It was an old tradition: landlords barring children from their properties. In the competitive postwar housing market of the late 1940s, landlords regularly turned away families with children and evicted tenants who got pregnant.3 This was evident in letters mothers wrote when applying for public housing. “At present,” one wrote, “I am living in an unheated attic room with a one-year-old baby….Everywhere I go the landlords don’t want children. I also have a ten-year-old boy….I can’t keep him with me because the landlady objects to children. Is there any way that you can help me to get an unfurnished room, apartment, or even an old barn?…I can’t go on living like this because I am on the verge of doing something desperate.” Another mother wrote, “My children are now sick and losing weight….I have tried, begged, and pleaded for a place but [it’s] always ‘too late’ or ‘sorry, no children.’?” Another wrote, “The lady where I am rooming put two of my children out about three weeks ago and don’t want me to let them come back….If I could get a garage I would take it.”4
When Congress passed the Fair Housing Act in 1968, it did not consider families with children a protected class, allowing landlords to continue openly turning them away or evicting them. Some placed costly restrictions on large families, charging “children-damage deposits” in addition to standard rental fees. One Washington, DC, development required tenants with no children to put down a $150 security deposit but charged families with children a $450 deposit plus a monthly surcharge of $50 per child.5 In 1980, HUD commissioned a nationwide study to assess the magnitude of the problem and found that only 1 in 4 rental units was available to families without restrictions.6 Eight years later, Congress finally outlawed housing discrimination against children and families, but as Pam found out, the practice remained widespread.7 Families with children were turned away in as many as 7 in 10 housing searches.8
Ned got out of the car and gave Kristin the rest of his McDonald’s breakfast sandwich. “Give Daddy a kiss. I’ll be working. Love you.” He kissed Pam too.
Pam put her hand to her forehead. “I’m ready to pop.”
“Momma? Playground. Play!” Kristin asked from the backseat.
“No, Kristin. Momma’s busy looking for a place for us to live.”
—
“How old is the child?” the landlord asked.
“Six.”
“Call back next month.”
Arleen hung up. She had called on or applied for eighty-two apartments. She had been accepted to none. Even in the inner city, most were out of her reach. And the landlords of the places she could afford if she handed over everything weren’t calling back.
Arleen started again, dialing three more numbers. Too expensive. Automated message. “Call back Monday.” Arleen was exhausted from rushing to the hospital the night before. She had run out of prednisone, and Jafaris had had an asthma attack. It was hard for Arleen to stay on top of his asthma with so many other things to worry about. Once, she ended a long and fruitless day of apartment hunting with the awful realization that she had left a backpack with Jafaris’s breathing equipment at a bus stop. After a day without treatment, Jafaris seemed fine. But two days later, he woke up and told Arleen, “Mommy, I don’t feel good.” She heard him wheezing and called an ambulance. That time, they had transferred him to Children’s Hospital, near the zoo, and kept him overnight. This time, they were able to make it back to the shelter by ten thirty p.m. And the on-call social worker was nice enough to pay for a cab to and from the hospital.
When Number 85 answered the phone, Arleen replied, “Hi! How you doing?” instead of “Hi, how you doing?” or “Hi, I’m calling about your property.” She had been trying different pitches and bending her voice in different directions. She would tell one landlord one thing and another something else. Sometimes she was in a shelter; sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes she had two children; sometimes one. Sometimes they were in child care; sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes she received child support; sometimes she didn’t. She was grasping, experimenting, trying out altered stories at random. Arleen wouldn’t know how to game the system if she wanted to.
“Is there a man in the picture?” Number 85 asked.
“There won’t be no man.”
“Are you going to have men coming over once in a while?”
“No. It’s just me and my son.”
“How old is your son?”
Number 86 had wanted $825 a month plus another additional $25 for Jori, but Number 88 had left her with a good feeling.
Number 88 was a large three-story brick building at the end of a dead-end road on Milwaukee’s North Side. “I think that at one time it was an institution,” the building manager told Arleen. “Could have been an old people’s house or something.”
Mental ward, Arleen guessed. Inside was clean and quiet. The walls were not off-white or beige but hospital-white, rich-people’s-teeth white. Dark wood doors with brass numbers opened into long and low-ceilinged hallways. Arleen and the boys followed the building manager and listened to the squeaks of their shoes. Behind the manager’s back, Jori lunged at Jafaris, making him jump, and the boys let out a muffled laugh, which helped shake away the creeps.
“My name is Ali,” the building manager said. “It means ‘of noble descent.’?” A straight-backed black man with a brown kufi, Ali wore beige pants and a matching beige shirt, buttoned to the top. He showed Arleen into the first unit. “I got one or two problem tenants,” he said, “but that’s it. It’s just that some people, they can’t get with that Huxtable culture. They more South Central in they culture. And I don’t like that culture.”
Arleen looked around the apartment, which was decorated with sparse furniture that probably predated The Cosby Show.
“You know,” Ali continued, “doing life like you supposed to be doing. Paying your bills.” He was clearing his throat and speaking stronger now. “In a committed relationship. That’s a big one right there. I be on black women. You know, not having no committed relationships, and be Ms. Independent….Let’s bring back family. If you ain’t trying to be about family, then I don’t care about sister here, in helping you any sort of way….I’m about family. About what’s right and good.”
Arleen had been smiling at Ali, and he’d just noticed. He was funny.
“Um, you like this one or you want to see another one?”
“Doesn’t even matter. I just need a place.”
The rent was $500 for a one-bedroom; the light bill would be in Arleen’s name. On the application, next to “Previous landlord?” Arleen wrote, “Sherrena Tarver.” Next to “Reasons for moving?” she decided on “Slumlord.” Arleen hesitated, then went ahead and asked if cats were allowed.
“They say no pets, but I myself I do like cats. Can’t stand dogs. So I might be willing to negotiate on that.”
“Well, I’d appreciate it. Um, and we, um.” Arleen looked at Jori. She was mostly doing this for him. He understood that, and it showed in his big brown eyes. “Don’t cry, Jori, ’cause you about to make me cry!” Jori quickly turned away and walked to the window.
—
Arleen decided to stop to see her cousin, J.P. She adored J.P., with his wide face and easy demeanor. “Let’s see if his landlord have anything,” she said. Ali was nice, but he wasn’t the one who approved applications. Arleen also wanted to check in on her son, Boosie, who had been sleeping at J.P.’s place on Twenty-Sixth Street and Chambers, which might have been the exact middle of the ghetto.