Conversations With My Trump-Supporting Neighbor

I’m new to this neighborhood. My boyfriend is not. And, for the most part, he knows the neighbors on both sides and the ones across the street. Well, one of ’em ‘cross the street, during the election period, had a Trump 2020 flag in the yard. As a joke, I’d refer to him as Trump.

“Would you stop saying that?” my boyfriend would say. “His name is Kirk.”

I stuck to my nickname until the flag came down. It was a joke that I only shared inside of my home, and while I don’t dislike anyone for their political associations, I do believe there’s a difference between folk who raised red flags during the 2020 election and those whose red flags are STILL up years later. Kirk’s came down soon as the election was over.

Kirk was retired. Had moved down south from New York after retiring. Spent most of his days chilling in his garage, soaking up some shaded sun, and walking his dog about three times a day. While going for my jogs or walks around the neighborhood, we’d wave and keep going.

Then I stopped seeing him.

After a few months, I saw him outside and he’d lost a noticeable amount of weight. My boyfriend shared that he’d been hospitalized due to cancer. Was in my office working one day and saw him through the window and I wanted to throw some clothes on and run outside to catch up with him. What I’d say? I had no clue. But I felt like I needed to.

I hit up my friend and former classmate, Brandi Benson, and shared my dilemma. She’s a cancer survivor, advocate, and author. Her suggestion: “Do it! Dealing with cancer can be incredibly lonely! He’ll appreciate it more than you know.” So I did it. The next time I saw him through the window, I hopped up, ran outside, and caught up with him.

“Hey, I live across the street from you,” I said.

“Oh, hi.”

“I ain’t seen you in a while and heard that you just got out of the hospital.”

He explained what was going on, then asked what I did for a living. He was very curious about my writing career and thought that I should start writing screenplays, so that pretty much dominated our first conversation. I joined him the next day and the next day too. Ongoing conversations included what he did for a living before retiring. He told me about his children and how he wanted to move back to Florida. How the neighborhood and the city has changed over the years. We even talked about politics—and agreed on a lot of subjects!

Then I stopped seeing him again.

When he resurfaced, he was even smaller. He didn’t have his dog this time and he was using a walker. Midway into our conversation, his walkie talkie went off. His wife was (lovingly) fussing at him for not telling her that he was leaving the house. “Are you afraid?” I asked him. About nine years prior, I’d asked my stepfather, who was losing weight due to cancer, the same question. Both of their responses were “Sometimes.”

The next time I caught up with Kirk, we weren’t walking. We were in his garage. He’d been hospitalized again and the situation was getting worse. “The doctors believe that if I wasn’t so active before all of this, I probably wouldn’t have survived my surgeries.” By this point, he was on a feeding tube. And it broke my heart when he said he’d kill to have a cheeseburger. He just missed chewing his food.

That was my last time seeing him.

He passed away on March 2nd. I’m so glad I took a chance of looking weird af, because I learned so much from just taking my behind across the street. That’s the only way to learn that we’re really more alike than we are different. And I’m sure EVERY neighbor ain’t as approachable, but it’s worth the shot (at least it is to me). In Kirk’s honor, I plan to get more sun everyday. To stay active. To keep my mind open. And to do my best to remember (and honor) what it means to be someone’s neighbor.

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