I have this rental property in Denver that I ended up with in my divorce. So I’ve been managing it lately to get it under control, which has been a huge, time-eating pain and enormously draining emotionally and financially. I can't stand it any more so I’m am now turning it over to a property management company, but I still have to rent out the basement unit.
Now the basement unit is not cute like the other places in this old house in Highlands Square, and it’s actually quite down right dumpy. But it has managed to be rented to somebody, recently a string of more Goth young women.
I want a bit high of rent, but that’s just to cover expenses. I have shown it a lot, with a few interests, yet the final verdict was they found something better.
Late one night I get a call from a heavily accented woman. I run down there from Boulder, (thank GOD I have a Prius!) and it’s a Hispanic woman and her mother.
“You OK to rent to Hispanics? Because some people don’t like to rent to Spanish-people, you know?”
I responded in Spanish that my late husband was Hispanic and my children are Hispanic and that I am not a racist. I showed them around, the laundry room (new coin op washer and dryer on a Lowe’s Credit card!) Then she said there would be four people and three cars. Four people and three cars in that 2BR, 2BA? I thought, oh boy, the other tenants may not like that. She said they have to find a place in a hurry because the place where they lived for four years, the owner wants to move back in to refinance. I sure understand that notion. I had considered it but thought, “No way! My kids’ education and safety and happiness are number one. I don’t care what it costs.”
Everybody eventually showed up. The young brother is 11, and he goes, coincidentally, to the same school as my best friend’s Son, Maria Sandoval. It’s this great bilingual school. I was jealous that my friend’s kid could speak such great Spanish and that it was so well integrated socio-economically!
The boy is trying to get into the same international school as my friend’s son. The older son is 23, works at the local restaurant, and is going to Metro next year on a cross-country scholarship.
I saw it all there. The issue and reality of poor Hispanics, living in that fringe world of Spanish-speaking parents and their American-born kids who are translating for them, getting good jobs and an education. Following the American Dream, nonetheless. These kids work like hell, and I’m so impressed. He’s not like the suburban boys whose Mama’s take them shopping at Macy’s. He went to the local North High School. And considering I was just performing near there during Cinco de Mayo, I know what these kids are up against to survive. The stress, violence, family and social issues. I think about my late husband, Frank Q. Solis, how his first job was shoe shining in San Antonio and his grandfather was a semi-literate butcher. I think how the lines blur generationally, and that eventually it won’t matter who you are or where you come from, you are just a human being and deserve basic human rights to live.
I remember Justin had said a Hispanic family had come by once, but when you gave them the application, they never came back. Probably not having the credentials needed. Maybe they are illegal.
But instead of wondering if they were or illegal, what I looked and I saw standing in front of me an 11-year-old boy who needed a place to live and safety and security so that he could do well in school. I saw his hard-working older brother, and I saw his charming mother who I enjoyed talking Spanish to and about Mexico and how she didn’t get an education in Mexico as a child because she had to work and I know how desperate and poor things can be down there because I have been there many times.
And who would not want a better life for their child? I would never blame anybody so courageous and loving for their children that they risk death to cross the border. Unless you’ve traveled abroad and seen extreme poverty for yourself, you will never understand what I am talking about. And I think about those children, born into poverty. I remember when I worked for a newspaper in Mexico City there were children who lived in the sewers, and the whole world is filled with suffering children, as so beautifully told in the movie Slumdog Millionaire recently.
The father turns out he is a builder. So perfect! I will exchange some rent for fixing up this badly neglected property, such as the exterior paint and the chimney that may fall down at any moment and crush someone. My best friend gave them rave reviews, and so did the man’s employer.
I woke up in the middle of the night thinking, “Oh, no! Sydney, here you go again! Trusting too much! Look where that got you. What if this is all an act? They will skip on the rent! How will you evict them? You didn’t get all those people’s information! It will destroy you!”
But somehow I don’t think so. Somehow I think it will work out actually really well. They can do the weeding also. And I will practice my Spanish and continue fixing up the place. And I hope that they prosper, and that their children do really well in school and contribute as upstanding citizens to the good old U.S.A. Because there is a revolution going on and a renaissance at the same time. Things are changing, and the change is taking place on a different realm. It’s the realm of the heart. It’s the return of Sophia.
I hope that every child in the world gets adequate shelter, clothing, food and an education. Even if these people were illegal, I would still rent to them, because I follow a law that is higher than those of men. My law is of love and justice and humanity. And where there is a child involved, I will always do what is best for the child first. And I think that’s where the world is headed, that we do things for humanity first, especially children, and not for profit. When we move from that center everything is in balance and the dharma just leads everything to its place.
