For some background, in the context of our cul-de-sac, we are still one of the relatively new families— and the only Black one. We just made ten years, while the majority of the other families in our crook of the neighborhood have been there 15-20 years, and then some.
Our previous house was in a more obscure corner of the city, where I could hardly say that we were in a neighborhood, to be truthful. There was one house across from us and then three more down the hill. It seems more accurate to describe it as a random assortment of houses.
There, we (we meaning my dad) had some issues with the man in the home across from us. He routinely kept his yard a mess, and my dad, who takes lawn care seriously (maybe too seriously), was worried that critters would be attracted to the neighbor’s growing forest and also that he would bring our property value down (lol!). So, what did my dad do? Write him a note on a paper towel, kindly requesting that he clean up his yard, and put it in his mailbox. Our neighbor improved (though not to my dad’s standards) his yard, and there was no fuss.
Fast forward to now, in 2025. Earlier this year, one of the families that had been in the neighborhood longer than us moved out. A younger family (the parents are in their 40s) moves in, with kids and three Dobermans. For the story’s sake, I’ll call them ‘The Newsoms’.
To set the picture, our home and the Newsoms’ are separated by the Walkers, a family that has been in our neighborhood the longest. Once the Newsoms moved in, they cut down these large trees that were in the middle of the property lines between their house and the Walkers.
On the surface, this shouldn’t be an issue. Except for the Dobermans that the Newsoms brought with them, which live exclusively outside and are not afraid to make their presence known with their perpetual barking. The tree was the last guardrail to ensure that the dogs’ barking was somewhat muffled. By cutting down the tree, for the Walkers, made the barking sound clearer and closer than ever.
Anyone who is retired or knows of someone who is retired is aware that gossip, of all kinds, seems to find them more readily. And my dad is no different. He has a simple routine: grab coffee from the Circle K, drive to the golf course for 9 rounds, pick up groceries from the commissary on base, sit in the garage with a beer in one hand and a phone in the other, listening to music and talking on the phone. Since he’s always outside, my dad happens to see everything, and everything (and everyone) sees him too. Yes, my dad has turned into the over-involved, nosey neighbor. But he brings back good gossip, so I encourage it.
He saw Dad Walker pacing from house to house before Dad Walker settled in front of my dad at our garage. “XXX, would you mind writing a letter complaining about the Newsoms’ dogs? I’m calling the police, and when they come, I’m going to bring all of our letters to them.”
HELLO? What the hell happened to talking things out? Calling the police over dogs barking?
This isn’t the first time the Walkers have been police-happy. You know those salespeople who go door-to-door trying to sell something? Well, one summer a few years back, Son Walker was prepared to call the police on them for trying to sell something. Rather than just not answering the door….like quite literally everyone else in the neighborhood. In the years we’ve lived in this house, salespeople have come to our cul-de-sac twice. So, it seemed like an extreme leap to call the police over a non-issue.
Anyway, the mailman (who’s also Black), who’s friendly with my dad, makes his rounds in the middle of this discussion. “Hey, Dad Walker! Hey XXX! What y’all over here talking ’bout?” *He begins to explain* “So, I’m going to call the police. I can’t take it anymore!”
“What? Wait, man, did you even try talking to him first? You gon’ just call the cops?”
The clash of two cultures was on full display. For most white people, it seems that the first step of confrontation is to involve an authority figure or an authoritative institution of some kind to deal with an issue, big or small. For most Black people, it’s the exact opposite. Engaging authority is often the last resort, even when the situation might desperately call for it.
It’s something I’ve noticed since I was young. My mom would tell me that if someone did something to me, to address it with them, and if things don’t change, to then involve an adult. The white kids I grew up with were taught the opposite, rather, to immediately involve a teacher, to give no chances for adjustments.
Obviously, there are cases to be made for why either approach is effective or not. However, I can’t help but notice that each group’s approach to conflict feels almost inevitable when understood through the lens of their respective histories in this country.
vow of silence 
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