Standing up to be counted

It's late, but I can't sleep. There was an incident earlier this evening in the apartment complex where I live. Our complex has been in the local news lately because the management has been towing residents' cars for not having the parking stickers that the management recently began to require . . . but the management has also been refusing to give stickers to many residents either because they can't show the cars are registered or simply because the management objects to the physical appearance of the car: scuffed paint, dents, etc. The residents here are heavily working-class (though the management likes to describe our apartments as "condominiums"); they've also become very heavily—it's probably safe to say, predominantly—Latino. Last week, residents began demonstrating outside the office to protest the towing. When I spoke with the protestors, they gave me different numbers for how many cars have been towed, but they ranged from ten to forty. People have become so scared of getting towed that at night, our parking lot is practically empty, because everyone who couldn't get a sticker is parking in the newly designated visitor parking spaces instead. (Hugo and I didn't have any problem getting our sticker.)

For context, I should add that there are other reasons to be dissatisfied with the management—cockroach problems, slow repairs, our water unexpectedly being shut off for hours at a time. For a while the management seemed to be reaching out to Latino renters, hiring a native Spanish speaker to work in the office; then there was a turnover, and I'm told that the new management has a "no Spanish in the office" policy. And the rent jumps up every year. Last year, Hugo and I got fed up with the situation and jumped at the chance to move into a different apartment—a privately owned apartment—in our same building, which has spared us some, though not all, of the problems other residents face. The complex has a reputation for being dangerous, which the management has addressed by hiring security to patrol at night and installing new fencing at the complex perimeter. A couple years ago, there was a murder-suicide out in our parking lot; Hugo and I were home when it happened, heard the gunshots, saw the bodies.

Anyway, that's all background for what happened tonight. It was about 9:00 p.m., Hugo and I were in the apartment with one of my professors, wrapping up a dinner, when we heard someone outside yell, in Spanish, "They're taking the car!" We looked out the window and, sure enough, there was a tow truck in our parking lot. This, I was told later, is part of the management's modus operandi: towing the cars late at night when people hopefully won't notice. We ran downstairs. Hugo owns a journalistic-looking camera, which he began to use to photograph what was happening; he ended up getting in an altercation with a security guard who demanded to know which media he represented. Meanwhile, a small crowd was gathering from the various buildings, mostly Latino but also some African-Americans and a smattering of whites. (I became vividly aware tonight how few white residents there are.) The owner of the car (Latino) came out and tried to put a baby in a car seat into the vehicle as they were beginning to tow it so they'd have to stop. The car was in motion at the time, because they were just starting to hoist it up onto the truck, and the open door got wedged up against the side of the adjacent vehicle. That put a halt to things.

Pretty soon three cop cars showed up. The crowd was really tense, and I wondered if things might get a bit violent. That didn't happen, fortunately. The cops had us all move back, and then there was a long process of hearing everyone's stories. Meanwhile, people kept taking pictures with digital cameras or their cell phones. One white resident from the next building over—I don't know him by name, but we've crossed paths and chatted a few times while I've been walking the dog—was on his cell phone at one point, calling a news outlet it sounded like. The young Latino guy who'd been in charge at last week's protest was on the phone with someone from the town's Human Rights office. Finally, after probably about an hour, the tow truck packed up and left . . . without the car, which felt like a victory until I heard people saying that the owner had had to pay $100.

By now, I'd noticed that a white late-thirties-looking guy in a Weaver Street t-shirt (Weaver Street's the local progressive health foods store) had ridden up on a bicycle and was talking with the young protest organizer. At first my understanding was that this new guy was from the Human Rights office, but it turned out this was actually the mayor! After the tow truck and the cops left, the crowd gathered around the mayor, and he spoke with them in Spanish for another hour or so. He explained that he'd been trying to resolve the issue with the owner of the apartment complex and asked for a volunteer who would be willing to file a formal complaint, realizing that this might invite retaliation from the management. He listened to people's complaints about the state of the apartments. One woman asked for help getting out of her lease so she could move somewhere else. (It hadn't occurred to me until then that the management has residents trapped unless they're willing to forfeit their deposits.)

I didn't hear a lot of this conversation because I needed to walk the dog, who had been sitting with Job-like patience on her leash while I stood around watching all this unfold. But I got back to hear the mayor announce a meeting at the town hall this Sunday to continue to discuss the issue. As he was leaving, I introduced myself to the mayor. I told him that because I rent a privately owned apartment, I'm in a better position than many other residents to stick my neck out to file a formal complaint, though the fact I rent a privately owned apartment also means I don't have a lot of the problems other residents have. He told me that four other people had, in fact, volunteered to file complaints, but he asked me to keep in touch with him by email. By now the crowd was dispersing; the mayor had urged us all to go home so security wouldn't give us trouble after he left. So I went back up to the apartment a little after 11 p.m., in time to watch most of The Daily Show.

There's certainly been an element of adrenaline rush to all this. I was glad to see a degree of solidarity among residents, especially across racial lines (though that, admittedly, was rather brief since the long conversation with the mayor was in Spanish). I'm glad that this one car, at least, was spared. I'm glad that we were able to stand up to the tow truck—though of course, they're just doing what they were hired to do; the people we were really standing up to were the management, who weren't anywhere near the scene, and to the owner of the complex, who lives in another city. I'm grateful for the mayor's presence and involvement. And I'm grateful that I could contribute, even if only by my presence there on the sidelines with others. I get timid in public demonstrations, but I'm glad that the Spirit gave me the courage to stay. I'm glad the Spirit helped me overcome my shyness about approaching the mayor. I'm glad that I opened my mouth (as the scriptures say) to speak with people standing around me, to make some gesture toward showing that I'm part of this, that I'm standing up to be counted. Hugo and I will be at that meeting on Sunday. And we'll see what else we can do to be involved. "Anxiously engaged"—it was inevitable I'd get around to using that phrase.