B
Barry Schier
Guest
Comment}
In Cuba, by law, maximum rent is 10% of a family's monthly income and
evictions on grounds of foreclosure neither exist in law or
practice. For contrast, see the article below on the good ole U.S.A.
After all, the U.S.A. press / propaganda mill states that Cubans lack
all kinds of freedoms.
They do not specify that freedom for landlords to evict families and
make them homeless is one of those "freedoms."
-- Barry Schier
{Article}
Renters squeezed by housing shortage
By DAVID CRARY and RACHEL KONRAD, Associated Press Writers
Fri Sep 14, 5:55 PM ET
STAMFORD, Conn. - This isn't how Simon and Jennifer Morris envisioned
married life - sharing a charity-subsidized suite with four other
hard-up families, abiding by a curfew and other rules that make them
feel they are back in high school.
ADVERTISEMENT
But for a working-class couple with two small children, trying to
stick it out in their pricey hometown, housing options are few.
They abandoned their previous one-bedroom apartment when the rent
rose from $1,200 to $1,425. Public housing has long waiting lists, so
they moved into a shelter for dislocated families in a converted
YMCA. The goal: Save enough money to move south and buy a home where
costs are lower.
Around them, southwestern Connecticut's Fairfield County is booming,
due partly to an influx of investment banks. New housing projects
routinely cater to the affluent.
"But everybody forgets the poor guy - the one who pumps your gas, who
builds your hotel, who bags your groceries," said Simon Morris, a 35-
year-old carpenter. "The cost of living is driving us out."
On both coasts of the United States, and many cities in between,
hundreds of thousands of renters face comparable plights. The home
mortgage crisis has received far more notice, but experts say the
ranks of renters with dire housing problems are growing faster than
the ranks of defaulting homeowners.
The Center for Housing Policy reports that the number of working-
family renters paying more than half their income for housing has
soared from 1 million to 2.1 million since 1997. Overall, advocacy
groups say there are 9 million low-income renter households and only
6.2 million units they can reasonably afford.
"These people spend huge portions of their income on their housing,"
said Sheila Crowley, president of the National Low Income Housing
Coalition. "They don't do things that we all would like to do - save
money to buy a house, or for college or retirement. It's a very day-
to-day existence."
In the Stamford area, a breadwinner needs to earn more than $30 an
hour to afford the rent of a typical two-bedroom apartment, the
highest figure in the nation. San Francisco ranks a close second -
placing immense burdens on residents such as schoolteacher Meagan
Devine and retiree Jose Morales.
Devine, 30, lives with her sister, who is eight months pregnant, and
brother-in-law in a one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco's Sunset
district. She sleeps on the couch and spends weekends at her parents'
house in a distant suburb, where she keeps her clothes and books.
In October, she'll begin housesitting for family friends in Berkeley,
who will be on sabbatical until Jan. 1. After that? She isn't sure.
Devine isn't an itinerant hippie or recent college grad trying to map
a career path. She's a professional with a master's degree in math,
and could likely command a six-figure salary at a Silicon Valley
engineering firm.
But since college, she has yearned to be a teacher. After getting her
master's, she taught the children of crop pickers.
Since 2002, she's been a math instructor at Balboa High School, once
a hardscrabble school on the city's south side. Test scores and
morale are on the rise, and Devine feels she's making a big
difference by teaching pre-calculus and algebra to the diverse
student body.
"I don't ever want to leave Balboa - I'd love to retire from here,"
Devine said as she stacked papers following the afternoon bell. "The
only problem is I can't afford to live here on a teacher's salary."
After taxes and a $350 deposit into a retirement fund, she takes home
about $2,500 per month. One-bedroom apartments in desirable
neighborhoods - near friends and public transit - start around $2,000
per month. Studios start around $1,500.
Devine said she'll likely settle for roommates - a fate she didn't
envision for herself after college, and a far cry from her dream of
home ownership.
Technically, she could afford her own modest apartment - but she
wants to heed the standard advice and not spend more than a third of
her income on housing. That's not easy; experts say nearly a quarter
of San Francisco renters spend more than 50 percent of their
household earnings on rent, and the market has grown tighter as the
mortgage crisis deters some young adults from home-buying.
Devine rarely goes out to eat or buys new clothes, but despite a
frugal lifestyle has been unable to whittle down $3,000 in credit
card debt.
"You have to make big sacrifices - not just whether to buy a house or
not," said Devine. "I want to have kids - but what would I do with
them? I can't even afford my own place."
