On a map, a neighborhood is often a name printed on top of a grid of streets and two-dimensional rectangular blocks. It is a place, a geographical location. At the same time, a neighborhood is defined by more than a set of letters and numbers: population, area, latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates. The diverse people, architecture, and the pace of the roads all contribute to part of the answer to the question, ‘Where do you live?’
Neighborhoods are dynamic entities. Ask a family that has lived in the same neighborhood for two or three generations what it was like when the parents or grandparents grew up, and someone can probably tell you about the small farm lot that sprawled towards the road before the new strip mall emerged, steel beams and drywall sprouting from seeds of commercial ideas rather than seeds of the botanic variety. Or the loss of the corner shop, its white stucco walls there one day and gone the next, exposing the naked, steaming asphalt underneath. Events like this can reflect historical shifts, such as when groups of people come or leave, or the quiet, tired conclusion to a family drama. Collectively, these changes influence the physical and social landscape, shaping the impression a newcomer gets when he or she arrives in the neighborhood for the first time.
The age of a neighborhood can be understood, at least superficially, from the architecture of its buildings. Layers of brick, alternating between sepia and crimson tones, can be centuries old, still displaying the stamps and logos of ages-old manufacturers and builders. In the age of weatherproofed, double-paned, and tinted glass windows, shutters still adorn the walls, where are more decorative and aesthetic than actually useful. Iron boot-scrapers may still stand obediently by the front door, a relic of days when detritus from horse, man, and everything in between would cover the streets. Sunlight spatters through the leaves of long-lived elm and chestnut trees, their trunks solid and gnarled with age. All these things and more lend distinctive character to the streets, residential and commercial alike.
Of course, a neighborhood without people is only a ghost town. The inhabitants of a neighborhood breathe conversation, emotion, and history into the space. In the past, Beacon Hill has accommodated figures of particular note, from writers, like Louisa May Alcott and Robert Frost, to painters, like John Singleton Copley, to senators and government leaders, like John Hancock. Such residents established Beacon Hill as the seat of Boston’s aristocracy in the 18th and 19th centuries, and the image of stately wealth persists today.
That is not to say that only the rich and powerful have shaped this neighborhood’s story. On weekend mornings, Beacon Hill buzzes lazily as locals, students from nearby universities, and tourists wander the streets to enjoy the coffee, pastries, and brunch menus of their favorite cafes and shops. The businesses along the main street, including antique stores and artisan chocolate shops, open a few hours later. Dogs on leashes step out for a walk, while the more athletic tackle the cobblestoned, hilly sidewalks at a faster pace. Acquaintances linger and converse near the stairs that lead up or down to almost every row house door, beside the quintessential window boxes that yield lush greenery above red brick.
One interesting aspect of a neighborhood is its boundaries. Where does it end, and another one begin?
Sometimes, the line is sharp and sudden; on one side of the street are buildings of one neighborhood, and directly facing them, split off by lane markers and cars, are buildings of a very different neighborhood and accommodating a very different crowd. Other times, two neighborhoods bleed into one another like two wet brush strokes of watercolor, intermingling until no one is quite sure whether you’ve left one neighborhood and entered another one. Some neighborhoods have funny shapes, and rather than four or five straight lines defining their geographical locations in space, you have miniature peninsulas and pockets that reach towards (or pull away from) their surroundings.
In the scope of big cities and colossal continents, why does it matter which neighborhood we hail from or live in? There is a sense of familiarity and community—conscious or unconscious—because a neighborhood contains the people that we interact with most often. Because of this, the atmosphere in a neighborhood shapes who we are. A neighborhood defines many of the experiences and memories of everyday life, no matter how mundane and ordinary.