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We lived in a neighborhood where the only white people were the family who lived in front of our granny flat.

That plot of land is within walking distance of the granny flat where I grew up.

But soon after moving into a granny flat in Van Nuys three years ago, she realized that the fraction in her house number — think: 101 ½ Main St. — was going to be particularly inconvenient in an era of constant deliveries.

Near the granny flat where I lived before transferring to Patrick Henry were a lumberyard, a Kwikset factory and a trucking depot where my dad would pick up cargo containers.

I was raised in a run-down granny flat in Anaheim a stone’s throw from a lumberyard, the only place my immigrant parents could afford when they married in 1978.