I moved to San Antonio, Texas with my girlfriend, Susan, when I was 18 years old. I’d had a rocky start trying to settle into adult life. By this time, I’d been knocked around by a boyfriend 12 years my senior, married twice to another guy, and in and out of the Air Force. It had been a terribly troublesome time but still held an all-white familiarity. That was about to briefly change. I got a job cleaning apartments at a HUD project—a sprawling complex called The Rigsby. People who lived and worked there just called it Rigsby.
Finding Rigsby
The office manager, Carol, the only white employee, beamed with surprise when I walked in to ask for a job application. I was hired right away to clean and prepare apartments for new tenants. Susan was astonished when I came home and happily announced my new position. "Why would you want to work there?" she smirked, mildly appalled. I was excited to see firsthand what it was like to be smack in the middle of the "projects"— the place where all the poor Black people live off the government (how white folks like to say it). "Maybe I can help," I shrugged, naïve with white do-goodery. What is truly appalling here is that I didn't understand at the time that the kind of curiosity I was feeling is all-too common among white people. We stand in our white privilege and look at Black communities as subjects of interest rather than neighborhoods of people with real stories and real lives.
Shelly
My supervisor's name was Shelly Bell. Shelly was loved by all the tenants. He was a good man with a great sense of humor, a pretty smile, and a big heart. He took to me right away, and I him. So much of what I know today about general maintenance—plumbing, electrical, painting, patching holes in walls, handling chemicals—I owe to him.
Shelly could fix anything, including people. More than maintenance, he taught me what it was like to be a Black person in American society. He taught me Black lingo and how to get along in Black neighborhoods. He showed me how little white people understood about the Black experience, especially in a place like Rigsby. I got a front row view of a world that most white people don't—what it's like to be poor, Black, and dependent on a system that resents you.
A Stark Reality
There was a little boy named Anthony who lived at Rigsby. He was only five years old but his eyes already revealed the discernment of a young man. Sometimes on freezing cold mornings I would find Anthony and his little two-year-old brother, playing under the stairs in the breezeway wearing nothing but their underwear. I'd drop to my knees and call them over so I could warm them. The little one was afraid of me and would run away. But Anthony would come over and I'd hold him tight and tell him I loved him. Other times I saw Anthony peeking out his window and when he saw me he'd dart outside for a quick hug and run back inside.
I didn't understand until much later the harsh reality at Rigsby. Poverty and systemic racism were deeply entrenched, and many of the women there turned to sex work, having few other viable options for survival. Vulnerable children were left in the breezeways to fend for themselves while their mothers worked, or worse—were passed out from exhaustion, or from drugs and alcohol that nursed and numbed to help them cope with a devastating reality. My hugs for Anthony were sincere, but unschooled. They couldn't protect him, give him proper clothing, or ensure his safety.
I knew Anthony a long time ago but his story isn't a remnant of the past. As of Spring 2024, data shows* that children living in public housing still stand in breezeways in frigid weather and witness the effects of poverty on their friends and families. Such tragedy continues because of deep-rooted social and economic inequities that rest largely at the feet of those who hold institutional power. I'll never know what became of Anthony. My deepest hope is that he did not become a statistic among deceased young black men.
The Office
Back at the office, there were two other people besides Carol: Tiffany, a young Black woman who did administrative work, and a general manager known as "Big Joe." Big Joe was a tall, large Black man who dressed sharply and carried himself with confidence. He was wise, loud, and playful, a larger-than-life kind of guy. Shelly looked up to him, but Big Joe got on my nerves. He was always fishing for details about my life or trying to get me to listen to his lengthy "life's lessons." When I complained to Shelly about Big Joe being too loud and getting under my skin, Shelly just urged me to listen. Sometimes Tiffany, Shelly, and Big Joe would pick on me for being sloppy with the way I talked about Black people from my white perch. They tried to point out when I acted cocky or insensitive. I recognize that today as yet another case of Black people being burdened with educating white people about our ignorance. But I wasn't always ready to hear it then. It was easier to fall back on white people's favorite excuses for judging —"lazy...need to get a job…”— those endless justifications we use to explain away the plight of Black people.
Lessons and Paybacks
During one of these episodes, I said something to Tiffany that really set her off. I cannot for the life of me remember what it was. I just remember she was highly offended and assured me payback was coming. She wasn't kidding. One morning, I was puttering around the storage room adjacent to the office, my coffee sitting on a counter just outside the storage room. About to leave, I gulped down the rest of the coffee and headed over to prep a move-in unit that was a fair distance away. As I was working, I suddenly began to feel queasy. My stomach roiled and the urge hit me. I took off running across the complex holding my behind. I barely made it to the toilet back at the office. I burst through the bathroom door, plopped down and nearly shot off the seat! The embarrassing sounds could be heard throughout the entire office. I heard Tiffany belt out an uninhibited, side-splitting laugh. I could also hear Carol scolding her while she herself was unable to control her laughter. I came out of the bathroom and was barreling down the hall while Tiffany was already heading toward me, crying her apology, still unable to contain her laughter. Carol rushed up behind her, still giggling, but pleading, "She's sorry, She's sorry, please don't kill her!" I stood there hanging on to the wall, holding my stomach—fuming, panting, and sweating from the Ex-lax Tiffany had put in my coffee. Whatever it was I had said to her must have been pretty terrible. She got me back but good.
