by Anne Saraceno
Portland, Ore.
“Sketchy,” remarked a college friend from the West Hills. She meant the shuttered windows, the empty streets and the cars parked up and down the block in their overgrown lawns. I saw all this, but something else, too.
Wanting a second pair of eyes, I asked my other friend, Sanae, to take a look. Peering around, she declared, simply: “Too big for one person.” A pioneer of kosen-rufu in Portland, she saw what could be someday—a home in the fullest sense of the word—a place to build community.
Shortly after moving in, in 1994, I was appointed the district leader and began hosting activities at my home, deepening ties with the members. As for my neighbors, I began by getting to know their names.
“We can’t tell you,” they said flatly. The girls across the street were 4, if I had to guess, an age that called, perhaps, for a rule like that on a street like this. It wasn’t just the kids, though. People did not know and so did not trust one another.
Walking to the grocers, I’d pass someone on their porch or working on their car. “Going shopping,” I’d call, “need anything under five pounds?” Usually they did—diapers, butter, eggs or bread. I’d wave them off when they made for the money inside. “When I get back.”
Little by little, I got to know them, and they, me and my Buddhist practice. One was frustrated by the kids next door, whose rock ’n’ roll band disturbed their evening peace. Another was badly irked by our neighbor’s skateboarding son, so much that he petitioned door to door to ban skateboards from the block. I couldn’t see the sense in that. “If it’s between skating at home where his parents know he’s safe and skating who knows where, then I’m for skating at home.” He dropped the petition, but it got me thinking. And also, chanting—for unity. A stranger, my mother always said, is just a friend you haven’t yet met. It was in the SGI and in the behavior of Ikeda Sensei that I discovered just how true this was. People, when they come together, come to like one another.
As I got to know my neighbors, I found that very few were truly grouchy. Most were just shy or nervous, or nursing some wounded pride they’d never had the chance to air. Really, they just didn’t know one another, and I figured that that ought to change. Within a couple years of my move, I took up a petition of my own. Door to door I went with a question: Do you want to have a block party? Yes, answered neighbor after neighbor. In the summer of 1996, we held our first, and you could tell before it ended that it had changed the neighborhood.
Over here were kids warring with water balloons. Over there they taught one another to skate. Over here was a game of basketball. All around their parents chatted; it’s hard not to when your kids are playing together to the sound of rock ’n’ roll.
By this time, I knew the girls across the street by name (Juni and Sage), and their mother, too—Jenna had become a close friend. The girls went missing during that first block party, giving us all a scare. As the search party began, I ran inside to grab my phone and found them in my living room with the cats, reading books they’d brought from home, sipping sodas they’d found in my fridge.
Afterward, Jenna and I sat down with them. They could come over whenever they wanted, on the condition that their parents knew where they were.
Over the years I saw my prayer and efforts manifest as a neighborhood where everyone knew one another, where children greeted you, recipes were shared, garden projects endeavored, driveways shoveled and mail brought in by friends. At some point, my tiny backyard became a hub for the neighborhood kids, who came in pairs and droves. All were welcome so long as they upheld two rules: 1) Treat everyone with respect; and 2) Tell their parents where they were. I coordinate social services for a living, mostly from home. I’m generally around.
The pandemic posed a serious challenge, though, to the neighborhood. The streets went as quiet as they’d ever been. I bought a dog, Moka, and began walking more, finding that even strangers are open to talking when a dog’s around. Earlier this year, in March, an acquaintance came by with her dog, which had a strong reaction to Moka. She lost her footing, grabbed hold of me and sent me tumbling headfirst off my porch to the pavement 5 feet below.
I came to in the trauma ward. “There must have been 20 people asking after you,” the nurse told me. “Actually, they were demanding we make sure you survived.”
Vaguely, I remembered someone kneeling beside my gurney outside the ER. I remember thinking it was funny how much he looked like my neighbor’s husband. “Just like him,” I said, to which he responded by clasping my hand. “I’ll let everyone know you’re all right.” It was him; his occupation granted him entry to the emergency ward; his wife had sent him.
As it happened, Juni and Sage returned that evening from spring break. They came straight to the hospital and stayed by my side. Jenna started a neighborhood text thread and care calendar which she shared with my fellow district members as well. Within hours, my meals, housework, dog care and garden tasks were assigned for weeks to come. Within five days, I was allowed home, where nothing had been left unattended.
One neighbor carefully prepared delicacies to encourage my appetite.Another came to play cards, another to weed the garden, another to clean and bring in mail and another to care for the dog. Everyone came by to check in, and all kept me in high spirits. Juni and Sage took turns staying the night to make sure I was OK. I have never felt so loved. Neighbors who may not have had strong relationships prior to my accident were suddenly communicating and collaborating.
Speaking of the essence of friendship, Sensei makes use of an Okinawan word, yuimaru.
“‘Yui’ means ‘ties.’ The Okinawa spirit to connect people, to ‘tie’ hearts together, is a unifying power. …” (March 8, 2024, World Tribune, p. 3).
When I thank my neighbors for being so kind, they respond with surprised looks. “But this is what you’ve done for us. This is us saying thank you. We are family because of you.”
One neighbor, rerouting my Wi-Fi modem, remarked, “I can see your Buddhist practice on these three square blocks, I can see the heart of this neighborhood.” He shook his head in amazement. “We are so grateful for your recovery.”
Indeed, I’ve recovered remarkably well—thanks to the ties of friendship—no, of family—that we’ve woven as neighbors.
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