I’ve been rubbed the wrong way so many times in the last two years, I’m raw. Aloe Vera can’t help. The makers of Vaseline chuckle and comment under their collective breath, “Oooo, that’s not looking good.”
The most recent of incidents drew blood – figuratively. I’d probably use stronger language if blood had actually been shed. (Actually, I’d probably have to run this column by my lawyer just to make sure I could publish it.)
Back to the story at hand. Everyone knows the cliché “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.” I’ve come to the understanding that it couldn’t be truer.
Rachel and I moved into our apartment last March. Everything was great. Except for the occasional argument our downstairs neighbors had – which we could hear perfectly from our master bathroom. We never understood why all of their arguments took place in the bathroom of all places. Regardless, as often as it happened – maybe once a month or every six weeks – Rachel and I would complain about it. …And thus our real problems began. Without going further, I’ll go ahead and give you the moral of the story right here:
Complaining about little, insignificant things without attempting to do anything to make a change will ALWAYS lead to bigger, more significant problems.
(You can probably imagine where I’m going with this…)
They moved out in August, and we had a month of peace and quiet. No more early morning toilet confrontations. And we were satisfied. Until September…
The people that moved in September are – for lack of better description – the quintessential stereotype of African-Americans. (Take into account that my best friend is Black, so any thought you might have about me being a racist is erroneous.) Although they have the same 2 bedroom apartment layout that we have, I still to this day do not understand how so many people can live together. Here’s a little of the specs: 4 women (all between the ages of 15-24), three young boys (assumedly the children of one – or each – of the women), and occasionally anywhere between 2-5 men (between the ages of 15-27 maybe). There are so many people living together that a police officer asked us if they were Hispanic when we told him how many there were. (I’ve already let the cat out of the bag.)
We’ve actually had to call the cops out a grand total of six times. For what? I’m glad you asked. 2:30AM parties, thumping bass at 3:15AM, yelling and screaming at 11PM, Dance Party Revolution get-togethers in the parking lot under our bedroom window at 1:45AM, smoking weed and drinking in the same parking lot, and the most unnerving of them all: gunfire.
While one of the women and her brother were arguing one night around 11:00, we’d had enough of it. At this point we’ve already notified the management of our displeasure with our neighbors. We’ve called the police five times and we were ready for a change. In the midst of their heated exchange, I poked my head out of the front door and loudly and forcefully asked them to keep it down. Seconds later, Rachel jumped up and down on the floor to again notify our neighbors of our unhappiness. What followed was the most terrifying event of my life.
I can’t count how many times I’ve heard the message of desensitization – how before a kid finishes college, he will have witnessed over 70,000 murders via television, movies and video games. Sure, maybe I’ve seen that many – just in Casino Royale, I probably saw 25 alone – but I can tell you that I am definitely NOT desensitized. Not in the least.
Shortly after Rachel banged on the floor, we heard their front door open and heard five rounds unloaded into the sky. I’ve played Grand Theft Auto, I own Saving Private Ryan and I loved Blood Diamond, but nothing could have prepared me for the terror I experienced that night. It’s a different feeling to watch someone get shot in the head by a sniper in a movie than to hear the echoes of the discharge of a 9mm firearm in the halls of your apartment building.
I am in no way condoning the allowance of children to play violent video games or watch movies or television shows with similar content. What I am saying is that the desensitization message is a little muddled. I have no doubt that true love and relationship from father to son, mother to daughter and vice versa are the solutions to the homeostatic quandaries we hear about on the news everyday.
And sometimes face.
The most recent of incidents drew blood – figuratively. I’d probably use stronger language if blood had actually been shed. (Actually, I’d probably have to run this column by my lawyer just to make sure I could publish it.)
Back to the story at hand. Everyone knows the cliché “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.” I’ve come to the understanding that it couldn’t be truer.
Rachel and I moved into our apartment last March. Everything was great. Except for the occasional argument our downstairs neighbors had – which we could hear perfectly from our master bathroom. We never understood why all of their arguments took place in the bathroom of all places. Regardless, as often as it happened – maybe once a month or every six weeks – Rachel and I would complain about it. …And thus our real problems began. Without going further, I’ll go ahead and give you the moral of the story right here:
Complaining about little, insignificant things without attempting to do anything to make a change will ALWAYS lead to bigger, more significant problems.
(You can probably imagine where I’m going with this…)
They moved out in August, and we had a month of peace and quiet. No more early morning toilet confrontations. And we were satisfied. Until September…
The people that moved in September are – for lack of better description – the quintessential stereotype of African-Americans. (Take into account that my best friend is Black, so any thought you might have about me being a racist is erroneous.) Although they have the same 2 bedroom apartment layout that we have, I still to this day do not understand how so many people can live together. Here’s a little of the specs: 4 women (all between the ages of 15-24), three young boys (assumedly the children of one – or each – of the women), and occasionally anywhere between 2-5 men (between the ages of 15-27 maybe). There are so many people living together that a police officer asked us if they were Hispanic when we told him how many there were. (I’ve already let the cat out of the bag.)
We’ve actually had to call the cops out a grand total of six times. For what? I’m glad you asked. 2:30AM parties, thumping bass at 3:15AM, yelling and screaming at 11PM, Dance Party Revolution get-togethers in the parking lot under our bedroom window at 1:45AM, smoking weed and drinking in the same parking lot, and the most unnerving of them all: gunfire.
While one of the women and her brother were arguing one night around 11:00, we’d had enough of it. At this point we’ve already notified the management of our displeasure with our neighbors. We’ve called the police five times and we were ready for a change. In the midst of their heated exchange, I poked my head out of the front door and loudly and forcefully asked them to keep it down. Seconds later, Rachel jumped up and down on the floor to again notify our neighbors of our unhappiness. What followed was the most terrifying event of my life.
I can’t count how many times I’ve heard the message of desensitization – how before a kid finishes college, he will have witnessed over 70,000 murders via television, movies and video games. Sure, maybe I’ve seen that many – just in Casino Royale, I probably saw 25 alone – but I can tell you that I am definitely NOT desensitized. Not in the least.
Shortly after Rachel banged on the floor, we heard their front door open and heard five rounds unloaded into the sky. I’ve played Grand Theft Auto, I own Saving Private Ryan and I loved Blood Diamond, but nothing could have prepared me for the terror I experienced that night. It’s a different feeling to watch someone get shot in the head by a sniper in a movie than to hear the echoes of the discharge of a 9mm firearm in the halls of your apartment building.
I am in no way condoning the allowance of children to play violent video games or watch movies or television shows with similar content. What I am saying is that the desensitization message is a little muddled. I have no doubt that true love and relationship from father to son, mother to daughter and vice versa are the solutions to the homeostatic quandaries we hear about on the news everyday.
And sometimes face.
Oh, how we long for our previous neighbors...
No comments:
Post a Comment