Devine works at least 50 hours a week, including several hours each
weekend grading quizzes. Some of her colleagues moonlight as
waitresses, bartenders and weekend nannies.
One option would be moving to a suburban school district, where pay
scales range up to $10,000 higher than in San Francisco. A public
school teacher in the city starts at $43,000.
Losing teachers like Devine should be a top concern for residents,
said Matthew Hardy of the United Educators San Francisco. Teachers
who stay have to be either "crazy or dedicated," he said.
Jose Morales, now 78, moved into a modest Victorian house in San
Francisco's working-class Mission District in 1965, shortly after
emigrating from Peru. The rent was $80 a month, and he used leftover
earnings to travel, buy nice clothes and eat well.
The rent is now $864 - a bargain by local standards but an
unmanageable fortune for Morales. A former tennis instructor, he hurt
his back last year and now relies entirely on a Social Security
payment of $900 per month.
After paying the rent, he has $36 a month for expenses, including
food and medications. He eats at city-sponsored senior centers, which
charge $1.50 per meal, buys cut-rate produce from local bodegas and
takes freebies from friends.
He never travels. He doesn't own a television or radio. Among his few
new clothes are tennis sweat shirts that pro shops sell him at a
discount.
"I'm skin and bones - it's a miracle I'm still here," said Morales,
who's lost 20 pounds since last year and developed osteoporosis.
Stooped but sinewy, with wavy white hair and vintage Wilson sneakers,
Morales has received numerous eviction notices from a landlord hoping
to convert the two-unit flat into a luxury house. Morales refuses to
leave; a court showdown is imminent.
"If more people don't try to fight for their rights, then only rich
people would live in this city," he says.
Morales' apartment is ramshackle. Door frames lean at improbable
angles. Paint peels from walls, and a gaping crack splits the kitchen
ceiling.
But the beautifully restored Victorian next door has golden cornices
and fresh paint, and other nearby homes are getting high-end
renovations. The neighborhood is rife with homeless people and
illegal immigrants, but white-collar workers are moving in to commute
to lucrative jobs in Silicon Valley or downtown.
Morales knows he might live better in Peru, where relatives could
help and the cost of living is a fraction of California's. But that
would end his quest for American citizenship.
"I came here because the U.S. was a great country," Morales
said. "But housing has become a big injustice. ... The story of my
apartment is the story of my block and the story of my city and the
story of all of California and the United States. You have to fight
for it, and that's what I will do - all the way to the end."
Back in Stamford, Simon and Jennifer Morris have seen the city's
economic boom firsthand but, like many working-class families,
haven't shared its fruits.
Simon has irregular earnings as a carpenter; he can make $1,000 in a
good week but often has no work at all. Jennifer, 27, worked in the
past at local pet stores, but took time off this year following the
birth of Layla, who's now 7 months old. Their other child, Ethan, is
3.
Since February, they've been living in a "family emergency" shelter
on the edge of downtown, part of a multipurpose social-service center
run by St. Luke's LifeWorks.
They have two bedrooms of their own, but share bathrooms and a
combination kitchen-common room with four other families in a setup
resembling a college dorm. There's an 11 p.m. curfew on weeknights,
no drinking or smoking in the unit, and a rotation of chores for each
family.
"After living on your own, where you can come and go, you can feel a
little claustrophobic," Jennifer said. "You've got to coexist with
everyone. Sometimes I feel like I'm back in high school."
For Simon, the biggest downside is lack of privacy.
"There's good days and bad days," he said. "People notice when I'm
grumpy, and sometimes I just want to be left alone."
But overall, the Morrises are grateful. They can stay up to two years
at the shelter, far longer than at many similar facilities, and they
expect to be able to save money - for the first time in their married
life - due to a cost-sharing formula which leaves them paying St.
Luke's about $250 a month.
If the savings materialize, they plan to head south, seeking a
community where homes are within reach of a family like theirs.
"Stamford forgot about the poor people," said Simon, who, like his
wife, grew up here. "All these new apartments are great for the city,
but some of the one-bedrooms are $3,000 a month. ... It's a
businessman's town now."
The executive director of St. Luke's LifeWorks, the Rev. Dick
Schuster, says Stamford and boomtowns like it should tackle the
housing crisis out of self-interest.
"The people who are working in your restaurants, your fire and police
departments, are all of a sudden finding they can no longer afford to
live in the community where they work," he said. "And those who do
choose to live in the community become the true working poor, hanging
on by their thumbs."
___
David Crary reported from Stamford and Rachel Konrad from San
Francisco.
