Public Housing Book of Baby Names

A British Housing Project - Conclusion

(See Parts One, Two, Three, Four and Five posted below). 


A British Housing Project, Part 1
A British Housing Project, Part 2
A British Housing Project, Part 3
A British Housing Project, Part 4 
A British Housing Project, Part 5 
A British Housing Project, Conclusion  
 

The residents of Corby Commons, a social housing project, circulated a petition to get rid of the gypsy family who parked their caravan in a field across the way.  Mom said, “I had tea with the gypsy woman again.”

“Did you warn her?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mom said, “They’re leaving before things get worse.”

“They’re not going to fight it?”

Mom shook her head.  “The gypsy told me it happens wherever they go.  They stay until they’re told to leave then move on to the next town.”

“That’s awful,” I said, “They aren’t welcome anywhere.”

“No,” my mother replied, “It’s the saddest thing.” Mom showed me something the gypsy left behind.  ”Look.  As a goodbye gift she gave me these figurines to scare away evil spirits.”  I picked them up.  There were three of them, hand-carved out of wood.  They had strange gargoyle faces and served to guard our household against bad things, so that only good may come to our family.  Mom got misty-eyed.   “The gypsy said she would never forget the American woman who was kind to her,” she added.

The next morning, I resolved to tell my friends that I lived in social housing.  But I needed luck.  I took one of the gargoyle figurines from the shelf and put it in my pocket just in case it worked and headed off to school.  At lunch time I sat at a table with three of my friends – Emma, Ann and Mary.  “I’ve got something to tell you,” I said to them as I clutched the figurine in my pocket for courage, “I haven’t been honest with you.”  I could feel my face become flushed with embarrassment as I confessed that my family was not rich after all, as I had led them to believe.  “The truth is my parents are on a fixed income and we live in social housing,” I said.

There was an awkward moment when they looked dumbfounded then they asked me why I lied.  I explained that I did it to keep their friendship, though it appeared I might lose it anyway.  I couldn’t tell them where I really lived, I said, because of something that happened back in America.  

I went on with my story.  My family lived in Liddonfield Housing Project in Philadelphia.  When we moved into a home of our own, the stigma of public housing followed us.  Our new neighbors thought we’d bring down the neighborhood.  They made it clear we were unwelcome.   For the next eight years we endured their disapproving looks and snide remarks, all because of where we came from.  So, that is why I did what I did, I explained.  “I’m so sorry,” I told them, “I hope that you can forgive me.”

Emma was the first to speak up.   “We shouldn’t have asked you if you were rich,” she said, “That was wrong, but we just assumed it.”

“Yes,” said Mary, “We’ve always heard that Americans are wealthy.  How were we to know?”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, “It’s mine.”  I couldn’t eat my lunch.  “Well, I guess you don’t want to be my friends anymore, so I’ll be going,” I told them.  I got up to leave.

“Wait,” replied Ann, “We still like you.  It doesn’t matter where you live or that you’re not rich.”

It was the most wonderful thing anyone ever said to me.  “You mean it?”

“Of course, we mean it,” Emma replied, “Now sit down and eat your lunch.”  I sat down and no more was said about it.  I felt like a great weight was lifted from my shoulders.  They were the best friends that anyone could have.

After school let out, I got off the bus and looked over at the field.  The caravan was gone.  There was an empty space where it used to be and I felt a twinge of sorrow.  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the figurine.  It had kept the bad away, just like the gypsy said it would.  Only good could come to me now, because the gypsy willed it.

Public Housing Tenant Rebellion

Whites Live in Housing Projects Too

Mortar Theatre's Under America is a play about a white reporter who gets permission from the Chicago Housing Authority to live at Cabrini Green Housing Project so she can study the residents there.  She befriends one black family in particular and the play explores the differences between her white middle-class family and the poor black family at the project.  The attempt to bring the issue of public housing to a theatre audience in itself deserves applause, but theatre reviews have been mixed.

