I became a first-time homebuyer twenty years ago. Before that purchase, my mother and I mostly lived in low-income housing projects.  I grew up, from birth to age 18,  in one of the worst HUD housing projects in Birmingham, AL. A specific housing memory that stands out is being required to vacate the housing project unit. Initially, my household consisted of my grandmother and several other family members. She was the leaseholder and the head of the household. When she passed away, a neighbor informed the property manager that my mother and I were still residing in the unit. My grandmother had been dead only a couple of months. Although we paid rent, maintained utilities, and caused no issues, we were “unauthorized” and “ineligible”. I was a college student with a part-time job. My mother was struggling with multiple disabilities and working a low-paying job. Somehow, we were “unauthorized” and “ineligible” for a federal housing project for low-income families. While grieving and adjusting to a massive loss, we were given 30 days to vacate. That unit, with all of its flaws, was our home. That community, with all of its issues, represented safety and family. 

The staff in the leasing office made several stereotypical assumptions about me and my mother. These stereotypes were rooted in racism and classism. I now know the average salary of HUD and HABD (Housing Authority of Birmingham District) employees. A woman making less than $50,000 per year thought that my mother and I were not on her level. She judged our poverty when she was just probably one paycheck away from becoming our neighbor. I cannot know for sure, but I believe she saw my mother’s behavior as laziness instead of exhaustion from working with disabilities. She may have viewed her effort to fight for our housing as typical Black woman aggression and inappropriate behavior. Whatever she thought or felt about us, was clearly negative, devaluing, and dehumanizing. 

The staff assumed we were trying to game the system. They concluded that we had no respect for rules and regulations. They further assumed we would never try to lease the unit for ourselves. The assumptions were ridiculous and offensive. Leases end. At some point, my mother and I would have had to attempt to either renew or move.  Given our income and my mother’s medical issues, we were the target demographic for housing assistance. Yet, we were never offered an opportunity to complete any type of screening to determine our continued eligibility for assistance without my grandmother in the household. We were disrespected, judged, and forced out. 

With the help of family, we located an apartment. It was somewhat affordable and in a high-crime, blighted neighborhood. This experience made me think of poor families that do not have resources. Although our new apartment was not the best, we were not homeless. My mother and I continued to work together to improve our housing conditions. Two women with disabilities and very little money meant it was not easy. Eventually, we moved to another low-income housing community with an amazing property manager. She treated all tenants with respect and did not view being poor or having a disability as negative. She was in the right job and at the right time for my family. Now that I oversee statewide low-income housing programs for people with disabilities, I often think of what happened when I was 18. We were afraid, embarrassed, and facing a serious housing crisis. We pulled together and survived, but so many people are not that fortunate. In my career in housing and as a housing advocate, I try to pull together with tenants for their survival. I do it for my mother and my grandmother. 

I have been working in low-income housing for people with disabilities for 16 years. My work requires me to be very familiar with HUD leases, policies, and procedures. Although there have been improvements in funding, legal protections, and linkage to services, not enough has changed since my mother and I were in low-income housing. Many of the same barriers remain including: short timeframes for providing eligibility documentation, very low asset and income limits that leave the “working poor” ineligible for assistance, and strict definitions of family and disability. I hate to acknowledge this truth, but the judgment and discrimination persist. As I work with other housing and service providers, I am often met with language and behavior that are unacceptable. I am quick to correct, challenge, and educate these people. I also have a zero-tolerance policy for disrespecting me and the people I serve. 

My disability has progressed and my mother has passed away. I am still a homeowner with a sense of security and control over my housing. However, this is an unpleasant and hard memory. My childhood and this experience strengthened and led me to advocacy. My professional career has been focused on marginalized communities including individuals with disabilities, low-income families, victims of abuse and neglect, and juveniles in the criminal justice system. I strive to be aligned with the property manager who helped my family instead of the one who tried to make us homeless. I am not a unicorn. There are people with a similar experience around the country. I want to be a voice for advocacy for all of us. Like the woman who was determined to put my family on the street, I could easily lose my income and be a homeless person with a disability. My advocacy and protection efforts are a personal mission.