driveway politics

Today I saw a strange car parked in my driveway. This happens occasionally in this very urban neighborhood. It seems like it's been happening more lately. I did what I always do, I went outside to ask them to move. Some people might not bother, but some people don't live around here. We have to assert our dominion over every inch of our space or our neighbors will trample over our rights. If you have, say, a floor time therapist coming by who needs a parking spot and it's filled with some strange dude's car, that's very uncool.

Besides, it's ours. Simple as that.

Anyway. I went outside this morning to chase the strange car away. One man – young, black, hooded – sat in the passenger seat. Another stood leaning against the car. Handsome. Indeterminate race, though certainly not white. Mixed race, probably. I had no opinion about either of them except they A) seemed young and B) shouldn't be cluttering up my driveway.

"Would you please get out of my driveway?" Polite tone but pitched loud enough to carry across my front yard.

The standing man let me have it. A torrent of words. An excerpt: "We're not drug dealers, I've lived on this block – just up there –" (pointing to an apartment building up the block) "for eight years. You should ask nicely, not just chase us away like that."

"I did ask nicely. I said please get out of my driveway."

"No, you should say 'Please move your car.' Don't assume anything about me like that. You should treat me better than that."

Say what?

By this time he was in the car, window rolled up, pulling out of my driveway. Not interested in my response, not in the least. Satisfied with his own hissy fit and not wanting to hear anything that might contradict it.

I found myself bemused more than anything. When I chase the ubiquitous Russians out of our driveway, they nearly always respond with peevishness too, but it's more of the "I have every right to squat wherever I want" sort. "I was only here for a minute" (when I know it's been half an hour), "I was getting these things to my aging mother" (maybe so, but there's a spot on the street over there) and so on. Self-justifications, an assumption that I should let them off the hook, that rules don't matter. And the stately African woman who lives next door is always super nice when she's caught. Very apologetic, says very sweet things about Damian, understands completely. Won't stop her from doing it again, but she's a pleasure to talk to.

This guy, though. He has a chip on his shoulder the size of South Central LA. He immediately assumed I was reacting to his skin color and making racist generalizations from that. And didn't let me explain that I'm an equal opportunity bulldog. Just raced off down the street, I’m sure complaining to his companion about the haughty white bitch who chased them away because she thought they were dealing drugs in her driveway. (Never would have occurred to me. This is not a druggie strip. Musician central, yes. Ancient Russian Crone central, yes. Drug Capitol of Hollywood? Not even remotely.)

I find it all fascinating. The way you react when you've done something wrong says volumes about you as a person, your beliefs, your attitude about life and ultimately about yourself. Who'd've thunk?

Posted by Tamar at October 7, 2004 11:10 PM