The perils of progress

I spent the majority of my childhood living a stone’s throw from 34th and Emerson. For the uninitiated, that area is one of the myriad Indianapolis enclaves that are usually referred to, without malice aforethought, as “the inner city”. The area is sometimes referred to, somewhat more benignly, as “the near east side”. It is also referred to, more pejoratively, as “the hood”. In the 1970s and 80s, the families who populated my stomping grounds generally fell along a socioeconomic spectrum ranging from working class to upper middle class. (I would note that the meanings of those terms are far from universal or static; they shift based on a variety of factors.) The majority of residents were happy and more or less self-sufficient, despite the general dearth of very high-paying and amenities that suburbanites take for granted. Most homes and yards were well-kempt. My neighborhood, as well as the contiguous ones, were nearly all-Black. However, on my street, an elderly white couple lived immediately next door. An elderly white woman lived on the other side of their home. Another elderly white woman lived two or three doors down from that woman. While I had limited interactions with these individuals, I...