Am I Destined To Live In the Ghetto?

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I ask myself often: do I live in the ghetto? No, not really. I live in the suburbs.

But as time has gone on, and we’ve moved from one nice area that turned out to be not-so-nice, to another, I’ve come to realize something: the suburbs may be synonymous with the ghetto.

We moved on June 1st to a condo owned by my husband’s family. It was purchased for him and his brother, and as a general investment, when the community was first being built about ten years ago. They’ve had a slew of renters coming in and out for several years. Eventually he and his brother, and their various roommates, moved out and got married, and they had a family friend renting for a few years.

But as we recently found ourselves in the position of having to either (a) pay rent beyond our means in our prior apartment to stay in town near family, or to (b) move back to the city of Los Angeles (where my husband works) – we all realized that it was time for us to occupy the condo.

We really had no other choice if we wanted to stay close to our families, or should I say if our families wanted us to stay close to them.

About a month ago, I was pulling into the drive and parking my car when a crazy-looking, middle aged man approached me and my daughter getting out of my SUV. He was shaking – noticeably – and started screaming at me about how he didn’t like my driving before I even got out of the car. He went on to tell me that my garden on our patio offended him, and – just who did I think I was trying to make the rest of the neighbor’s patios look dumpy compared to my nice set up. Was this guy serious? I still don’t know. I did not engage him in a fight, I simply tried to calm him down and assured him that I drive much slower than I should need to, in a community where my kids and friends have almost been hit twice, already, by crazy drivers. And that we have only the best intentions with our admittedly nice things.

11872302_851094782623_7718313065513953767_o11921727_851094378433_5672761055234370595_oHe wasn’t having it though. For him, this confrontation was not about having a reasonable discussion – it was about the fact that he thought we were renters, just like all the other people that have come and gone through this, the family home. It was about the fact that he felt he needed to threaten me with his supposed-HOA credentials. And, I can only assume, it was about the fact that the guy clearly gets off on accosting and harassing young women in parking lots.

I finally gave up, and just walked into the house as he continued to scream – crying much harder than I should have been.

Naturally, as any blogger will do, I took my upsettedness to Facebook. I talked about the incident on my page, and about how the man brought me to tears. Many expressed sympathy, some talked about the actual issues in my community with me – something everyone should do, because no place is perfect. Then one friend (as she always does), asked “why does this crap always happen to you?” In response I answered a question with a question: “because we keep moving from ghetto to ghetto?”

I never said this was the ghetto.

I never said this place was a dump.

I never actually said anything, other than that I was accosted by a middle aged man in the parking lot, and that it upset me. I cracked a jokey question about ghetto behavior seeming to be everywhere.

(As anyone with any experience with others knows, anytime a white girl such as myself refers to something as “ghetto,” she is referring to a behavior, not necessarily a place.)

The response and the gossip that followed, however, turned into something I could have never – not in a million years – expected. It wasn’t about whether or not I was OK. It was about me saying I lived in the ghetto (which I didn’t ever actually say), me talking trash about my in-laws on Facebook (which, obviously, I would never do), me being ungrateful that we are “allowed” to live in and care for this home (didn’t realize that staying close to family while my husband still commutes 100 round trip miles a day for work, paying the monthly mortgage amount, and caring for the place as if it were our own was an allowance)…and so on and so forth…

So reported my husband, it eventually got to his parents and now – naturally – the gossip wheel left me feeling deflated and bullied, and looking like an asshole to his mom and dad.

All I really wanted was to come home and not be yelled at by a strange man.

Since then, there have been several more incidences:

-We received a letter in the mail that we had violated the HOA’s rules by screwing things into the front door and patio walls (there are no HOA rules about this, not to mention the things hanging are done so with removable, outdoor mounting tape).

-We received another letter in the mail that our plants were not sitting on proper drainage plates when set on the ledge around the patio (there is an HOA rule about this one; however, there absolutely are proper drainage plates under my ledge-lining plants, which I can’t say the same for our neighbors – some of whom are actually on the HOA).

-Someone has stolen and/or destroyed at least 75% of the plants on our patio.

-We saw someone in the middle of the night, just a few nights ago, creeping onto our porch at 4:15 in the morning, and pouring something into our plants (I was wondering why my last crop died suddenly and unexpectedly in August).

