Nashville: The Mood (Part 2)

by Donald H. Carpenter

  George Brigador drove through the streets of a quiet neighborhood in south Nashville, some five miles south of downtown. It was an older neighborhood, one that had been predominantly white years before, but which over the years had transitioned into a thoroughly mixed neighborhood; every race and ethnicity in Nashville was represented in it. Brigador, a real estate agent, had purchased and sold homes in the general area, including this particular neighborhood, for a span of almost fifty years. Prior to that, his father had done the same thing. The two of them bought and sold homes for their own purposes, but they had also run, or been associated with, various real estate companies that handled those transactions for others as well.

  Like many older native Nashvillians, Brigador had very mixed feelings about how portions of the city had transitioned. His first reaction, years before, had been wariness, then a sort of confirmation of his wariness, then a sort of general disgust. Then, however, his feelings had slowly begun to change. In the first decade or so, he had seen the neighborhoods transition seemingly in a downward manner. People didn’t keep up their yards or homes as well as the prior residents who had moved out. People worked on their cars more in their driveways and yards, and the neighborhood had an aging, run-down look to it.

  Then, almost imperceptibly, changes had set in, in a more positive manner. Brigador wasn’t exactly sure when he had even first noticed it, but one day about ten years ago, he had paused and looked back, and had noticed the positive changes. When he thought about it, he couldn’t remember when they had begun, and it kind of frustrated him that he had missed it until suddenly it had appeared before him. It still wasn’t the vibrant, new neighborhood he had known when it was first built in the late 1950s, but it was very lived-in, very tree-lined, the kind of dense neighborhoods with smaller homes and yards that they didn’t seem to build anymore.

  Major rainstorms had cleared out two weeks before, and a long string of mostly sunny days had set in. The temperature had warmed up considerably, but the humidity had stayed relatively low, so it was perfect for getting outside and doing things: yardwork, washing the car, home repairs, or simply sitting out on the patio. As Brigador made his way slowly down the streets, looking to the right or left, he saw the various faces of the neighborhood—different colors, different facial features, different hair colors and styles. Most of them, of course, were darker than the faces he had grown up with; there were very few northern European immigrants in an old neighborhood like this. People were there from a number of countries in Latin America, but mostly Mexico and Guatemala, from countries in the Middle East, including many from Iraq, but also some from Syria, Egypt, and Iran. There were some from India and Pakistan, and a number from Laos and Vietnam. There were a few African immigrants, and some African Americans, as well.

  Looking at the different faces, Brigador thought of a subject that had crossed his mind more than once over the past decade or more. As he had begun to accept the sea of changing, ever-darker faces, he realized that he still had a certain prejudice toward African Americans that was still in a category of its own. It didn’t really impact anything he did, or how he treated anyone, as far as he could tell, but there was a reluctance to engage, at least to a degree, and he knew it well. He tried to fight against it, but he had always excused it on the grounds that not every particular group could rise to the same level of other groups, and that it was natural for one group to be at the bottom rung of the ladder, and one group at the top. He suspected his lingering negativity, however great or small, had to do with his impression of how hard a person or group worked, their philosophy of saving money or spending it, and other things that might set one group apart from another.

  He had wondered, also, if it had anything to do with the reaction African Americans had to him. At times, it seemed as if more of them than not had a cool reaction to him, whenever he approached, for example. There were some who were friendly, and he could count on it, but many others who seemed distant, or even hostile. But as soon as he thought about that, he had to admit that that same pattern manifested itself across each group, if perhaps in differing percentages. After analyzing the situation at some length each time, he had always drawn a blank as far as some ultimate conclusion.

  Eventually, he reached the house he was going to, and he pulled his car into the driveway behind a car already parked there. It was a home he was selling for a couple from India who were moving to a bigger, newer house in a wealthier section of town. The husband was a part-owner of a company that owned and managed hotel properties, and the family had done very well during the last decade. They lived frugally, but Brigador had noticed how the cars they purchased had gradually increased in quality and price, and how certain items around the house had become more luxurious. Now, they were moving to a better home, or at least a more expensive one.

  He took a For Sale-sign out of the trunk of his car and began to drive it into a spot at the front of the lawn, near the street. He heard the front door to the house open, and when he looked around, he saw the Indian woman standing there, looking at him. She waved, but didn’t say anything. He smiled, waved back at her, and continued working.

  As Brigador pounded the stake into the ground, he slowly became aware of an argument taking place in a yard across the street, and a few doors down. He heard the raised voices, but didn’t pay too much attention until the level seemed to escalate. He straightened up, turned and looked to his right, and saw two men arguing on the front lawn of a white house at the beginning of the next block. He could tell from a distance that both men were brownish in color, but he couldn’t tell the ethnicity. He caught a few phrases in Spanish, but he couldn’t determine who was speaking them, and whether the other man was speaking the same language, although to his ear, it sounded like two different languages.

  He watched the two men arguing for a few minutes, and he thought that a real fistfight, or worse, was going to break out at any moment. One man began to gesture wildly, hostilely, and the other man, after refraining for half a minute or so, began to respond in kind. The two men moved closer together, and Brigador thought for a moment of calling the police, preemptively, instead of waiting for something bad to occur. Then, as suddenly as it had seemed to begin, it ended, with the man closest to the street making an obscene gesture and turning to walk quickly away. He crossed the street and made his way back to his own home, without looking back.

  Brigador sensed a presence, and turned to find the Indian woman standing just behind him. He gestured to the man still standing in his front yard. “What’s that all about?”

  “They’ve been going at it for a few days,” the Indian woman said. “The man over there was upset that the man across the street threw a party the other night and made a lot of noise.”

  Brigador nodded, and walked back to his car, shutting his trunk. “Have they been upset with each other before?”

  “Oh, yes. They’ve had several arguments. The Mexican man throws a lot of big parties where they watch football games. And a lot of them drink a lot of beer and leave their bottles in the street…And the other man has argued with him before about that.”

  “Where’s the other man from?”

  “I’m not sure. Iraq, maybe…Maybe Iran.”

  Brigador walked back over toward her. “So are you going to be sorry to be leaving us behind here?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, not at all. I like the new neighborhood a lot better. I’ll be glad to get there, to get moved out of here.”

  “Why is that?”

  She grimaced before beginning to talk. “It’s changed a lot here. You’ve seen it change, too. A lot of people moving in who have no respect for anyone. I’d rather my children be with a different group of people.”