Little Boxes and the American Dream

Image via WikipediaLittle Boxes, Little Boxes, Little Boxes made of Ticky Tack. And they all look like each other and they all look just the same.

Apartment Living: The Reality

A baby boy cries at midnight, every midnight, for at least a half hour next door on the wall on the other side of our bedroom. Downstairs, my neighbor (and friend) pounds on my floor (her ceiling) because the Rock Band drum pedal apparently shakes her apartment. My baby girl has decided that high shrieks are the best way to communicate with mommy. A tenant smokes in the hall (not allowed, BTW), and Sunday my next door neighbor (the same with the crying baby), gives us a practically new sofa.

This is apartment living, just a step up from dorms. No roommates (except for family members), but paper-thin walls let your arguments, screaming children, intimate moments, and favorite music known to everyone in your complex (and in the parking lot, too).

There isn't enough parking for everyone, so one neighbor has started parking in the grass. The dryers never work (only one does), and everyone tries to get that dryer. We all know it doesn't work, and everyone takes their turns shoving quarter after quarter into the broken dryers, hoping that the one working dryer will finish before you run out of quarters.

My daughter can't run out in the grassy area behind the complex because on any given day there are several dozen cigarette butts in various stages of decay littering the grass. Instead, I pack her up and take her to the playground at the church five minutes away. Besides the creepy guy who thinks I don't see him watching us play from his darkened patio, it almost feels like we have our own backyard.

There isn't a drug problem, or even alcohol problem, in our area, but the apartment is stifling, small. Despite the hundreds paid to the utility company, the A/C doesn't cool the apartment, the heater doesn't heat it. (Supposedly, it's fine). Our maintenance guy is a friendly fellow, who is learning piano. He comes by and fixes and patches stuff up, talks up a storm about the economy and music, and does the best he can within his budget.

Apartment living isn't all bad. My daughter and the little girl downstairs are like virtual sisters, you can't beat the rent, and the complex owner is friendly. The air is clean (except for the smokers), and you can see the stars at night. And to be honest, I'd rather living in our budget in an apartment than be buried underwater with a soon-to-be foreclosed house.

It's a reality. It's the times. Several Murray State University professors and staff call these apartments their home. While there are lots of college kids living around here, there are professionals and hardworking adults trying to make ends meet, trying to pay rent, trying to save money. Just trying to support the tiny tykes playing in the parking lot.

I guess once upon a time the American Dream involved buying your own house, settling down in an area for fifty years, watching your kids and grandkids grow up next door. Not anymore. My family exploded. My sister is in Ohio, my brother is in Iraq, my parents are in Florida, my in-laws are in New York, and we are here, in the Heartland, which is in desperate need of resuscitation.

I'm not fooling myself. This is where we are now, and probably will be for a few more years. If not here, then somewhere else. My American Dream is to pay the bills, and maybe, just maybe, save enough so my baby girl can pay for her college applications and follow her own American Dream.