My next-door neighbors

Living in southeast Portland gives you unique experiences, particularly when you are thrust into environments with people you don’t know. In these environments, you discover who you can trust, whom you can’t, and pitfalls to avoid, namely living in large apartment complexes or rundown four-plex homes, like the one, my girlfriend, and our three kids, lived in. 

You find pockets of microcosms of American society in apartment living, or anywhere where groups of people live near each other. People living in apartment complexes fall into one category or another, such as alcoholics, drug dealers, drug users, and stay-at-home moms. Not because they want to, but because they have no choice. Childcare costs more than what she could earn working. It’s not fair, but they get blamed for their choice to have kids.

Other less-than-savory types of people live here as well, such as thieves and those who commit themselves to crime and become inducted into gangs. 

Gangs and those who identify with specific groups lean towards behavior that may not align with yours. Are they always violent? Do they always shift to aggressive behavior? It depends. Can you treat them like they are people who deserve to be respected, regardless of their gang status?

Yes. They can. 

And that is exactly how we met the kids who claimed affiliation with 13th Street Crips. For those of you keeping score, they wear blue, not red, and come from cultures that speak primarily Spanish, or variations of the language. 

But these kids didn’t fit the look or the feel of gang bangers. Did they dress in Chinos, wear Dickies, and yellow construction boots, and let a blue handkerchief hang out of their back pocket? Did some of the young men wear hairnets? So those things make them gang members? I didn’t think so and still believe it to this day. 

What did I think of the teens squatting in the apartment next to ours? They were young, intelligent, and came from upper-middle-class backgrounds. They weren’t poor. Their parents were college-educated, holding jobs in education, healthcare, and law enforcement. You would think their upbringing would prevent them from acting like violent criminals. But it didn’t. 

Sherry, Pancho, and Cisco came from nowhere. One day our neighbor, Geoff, moved into the garage. We found out, after the fact, that he was abusing all kinds of substances, preferring methamphetamine to marijuana or heroin. That meant he was up for days at a time, tinkering and tearing things apart. So, for his insanity, he moved himself outside our fourplex. How he connected with Maria, Pancho, and Cisco is beyond me. He wasn’t an outgoing person, but he wasn’t scared of people. Chances are they met at the corner store, a few blocks from our four-plex, a rundown converted single-family home turned into four separate apartments. 

“We should invite them over for coffee,” she said to me, as I watched Katie and Abby play on the floor in our living room. 

“Why?” I asked, listening to both girls play with their dolls. Abby showed her baby sister, Katie, how to brush the doll’s hair. 

Her reaction wasn’t what I was expecting. “I think that little girl is in trouble. I want to help.” Was her motivation genuine? I didn’t think so, especially after a comment she made a few days earlier. Something about keeping your enemies closer than your friends. I should’ve known, at that moment, that she was not the nicest person. To be fair, I was young too, a bit naive, and I thought everyone was looking out for each other, the way that I would want to be treated. Later I would learn this isn’t true. 

I figured coffee wasn’t a big deal, so why the heck not? Being nice to people is kind of my thing. I don’t know a stranger, but today I’m a bit more selective about the strangers I engage with. 

“Come in, please,” my girlfriend said. She poured three cups of coffee, one for each of them. 

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Sherry. This is my boyfriend, Cisco.” 

He lifted his head up and down quickly. “Sup.” 

I did my best to get to know them even though their gangbanger act wasn’t working. Having coffee was just the beginning. Things would get crazy, quick! 

(To be continued . . .)