In his review of the play, Timothy McGuire of Chicago Critic laments the lack of focus and the stereotypical characters.  He states, "The first act is a group of slow character building scenes with common clichés about the inequities between races and classes in Chicago...The two families represent the extremes of society.  The white family living in the North Shore is so out of touch, you would think that they have never conversed with a black man or woman, which makes for some funny lines, but not a sense of reality."

As a former public housing resident who is white, the idea behind this play made me feel conflicted.  While I appreciate that a play set in a housing project is a novel and courageous undertaking, I am also a little frustrated.  Once again, poor whites are being made invisible, as if they don't exist.  In films about urban poverty, whites are always depicted as middle-class do-gooders who "save" black people and become enlightened while doing so.  There seems to be a recurring theme among script writers that we can only learn about poverty from blacks.  Of course, the media mirrors real life in that whites are perceived as being financially comfortable, if not wealthy.  This lack of experience with poverty causes them to be "clueless" in the movies.  In reality, most whites are indeed clueless when it comes to black issues.

Why doesn't the media, just once, flip the script?  Is it so inconceivable to write a play about a black reporter from a middle-class background who visits a white family in the projects to research them?  That scenario alone would do more to open minds than any amount of well-intentioned preaching.  Still, playwright Jacob Juntunen's Under America deserves credit.

Megan Cottrell of the Roscoe View Journal noted, "I’ve learned that no one much cares to hear about public housing, except to talk about how terrible they think it is. Whether audiences will come remains to be seen. But those who do will get an education, both in public policy and in the sometimes insurmountable race and class barriers that still plague our nation, whether or not we see them."

A British Housing Project Part 5

Mom just found out that a petition was being circulated to get rid of the gypsies who lived in a caravan near our social housing project. The petition stated that gypsies did not have a right to park their caravan in the field, their campfires were a hazard and their presence there brought down the neighborhood. “Did you sign it?” I asked.

Mom shook her head. “Of course not.”

“I guess they won’t be there much longer,” I remarked.

“That’s too bad,” Dad said, “I kind of like that caravan there.” Dad settled down in front of the television.

I lingered in the kitchen with Mom. After a moment, I leaned toward her and whispered, “We should warn the gypsies if they visit us again.” Mom agreed. That evening I gazed upon their encampment for what I thought might be the last time. Somehow I couldn’t summon up the courage to go over there and speak to them, maybe even sit with them by the fire. Gypsies seemed separate and apart from ordinary people, cloaked in mystery, rumor and legend. All I knew of them were tales of thievery, fortune telling and wild dancing in the night. But who were they, really?

To the residents of Corby Commons who signed the petition, the gypsies were nothing more than homeless people who brought down the neighborhood. I found it strange that something I marveled at was someone else’s eyesore. Back in Philadelphia, I cringed every time I heard someone say that our housing project brought down the neighborhood. I was proud of my mother for not signing the petition. At least the gypsies had someone on their side.

For the next couple of weeks, I basked in the admiration of my English classmates, who saw me through star struck eyes because I was American. It was 1976 and Americans often experienced a fabulous reception around the world. We were perceived as being defenders of freedom, friendly, wealthy and innovative. Americans fought alongside the English in WWII and our countries remained close allies. People around the globe were enthralled by movies made in Hollywood. America’s reputation was at an all time high and I benefited from that lucky break.

Still, I could not keep up the charade much longer. My classmates were starting to catch on that my family might not be wealthy after all, as I had said. “I saw you getting off the bus the other day,” one of them told me, “I thought rich kids have chauffeurs drive them to school.”

I had to do some quick thinking. Maybe if I just watered down the lie a little, then perhaps I could gradually set things straight over time. “I don’t have a chauffeur, silly, I said, “We’re rich, but not that rich.”

It didn’t take long for others to ask probing questions. I was in the locker room with two of my friends when they asked why I never invited them to my house. “We’d love to meet your parents,” they said. I assured them I’d invite them over sometime soon. I wished the lie would just go away like it never happened. But then I thought about the gypsies and how people were trying to get rid of them because they were poor. Would my new friends treat me the same way?

