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Writer's pictureLaura L

A place for us



The somewhat ironic juxtaposition of my Home & Design magazine arriving just as I dash out the door to certify my dad's lease renewal (at his welfare apartment complex)... As luck would have it, the formerly homeless man whose apartment I furnished was hanging around the lobby and recognized me. He made another comment about how strange it was that I have a parent who lives there. "You just don't look the type!" he exclaimed again.


What is the "type," anyway? I don't mean aesthetics; I know what poor people look like. What separates the people who spend tens of thousands renovating their homes to look like a literal magazine, and the ones who go to bed hungry at night? Each of my dad's neighbors have their own stories. The apartment manager told me once that most of the residents actually did work their entire lives and simply ran out of money by the time retirement came (or they outlived their retirement savings). They live in pretty harsh conditions -- some don't have any furniture, many are food-insecure, and all live in poverty.


The "human rights" argument has never rang true to me; it feels like almost a straw man's argument. Of course it's not a "human right" to be entitled to nice sofas, stylish dining tables and top-of-the-line comforters to tuck ourselves into at night; of course our poor have it easier than the third world's poor.


Still, in a country with all this money, where a not-insignificant number of people can obtain lavish holiday dinners and SUVs and the whole white picket fence dream -- surely, there is room for some relief in the world where these residents dwell.

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