Share this:

For all my parents’ faults (and goodness knows, their faults are many), there is at least one good thing they did for us: they always lived in a good neighborhood. We lived in Chicago…but in the ‘burbs. We lived in Boston…but in the ‘burbs. And when we moved down South…well, there are no ‘burbs…but we lived in a good neighborhood. There were doctors, lawyers, business owners, and even a judge in our neighborhood.

Of course, they all owned their homes with their manicured lawns and…(of all things) maids and housekeepers (excuse me, what? Maid??). I was friends with the kids who grew up in those homes. It was only natural, given I lived right down the street or around the corner from them. We could walk to school together…and home. We could meet up after school. And we did.

But we rented. Now, kids don’t know from owner or renter. And it doesn’t much matter. Nor is this the point of this particular story.

The point is that although we were not wealthy…and sometimes even barely middle class…my parents kept us in good neighborhoods. Kudos to them (hold the sarcasm–this time).

When I went to college, I lived in the dorms for 2 years (Yes, I also lived in my car for three months between Freshman and Sophomore years, but…). And then, my friends and I moved into a nice little rented house in a nice little neighborhood. I mean, other than Snowmagedden (a post for another day perhaps), life at the NF house was pretty quiet (Ok–quiet may not be the word…we partied hard, but nothing really bad ever happened).

After college, prior to full-time employment, 6 (maybe?) of us girls lived in a rented house in an affluent part of town (affluent as in they accused us of running a brothel because we had too many women in one house, too may cars in the drive. Side note: we made cookies and introduced ourselves to no avail. They sent authorities to our house.).

And then…I got my full time position and moved to A-Town. My friend Heather came with me pre-move to scope out apartments. At the first complex, the manager took one look at us and told me I was too good for the complex (not a saleswoman, this one) and suggested we check out the Country Club apartments ( as we were leaving, some Hispanic men were burning a mattress in the parking lot, so turns out not-a-saleswoman was right). So we headed to the Country Club. Now, everywhere else I have lived has had a country club. And usually it’s nice–as are the surrounding apartments and houses. Not in A-Town. We ran from that place because it was so scary.

Eventually, we wound up at a lovely little place called Park Place (like on Monopoly, y’all!). The manager was nice. The pool and barbecue area looked nice. It had a little gym. The apartment itself was cute and clean. Everything seemed good.

Later, I moved in. And at first, everything seemed great.

And then (there’s always an “And then,” no?)…

Someone tried to sell me “X” in the parking lot (I later had to ask someone what X stands for). And then there was the guy beating his girlfriend right out in the open. Oh…and the crack dealers who lived 1 building over to the left (raided!), the sex offender in the next building to the right, the guy who faked cancer to scam money from unsuspecting relatives, and the kid who begged me for cereal every couple of days because his junkie mom was passed out on the couch (and the 52 times I called DSS). And that’s just the list I came up with off the top of my head in 3 seconds.

All of this brings me to Halloween. I used to like Halloween. Dressing up and all is super fun. Trick-or-treating is fun. What’s not to love?

Nothing…as long as you live in a good neighborhood. But when you live in the ghetto, amongst junkies, drug dealers, etc., Halloween is no longer fun. Halloween is scary. The first year in my apartment, I was all decked out and ready to give out treats for Halloween. The first hour or so was fine. Then, it got dark. I was always a “leave the light on” kinda gal, so I did leave the light on…and my bowl of candy at the door.

And a knock came at the door. I answered. And three rather large young men (much taller than your truly) stood there in my doorway. No costumes. One said, “You gonna give me some candy?” I did. And then I shot not, one of those little thugs, as they were leaving flashed signs and said, “Westside, Do or die!” I didn’t even know what that meant. But I found out.

In year 2 at the apartment, I got several knocks on the door, opened the door, and found no one there…or someone quickly running away. My car got egged (as did multiple others). A girl from a few doors down came running up to my door screaming, and I let her in, just barely shutting the door on three teenage boys right behind her. They banged incessantly on the door while my Doberman barked relentlessly. I yelled at them through the door that I would kick their asses. They went away for awhile.

Side note: when I walked my dog at night, I would randomly shout out at intervals, “I have a Doberman and Mace, and I’m not afraid to use them!” I had a rep to uphold and all.

I tell you this to explain why I stopped participating in trick-or-treating. My light went off. I stopped buying candy. Because I was afraid. Because I didn’t want some newbie gang member sticking me for a Hershey bar.

I have since moved out and bought my own house…in a nice neighborhood. A cop (member of the Gang and Drug Task Force even) lives 2 doors down. With the exception of that one sociopathic kid next door, all the kids are really nice. The parents are nice. The neighborhood is quiet. While I am fairly certain (thanks to the neighborhood kids reporting it) that the guy in the rental diagonal from me smokes pot, I am equally certain no drug dealers live here. And I am super close to the neighborhood schools…so…no sex offenders! I feel reasonably safe and secure.

But I am not over my apartment experience. I still don’t want to play hostess to trick-or-treaters. Plus, the Doberman doesn’t love them (or anyone who gets anywhere near my house. Her sidekick, who never experienced apartment life, follows in her footsteps.

Besides, all the kids today either go to the mall, the groceries, or the churches to do their trick-or-treating. Which is sad. But I get it. I wouldn’t want my kids going door-to-door anymore than I want to leave my single female self open to having strangers knock on my door on a day when I feel obligated to answer.

Happy Halloween indeed.