Growing Neighborliness: In Loving Memory of Janice Luongo

By Riley Londraville

On May 12th of 2026, heaven gained a passionate and genuine soul, Janice Luongo.

Image by Michael Nina, shared with permission.

Janice’s ties to the Smith Hill neighborhood and to us in the Neighborly Engagement Research Lab run deep, but one of my first real interactions with her was at her house, on her back porch, where myself, Chase, and Carmine interviewed her as a part of our early research into the neighborhood. When Carmine had told the NERLab team about Janice’s upcoming interview, I remember practically jumping on the opportunity to be present. I had only met Janice once or twice at community meetings prior to our interview, but her energy made me feel sure her interview would be a good one.

And it was. 

On October 22nd of 2024, we had the pleasure of speaking to Janice on a warm Tuesday afternoon. We sat in a shaded circle beneath her wind chimes, and surrounded by her carefully tended-to flowers. 

“So . . . hi,” Janice said, smiling at each of us and signaling she was ready to jump into our questions. 

Janice was what most would call a spitfire, outspoken, and if anything, honest. She’d tell you how it was, even if it hurt—and many times, with a dash of profanity. I remember feeling lucky to be there with her and her flowers, deepening the roots of the relationship we’d begun to build, by listening to her experiences in the community and with Providence College.

“Please start by telling us a little bit about your relationship to the Smith Hill neighborhood,” Chase asked. But, to Janice, there was no such thing as “a little bit.” 

If you asked, you would receive . . . all of it and more.

“Well, I was born and raised on Federal Hill, and then I came over to Smith Hill, which is two ‘Hills’ in my life, which I always find interesting,” Janice began. She was funny without even trying. 

Janice and members of the NERLab team at the Taste of 02908 event (September 2025)

I remember Janice began to tell her life story, beginning at a park bench in Federal Hill, the neighborhood I knew for its wonderful Italian restaurants that I only visited on special—expensive—occasions, conjured up different emotions from Janice. This park bench served a special purpose, it provided shelter and comfort when Janice needed it most. She told us how she lived underneath this park bench, homeless, a drug addict, and in desperate need of some help when she decided to turn to God. She said, “God, if in any way, shape or form, you want to help me here, I’d appreciate it. And if you do . . . well, I’ll dedicate my life to people.”

After reenacting this plea, I remember Janice turned to us practically glowing.

“That’s why I’m here today,” she said. She was both lucky and grateful to be there, and we were lucky and grateful to get the chance to speak with her and hear her story.

Janice came to Smith Hill when she was 18, making the move with her local Church. She ran the Mary House Food Pantry on Smith Street for 14 years, dedicating nearly all of her time to servicing others. Janice would become a fierce advocate for the unhoused in Providence, even starting the state’s only homeless magazine and resource guide, Street Sights, that I would later have the pleasure of helping her on an edition, seeing her passionate selflessness up close.

“I got involved because I felt that there was a need, obviously, to feed people,” she said. It’s clear so much of Janice’s past experiences have influenced the way she moves with intention and infuses her interactions with empathy. 

In just a moment, her face became more serious and her posture straightened.

“I got to give credit where credit is due. If it wasn't for the Sisters of Mercy, I wouldn’t be here today. ” She told us how they picked her up off her feet, answering her prayers, and taking her in. “They used to look like penguins walking down the street in those black outfits—I love them to death,” Janice said, and I could hear her smile through her words, her love: palpable. While the nuns had their own sisterhood, it ran deep for Janice. 

“They were the kinds of street people you want to know. They came up to you with love . . . When [the sisters] came up to me [for the first time] and told me Jesus loved me at my park bench, I told her to ‘Go fuck herself.’” Carmine (who heard this story many times before) began to laugh, and Chase and I soon followed; Sure, the Janice we knew was far from shy, but cursing out a nun was something I could never imagine her doing. 

“[They] came back the next day, and the next day, and the next day. Even though I was rude and ignorant.” It’s this desire to help, this persistence in the face of setbacks, this unwavering kindness that is fueled by their genuineness and pure hearts. These values shown to Janice through the sisterhood were ones she not only adopted, but spread to those around her, and from the moment we met Janice, she told us neighborliness was exactly like this: showing up again and again, just like the sisters had for her. 

The way she kept emphasizing the need for persistence, to show up even through difficulty, felt related to the transient nature of the community she had previously reflected upon with the NERLab. Because students were constantly turning over and neighborhoods were continuously changing, Janice found neighborliness a hard goal to achieve. However, she continued to hold hope—hope that fueled her drive to make a difference and build community.

Janice then returned to the park bench, reminding us of how she once lived underneath it, reminding us—and herself—of how far she had come. “I drive by it often to remind myself that the park bench is still there . . .” She stopped there, but I dissected her words. She drove by this bench to remind herself that while it’s still there, she had grown. She was no longer underneath the bench, and instead she was helping those in similar situations, and always maintaining hope.

As the founder of Street Sights, she had raised awareness for those who were experiencing homelessness. As someone who had lived part of her life unhoused, she led with empathy and encouraged its importance in community building. As a resident of 02908, Janice spoke her truth and used her voice to inspire progress and connection. 

“So did I answer your question?” She asked.

Yes, yes, she did. And then some more. 

Chase asked the next question about neighborliness and what being a good neighbor meant to Janice. I jumped in and asked her about her neighbors in Federal Hill, a question that widened her eyes and sent her head back as she grinned at the sun. Then came the good stuff, the nitty gritty of neighborliness.

“Oh my God. How were my neighbors?” She began to count on her fingers, tapping them against her hand for each point she made. “We never locked the door. We could go get bread and milk in anybody’s house. When the bread was done at midnight from [the local bakery] we all went and bought it and sat there and lathered it with butter and sat there at midnight and on and ate the bread.” She repeated herself emphasizing the beauty of just sitting there, enjoying each other’s presence and warm bread. 

“You knew everybody. You knew their mother, their father, their grandmother. I’m sure that doesn’t happen anymore. I couldn’t leave my door open.”

Janice’s description of the community, care, and love between her neighbors felt nearly tangible, and warm like the fresh bread she spoke of. Janice proved that it truly was only a few feet in front of us, a mere seed waiting to be watered.

This sense of neighborliness once existed for Janice and the community, and it was so strong, that now—transient and often unaware of her neighbors—Janice longs for what once was, and, how can you blame her? Fresh bread, salty butter, and good company filled with laughter, conversation, and comfortable silence seem like the perfect recipe. 

But these relationships didn’t just appear, they were seeds that Janice had planted, watered, and carefully tended to as she did her flowers. 

“You can’t just come into my community. . . and say, ‘We’re your neighbors.’ It doesn’t work that way. . . A good neighbor is someone you have somewhat of a relationship with. You start out small."

She begins to describe the development of a relationship: going to each other's houses, sharing meals, chatting, bitching, and moaning, before finally declaring the relationship had grown. And with this trajectory, she instilled some hope in us all. As long as we continued with this work and truly acted upon our desire for connection, we could build a stronger community among the 02908 neighborhoods and Providence College.

After almost an hour and a half of talking, we turn off the recording, pack up our things, and share some hugs, before I thank her for letting us into her space.

“Anytime,” she responded—and while I never got the chance to take her up on the offer, I knew she meant it.

Riley Londraville is an undergraduate student in the Class of 2027 at Providence College, double-majoring in Creative Writing and Public and Community Service Studies, with a minor in Political Science. She is a Research Fellow in the Neighborly Engagement Research Lab (NERLab) at Providence College.