Three weeks ago, I fell in love.

The object of my affection? An old brick quadplex on Cooper with hardwood floors, french doors and the most adorable little nooks and crannies and under-the-stairs closets and more closets and oh my god, THE CLOSETS.

I put down the deposit and filled out the application after spending 10 minutes in the house, on a bright, crisp Sunday that felt like something out of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Birds were chirping, the neighbors were smiling and pushing perfect little babies in perfect little baby buggies and I was securing the apartment of my dreams. Somewhere, people were probably even singing randomly in unison in large groups. It was just that kind of day.

Inevitably, though, when I returned to the place one week later with my parents to sign the lease and start the very slow process of moving in all my stuff — which seemed to be mostly books and records, neither of which are particularly handy for sitting on or eating at — there were a few unseemly looking folks drinking tall-boys out of paper bags hanging out on the sidewalk just feet from my front door.

In the grand tradition of Murphy’s Law, I wasn’t at all surprised that any and all unseemliness would wait to present itself until my parents, who are apt to worry about said unseemliness, arrive to see the place for the first time.

My apartment search had been mired by moments like this on more than one occasion. Picture me on Craigslist or flipping through The Flyer, finding a place that sounds just TOO good to be true, reading out all the wonderful specs to my parents, noting the especially amazing parts (dishwashers! washers and dryers!) and then, finally, reading the address. No sooner does the street and house number escape my lips than my dad, a life-long Memphian who knows the city arguably even better than the back of his own hand, says definitively: Nope. Not there.

And I get it. No city is immune from crime — I think some Memphians are under the very misguided impression that we are an anomaly in that department — and it’s important to be wise, take precautions and choose to stay away from certain areas that are less safe than others. But I was frustrated in my search that so many places seemed off-limits to me, and I was frustrated on Nov. 1 when I saw the happy drunks on the street and knew that I’d be hearing about it from my folks.

When I was a kid growing up in the Evergreen District, we were robbed on more than one occasion. And I always remind my parents that they raised me to be a responsible, savvy, safe person — don’t act stupid and it’s likely that bad things won’t happen to you. But the next time I tell someone where I live and get a sidelong glance and a warning to “be careful,” I’m going to go bananas.

No matter where I chose to live, even if it were down the street from my folks in Bartlett, I would be careful. That’s a given. But what I wouldn’t do is choose not to live in Cooper Young because crime happens there. I love my neighborhood, and I’m so in love with being able to call it MY neighborhood. And with this in mind, I have to ask myself — what are we as a community doing to combat crime? What are we doing to make our beloved neighborhoods safer? Complaining about it, being nervous, being scared, those things are not solutions. But what are the solutions?

I want to hear from you — are you involved in neighborhood watch organizations? Do you feel a responsibility to keep your community safe? And if you don’t, whose responsibility IS it?

Midtown Getting Involved, Memphis Living