Aside from Little Red Riding Hood, I think very few people have had a difficult time visiting their grandmothers. I, however, am one of them. Unlike Red, though, my fear was not of my grandmother herself, rather the place in which she lives.

In stark contrast to my sheltered and established community in Ohio, Jersey City, New Jersey was unfamiliar, crowded, and scary. My grandmother had lived there in the same two-family house on the hill off of the Boulevard since my father grew up. Whenever my family of three went to visit, we inhabited the otherwise empty and lifeless upstairs, where I stayed by myself in what would be the living room if there were any furniture, and my parents stayed toward the back of the house in the bedroom. It was an old house, complete with talking radiators, vocal floorboards, and fickle overhead lights. To be frank, I was terrified.

We’d been making the eight-hour trips every year twice a year for forever. Frequently, I slept most of the way through Ohio and across Pennsylvania, waking up just in time to look out the window as we entered Jersey City. To get there, one must go across ominous old black bridges, which made the young me feel as if I were entering a place from which I could never leave.

On our way to my grandmother’s house, we drove past graffiti-covered liquor shops, clumps of young hoodlum-looking men standing on street corners, and houses with windows covered in steel bars. Compared to my Parade of Homes split-level with a wide, neatly mowed front lawn, this was as sketchy as life could be in my eyes. Every person we passed on the street looked like they wanted me dead and every night, I tossed in my sleep as the radiator clanged and the floorboards conversed, sure that in the next moment someone would be on top of me with a knife to my throat.

Needless to say, nothing like this ever happened. However, events did occur that changed me. Strangely enough, it all began at an Indian restaurant. Until I was about twelve, I had been taking peanut butter and jelly with me into ethnic restaurants with me so my parents and I could each enjoy our different cuisines. I don’t know who convinced me and I don’t know what made me agree to it, but once I tasted the Indian food, I relaxed. As I reclined in my chair with my full belly, I looked around; new mothers and fathers shared a quiet dinner in the corner with their baby son; a group of middle-aged men laughed heartily over hot bread and fried dough; young children bustled about, showing their grandmother their skills with building houses from sugar packets. The people weren’t all scary.

After that it was all downhill, so to speak. Suddenly, the buildings weren’t all run-down liquor stores, rather supermarkets, Caribbean restaurants, and stationary stores. The people weren’t all out to get me, rather out to get their groceries. The house wasn’t creepy, rather rich in character and history. Jersey City was not a riot-filled danger zone, but a marketplace, neighborhood, and home.

When I was young, the one thing I was not afraid of was the other children. I would stand by the window every morning watching them march down the hill to the school, P.S. 134, at the bottom–older boys and girls leading the young with blue backpacks and Ninja Turtle lunchboxes very much like the ones I owned. I loved just looking at them, for they were so unlike me and the people I knew at home. They were every color I could ever imagine and came from countries I’d never heard of. Differences did not scare them, rather were learned from when necessary, and forgotten when not.

As I left middle school and entered high school, I became more like the first graders of P.S. 134. I realized the value and nobility behind being a resident of Jersey City, New Jersey and the difficulty and reward of living with and appreciating people with backgrounds worlds away from your own. With that in mind, the seven-year olds of the Boulevard slayed the beast of my fears, and I, Little Red Riding Hood, finally enjoyed time with my grandmother.