For the first few months in our new house, my sister and I hibernated. It was winter, and more to the point I think we were in shock. We were afraid to really explore the neighborhood for fear that we wouldn't like what we discovered. We do, after all, have a not-so-small fortune riding on the idea that our house is an investment that will make our short-term sacrifices eminently worthwhile.
I've pretty much conquered the block itself now, six months in. My neighbors are friendly, and for the most part don't hold the fact that my dog is a vicious, lunging hellbeast against me, despite the fact that seeing him every day is probably scarring their children for life. In the way of established urban neighborhoods, they know a lot more about us than we do about them; twice in the last week, someone I've never seen before has come to the door with a car-related question (once to see if I'd mind moving it a bot, and once to see if I'd intended to leave my headlights on--yes and no.) I couldn't possibly match the cars on my street with their owners, but then again I frequently have to be reminded as to what kind of car I drive, and I still don't know my license plate number.
In the spirit of neighborhood exploration, I've begun wandering down to the local market. It's right at the end of the block, by far the closest I've ever lived to a store. It has no name, and it's virtually unmarked. I wouldn't have known it was there, except that I finally asked the kids next door where they got the bizarre candy they're always eating (it's neon in most cases and often has a center made of liquid.) In telling me about the store, they also told me about the halfway house next door to it, which my realtor conveniently never mentioned.
The store, which we call the 911 (get it? like 7-11?), is a tremendously intimidating place. For one thing, there are always groups of young men smoking weed in front of it. To be fair, there are often groups of young men smoking weed in front of my house, too, but I know those young men; I buy ridiculously overpriced candy from their sisters, and try to convince them not to bark back at my dog. The young men in front of the 911 seem to be smoking weed more...menacingly. But there are lots of kids running in and out too, and I try not to be intimidated by things that don't faze 10 year olds.
Inside, 911 is nothing more than a long hall. One side is cinderblock, and one side is the most smeary, yellowed, ugly piece of bullet-proof glass I've ever seen. You can barely see through it in some places, and the odd assortmewnt of products in protects--ginseng tea, Rock Creek sodas, neon candy, dusty shampoo bottles--can barely be seen from the hallway. I know the owner, Mr. Kim, by sight because he and his son jog by our house every night after they close the store, and my dog hates them.
So far, all of my conversations with Mr. Kim revolve around real estate. When we bought the house in October, ours was only the second house that had--flipped? Gentrified? A better euphmism for "been bought by white people who intended to live in it?" Anyway, since that time many more houses have been bought and are being renovated, and Mr. Kim asserts that all of the change is due to the fact that my sister and I sit on our front porch. According to him, our lily-toned presence is enough to make the block "transitional" instead of "too far north and east".
I don't know how to feel about that. On one hand, more desirable properties on my block means that our house is worth more. On the other hand, the two apartment buildings on my block that have flipped are now empty of their former residents, and where have those people gone? Much further north and east, no doubt.
Ever since we started looking at houses last fall, I've been musing on the relationship between race and class and real estate. I haven't drawn any conclusions yet. It's a problem whose magnitude you might suspect, but will never really know until you jump into the real estate market in a city like DC where the gap between the haves and the have-nots is huge, and growing, and largely along color lines. Even then, all I've really learned is the new, coded language that accompanies a house like mine--"urban pioneer", "good schools", "transitional", the ubiquitous "gentrify".
I keep waiting for some Lesson to present itself out of all this, but I don't know what it is. In the meantime, Mr. Kim told me yesterday that the house next door to mine is going to list for $150,000 more than we paid six months ago. I wonder who will buy it at that price?
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