When I first moved into this quiet little neighborhood with PJ , I thought I was signing up for peace, good landscaping, and maybe the occasional friendly wave from a neighbor. What I didn’t realize was that the real entertainment would be happening right on my phone inside our homeowners association group chat.
As one of the few Black families and one of the only lesbians families in a predominantly white home association, life here is never short of excitement . One day the group chat is buzzing with microaggressions, passive aggressive comments, aggressive tones, or long-winded political rants. The next day, those same voices are asking who’s bringing chili to the block party or who wants to join the gardening committee. The flip between passive aggressiveness and neighborly small talk is so sharp it sometimes feels like whiplash.
Coming from New York, I find it all pretty comical. In the city, we were labeled “unfriendly,” yet somehow we managed to keep it real and say what we mean. Here, people will type whole dissertations in the chat, but when you run into them at the mailbox, they can barely make eye contact….let alone say hello. The culture shock was real.
Don’t get me wrong—there are a handful of neighbors I genuinely connect with. I truly like these neighbors! We traded numbers, we check in, and we actually speak when we see each other. But outside of that small circle, it’s a mix of polite silence in person and plenty of “courage” behind the keyboard. And I’ll admit, sometimes I jump in and stir the pot. Other times I just sit back with my drink and watch the shenanigans unfold like it’s prime-time reality TV.
That’s where this blog category comes in. “Micro-Aggressions and Margaritas” is where I’ll be unpacking these moments—sometimes heavy, sometimes hilarious, but always honest. Because living in this neighborhood as a Black, queer family means navigating not just lawns and HOA rules, but also the invisible lines of race, identity, and belonging.
So grab your drink of choice and pull up a chair. This is my unfiltered take on what it’s like to live behind the white picket fence ( actually my fence is black lol)—where inclusion is talked about more than it’s lived, where smiles don’t always match the tone of the words, and where the block party can get just as messy as the politics…. and I’m going to keep it real we never attended the block party but we are thinking about it for this year…. it’s a potluck!
Welcome to my neighborhood.
