Black Lives Matter Zine

Welcome to the Neighborhood Lisa Braxton

They stepped out of front doors, proceeded down spacious brick pathways to the foot of their manicured lawns, and with the precision of a military unit, pivoted to face us. All of them were white—men and women—homeowners in a leafy enclave in Fairfield County Connecticut suburbia anchored by raised ranches, Dutch Colonials, and split-level homes. All eyes were on us—my mother, father, sister and me— as the realtor led us down the front steps of a well-appointed three-bedroom, three-bathroom house with a two-car garage that she’d just shown us. It was around 1969. I was 8 or 9 years old at the time. My dad was carrying my sister, who was a toddler. I remember my parents’ stride toward our car slowed as they realized that we were under surveillance. The members of our “audience,” consisting of about a dozen people on both sides of the street, were expressionless, motionless, arms hanging at their sides. Their body language was unreadable but their presence screamed volumes. I don’t recall what the realtor said to my parents as she took in the scene, but I remember that she was flustered, apologetic, and tripped over her words. It was a moment that she had apparently not anticipated—the visceral reaction of white residents at a black family being shown a house in their affluent neighborhood. At my age I didn’t think deeply about their demonstration, but I did find it odd that all of those adults were standing on their front lawns, their eyes on us. As my father put our car into gear, I scooted to the edge of my seat in the back to eavesdrop on my parents’ conversation as I often did when we were on car rides. My mother leaned toward my father, and in a hushed tone said, “They don’t want us living here.” After a moment, he gave a slight nod and said just as quietly, “I know.” I slid back on my seat, my eavesdropping undetected. 6