by Estela Dela Fuente

Created on: April 15, 2008

For most of my adult life, I have lived in neighborhoods where I was the only one of my race. I am Hispanic, female, well-educated, and my English is accent free. As an attorney in Dallas, Texas, I have been able to command impressive earnings and buy homes in what are otherwise all-white neighborhoods. I cannot remember a single instance when anyone in the neighborhood has come to introduce themselves to me or to welcome me. Sure, people would wave if I happened to drive by, or say hello if I walked past them on the sidewalk, but that was the extent of my interaction with them. By hiring a professional lawn service, I kept my yard beautifully groomed and landscaped; home repairs were performed promptly, and I never had loud or late parties. Still, the neighbors stayed away. Was it because I was single? Because I was childless? Because I am Hispanic? How could I know? That's not a question that will get you an honest answer from most people you ask.

About ten years ago I married a Hispanic man. His family background and upbringing are essentially like mine; we both had parents whose English and education was limited and we grew up poor. We lived in all-Hispanic neighborhoods called barrios, and our neighborhood schools were almost entirely Hispanic, although all the teachers were white, Anglo-Saxon, and presumably protestant. Although he did not finish high school, my husband eventually became an aircraft mechanic working for the aviation division of a large multinational corporation. His pay enabled him to buy a nice home in a Dallas suburb that had a mix of white, Hispanics, and Asians.

When we married he sold his home and moved into mine. He loves gardening and sees yard work as part of his domain. It was then that I noticed a funny thing happening. While he mowed or watered the grass, weeded the flowerbeds, or spread fertilizer, he often engaged in conversation with other men working in their yards. And sometimes one or another of these men would come over and talk to him; sometimes my husband would go over and talk to them about the latest weed-killer or infestation of garden pests.

He learned more about our neighbors in a few months than I had in the years that I lived there. Still, there was no social interaction between us; no invitations to their homes, no invitations to cookouts or Super Bowl parties. One really hot August afternoon, our house caught on fire. My brother and his wife were visiting, and all four of us stood on the driveway as the firemen

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