In Cuba, by law, maximum rent is 10% of a family's monthly income and
evictions on grounds of foreclosure neither exist in law or
practice. For contrast, see the article below on the good ole U.S.A.
After all, the U.S.A. press / propaganda mill states that Cubans lack
all kinds of freedoms.
They do not specify that freedom for landlords to evict families and
make them homeless is one of those "freedoms."
-- Barry Schier
{Article}
Renters squeezed by housing shortage
By DAVID CRARY and RACHEL KONRAD, Associated Press Writers
Fri Sep 14, 5:55 PM ET
STAMFORD, Conn. - This isn't how Simon and Jennifer Morris envisioned
married life - sharing a charity-subsidized suite with four other
hard-up families, abiding by a curfew and other rules that make them
feel they are back in high school.
ADVERTISEMENT
But for a working-class couple with two small children, trying to
stick it out in their pricey hometown, housing options are few.
They abandoned their previous one-bedroom apartment when the rent
rose from $1,200 to $1,425. Public housing has long waiting lists, so
they moved into a shelter for dislocated families in a converted
YMCA. The goal: Save enough money to move south and buy a home where
costs are lower.
Around them, southwestern Connecticut's Fairfield County is booming,
due partly to an influx of investment banks. New housing projects
routinely cater to the affluent.
"But everybody forgets the poor guy - the one who pumps your gas, who
builds your hotel, who bags your groceries," said Simon Morris, a 35-
year-old carpenter. "The cost of living is driving us out."
On both coasts of the United States, and many cities in between,
hundreds of thousands of renters face comparable plights. The home
mortgage crisis has received far more notice, but experts say the
ranks of renters with dire housing problems are growing faster than
the ranks of defaulting homeowners.
The Center for Housing Policy reports that the number of working-
family renters paying more than half their income for housing has
soared from 1 million to 2.1 million since 1997. Overall, advocacy
groups say there are 9 million low-income renter households and only
6.2 million units they can reasonably afford.
"These people spend huge portions of their income on their housing,"
said Sheila Crowley, president of the National Low Income Housing
Coalition. "They don't do things that we all would like to do - save
money to buy a house, or for college or retirement. It's a very day-
to-day existence."
In the Stamford area, a breadwinner needs to earn more than $30 an
hour to afford the rent of a typical two-bedroom apartment, the
highest figure in the nation. San Francisco ranks a close second -
placing immense burdens on residents such as schoolteacher Meagan
Devine and retiree Jose Morales.
Devine, 30, lives with her sister, who is eight months pregnant, and
brother-in-law in a one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco's Sunset
district. She sleeps on the couch and spends weekends at her parents'
house in a distant suburb, where she keeps her clothes and books.
In October, she'll begin housesitting for family friends in Berkeley,
who will be on sabbatical until Jan. 1. After that? She isn't sure.
Devine isn't an itinerant hippie or recent college grad trying to map
a career path. She's a professional with a master's degree in math,
and could likely command a six-figure salary at a Silicon Valley
engineering firm.
But since college, she has yearned to be a teacher. After getting her
master's, she taught the children of crop pickers.
Since 2002, she's been a math instructor at Balboa High School, once
a hardscrabble school on the city's south side. Test scores and
morale are on the rise, and Devine feels she's making a big
difference by teaching pre-calculus and algebra to the diverse
student body.
"I don't ever want to leave Balboa - I'd love to retire from here,"
Devine said as she stacked papers following the afternoon bell. "The
only problem is I can't afford to live here on a teacher's salary."
After taxes and a $350 deposit into a retirement fund, she takes home
about $2,500 per month. One-bedroom apartments in desirable
neighborhoods - near friends and public transit - start around $2,000
per month. Studios start around $1,500.
Devine said she'll likely settle for roommates - a fate she didn't
envision for herself after college, and a far cry from her dream of
home ownership.
Technically, she could afford her own modest apartment - but she
wants to heed the standard advice and not spend more than a third of
her income on housing. That's not easy; experts say nearly a quarter
of San Francisco renters spend more than 50 percent of their
household earnings on rent, and the market has grown tighter as the
mortgage crisis deters some young adults from home-buying.
Devine rarely goes out to eat or buys new clothes, but despite a
frugal lifestyle has been unable to whittle down $3,000 in credit
card debt.
"You have to make big sacrifices - not just whether to buy a house or
not," said Devine. "I want to have kids - but what would I do with
them? I can't even afford my own place."
