Smash

Our neighbor’s house was broken into this morning after they left for work. The front window was smashed, allowing entrance. The burglars entered through the window and exited through the front door with two 42-inch plasma screen TVs among other things. Despite the fact that the house sits on a very busy street and is highly visible, I was the first person to notice something was amiss. I was walking home with Julia when I saw their front door wide open. I knew it was a break in. I called my neighbor and then the cops. I waited on the sidewalk with Julia until all parties responded, and once I was cleared I walked home with my girl in my arms.

Within Macon, crime in our neighborhood isn’t all that high, which surprises most people. When we first moved in, we couldn’t even get a pizza delivered after 6 pm. Beall’s Hill had a very bad reputation. One block behind our home was the worst housing project in the city. When we bought our place, the buildings had been razed and a new mixed income development constructed. Now the apartments house Mercer students alongside low and middle-income residents. It’s an experiment in redevelopment. Beall’s Hill is now home to university professors, writers, insurance agents, students, retirees, minimum wage earners, prostitutes, drug dealers, and the homeless. We are certainly a diverse lot.

I won’t lie. There have been many, many times when I have wondered about our choice of living space. The reasons for buying into Beall’s Hill, for us, are long and complicated. Despite altruistic tendencies and being liberal as hell, we bought this house for convenience. It takes Craig seven minutes to walk from our house to his office on campus (which, though he had been warned against, he does quite often at night without difficulty). Until Grace went to Kindergarten last fall, we had lunch together as a family nearly every day. Who does that these days? And speaking of Kindergarten, living in Beall’s Hill allowed Grace automatic acceptance into the best school in Macon. We also derive pride from the fact that we live in a mixed neighborhood. All of our immediate neighbors are African American. There are people of very little means around us as well as those who can only be described as middle class. Our kids get frequent lessons on generosity and humility in the face of poverty.

And yet, my neighbor’s house was just broken into. I feel unsettled and nervous, and I wonder for the hundredth, maybe thousandth time, is this where we should be?