Friday, May 21, 2004
the people in our neighborhood
Shortly after moving to Boston Allyn told me that Glenville Avenue reminded her of Sesame Street. The building next to ours houses mostly immigrant and lower-income families, and so the children who play on our sidewalks and in the middle of our road definitely reflect the diversity of Sesame Street. The analogy is pretty apt otherwise, too, but with a few minor differences. We have a small convenience store in the middle of our block, but instead of being operated by a kindly old man, its run by a kindly Asian family who speak no English. It also gets held up once every couple of weeks. And, instead of Big Bird, we have Mr Butch, an alcoholic six-foot-eight-inch homeless man, who sports dreadlocks and a suit, and who frequently can be seen either playing free-jazz on a plastic recorder or stumbling repeatedly into the sides of buildings. Mr. Butch is the second kindest homeless man I’ve ever encountered; he never begs for money, and he only occasionally asks me for what he calls grass. He's also never bloody and never has random facial wounds, like most other homeless guys in our neighborhood. Finally, like Big Bird, he is the moral compass and backbone of his community. It’ll be a shame when Harvard tears this whole town down, but I guess they have to build their launching pad and horseshoes stadium somewhere.
Shortly after moving to Boston Allyn told me that Glenville Avenue reminded her of Sesame Street. The building next to ours houses mostly immigrant and lower-income families, and so the children who play on our sidewalks and in the middle of our road definitely reflect the diversity of Sesame Street. The analogy is pretty apt otherwise, too, but with a few minor differences. We have a small convenience store in the middle of our block, but instead of being operated by a kindly old man, its run by a kindly Asian family who speak no English. It also gets held up once every couple of weeks. And, instead of Big Bird, we have Mr Butch, an alcoholic six-foot-eight-inch homeless man, who sports dreadlocks and a suit, and who frequently can be seen either playing free-jazz on a plastic recorder or stumbling repeatedly into the sides of buildings. Mr. Butch is the second kindest homeless man I’ve ever encountered; he never begs for money, and he only occasionally asks me for what he calls grass. He's also never bloody and never has random facial wounds, like most other homeless guys in our neighborhood. Finally, like Big Bird, he is the moral compass and backbone of his community. It’ll be a shame when Harvard tears this whole town down, but I guess they have to build their launching pad and horseshoes stadium somewhere.
