From the time we moved to North Carolina, my parents made sure we lived in neighborhoods that mirrored what television said was the American Dream.

In short, that meant that we lived in the suburbs.

When my grandmother moved in with us in North Raleigh, I realized that our so-called paradise had a few drawbacks. Unlike the neighborhoods my grandmother was used to in Dominican Republic or New York, there was almost no way to get to shopping centers.

When grandma wanted to get vanilla, cinnamon and flour to make her moist, spongy yellow cakes with vanilla icing we had to walk miles to the nearest store. And then all the way back with our grocery bags.

It wasn't just the shopping centers that were distant, either.

Our neighbors were sweet and polite. We could always count on a cup of sugar, but deeper commitments between families were missing.

I missed my parents being able to feel comfortable leaving me with neighbors. I missed seeing my dad under the hood of a neighbor's car working on an alternator repair or my mother sewing a dress for another neighbor's daughter that had a quinceanera to attend.

In high school, my family "upgraded" to a more celebrated part of Raleigh and even less diversity. Next, was a move to Chapel Hill to attend college, where again I found the lower class invisible.

It wasn't until I graduated that I even knew that there were housing projects in Chapel Hill. As a UNC employee for a short time, I remember house keepers asking if they could meet in my office to organize for their rights. They had been given a hard time reserving space any where else to meet on campus. Only the occasional beggar on Franklin Street reminded you that poverty exists in the nice little town of Chapel Hill.

When I had a choice about where to live after college, I set my sights on a place that was diverse in heritage and class. Living in communities that "planned" their segregation along racial, ethnic and class lines wasn't an option for me. I also wanted to live near stuff: restaurants, shops, heck ... City Hall!

So, at 23, I moved into what became my lovely home in East Durham.

Much fuss is made over the poverty in this area. The abandoned houses, unkempt lawns and crime reports make a lot of people feel like they know all about my neighborhood and what "kind of people" live here.

I didn't have to assume what my parents thought. My mother made sure to tell me.

But over the years on Vale Street, I've noticed that folks here are more than casually connected to one another. I had a spare key to my neighbor's house for years to take care of his dog and child. Another neighbor faithfully hosted a weekly potluck. They would wait for everyone to arrive before beginning prayer for the meal, and everyone was expected to bring something.

I have hundreds of examples of how so many of my neighbors have chosen to get involved with each other. It's not easy. Being invited to that kind of closeness can pull up fear. I mean, people count on you to be there ... consistently. I guess that's why so few try it. Around here, though, people need to help each other out, and rather than it being a burden, it has been a blessing.

It's been six years since I moved here, and it still beats the other places I've lived. If I sell the house and break even on it, I would leave as a richer person.