This is a photo of the last house I lived in with my parents. I visited a friend this spring, but he wasn't home, and I found myself sitting on his porch, face-to-face with a relic from the past.
This is a lousy house. It was lousy 15 years ago. It's worse now, but not a lot. The windows are covered--with blankets, not curtains. The front door appears unusable. I saw a woman pull up and use the back entrance while I was watching; the back entrance that leads to a mudroom where our cocker spaniel, Leon, lived in fleas and feces, neglected until he finally died. We can all share the blame equally, we rarely paid attention to him.
This is the house to which I brought Megan to meet my family.
Though my siblings will blanche, I really feel that I have a lot of experience with the houses of the poor. I wonder about them, at the same time that I remember living in, and visiting, them. Why do they all look so similar? The sunlight is blocked out of so many of them. More often by blankets than curtains. Why? Odd sleep schedules defined by the only work available to the unskilled?
Unskilled. I've been thinking about this word a lot lately. What market skills do I have? On the surface, I can talk to people. That's about it. And it's not the sort of skill that skilled workers like welders or electricians put much stock in. It's not a man's skill.
What are those windows hiding? The world from the occupants, or the occupants from the world.
More later.
i'm not sure what layers this uncovered in me, but my stomach flipped and heart sped up a bit.
ReplyDeletewell said, friend.
and may i suggest, you are well lived.
I would love to sit and visit with you about this more. Thank you for showing us this. I spent a LOT of time in MANY houses like this in Newton when I did home visits as a social worker, and I have some of the same questions. Bless you.
ReplyDeleteWe will Jen.
ReplyDelete