The Uniquely-American Beauty of Phelps Grove Porches
Written by Abby Woodfin
Photography by Mavis Parks
Modeled by Hope Goodyear, Alanna Hollins, Ellie Workman, Sophia Lins, & W. Mckinley Brown
There’s no place as perfect as my porch; two outdoor cats often call it home at night. Lately, I’ve seen migratory birds playing on the strange little tree in my front yard. The entire porch shakes when you step on its wood, which I think is quite fun. My roommate is incredible with plants and keeps them inside this time of year so they don’t have to face the cold, while my dead fern still dangles in the wind. On frigid nights, I curl up in a blanket, and let my cheeks grow red under our twinkling string lights while I listen to my music. Best of all, I purchased a rocking chair for $2 at a garage sale; I’ve always wanted one. I couldn’t dream up a more perfect spot.
The problem is that I have some major competition. Looking out from my porch, I see other porches decorated with pride. Other neighbors sit on their porches all the time, like I do. I watch them read alone, eat breakfast with their roommates, and host parties that migrate to the porch. My street is lively, cars are parked in front of my house, filling up the block when friends gather. Perfectly encapsulated by trees, an array of eclectic homes rest just south of Missouri State University’s campus in the Phelps Grove neighborhood. It feels like a small-town Midwestern fantasy. My neighbor to the left is an older woman and her daughter. The guy across the street has “TRUMP” painted across the back of his Chevy Silverado. At the end of my block, a few kids from a large family kick around a soccer ball every day, no matter the weather. And I sit on my porch and watch, but never talk to them. My roommate and I sit outside most nights making up little stories for these local strangers, deciding that there are some we don’t like, and some we just wish we could invite over.
I think I yearn for a sense of community kinship, where I know my neighbors' names, bring them over a casserole in a Pyrex dish, and listen in on the town gossip. This just doesn’t seem possible. The best we can get is a community Facebook page, where prideful, longtime Phelps Grove residents post about the neighborhood's history, discuss “shady” behavior they observe from their windows, or share information for local events. There’s some form of community there, but there’s little communication in real life. When I’m outside at the same time as my neighbors, they’ll often avert their gaze to not acknowledge me, and I catch myself doing the same. If we do acknowledge each other, the most I get is a wave. It feels almost impossible to break through the discomfort and be the one to start the conversation with my strangerly neighbors, but why?
The imagery of the American Dream goes directly against the truth of our experience. We yearn for the simple small town, community-centered lifestyle, searching for it even in the state’s third-largest city, where it doesn’t exist. In this world, it’s beneficial to be distant from our neighbors, view them as our competition, and focus on over-defining our identities so others know how to digest us. This is precisely why I take so much pride in my well-worn porch. Its decorations have been acquired from garage sales and flea markets, and a giant ceramic cat sits atop the stairs, greeting each guest that comes into our home. I’m conveying a message to the neighborhood about my political perspective, goals, and morals, even without intention. I dawn the porch in maximalism to be a true foil to the house across the street, to show that I am not a part of their community. While my porch is a beautiful gathering space for my community of like-minded friends, I’m also using it as a tool to separate myself from my neighbors. I have to have the prettiest house on the block; I must be the best because that’s how I’ve been taught to set goals. When your neighbors are your competition or “enemies,” forming a large community is difficult.
When I had the chance to speak with some long-time Phelps Grove neighbors, I found that there are other small pockets of community within the area. One woman spoke to me about the group of other gals that come to her house weekly to play some cards and have snacks, having found each other in the depths of the COVID-19 pandemic. Another neighbor, with a passion for local government, knows the names of many of his surrounding neighbors and shared some of his writing about the beauty of this community with me. Community is there, it just feels horrifying to seek it out, and nearly impossible to start that journey.
There is still so much beauty in Phelps Grove porches. Most houses have their regulars who stop by many evenings to chat, have a meal, and laugh. My street, although mostly quiet, is filled with laughter on beautiful evenings, with my group of friends being some of the loudest in the neighborhood. My porch sees me at my most vulnerable; it's my favorite place in the world to have a good cry. I can find pure solitude when I sit alone out there, but can also find myself feeling so loved and understood when I’m with others because I’ve curated a safe gathering place. My porch community is small. They know all of the music I play, understand my jokes, and empathize with my experiences.
Perhaps I’ll never know these neighbors beyond what I can gather from their porches, but it is beautiful how telling their decorations are. While being the nosy neighbor and judging people by the small glimpses of their lives I see, I learn more about myself than anywhere else. I see how I’ve bought into rugged American individualism and am continually swindled by my own judgment, keeping myself separated. On my porch, I can think. Just think. I find community within others, and a connection to myself, while I sit in the breeze, completely unplugged. In a world where third spaces are seemingly nonexistent, I’m eternally grateful for the all-American beauty of my Phelps Grove porch.
