My apartment is adorable. I love the old hardwood floors, my cute furniture, and the most darling of window seats that would make even the stodgiest of disapproving suburbanites start humming along to “Bohemian Like You”.
Unfortunately, in downtown Hamilton, young people reportedly enjoying access to “affordable housing” and “vibrant lifestyles” (See previous blog by Meg) also have to share it with a myriad of characters.
You think that being a part of the most accepting generation, as Sesame Street sensitive as I thought I was, I wouldn’t mind sharing a living space with people I a. don’t know b. don’t like c. don’t want to know?
It doesn’t.
As ashamed as I am to admit it…. I have become a crotchety tenant who hates her neighbours.
One thing my generation’s upbringing didn’t prepare us for was being too close for comfort.
When I was in school, if there was a student who was too loud, restless, obnoxious, or grumpy they would be removed from the classroom by the teacher. The head of the class would then proceed to spend the next twenty minutes or so lecturing them about being quiet, polite, and in general, neighbourly, so we could all learn together.
Maybe I’m just a prissy pants who wants hall monitors back on patrol so I don’t have to deal with the fact that I have neighbours who are driving me up the wall.
But what is it about sharing a home with others in clearly defined units that gives me the hebejebes?
Does this shift toward valuing peace, quiet, and a sense of security confirm the onset of full blown stereotypically “adult” attitudes? Or is it a regression backwards to before Big Bird taught me that living with only other birds wasn’t the answer, and that it was all the characters on Sesame Street that made his life filled with happiness?
Apart from all the other unit’s loud noise, smells, and drunkenness, perhaps its because I now recognize something in myself that I didn’t know of and wish wasn’t there.
