I lived in a mostly Black neighborhood in Queens, New York back in the early 70s.
Never had a problem. I had an Austin Healy bug-eye in those days, and when I first moved into the neighborhood, I realized that my car was sticking out like a sore thumb screaming (in international orange, I might add) STEAL THIS CAR.
I even knew the kids who were most likely to steal it, too. They were about 14 or so and I knew I was in trouble.
So what did I do?
I started talking to the kids and hanging out on the stoop. Eventually I took them for a ride in the buggy (it is a hell of a lot of fun this tiny car). Then I even took two of them (that was crowded, let me tell ya) up to Bear Mountain and give each of them lessons on how to drive an underpowered English sports car.
First neither of these kids had ever been out of the city, secondly they were learning to drive one of the most fun cars to drive known to man.
My car was never touched. It's ragtop never slashed. I was part of the neighborhood in a small way. Not a brother, but not the enemy, either.
Yeah I know...a happy story, and there aren't a whole lot of those in life, are there?
Not sure my experience today would be anywhere so benign.