I wanted to confide in my mother, but I didn’t think anyone would understand what it was like to be a teenager trying to fit into a higher social class. In desperation, I had read books on etiquette. I studied how to properly set a table, use the right utensils, carry myself in a certain manner and a host of other subtleties associated with a high social standing. But there no books on how to transition emotionally, how to approach others when telling the truth about your background, or what to do when people reject you because of your address.

I came home from school one day and Mom said, “I had tea with the gypsy woman again.”

“Did you warn her about the petition?” I asked.

The conclusion of A British Housing Project will be posted on Monday

RELATED STORIES:

A British Housing Project, Conclusion

Social Class in Philadelphia

Biography of a Housing Project Resident

Eileen Reeves and daughter Rosemary
Liddonfield Housing Project circa 1965

Mrs. Eileen Reeves lived in Liddonfield Housing Project from 1958-1967 along with her husband Jim and their children. Eileen was born in Scotland. She emigrated to America in 1923 with her parents and sister, Mary. Her father, James, was just a boy of thirteen when he had to leave school to work in the coal mines. His teacher tried to intervene on his behalf. She was convinced he had writing talent and was capable of earning a scholarship to university if he stayed in school. But it was common in that time and place for children to labor in the mines. James felt it was his obligation to do so in order to provide money for his struggling family.

Eileen’s mother, Elizabeth, was Irish. She attended convent school and earned her teaching degree. Elizabeth moved from Ireland to Scotland to accept a teaching position. There, she met a coal miner named James who was now a grown man. Elizabeth was impressed with the young miner’s intelligence and writing ability. Their friendship blossomed into romance. It was almost unheard of in those days for a middle-class woman to marry into the lower class, but they were in love, and the couple chose to defy convention.

Elizabeth left her teaching job to raise their two children. Her husband’s wages as a miner weren’t enough and the family became impoverished. James wanted out of the mines. The couple decided to move to America in hopes of a better life. James found factory work in the U.S., but the conditions the workers were subjected to were almost as bad as the mines. He tried to organize a labor union. In the 1920’s that was a dangerous thing to do. Union organizers and workers who supported them were often brutally attacked and even killed by hired henchmen in an effort to subdue them with acts of terror.

James held secret labor union meetings at his home. Eileen played by his side during the meetings. Though she was too young to fully understand, her exposure to their politics instilled in her a sense of kinship with downtrodden laborers and an awareness of inequality between the classes.

Eileen graduated high school in 1937. She met Jim Reeves several years later, as WWII raged on in Europe. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Jim was drafted and stationed in Alabama. Eileen went to Alabama to see Jim and he proposed. The couple was married on the army base. While in Alabama, Eileen took public transportation and was horrified that blacks were made to sit at the back of the bus.

Jim was not adjusting well to army life and was discharged. The couple went back to Philadelphia. Eileen took a job as a secretary. Jim, however, was often in and out of work. The fact that he only had an eighth grade education made it difficult to find good work. Eileen had a baby and stayed home to be a mother. A year later, a second child came along. There was not enough money coming in and there were times when they couldn’t even afford baby food for the children.

The Reeves family moved to Northeast Village Housing Project in the early 1950’s. In 1957 they moved again to Liddonfield Homes. By now, there were seven kids. The couple had their eighth child in 1959. Though they had a roof over their heads, they were very poor. At times, Jim resorted to stealing food. There were constant arguments over money. Jim had a violent temper and often took it out on the children.

When her youngest was old enough to go to school, Eileen went back to work. She found a job in the billing department of a publishing firm in center city. The oldest of the children were grown. There were less mouths to feed. By now, Jim had steady work as a maintenance man and was promoted to supervisor of the maintenance crew. Financially, things were much better. There was enough food to go around. All boded well, but then the housing authority told them they were making too much money and were no longer eligible for public housing.

The couple moved into a home nearby, where they lived for ten years. When they retired, they sold the house and moved overseas. They lived in England for two years before returning to Pennsylvania. During her retirement, Eileen continued to travel. Her grown children often took her on trips abroad. She visited Ireland, Scotland, Germany, Greece, Italy and France. She stood at the Berlin Wall and beheld the Acropolis and the Coliseum in Rome. She walked through English castles, taking the same path as kings and queens centuries before. Despite her difficult life, Eileen lived to be eighty-six.

