The old red Radio Flyer wagon was prepared to take off. Its three elementary school passengers were ready, their pink helmets buckled and their legs sticking out of the sides in order to fit three kids in a wagon meant for two. Its pilot, seventh-grade Karis, was ready too, her feet pushing off the asphalt from her skateboard and her hand tightly gripping the wagon’s handle to begin the descent down the hill.

Most of my childhood from elementary to middle school was spent in adventures like this: riding up and down my street’s hill on bikes, skateboards, wagons, and hoverboards with my neighbors. Every day after school, one of my neighbors would knock on our door, and we would spend the rest of the day outside until our parents called us home for dinner. 

Protected from cars by a green plastic man holding a red flag, we would go down the hill as fast as we could on hoverboards that loudly beeped at us to slow down. After checking for pedestrians, we would fit two people on the skateboard, riding up and down the bumps of the driveways while tightly holding on to stay balanced. And when it was too hot to play outside, we went down the street to my neighbor’s house, making ugly monstrous fish out of Perler beads on her dining table and playing Mario Kart on their Nintendo Switch.

When my parents moved away from their families to San Diego before I was born, they were welcomed and treated like family by the neighborhood. The neighbors helped my parents settle into their new house, and according to my mom, made her feel less lonely. As I’ve grown up and spent time with many of these same neighbors, they’ve supported me and shown me the value of a close-knit community.

My next-door neighbors, whom my sister Myka and I call our “aunts,” have known us since we were babies. For as long as I can remember, for every birthday and major holiday, we would go to their house, bake and decorate cookies, and eat their famous mac and cheese. None of us are great at cookie decorating, but we have bonded over our shared love for baking and eating sweets. Even on days with no special occasions, we sometimes sat at their kitchen counter and chatted while drinking a cup of hibiscus tea. These small traditions brought us closer together, and if I’m ever in need of snacks and company, I know that they’re right next door. 

Even though we don’t bake cookies at every one of my neighbor’s houses, my family connects with the rest of the neighborhood in smaller ways. When they’re out of town, we take out the trash for them, and we can count on them to reciprocate. When I’m missing an ingredient for baking, I can always ask a neighbor for extra. When my mom bakes too much sourdough bread, she sends Myka and me to drop it off to someone, and in return, we often come back with a plate full of sweets. 

On the last day of school, my neighborhood has a tradition of throwing a block party in someone’s front yard, where we celebrate the beginning of summer and our friendship with lumpia, pizza, and watermelon. Fingers still sticky from the watermelon, we would take to the street, riding bikes and playing kickball until the sun sets and the parents finished packing up all the food. 

Although you won’t be able to catch all of us neighborhood kids flying down the hill at top speed anymore, we still try to find time to hang out with each other. Whether it’s playing volleyball in our front yards or simply chatting over a cup of tea, these interactions have made my neighborhood feel more like a home, creating memories that I will cherish forever.