I was very young when my father laid the pine wood strips over the plywood board to create our front room floor. He placed squares of St. Augustine grass on the front and rear lawns and sent me to water them every day until the patches met like a soft green carpet. We dug gardens along the fences and even had a corral for a short time with a pet donkey about the size of a Great Dane. Later, my father replaced the donkey’s stall with a cinderblock shed. 

When we updated the house, extended relatives and friends came to do the framing and subfloor for the enlarged kitchen and bathrooms. The men started the work after they placed a leafy sprig upright in the peak of the roof and the local priest said a prayer. A pot of red beans and rice and a cooler of beer awaited the workers in the backyard at the end of the day. 

By now, I’ve hosted four generations of these people on our little bit of land. My 7th Ward home remains a place of memories and shelter. 

Recently, however, I came home and looked into the backyard to find that my new neighbors had torn down the fences that my family built. In two different places at two different times, new homebuyers made these decisions without notifying me. On one side, a real estate developer took down the chain link fence on the property line, pulling up the posts and cement that held them and throwing the debris onto our lawn. The second time, a new neighbor simply took down the cinderblock fence adjacent to the shed, opening his yard to mine. He argued that he wanted wood for aesthetic reasons. 

I wanted to tell him that the beauty of a family home is not only the way it appears from the outside. The value lies much deeper.      

He would never know from looking at the exterior of our home that it is a barge house. In the 19th century, builders recycled cheap wood from flatboats that floated goods down the Mississippi River and made Creole cottages. The 12-inch-wide boards stand upright, framing our rooms like the sides of a box. Each entire wall is connected to the sill and the ceiling. My family huddled together inside this frame when Hurricane Betsey howled outdoors and debris clattered against the cypress shutters. We prayed in the candlelight that the ancient materials and building wisdom of generations would protect us through the storm. The house held and the floors stayed dry above Betsy and, again, during Katrina. 

The homes in the 7th Ward look small, and maybe even poor, to suburban incomers.  True, the lots are close together. Even a quiet voice carries across the alley. Still, as a result, we know each other well and we value courtesy. We greet one another at first sight. We ask about parents’ health and children’s growth through the chain link fences. My mother distributed fruit and bay leaves from the trees in our yard from one corner to the next. After she passed and my dad lived alone, neighbors sat with him on the porch in the evenings. Some brought dinners. When he fell one night with only my small daughter as company, she appealed to a teenager next door. He came over and lifted my father onto a chair. Most of us on this block have been called to assist one another at life’s most basic moments. Those times reside inside our hearts, not on property records.

Whenever someone remarks that the selling prices in my neighborhood have risen, I think of the 1980s, when a bullet hit a porch beam while my parents were at the local church’s revival. People left these blocks because of the danger. The outskirts were “nicer,” they said. My father remained. “Stay and make this nice,” he told me. I know that he meant that we should stay and model more humane ways of living. He didn’t mean increase the market value of the house. 

Still, our home gained financial worth as we mowed and gardened, painted and washed, repaired and renewed. And as the house appreciated, we appreciated it. We dusted the old piano then sat down to play songs. We took down the curtains, washed and dried them and let the baby hide in the warm linens. We chased the dog across the St. Augustine grass in the backyard and played ball games there from the 1950s to the 2020s until we came home two times to find the fences dismantled anonymously like bruises on the body of our good intentions. 

I want my new neighbor to know that a fence is not just a fence. He can easily replace that barrier. He will need to. He should also understand that our lives create the aesthetic qualities of our homes. So, before he acts, he should ask. Before he dismantles, he should feel. And before he decides to improve our block, he should see the beauty in us.

Most Read Stories

Louisiana Senate slams door on reconsidering older split-jury convictions Louisiana Senate slams door on reconsidering older split-jury convictions 
10 key facts about the mighty Mississippi River, one of the nation’s most important waterways10 key facts about the mighty Mississippi River, one of the nation’s most important waterways
Daughter of woman killed in hit ordered by NOPD officer holds final memorialDaughter of woman killed in hit ordered by NOPD officer holds final memorial
Prosecutors ask appeals court to reinstate death sentence for Jimmie Duncan

Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.

Creative Commons License

Fatima Shaik is the author of seven books including "Economy Hall: The Hidden History of a Free Black Brotherhood," the Louisiana Endowment for the Humanities 2022 Book of the Year. She is a native of...