Two of her three sons served in the military. The eldest, Jim Jr., did his tour of duty in Turkey. Barry was a soldier in Vietnam. He is mentioned on pages 115-116 of the book, Dear America: Letters Home from Vietnam. Her youngest son, Kevin, moved to Alaska and has written articles for magazines, including the Alaskan Northeastern.

Eileen had five daughters. Maureen co-owns a restaurant in New Jersey. Jean has her own furniture refinishing business. Daughter Eileen is an artist. Rosemary worked in New York for Cambridge University Press, as well as a marketing manager in the science and medicine division of the same publishing firm her mother worked for. Sharon’s son, Brian, is a civil engineer who has designed bridges in Maryland and Washington, D.C.

A British Housing Project Part Four

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by Rosemary Reeves

I had just returned to my social housing unit after my first day in British school. Mom asked me how my day went and then remarked that she had invited the gypsy in for a long talk. “What could you two possibly have to say to each other?” I asked.

Mom ran the water in the kitchen faucet and started to wash the dishes. “I told the gypsy I understood what it was like to be poor,” she said as she scrubbed, “I told her all about Liddonfield Housing Project back in Philadelphia and how poor we were, that there were times we didn’t even have enough to eat.”

I picked up a dish towel so I could dry them for her. “You shouldn’t tell people that,” I replied, “and you shouldn’t have invited that gypsy in.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because, well..” I stumbled over the words because I knew in my heart it didn’t seem right. “They say gypsies steal.”

Mom looked shocked. “Rosemary, I’m surprised at you. Did you forget where you come from?”

“I’m trying to,” I remarked, “Anyway, isn’t that what you always told me? Never look back on Liddonfield. No good can come from that place, you said. You wanted better for me than that, remember?”

Mom thought about it. “Maybe I was wrong,” she said, “Maybe there are times when you should look back. Maybe then you won’t judge people because they’re poor, like those tinkers in the caravan. How can you possibly turn your nose up at them? I’m ashamed of you.”

I didn't want my mother to be ashamed of me. Mom would be doubly ashamed if she knew I lied to my schoolmates about being rich. “Okay, Mom,” I told her, “I’m sorry.”

Dad came home and poured beer into the dog’s dish again. “Jim, stop giving the dog Guinness,” Mom remarked, “It can’t be good for him.”

“Aw, he just wants his pint!” Dad replied.

Just then the doorbell rang. Mom answered it while I finished drying the dishes. I heard her speaking to someone. “Who was that?” I asked after Mom shut the door.

“That was one of the neighbors,” she said, “The residents of Corby Commons are circulating a petition to get rid of the gypsies.”

Part Five of A British Housing Project will be posted on Monday, September 20, 2010

Related Stories: 

A British Housing Project, Part 1
A British Housing Project, Part 2
A British Housing Project, Part 3
A British Housing Project, Part 4 
A British Housing Project, Part 5 
A British Housing Project, Conclusion

Housing Project Stories Wanted

Please send all submissions to publichousingstories@gmail.com. See "Tell Us Your Story! page on right side of screen above the burning briefcase picture.

Housing Project Residents-Victims and Perpetrators?

They call the 1950s and 60s “the good old days” of public housing, when the projects were clean and safe. There is no doubt that when these buildings were first erected, they were nice. It was also a more innocent time back then and there was much less crime in general. In her article for Poverty in America entitled, The Projects Get a Museum, Megan Greenwell points out that stories appearing on the National Public Housing Museum website are overwhelmingly from former residents of that era who state that back then, housing projects were a great place to live. One wrote that the residents didn’t even know they were poor. Ms. Greenwell countered that in her statement, “By the 1980s, people living in public housing did indeed know they were poor, and that meant they lived in fear and danger.”