Devine works at least 50 hours a week, including several hours each
weekend grading quizzes. Some of her colleagues moonlight as
waitresses, bartenders and weekend nannies.
One option would be moving to a suburban school district, where pay
scales range up to $10,000 higher than in San Francisco. A public
school teacher in the city starts at $43,000.
Losing teachers like Devine should be a top concern for residents,
said Matthew Hardy of the United Educators San Francisco. Teachers
who stay have to be either "crazy or dedicated," he said.
Jose Morales, now 78, moved into a modest Victorian house in San
Francisco's working-class Mission District in 1965, shortly after
emigrating from Peru. The rent was $80 a month, and he used leftover
earnings to travel, buy nice clothes and eat well.
The rent is now $864 - a bargain by local standards but an
unmanageable fortune for Morales. A former tennis instructor, he hurt
his back last year and now relies entirely on a Social Security
payment of $900 per month.
After paying the rent, he has $36 a month for expenses, including
food and medications. He eats at city-sponsored senior centers, which
charge $1.50 per meal, buys cut-rate produce from local bodegas and
takes freebies from friends.
He never travels. He doesn't own a television or radio. Among his few
new clothes are tennis sweat shirts that pro shops sell him at a
discount.
"I'm skin and bones - it's a miracle I'm still here," said Morales,
who's lost 20 pounds since last year and developed osteoporosis.
Stooped but sinewy, with wavy white hair and vintage Wilson sneakers,
Morales has received numerous eviction notices from a landlord hoping
to convert the two-unit flat into a luxury house. Morales refuses to
leave; a court showdown is imminent.
"If more people don't try to fight for their rights, then only rich
people would live in this city," he says.
Morales' apartment is ramshackle. Door frames lean at improbable
angles. Paint peels from walls, and a gaping crack splits the kitchen
ceiling.
But the beautifully restored Victorian next door has golden cornices
and fresh paint, and other nearby homes are getting high-end
renovations. The neighborhood is rife with homeless people and
illegal immigrants, but white-collar workers are moving in to commute
to lucrative jobs in Silicon Valley or downtown.
Morales knows he might live better in Peru, where relatives could
help and the cost of living is a fraction of California's. But that
would end his quest for American citizenship.
"I came here because the U.S. was a great country," Morales
said. "But housing has become a big injustice. ... The story of my
apartment is the story of my block and the story of my city and the
story of all of California and the United States. You have to fight
for it, and that's what I will do - all the way to the end."
Back in Stamford, Simon and Jennifer Morris have seen the city's
economic boom firsthand but, like many working-class families,
haven't shared its fruits.
Simon has irregular earnings as a carpenter; he can make $1,000 in a
good week but often has no work at all. Jennifer, 27, worked in the
past at local pet stores, but took time off this year following the
birth of Layla, who's now 7 months old. Their other child, Ethan, is
3.
Since February, they've been living in a "family emergency" shelter
on the edge of downtown, part of a multipurpose social-service center
run by St. Luke's LifeWorks.
They have two bedrooms of their own, but share bathrooms and a
combination kitchen-common room with four other families in a setup
resembling a college dorm. There's an 11 p.m. curfew on weeknights,
no drinking or smoking in the unit, and a rotation of chores for each
family.
"After living on your own, where you can come and go, you can feel a
little claustrophobic," Jennifer said. "You've got to coexist with
everyone. Sometimes I feel like I'm back in high school."
For Simon, the biggest downside is lack of privacy.
"There's good days and bad days," he said. "People notice when I'm
grumpy, and sometimes I just want to be left alone."
But overall, the Morrises are grateful. They can stay up to two years
at the shelter, far longer than at many similar facilities, and they
expect to be able to save money - for the first time in their married
life - due to a cost-sharing formula which leaves them paying St.
Luke's about $250 a month.
If the savings materialize, they plan to head south, seeking a
community where homes are within reach of a family like theirs.
"Stamford forgot about the poor people," said Simon, who, like his
wife, grew up here. "All these new apartments are great for the city,
but some of the one-bedrooms are $3,000 a month. ... It's a
businessman's town now."
The executive director of St. Luke's LifeWorks, the Rev. Dick
Schuster, says Stamford and boomtowns like it should tackle the
housing crisis out of self-interest.
"The people who are working in your restaurants, your fire and police
departments, are all of a sudden finding they can no longer afford to
live in the community where they work," he said. "And those who do
choose to live in the community become the true working poor, hanging
on by their thumbs."
___
David Crary reported from Stamford and Rachel Konrad from San
Francisco.