¡Viva la revolución!
Amor y paz
Sydney Solis
Now the basement unit is not cute like the other places in this old house in Highlands Square, and it’s actually quite down right dumpy. But it has managed to be rented to somebody, recently a string of more Goth young women.
I want a bit high of rent, but that’s just to cover expenses. I have shown it a lot, with a few interests, yet the final verdict was they found something better.
Late one night I get a call from a heavily accented woman. I run down there from Boulder, (thank GOD I have a Prius!) and it’s a Hispanic woman and her mother.
“You OK to rent to Hispanics? Because some people don’t like to rent to Spanish-people, you know?”
I responded in Spanish that my late husband was Hispanic and my children are Hispanic and that I am not a racist. I showed them around, the laundry room (new coin op washer and dryer on a Lowe’s Credit card!) Then she said there would be four people and three cars. Four people and three cars in that 2BR, 2BA? I thought, oh boy, the other tenants may not like that. She said they have to find a place in a hurry because the place where they lived for four years, the owner wants to move back in to refinance. I sure understand that notion. I had considered it but thought, “No way! My kids’ education and safety and happiness are number one. I don’t care what it costs.”
Everybody eventually showed up. The young brother is 11, and he goes, coincidentally, to the same school as my best friend’s Son, Maria Sandoval. It’s this great bilingual school. I was jealous that my friend’s kid could speak such great Spanish and that it was so well integrated socio-economically!
The boy is trying to get into the same international school as my friend’s son. The older son is 23, works at the local restaurant, and is going to Metro next year on a cross-country scholarship.
I saw it all there. The issue and reality of poor Hispanics, living in that fringe world of Spanish-speaking parents and their American-born kids who are translating for them, getting good jobs and an education. Following the American Dream, nonetheless. These kids work like hell, and I’m so impressed. He’s not like the suburban boys whose Mama’s take them shopping at Macy’s. He went to the local North High School. And considering I was just performing near there during Cinco de Mayo, I know what these kids are up against to survive. The stress, violence, family and social issues. I think about my late husband, Frank Q. Solis, how his first job was shoe shining in San Antonio and his grandfather was a semi-literate butcher. I think how the lines blur generationally, and that eventually it won’t matter who you are or where you come from, you are just a human being and deserve basic human rights to live.
I remember Justin had said a Hispanic family had come by once, but when you gave them the application, they never came back. Probably not having the credentials needed. Maybe they are illegal.
But instead of wondering if they were or illegal, what I looked and I saw standing in front of me an 11-year-old boy who needed a place to live and safety and security so that he could do well in school. I saw his hard-working older brother, and I saw his charming mother who I enjoyed talking Spanish to and about Mexico and how she didn’t get an education in Mexico as a child because she had to work and I know how desperate and poor things can be down there because I have been there many times.
And who would not want a better life for their child? I would never blame anybody so courageous and loving for their children that they risk death to cross the border. Unless you’ve traveled abroad and seen extreme poverty for yourself, you will never understand what I am talking about. And I think about those children, born into poverty. I remember when I worked for a newspaper in Mexico City there were children who lived in the sewers, and the whole world is filled with suffering children, as so beautifully told in the movie Slumdog Millionaire recently.
The father turns out he is a builder. So perfect! I will exchange some rent for fixing up this badly neglected property, such as the exterior paint and the chimney that may fall down at any moment and crush someone. My best friend gave them rave reviews, and so did the man’s employer.
I woke up in the middle of the night thinking, “Oh, no! Sydney, here you go again! Trusting too much! Look where that got you. What if this is all an act? They will skip on the rent! How will you evict them? You didn’t get all those people’s information! It will destroy you!”
But somehow I don’t think so. Somehow I think it will work out actually really well. They can do the weeding also. And I will practice my Spanish and continue fixing up the place. And I hope that they prosper, and that their children do really well in school and contribute as upstanding citizens to the good old U.S.A. Because there is a revolution going on and a renaissance at the same time. Things are changing, and the change is taking place on a different realm. It’s the realm of the heart. It’s the return of Sophia.
I hope that every child in the world gets adequate shelter, clothing, food and an education. Even if these people were illegal, I would still rent to them, because I follow a law that is higher than those of men. My law is of love and justice and humanity. And where there is a child involved, I will always do what is best for the child first. And I think that’s where the world is headed, that we do things for humanity first, especially children, and not for profit. When we move from that center everything is in balance and the dharma just leads everything to its place.
¡Viva la revolución!
Amor y paz
Sydney Solis
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