While that is true for some of the worst housing projects today, it is a sweeping generalization which conjures up images of terrified residents who are shivering, helpless victims waiting to be saved. Is this characterization preferable to the one that describes them as perpetrators of crime? Ms. Greenwell is not alone. When people who live in housing projects are not portrayed as criminals, they are almost always described as victims, when in fact, most are neither.

As a resident of Liddonfield Housing Project during that bygone era, such statements prompted me to wonder whether recent inhabitants of Liddonfield had been terrified to live there. (The project has been vacated and is being demolished). I had no idea how I would find this out. Then one day, I was on Facebook and that led me to a group called R.I.P. Liddonfield.

The group has its share of old timers like myself who remember “the good old days” of public housing. But it was the young ones who surprised me. They expressed that they had good times and good memories, even when Liddonfield had suffered decay and a rise in crime. Many felt regret at having to leave. How can that be?

Perhaps the answer can be found in my own experience. Let me take you back to the 1960s, when I was a kid in the project. Liddonfield was clean, but I don’t recall it being entirely safe back then. There were hardcore bullies, like the 13-year-old boy who body-slammed me when I was six. During that time, I occasionally heard about a Liddonfield kid ending up in reform school and later on, he was one of them. Some households were prone to domestic violence, including mine. One night, a woman came screaming at our door because her husband was chasing her with a gun.

How could I have fond memories of the project? I do because I recall how fun it was to ride my scooter along Megargee Street. I had lots of friends, which gave me a sense of belonging (something I lost when my family moved into a middle-class neighborhood.) Once, we had a summer block party where all of the Liddonfield tenants put aside their differences, feasting and dancing for hours. The housing project segregated us from the surrounding community of homeowners, creating a subculture of people who needed each other for survival, acceptance and fraternity. Once any of us set foot outside the project, we were unsafe in a different way. We were judged, characterized as freeloaders and deadbeats, labeled, unwanted and unwelcome. If we sought middle-class acceptance, we had to hide where we came from and who we were. Sometimes the ugliness of the project is preferable to seeing the ugly hatred in people’s eyes.

In the project, everyone knows your name. Middle-class folks don’t interact nearly as much with their neighbors, because they can afford to isolate themselves. Their financial comfort gives them much independence, and many middle-class people don’t even know who their neighbors are. I once rented an apartment in middle-class South Jersey. I was there three years before I met the guy in the apartment next to mine at the grocery store and we briefly spoke to each other for the first time. I only saw him twice after that.

In public housing, people depend on their neighbors. If you’re out of food, neighbors often sympathize and offer you what they can spare. If you can’t afford to enroll your child at a daycare center so you can work, there is undoubtedly someone you know down the street who will babysit for much less money. There are times when you need something you don’t have. But you know Jamal who lives a few doors away and Jamal has one. So you borrow it from him and the next time he needs something, he can borrow that something from you. Friends and neighbors become a safety net or even a lifeline when you’re most in need.

If you’re poor and you want to celebrate a birthday or anniversary, you can’t afford an expensive night out on the town. But you can get your public housing neighbors together and invite them to your party. All they have to do is bring a dish. Turn on some dance music and the party is on. So, even in the decay of a government neglected housing project, good times and good memories happen.

I am not trying to whitewash or deny the decline of housing projects. I am simply saying that when people are segregated as a group and placed into a bad situation, they find a way to celebrate, love and bring happiness into their lives, if only sometimes. The human spirit is intangible. It lives behind the graffiti-covered doors of housing projects. Perhaps it can be found in public housing especially, for it is in such places that generosity, sharing, community, and compassion are most needed.

Though public housing tenants have been subjected to government imposed segregation of the poor and all the bad things that come with it, most do not think of themselves as victims. And while there is crime in public housing, most are not perpetrators. Like everyone else, they are somewhere in between. Each has admirable traits mixed with personal shortcomings and each makes his or her own happy memories. There is a quote in Shakespeare’s play, The Merchant of Venice. “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?” Hundreds of years have passed since Mr. Shakespeare wrote those words, but they still ring true.

