By Kenneth L. Hardin

I’m very social online but not so much in person. People are surprised when I tell them that on every personality profile I’ve taken, I scored low on the social category. One person who analyzed my results said I’m an introvert who understands how to thrive in an extravert environment. I have PTSD and it manifests in a social anxiety where I easily get sensory overload. The way I’ve summed it up is I like my mixed-breed terrier dog more than I like most people.

Several weeks ago, I was contacted by a Patient Experience Rep from the Salisbury VA asking if I would allow a group of Vietnam veterans to use my Veterans Social Center to hold their weekly meetings. She explained that the small group had been meeting for almost two decades but had to find a new meeting space. I graciously agreed to allow them to use it free of charge. For almost a month, I’ve enjoyed opening up just for them for two hours every Thursday morning. I try not to insert myself into their discussions because they served during a different era and their PTSD has manifested in ways I would never be able to understand. After I welcome them each week with handshakes and good-natured ribbing about how the mostly grizzled Marines and Army veterans didn’t have what it took to serve in the Air Force, I retreat to my office until they wrap up 120 minutes later.

Since my office lair is close to where they’re sitting, I can’t help but overhear some of the discussion in between answering text messages, emails and pecking about on the computer. I feel their pain as they discuss post discharge life back on U.S. soil returning from a war none of them wanted or needed. I’ve listened to them discuss lives forever altered by death, illness, divorce, disability and substance abuse. The mental weight is still heavy to carry decades after leaving a foreign land 8,364 miles away as the crow flies and returning home to an even more foreign one here. I smile as I hear them give each other a hard time, often jokingly criticizing everything about each other. I feel the camaraderie and genuine brotherly love, respect  and concern they have for each other when the conversation gets deep and personal as each one shares heartache and heartbreak. Last week, as I was trying hard not to listen, one hero made a comment that has stuck to me like that piece of plastic you cut off of a wrapper but no matter how hard you shake, it remains stuck to your fingers. He said. “People aren’t social like they used to be. People don’t sit on their front porches anymore. Everyone has a deck on the back of their house and they sit back there and don’t talk to their neighbors.” I’m guilty as charged, sir.

I bounced his comment around in my head and played cognitive pickleball with his words for days afterwards. As hard as I tried to argue against his assertion, I couldn’t find a viable defense. I’ve lived in my current home 20 years and have nice benches on opposite sides of the front entrance door, but I’ve never sat down and accepted company in them once. Although I’ve inhabited the domicile for two decades, I only know one of the neighboring families personally on our cul de sac and recently just started a conversation with another because they have a child the same age as my grandson and a dog he likes. As my mental gymnastics on the subject increased, I tried to find reasons why I’m now so averse to socialization. Growing up and all through school, I used to be a social butterfly. I never met a stranger and most house parties didn’t liven up until after I arrived. Looking back over my report cards, comments always leaned towards needing improvement in talking less and being a distraction in class. I recall in the eighth grade at Knox, our English teacher admonished me in front of the entire class for talking during silent reading. I replied, “Well, can we breathe in here?” Four decades later, I look for ways to avoid those conversations I used to thrive on.

I’ve tried to alert people in advance as they saunter down my sidewalk. Plastered on my mailbox and in several places on the front door are numerous “No Soliciting” signs. At one time, I even typed an addendum and taped it to the glass specifying the various modes of soliciting I abhorred and wouldn’t tolerate. At least twice a week, someone ignores the posted warnings and still rings the doorbell. I always point to the various postings and ask them why they didn’t read them. The typical refrain is they’re not soliciting but offering me a service I could benefit from. What they’re ill prepared for is my transformation from a kind, laid-back, easy-going dude to quickly getting hotter than the face of the sun, directing loud and profane language at them and angrily ordering them to get off of my property. I’ve enjoyed watching these annoying intrusions in human form quickly retreat, sprinting across my grass and seeking refuge from my rage.

The more I tossed the veteran’s statement around in my head, the answer I came up with is I just don’t feel safe in this city, so I don’t look for or welcome unsolicited opportunities to engage and interact with people. I have genuine concerns about becoming a crime victim in this city so I purposely limit social interactions. With the cautionary training I received in security forces in the military, I realize my social DNA has been forever altered. As sad as it is, I see it as necessary for longevity in life in this city.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.