It Takes A Village

There's an African proverb that says it takes a village to raise a child.   It refers to the idea that it takes more than a set of parents to raise a person properly.  As I look back on my childhood, I can certainly say that this was true for me.  Thirty years ago, when I was growing up, your neighborhood was your village.  The adults around you played an integral role in your daily life.  I remember, vividly, spending time with the adults that lived around me.  It seems so strange to think about, now.  It wasn’t odd at all for me to get up, leave my house, and go play on Mr. Reese’s porch.  We would take walks and talk together.  A kid would never do that today. An adult would never do that today! The world has changed so much.  But, thirty years ago, we really did get a village. 

I remember learning to speak to elders, because I would always cut through Mrs. Monsour’s yard to go to the grocery store.  When strangers to the neighborhood would want to cut through her yard, she would just let the dog scare them off, and they would have to walk between the houses.  But, for me, she would call the dog onto the porch so I could walk though.  I would just have to say hello when she came to the door.  Seemed fair to me. 

I learned about values from Mr. Defillipo.  I used to sit and watch him shine his Stingray Corvette in his garage.  That car was beautiful.  Then one day, maybe when one of his daughters was born, he got rid of the Corvette and they got a more family oriented car.  I remember thinking he must really love his kids, because I’d have kept the car.  It seemed foolish at the time, but I get it now. 

And the Davises.  I’m pretty sure I walked in and out of the Davis house almost as freely as I did my own.  When I was young, Dave Davis was my best friend in the world.  We played basketball together.  We rode bikes together.  We climbed trees together.  We spent so much time in Mr. Reese’s tree that he cut it down just to keep us out.  The Davises used to drive me to basketball practice just as often as my own mother.  They were like an extended family to me.

This was my village.  I don’t think kids today have a village.  Not like we used to.  They have play dates and cell phones.  You don’t just go outside and play anymore.  And, as a result, kids probably don’t know their neighbors quite like we did thirty years ago.  Back then, your neighbors were allowed to scold you.  They were allowed to feed you.  They were expected to let you into their homes if you needed something.  They were expected to look out for you.  We didn’t just live beside each other.  We lived among one another. 

I’ve been reminiscing about my village, because one member of my village just passed a few days ago.   Mr. Canan.  I liked Mr. Canan a lot.  He lived behind me, and he was always nice to me.  His daughter was my teacher in first grade, and I loved her dearly.  The first time I saw her in my neighborhood, visiting her dad, it made me like Mr. Canan even more.  It was like my worlds were connected. 

One of my most vivid childhood memories is about Mr. Canan.  I was in my back yard playing with my BB gun.  Of course, I wasn’t supposed to be playing with a BB gun.  I’m not even sure I was allowed to have that BB gun.  But I was shooting it anyway.  I was shooting at birds.  I let off a shot, and I could hear that it hit a house.  It didn’t seem like anyone was around, so I thought I was okay, until Mr. Canan came strolling up to my yard.  He had a stern look on his face, but he was kind, as usual.  The conversation went something like this.

Mr. Canan:  Did you hear something?
Me:  No.

Mr. Canan:  Sounded like a BB gun or something.

Me: No.  I didn’t hear it.

Mr. Canan:  You’re not playing with a BB gun, are you?

Me: No. 

Mr. Canan:  Okay, because if you are, that would be dangerous.  You could hit someone. You could break a window.  That wouldn’t be good.

I could see that he was angry, but I could also see that he didn’t want to be mean to me.  He knew I was lying.  I knew he knew I was lying.  I also knew that he could just tell my mother, if he wanted to.  That would have gone badly for me.  But he didn’t.  He just walked back down to his house and acted like it never happened.  I was so scared.  I never played with a BB gun in the yard again.  And I respected Mr. Canan for not getting me in trouble.  He taught me to pay attention and be careful, but he did it without yelling at me or telling on me.   When I think of Mr. Canan, I always think of that story. 

I miss my village sometimes.  I miss the idea of the village.  I wish my kids had that same type of village.  I don’t know if the world is set up that way anymore, but I wish it were.  The village gives you character.  It gives you a sense of community.  It gives you the ability to care about others, and it shows you that there are people who care about you.  I’m sure there are other ways to get those things, but I have to believe that the village was somehow important.  

Like Mr. Canan, many of the people in my village are gone now, but they are certainly not forgotten.   At any rate, this one goes out to my village.  To the Davis, the Reeses, the Hannahs, the Defillipos, the Monsours, the Danczyks, the Musolinos, and the rest of my village,  I sure do appreciate you.