Mr Roger's Pittsburgh

I was sitting on my porch this morning when my mailman, Eric walked up. I said hi, and we talked for a few minutes. I’ve noticed over time that a lot of mail in Pittsburgh is still delivered on foot, by hand, house to house, like in the old days. Mail carriers walk up and down the street with bags over their shoulders. It might seem quaint or outdated, but it really just reflects the geography here. A lot of houses in Pittsburgh aren’t close to the street. For example, I live up about forty wooden steps on the side of a hill, above the sidewalk.

That’s part of what makes Pittsburgh what it is—an old city, built up and down hills. But it’s not just the terrain that feels old fashioned. It’s the way people live within it.

And that’s where Mr. Rogers comes in.

Fred McFeely Rogers (1928–2003), better known as Mister Rogers, was a Presbyterian minister, television host, and children’s media pioneer. He created, produced, and hosted Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, which aired nationally from 1968 to 2001 and was produced at WQED in Pittsburgh. The show was groundbreaking for its focus on emotional intelligence, human dignity, and everyday kindness—all through the simple lens of life in a neighborhood.

When I was talking to Eric this morning, it occurred to me that this is why Mr. Rogers was so deeply interested in the idea of neighborhoods. Because Pittsburgh makes you think about them. It’s not just a theme or metaphor—it’s how people live here.

In other places I’ve lived, I saw that sense of community from a distance. I saw it on television, or in the lives of friends. People who knew their neighbors, who chatted with shopkeepers, who belonged to something local. But I never really experienced it myself—until now.

Here in Pittsburgh, for the first time in my life, I actually know my neighbors. I know Vince next door—he’s studying to become a doctor. I see him every day out in the garden that he and his partner built in front of their townhome. That might seem like a small thing, but for me, it’s meaningful. Because I’ve lived in a tiny town of 300 people. I’ve also lived in Phoenix, Berlin, and cities across different countries and states. And yet here, for the first time, I know the people who live next to me. We met because I like to hang out on my porch. They like to garden. Eventually, you just start talking. That’s what happens when your life is designed to interact with other lives.

I also know Muhammad and Hakeem, who work at the nearby convenience store. I know Salim and Seamus at another one. I know Adam and Muhammad down at the smoke shop where I buy my smokes. I know people by name in the coffee shops and restaurants I visit. That’s not a coincidence—it’s proximity.

And that’s really what I want to talk about.

I don’t own a car. I did when I moved here, but I sold it. Now, I mostly stay within a few miles of home, and that’s fine. Because I don’t really need to go further. Everything I want or need is accessible by foot, bus, or bike. That choice has shaped the way I live. It means I go to the same handful of places regularly, which means I see the same people regularly. And when you see the same people regularly, all it takes is a little effort. You ask someone their name. They ask you yours. You remember it. And just like that, a connection forms.

You’d be surprised how quickly people open up once you’ve crossed that initial barrier of anonymity. Eric, for example, knows that when he delivers the mail, I’m probably going to be out on the porch drinking coffee. Muhammad and Hakeem know what kind of smokes I buy and that I like to chew sunflower seeds. We don’t know each other’s biographies, but we know each other, and that is what community looks like.

And it’s no accident. It’s by design.

The porch I sit on was built over a century ago, when the purpose of a porch was to act as a kind of outdoor living room during the summer months. In the days before air conditioning, people spent their time outside on porches, in the shade, where there was a breeze. That physical design encouraged public life. You sat outside. Your neighbors did too. You faced the street. You interacted.

It’s the same reason I know the shopkeepers and workers by name. Because the businesses I visit aren’t across town or separated into a big commercial strip, they’re embedded directly into the neighborhood. I walk to them. I see the same faces. Over time, we just start to recognize each other. The only ingredient needed to make it real is consistency.

And here’s the bigger point: how our cities, our neighborhoods, even our homes are physically designed has a profound impact on our daily lived experience.

I once read that one of the strongest predictors of health outcomes isn’t just social life in a general sense, it’s the frequency of small, casual interactions. The kind I’m describing here. The way we bump into each other and connect without having to make plans. It’s not about intimacy, it’s about recognition. Familiarity. Ease.

That’s what makes something feel like a neighborhood. And that’s what Mr. Rogers understood.

He wasn’t talking about neighborhoods as nostalgia. He was talking about how a simple physical structure, like houses with porches, shops within walking distance, mail delivered on foot, can create an emotional structure. A relational structure. A city where you feel known, even a little.

And that’s what I’ve found here in Pittsburgh. By walking, by sitting, by staying within the orbit of my own neighborhood, I’ve finally felt what Mr. Rogers was pointing to all along. Not just kindness or decency. But physical proximity. Repeated exposure. And just enough space for people to ask each other their names.

Copyright © 2025 Ryan Badertscher. All rights reserved.