Fall and Americans

The dusk is descending upon us in Portland at five o'clock, while the ever falling leaves flare out their colors and then fade away to brown, black and then get ground into nothing. I guess that is why they call it Fall, a season of stark change. But then again every season means change, we just don't always like the kind of change that occurs in the seasons. One time the Romanian son of the Romanian neighbor, stole a car from the African American/Asian family. So the story goes, later that week Luis saw the boy's head being beaten against the pavement. Silvia (my best friend and wife of Luis)once spied the little Romanian girl peeking in their mailbox that lines the road in front of the house. She then, being the sort to speak her mind, asked the girl in so many words to only check the mail box that belonged to her. Restlessness, a good word.
As I stood washing the dishes at my fiance's (Hans) house, the Romanian neighbor walked in front of the window, animatedly chatting on the phone, a few dishes later he walked back. This was only strange because he walked through the yard to do it and it felt like the window was the only thing separating us. His daughter played with the Chinese girl next door, whose parents are from Hong Kong. They often ride their scooters around the yard and into their respective driveways, a flash of yellow hair then a flash of black hair. Her dad gave us Bok Choy from his first harvest and first garden, motioning for Luis (Hans' housemate/friend) to take the vegetables for lack of the right words. He said we could use his fire wood, "forever." Which we've interpreted to mean, "whenever." Generosity, a good word.
No wonder, when we are all so cramped together. How can it be that there are five houses in this space where three houses should be? Two Chinese families to the left, front and back, and the African American/Asian and Romanian families to the right, front and back. In this house: two Mexican Americans, a third-gen. Norwegian, and sometimes, me who is a little mixed up ethnically. The back Chinese family were fighting with each other one night very loudly in Cantonese, and when the cops came, I saw the Romanian boy peek his head over the fence to see the what the commotion was about. Every weekend too, we hear the African American/Asian family do what seems like play fighting. Slightly drunk men yelling at each other, and escalating most weeks to some sort of threat of violence. It is usually just talk. Catharsis, a good word.
In this space where we fight and love, give, and sometimes take, it is both maddening and endearing at times. But, it is where we live, this place we call SE Portland, this place in Oregon, this space that is, for lack of a better word, America.