C. Mallor

“I’m interested in hearing about your experience,” my neighbor said to me, after I shared a little bit about where I used to work and what I used to do there. My neighbor, the one whose verbosity makes me cringe. The one who stops me on my way out and fills my space with mindless ramblings, meaningless details of uninteresting stories.

I used to like her more. I used to enjoy our impromptu chats. I used to find her stories interesting. And then one day she told me about a crime that had occurred, and that she believed the perpetrator must have been an immigrant. She said lots of other awful things about immigrants that I will not repeat here, or anywhere, ever. Her tone as she spoke was just as it would be if she were commenting on the weather or other trivial matters of the day. I stared back at her dumbfounded, and finally spoke a weak defense to make sure at the very least she knew I did not agree.

As neighbors we continue to chat when we pass each other on the street, but now I just say hello, smile, and nod, and inwardly look forward to the end of the exchange. This morning she wished me a Merry Christmas and then started on and on about something or other. As I listeneed I realized it was more than something or other. She was sharing her self with me, and therefore I was moved to share my self also. She was a better listener than I’d remembered. Conversation with her was more enjoyable than I’d let myself believe.

Does it make me weak that I can look past her racism? Does it make me a bad judge of character? She wished me a Merry Christmas and I wished her one too. She told me some stories and I told her some too. It was a nice neighborly exchange. And somehow it was much more than that too.