-The list goes on…and on…and on…

However, I don’t feel as though I can talk or post or say anything about it to anyone, because the results of me saying anything disparaging about people around here are: gossip, outright lies, and harassment from people that (a) don’t even live here themselves, and (b) should be loving and supportive.

Today – the doozy – I opened the garage door to take my daughter to tennis, only to find the wife of the guy that accosted me standing there. She yelled just like her husband did, that I am not allowed to open my garage like that. I said “like what?” and she replied “have it open unless you are coming and going.” I responded “um, I’m taking my daughter to tennis…I am literally in my car and we are literally talking as I have halfway backed out of the garage. By the way, are they doing anything about getting some speed limit signs up in this drive?”

She told me that the speed with which people drive through the community is not the HOA’s problem.

My daughter got into the car and we drove off, closing the garage door behind us. I saw that the woman had moved on to another victim: our neighbor, who she apparently finds reason to illegally tape record.

Yes, the HOA woman had climbed into the bushes of our neighbor, and was leaning into the balcony to tape record a conversation going on inside. When we got home from tennis, I saw her out by the school next to our complex. She was yelling at the crossing guard about the position of her chair, where the volunteer sits waiting to make sure children safely cross the street.

Finally I realized that I couldn’t take it anymore: I had to talk about this. I had to share about the experience on my Facebook page. I had to write this blog about it.

Not only because this experience is just another in a long list of behaviors that are not-so-nice, in a community that could otherwise be a very good one; but because lies and gossip should not dictate whether or not I speak out about what I think to be right and wrong.

A lot of people may not like that I say this, but the suburbs – at least in my experience – are ghetto.

This isn’t to say that there are are only trashy communities in the suburbs.

This isn’t to say that there are only terrible people in the suburbs.

Actually, quite the contrary: the suburbs are often much more beautiful than the city, more well-kept. You find better landscaping, and often better neighbors in suburbs.

I’m just saying that there is a common thread that the suburbs of any major metropolis are known for, and that is the suburban sense of entitlement. People in the suburbs often pay more, so a lot of them – read a lot of them, not all – think they can tell other people what to do. They don’t give a fuck about who sees them acting however they are acting, and on that note they often believe that what they do is the right thing (even when it’s sitting on your front lawn with no shirt on guzzling beers). They think they own everything – the streets, the neighborhood, other people’s patios – and that they can tell others what to do.

Again: a lot of, not all. But enough for it to have earned suburbanites a reputation.

In the city, this is one of the biggest complaints people have about the ‘burbs. Everyone is up in each other’s business, and everyone wants to tell others how to live. And this, well this is ghetto. It’s unsavory to act so trashy, entitled, arrogant, and self-centered.

Of course then in bigger cities, you do have true ghettos. Like the Jewish ghettos during WWII, where minorities are segregated into run-down, slum-like districts that have been gentrified for years to keep the bad behaving the way they do because they have no other choice. So between the slums of the gentrified inner-cities, and the truly trashy behavior of a fair percentage of suburbanites, we are stuck. There will always be a chance that someone will act ghetto in a place that is otherwise nice. And we’ve all seen what happens to Hilldale in Back to the Future – there will always come a time when the newest and nicest community becomes the next gentrified, slummy neighborhood.

This of course leads me to believe that: yes, I am destined to live in the ghetto. Until some of these attitudes change – until people are willing to talk about the issues, and not bully those who want to make a change; until people put a stop to gentrification and change their attitudes about what they are and are not entitled to do and say – we all are.

Funniest_Memes_only-in-the-ghetto-will-you-find_7759Oh, and for the record, there’s a lot of stereotypically ghetto shit going on around here all the time too. Like the weekly ghetto cardio, i.e. some random guy running down my street being chased by the police. The random shopping cart that occupies parking space #210. And the tumbleweave that’s been in the grass across from our garage for going on two months now. And we live in the *nice* area of town.

STFU Fridays: Rude Comments

Ugh.

That is a new thing in our house. Everything that is disliked, annoying, arduous- just about anything distasteful – begins with a big, long “UGH.” It started when Pookies didn’t want to do chores and just started flopping around the floor going “ugh, why do I have to do that?!” From there, the trend began, and it seems now it’s every other word out of all our mouths. “I have to put away the dishes.” Ugh. “The laundry needs to be folded.” Ugh. “What’s for dinner?” Ugh.

