Neighbor to Neighbor : On Maltman Avenue in Silver Lake, the Quality of Life Can Be Measured in Terms of Trying to Help a Stricken Stranger or Just the Simple Pleasure of Playing a Musical Instrument Outdoors.

It seems like the middle of the night is when I do my most creative thinking.

In keeping with that tradition, I awoke recently at 3 a.m. and began to think about the beautiful and profound experiences I’ve had in my neighborhood, a small community intersecting Sunset Boulevard in the Silver Lake area. I began to consider what it means to be a neighbor, and as I did, several incidents came to mind:

One morning before dawn, I was awakened by a neighbor who called out to me from the street. I went to my second-floor front window and asked what the problem was. He pointed to the sidewalk, where I could see someone lying.

My neighbor said he didn’t know whether the man was still alive. I dialed 911 and was asked the usual questions. I was also asked to administer CPR. I explained that I didn’t know how, but the man said he’d tell me what to do.

Immediately I was filled with an intense fear. I thought, “What if this man has AIDS or some other disease? What if I don’t do CPR correctly and he dies? What if I injure him?”

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Even though I knew God was with me, I was unable to control my terror. But the man needed my help, and I could not refuse him.

I walked down the stairs in a daze. Finally, I reached the man. His body felt cold; I was horrified. My heart was pounding so hard I couldn’t even take his pulse.

I gave him CPR to the best of my ability, though I really believe he had been dead for some time. The police and paramedics arrived within minutes and told me the man apparently had died of a massive heart attack. In spite of the outcome, I was quite touched by the compassion of everyone at the scene.

Other incidents came to mind which didn’t involve anything as dramatic as death, but rather the quality of life here on Maltman Avenue.

One of the success stories involved our work getting a corrupt underground bar closed. This bar created serious problems for the neighborhood, including drug dealing, gang violence, blatant sexual activity, defecating/urinating on the sidewalks and other undesirable acts.

It took more than two years, but we brought about the resolution of these problems through mutual cooperation, without any form of harassment, threats or violence toward the bar owner.

The police commission, as a result of our work and appearance before it as a unified community, denied the owner’s application for a dance permit and also refused to renew the liquor license. A short time later, the bar closed its doors.

This is what it means to live in a community.

In my spare time, I play the recorder, an instrument in the flute family. About 12 years ago, I was inspired to sit on my porch and play because I felt shy and lonely. I wanted to connect with my neighbors. People passing by were--and continue to be--kind enough to acknowledge and appreciate my music, in spite of some broken notes, odd rhythms and occasionally playing Christmas songs on the hottest of summer days.

I sit outside almost every day and play. When I miss a day or two, neighbors and others passing by on their way to the Sunset buses, who are used to seeing “the lady who plays the flute,” will come up and ask, “When are you going to play again? I can hear your music clear up the hill.” And children as young as 3 or 4 stop and ask me to “sing” (their word for playing the recorder) for them.

I am white, but many of my neighbors are Filipino. There are also blacks, Latinos, Chinese, and other ethnic groups. Some on the block are gay.

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But what bonds me to them all are the simple, unpretentious acts of kindness I’ve experienced here on Maltman, like a few months ago with a Russian woman who lives a few houses away. She telephoned one day, concerned that she hadn’t seen me on the porch for over a week. She just wanted to make sure I was OK.

What does being a neighbor mean? Does it mean when we are called on for help we gladly respond, offering assistance in spite of inconvenience or fear? Or is it merely existing in a community, deliberately isolating oneself from neighborhood companions, never interacting except for an occasional “hello” if we are lucky?

That happens here on Maltman, of course. But there are also those who have the courage to become involved, such as after the January earthquake, when my neighbor’s chimney fell into my driveway, completely blocking it. About 10 of my Filipino neighbors came over while it was still dark, and without being asked, cleared the rubble. And having removed the larger debris, they then swept the driveway clean.

A neighborhood is meant to be an extended, loving family; a village, actually. And when we at last accept our part, our responsibilities and our membership in the village family, our lives are extraordinarily enriched.

I am deeply grateful for the more than 14 years I’ve spent here on Maltman, and for the wonderful experience of living near so many culturally rich ethnic groups from other lands and other traditions.

This is something we in Los Angeles need to appreciate and be grateful for; the wonderful diversity in the City of the Angels.