I firmly believe that if a middle-class or rich person lost all their money and was segregated from the rest of society in a housing project, they would reach out to neighbors to survive. And in doing so, would discover the good people there, because he or she would be looking for them.

Finding Forrester - Movie Trailer

Who's finding you?

In the movie, Finding Forrester, a young man from the Bronx forges a friendship with a famous but elusive author, who encourages him to pursue writing. Are you a talent waiting to be discovered?

If you have a story to tell but your grammar and/or spelling is not up to par, you are urged to do the best you can and submit it to publichousingstories@gmail.com. The editor of Public Housing Stories believes that the content of the submission is more important than technical expertise. Stories can be edited for clarity. So, for heaven’s sake, punch the keys!

A British Housing Project Part 3

by Rosemary Reeves

There was so much on my mind. Being in a new country was a lot to take in for a 17-year-old. Enrolling in English school was one of the things that kept me awake at night. I looked forward to it, but it was a little scary at the same time. I knew my American accent would make me stand out. In school, where others can be mean, being different is usually not a good thing.

As I took the bus to Corby Technical College I worried whether I would fit in. The school system in England is not the same as in the United States. In England, you go to “college” to take “O” level and “A” level courses to prepare for university. It’s kind of a high school after high school.

I got off the bus with my printed schedule of classes in hand. While looking at it, I noticed there was a mistake. When I got to my first class I decided to point that out to the instructor, who was standing at his desk, getting ready to take attendance. There were a few minutes left before the bell signaled for class to begin. Almost everyone had arrived.

I raised my hand and explained the problem. Upon hearing my American accent, all eyes turned toward me. There was an awkward moment when no one spoke. Suddenly, the teacher cocked his head and asked, “Are you a yank?” I replied that I was indeed a yank (an American). He smiled and the bell rang. “I’m Mr. Carrington,” he announced to all, “and just in case anyone has wandered into the wrong room, this is British history class.” Throughout the lesson he referred to me as “our friend from the colonies.” I didn’t mind. It gave everyone a laugh.

After class, I strolled through the hall in search of my locker. A swarm of classmates followed behind. I thought they were going to their lockers, too, but when I stopped to undo the lock, about ten of them surrounded me. Eyes wide with delight, they bombarded me with questions. What’s America like? Are you from New York? Have you met any movie stars?

I told them that I was from Philadelphia, which is not terribly far from New York. Yes, I had been to the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building and beheld the skyscrapers there. They hung onto my every word. “None of us ever met an American before!” one girl remarked, “This is so exciting!” I felt like a celebrity. It was one of those magical moments in life that happen when you least expect it.

Then another girl asked, “Are you rich?” It broke the spell. They thought all Americans were wealthy. I couldn’t let them know that my parents were on a fixed income and I lived in social housing. Back in Philly, I was stigmatized upon moving out of Liddonfield Housing Project into a middle-class neighborhood. I was afraid my classmates wouldn’t like me if they found out.

“Yes, I’m rich,” I replied, then changed the subject before they could probe me further about it. I told them more about Manhattan instead, which I had visited on a school outing once. They looked thrilled just to be near the American in their midst. I had never been the object of such delightful attention. It was one of the most wonderful days of my life and I thought I had found heaven.

When I went home to my social housing unit, I related to my mother what a great time I had at school. I left out the part where I lied. But I had misgivings already. Not telling the truth nagged at my conscience, but I refused to let it ruin the wonderful day. Deep down I knew I had gotten myself in a pickle. My classmates were bound to catch on sooner or later, because I had no wealth to flaunt.

I asked Mom how her day went. “Don’t tell your father,” she said, “but that gypsy boy’s mother stopped by when your father was out. I invited her in for tea. We had a nice, long talk.” Mom had her secrets, too, it seemed.

“You had a long talk with that tinker woman who lives in the caravan?” I asked, stunned, “What could you possibly have to say to each other?

Part 4 of A British Housing Project will be posted on Monday, Sept 13, 2010.

Related Stories: 

A British Housing Project, Part 4 
A British Housing Project, Part 5 
A British Housing Project, Conclusion