I’m sure you faithful blog followers can imagine that rude comments, on all fronts, are met with the unhappy groan in a big way. This week’s STFU Fridays is devoted to them.

Rude Comments on the Blog … Ugh

Being a blogger is the most bullshit job there is, I think. Sure, it’s cool to have a place to vent in a no-holds-barred way. Yeah, the community of bloggers is awesome. Will I ever stop doing it because it’s bullshit? No way.

But man are there a lot of dicks on the Internet.

At least once a week, I get a comment on an old post or my About Me page. I have come to emit the “UGH” right off the bat when I see it in my email, simply because it always means one thing and one thing only: someone is attempting (in an anonymous, chicken shit way) to call me an ugly, nasty, dirty, miserable whore. Some beat around the bush and say I’m childish because I stand up for something I believe in. Others go below the belt and tell me I’m a slut. There is also the group of comments that I just know are from my husband’s family and friends (most of whom very much dislike this bitter cup of tea).

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To all of them: shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up, or at least grow some balls. I have never had a rude blog comment come with an actual identity. You know, someone that has the guts to actually say their name and real email address? Because with a real email address, we may actually be able to talk it out. Sometimes people just got offended by something I said, or misunderstood me – that would be remediable if only we had a real identity other than “UraCunt@fuckyou.com”. But then I’m sure anyone that calls me something like that, or says that I “look like someone gang-banged your face and left you for dead to put you out of your ugly, slutly misery” may not be in the mood to smooth things over.

Rude Comments on Facebook … Ugh

Have you seen anyone post rude comments on Facebook? I see it all the time. In fact, I see it so often, it’s a wonder I haven’t bled to death from biting my tongue in an attempt to preserve friendships with people I am slowly, but surely, losing respect for.

MjAxMy1iOWQ5MGMzNWIxNzczYzNlOne such rude comment is this eCard that goes around regularly about how Facebook is not your diary. That is the rudest fucking comment anyone could make – be it directly or indirectly. Facebook is whatever-the-fuck people want it to be. If someone wants to blather their shit all over about their drama and their life and their various issues, just who the fuck is anyone else to tell them that they are using the social network wrong? If you don’t like it, don’t look at it! And shut the fuck up!

Ugh.

But it isn’t just a comment in a card like that. It’s everywhere. The other day I saw someone post that a girl with no money is made even uglier than her taste in clothes. What the hell? Yesterday one of my friends felt it necessary to qualify her complaint over her Facebook status with an entire paragraph about how she doesn’t usually like to complain on Facebook. In the comments, someone made some rude comment about how she’s “become one of those.” I could go on with these anecdotes for days.

It is as if all of our social barriers have gone away, and rudeness is the status quo. Shut the fuck up.

Rude Comments in Person … Double Ugh

I deal with a lot of rude comments in person. For those faithful blog followers that work in customer service, deal with assholes on a regular basis, or are surrounded by people that feel it their duty to let you know on a regular basis all the reasons why your existence in this world is wrong (I fall into this latter category), then you will really get this one.

Lately I have felt very criticized. Everyone in my family seems to be having a really hard time not telling me why every step I make is wrong. “This needs more…” “You did this wrong…” “Way to screw up…” “You aren’t cleaning this right…” “You folded that wrong…” “Why did you do that the wrong way…” and so on.

In the last week alone, my husband has implied I am a bad mother, told me I really am a bitch; and my father has questioned and argued with my decisions as a parent no less than eight times. Don’t even get me started on my Trailer Trash Mom – UGH, I know.

A few weeks ago, we had guests over for dinner and I was told that I went to college and graduate school to “do nothing.” That apparently spread around the family, and on New Years Eve I was reminded of the rude comment. These types of things occur in our house (directed at me) every, single day.

People that make rude comments like this in person need a big punch in the gut with a shut the fuck up fist. Life is hard enough without some trollish a’hole making things more contentious and miserable.

So, faithful blog followers – I implore you to ruminate on this one a while. Because as I wrote, I realized a few times in recent history that I too could have been construed as having made a rude comment. I mean, I’m called The B(itch) for a reason, right? If you are a rude commenter, please join me in shutting the fuck up. And for Christ’s sakes, stop calling me a cunt on my About Me page. This Friday’s STFU will be meaningless if we don’t.