What My Neighbors’ Too-Loud Music Taught Me About Community
I am surrounded by historically Black churches. Even though I hold no spiritual beliefs myself, it’s one of the things I love about my neighborhood. And like when I say surrounded, I mean it. I live in a formerly redlined, currently (hyper)gentrifying neighborhood. Even when folks have been displaced by rent hikes, they still come into the neighborhood for church.
One church band in particular has their band practice at very random times. As in, any time of the day or night. God love 'em, I do NOT enjoy this music practice. I admit this makes me an absolute hater but when they’re just messing around and not playing a song it like a cross between a revival meeting and circus. IN MY HOUSE. I just - y’all, I can’t.
While the style and volume don’t appeal to me, I can’t actually be mad because I can see it's a bunch of older Black men jamming out together. This is so good and pure and beautiful.
I understand the power of music in helping people regulate their nervous systems. I understand that every day a Black man is alive in this country is a miracle. So the fact that I don't personally enjoy their tunes is usually irrelevant.
But one too-warm spring evening, just as my kids had finished meditating and were crawling into bed, band practice at the church started and it was LOUD. They had the music turned up to 11, the doors were open, and they started their jam sesh just before 9 pm. Once again, it sounded like their music was coming from inside my house, even with every single window closed.
My kids unsurprisingly were shocked by the noise as well. I ran downstairs and got them a box fan and then I put nature sounds on my phone at nearly full volume before it was just tolerable enough to sleep.
After I got them settled, I came back to do the dishes and I have gotta be honest, I was really struggling. It was fking loud.
Truthfully, it didn’t even occur to me to call the police (it’s a church FFS), but it absolutely became a moment where I was forced to reckon with my own values. I had to consciously remember my personal commitment to cheering for other people's joy. Even if I don't get it. Even when it’s just way too fucking loud. Especially when that joy is Black.
It took some time, but I was able to collect my nervous system and my angry thoughts, and was able to have a moment where I was grateful that these brothers were able to just jam out for an hour. It taught me a lesson about how much of our suffering is the result of self-serving framing, not the circumstances we find ourselves in. If someone else’s joy is causing my suffering, I’m probably doing it wrong.
This is one of the realities of living in community, of living in proximity. When we’re close to one another, we will get annoyed. Irritated. Our kids won’t be able to sleep as easily. In a society where every inconvenience is treated as an assault, we must learn to create space and cultivate grace for others. Intentionally. It won’t happen otherwise.
I’m actively grateful for every day that every Black person survives in this country. That is a gift. Any time a Black person gets to experience joy in this country, that is precious, that is beautiful, that is sacred. I could have chosen to be irritated at those men. I would have been perfectly within my rights to shout at them to "Bro, turn it down, my kids are tryna sleep!" But I didn't. I changed myself. I changed my own orientation toward their behavior. And that was all it took to alleviate my suffering. (Well, that and the white noise app 😜)
Hey there! I’m Tori. I’m a mom, a student, a writer, and educator. I’d love it if you would share this piece with your friends, families, colleagues, anti-racist groups, and co-conspirators. If you’re able, and you find my writing valuable, it means a lot to me if you are able to financially support my work on Patreon. Capitalism won’t save us but in the meantime we gotta pay the bills. :)
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