy your homework.  (Now, when you see him working as a bar back at the local steakhouse, you quietly chuckle to yourself, raise your glass to karma, and briefly contemplate a few cruel tricks of your own.)

At that point in my teenage life, I desperately welcomed a change.  A certain reputation and limited social group followed me throughout those ten years, and there was little room or acceptance for those who wanted to be different.  When I began at a new high school in 2002 I was relieved and excited at the opportunity to be someone new.  I could be the star lacrosse player; I could be the girl in all honors classes; I could be mysterious and interesting and new.  However, much to my 15-year-old chagrin, I quickly realized that my Ashburn peers were vastly different from me; in just a 10-mile move from Sterling to Ashburn Farm, I had left a community of kids who rode bikes and skateboards or walked to school to a peer group who drove Escalades and Mercedes a mere half mile to class.  (I walked.)  It was an entirely different world, and economically, I simply didn't fit in.  I was shocked to see how drastically different two neighboring communities Loudoun could be.

That's definitely not an Abercrombie top.

It wasn't just at school where I felt like an outsider; it was evident on my own street as well.  Back in Sterling we knew almost all of the families on our street, and I knew that if I got locked out or had an emergency, I could always knock on their door for help and would surely be welcomed with open arms (and even a cookie or two).  On the day we were to move in to our new brick townhouse in Ashburn, we pulled up to the driveway, excited and full of ambitious decorating ideas, and were shocked to see the house had been egged the previous night.  We hadn't even moved in, and someone already hated us.

Things haven't changed in the nine years we've lived here, although the egging never reoccurred.  I'm very close with my neighbor to the right--she and her daughter have participated in a few of these blog entries, in fact--but most everyone else is cold, callous and unfriendly.  Perhaps it's because there seems to be a lot of turnover in these houses, and there have been at least three foreclosures on my side of the street in the past year.

I'm a waver.  I always wave.  No matter what I am doing, whether it's cleaning my car or walking to get the mail or stretching in the driveway after a run, if someone passes by on foot or in a car, I will wave and smile and send them a little neighborly love.  And is it reciprocated?  Hardly ever.  I decided to conduct a little experiment this weekend.  I walked around my street for about thirty minutes, during which time seven of my neighbors drove by.  Not a single person waved, despite my enthusiastic arm-flapping, grinning, innocent-looking self staring directly at them as they passed.  I've asked other friends in various parts of Loudoun about this phenomenon, and it appears to fit in with my East vs. West Loudoun theory discussed in previous entries: people in Eastern Loudoun are much less friendly or concerned with befriending their neighbors, I've heard, and I'm not quite sure why.  Perhaps it's the hustle and bustle of suburban Loco vs. the open spaces and agricultural roots of the West.

This September, I decided to purchase a puppy.  My childhood dog, Sam, passed away in January while I was overseas fulfilling a Fulbright Fellowship, and I remembered upon returning to the US the house feeling so empty, so devoid of the fun and warmth and excitement owning a dog brings.  I also thought that a cute, 2.8 pound Chihuahua would be a great way to draw attention to myself on my street and hopefully develop at least cordial relationships with my neighbors.  Wendy is completely useless in this respect.  First of all, she refuses to walk outside of our driveway.  If I want to venture to the end of the street, it's by carrying her in my arms and plopping her down on a patch of plush grass (because sidewalks and pavement scare her).  Secondly, people just don't care.  I expect to hear a, "Ohhh, she's so cuuute!  What's her name?" or, "Wow, she is sooo tinnyy!  How old is she?" whereupon I would pounce on the opportunity to point out my name and townhouse number.  Well, that plan was fruitless.  

Wendy, in all her adorable glory, in front of our Ashburn townhouse.

My dad refers to most of our neighbors as "f-'ems."  And no, that saying has nothing to do with feminism.  He uses the phrase like this: 

Me: "Dad, I was jogging down the street and someone honked at me to get out of the way!  And I wasn't even in the street, I was practically in the gutter!  That's so rude."

Dad: "Who cares.  F-'em."

He may not care, but I do.  I seek the approval of our neighbors.  I miss the comfort of our street in Countryside. After all, what are the roots of a community without friendships with your neighbors?  I am determined to kill (f-?)'em with kindness; I will continue to wave encouragingly, and to shout "HELLOOO THERE!" to flustered mothers in minivans that drive by our driveway way over the speed limit, and bring Wendy outside and entice neighborhood kids to pet her.  Maybe candy would be helpful?