Being Neighborly in a White Neighborhood

On a rare date night we received a frantic call. From a neighbor, not even the sitter.

My heart stopped beating. I couldn’t blink.

“Don’t worry. Your boys are fine.”

Breathe. Exhale. Relief.

“But the cops were at your house.”

WTF?!

And now the hairs on my neck stood in prickly salutes. My mouth was agape.

The boys were in PJs and had been tucked in. Our babysitter had played games, built block fortresses, read stories, and caringly tucked in the boys. They were wrapped in warmth and felt safe, and more importantly loved and cared for. When the kids were in bed, the sitter ran to his car to grab something from the back seat. He leapt there and back in a jiffy, by all accounts. 

A neighbor spotted him. She went to his car and peered inside. She spotted a duffle bag. Ooh, what could be inside? An Under Armour gym bag is oh so suspicious. I don’t know about you, but in my gym bag you would find smelly socks, a stretched out exercise bra, crumbly old deodorant, ratty flip flops, and a hair band from three years ago when I had long hair. I don’t live in a Hollywood movie so the chances of finding cash or narcotics in a gym bag in someone’s back seat are pretty slim. I figure if sketchy people have something to hide, they in fact hide it. Amiright? 

Well, the neighbor peeked into the car after she saw the babysitter trot back to our house. She must have been peering out from behind her curtains across the street. Then she had the audacity to go look into the man’s car. Can you imagine?

Then she called the cops.

She claimed something was “suspicious,” though she had no concrete evidence.

The police came to the door, acting on the call of a worried neighbor who was being “neighborly.” You know, neighborhood watch and all. The boys’ eyes had barely closed to usher them into dreamland when they were awakened by police thumping at the door. They crept downstairs, each doe eyed and worried. They stood on either side of the babysitter, peeking from around his legs. They all wondered what happened to warrant police at the door at this hour, late for children but just when the settling in begins for adults. The boys were nervous and anxious. It’s not everyday we see police. This is, after all, a Norman Rockwellesque neighborhood. The sitter maintained composure and was cooperative. He had nothing to hide. He ran to his car to get a book. Jane Austen or some such British author, as I recall. It was a big, fat edition of something I chided him for.

Amazingly, the boys fell asleep easily after the police left.

We apologized profusely to the sitter and assured him we are better than what our neighbor exhibited. He told us it wasn’t unusual. He knew how to behave and react. It had happened before. 

Our sons were full of questions in the morning.

And we didn’t have answers. 

Why were the police at the door? Why did the neighbor call the police in the first place? 

Because she saw a black man run down the street and into our house. Empty handed. A man who had been at our house scores of times. Our babysitter.

She saw a black man and called the police. That was her instinct, her gut reaction. This is an educated, progressive community. She is an educator. And she called the cops because a black man was in our neighborhood.