Another time, Shelly and Big Joe cornered me into a conversation that really upset me. It was too long ago to remember what it was about but I clearly recall Big Joe putting me in my place and Shelly just standing there agreeing with him. I was so resentful toward them both I walked out and headed home. Shelly showed up at my place about 10 minutes later. When I saw his car I hid behind the curtain covering the glass sliding door and waited. Just as he started to knock, I quickly slid the door open and cold-cocked him right in the mouth. "God damn!" he cursed, holding his mouth as he staggered backward. His mouth started to bleed and swell up like a balloon. I instantly felt bad, pulled him inside, and gave him a dish towel with some ice in it. Right then, I heard another car outside. Here comes Big Joe. "Ooooh shit," he said when he saw Shelly's mouth. Shelly managed to shoo him away. Even though Big Joe was Shelly's supervisor, he nodded, like guys do, then looked over at me, chuckled, and shook his head. He left, walking backwards all the way to his car.
Undeserved Grace
Shelly and I smoked a joint and talked for a good long while. He couldn't believe I’d punched him, and was even more shocked that he let me get away with it. He said I was such a strong person and that nobody could argue with me. I argued in my defense about that and it made him laugh, wincing from his sore bloody mouth.
I didn't deserve Shelly's or Big Joe's grace that day. I should have been fired on the spot but instead — another teaching moment. It was like they were holding a mirror to my face so I could see what they saw in so many privileged white people. What if the tables had been turned? What if I had been a Black employee and slugged my white boss in the mouth?
Living at The Rigsby
As unexpected as this might sound, Susan and I decided to move to Rigsby. We left our previous place because the landlord figured out that Susan and I were more than roommates and his wife wasn't keen on us being there. We got a huge break on the rent at Rigsby in exchange for me being on call 24/7.
One morning our downstairs neighbor, who we were pretty sure had a serious drug problem, had about enough of our energetic cats skittering across the floor. The apartments didn't have carpeting so I can only imagine what all that scratching must have sounded like below. Next thing we knew, she was yelling and banging violently on our door. I didn't know what to expect so I grabbed a nearby mop, swung the door open, and chased her back down the stairs waving my mop. Susan was right behind me. The neighbor bolted quickly inside her apartment and back out again. Susan and I suddenly found ourselves staring down the barrel of a gun. To my great astonishment, Susan slapped the gun and announced that it had no bullets in it. Taking no chances, we ran back up the stairs and waited a long time. I called Carol at the office to tell her what happened and that I wasn't coming out until I was sure everything was okay. A little later I saw Shelly out in the parking lot talking to the neighbor, and that was the end of any trouble with her.
The Beginning of the End
Things became complicated at Rigsby when my relationship with Shelly crossed boundaries into more than friends. Even though it was a very brief occasion, I still felt vulnerable and confused. Shelly was much more plugged into the other business than I had realized. One morning he asked me to follow him to the units along the back side of the complex. One of the "ladies" met us on the stairs leading to her apartment. She handed me a long list of available "favors" to see how I would respond. As I read down the list I was stunned. The descriptions were crude, vivid, some quite raunchy. I laughed out loud thinking it was a joke until she looked over at Shelly and said, "She's not ready." It was then that I realized there was talk of my being added to her service roster.
I tried to pretend it was just a silly thing. Shelly asked my opinion as we walked away but I just made a joke and kept walking like I had something important to do. I was scared though. My instincts took over and I started to distrust everyone, including Shelly. I didn't know what to do—so instead of finding a way to leave gracefully, I resorted to a pattern that has destroyed and even killed many a Black men. I went to Carol and falsely accused Shelly. Carol, aware of what had been going on between us, saw through my flimsy disclosure and challenged me. At first, I couldn't face my own complicated choices and fears, but after an intense conversation with Carol, I had a lot to think about.
One day as all this was coming to a head, I was walking near my apartment and a car pulled alongside me. A lady in the driver’s seat rolled the window down and called me by name so I stopped. She knew who I was and introduced herself as Connie. It was a brief encounter, but one that made all the difference for me and for Shelly. “You’re going to do what you’re going to do,” Connie said, “but I want you to know something. I know who Shelly is, and I know what he is, but I love him. Do you understand? I love Shelly. I just want you to know that.” Connie was incredibly calm and kind when she spoke those words to me. It moved me. I was young and wild but I knew sincerity when I heard it. I realized it was better to leave quietly than to cause a disruption that would have hurt so many people, not just Shelly. I won't deny that I felt threatened by the circumstances, maybe even trapped, but in reality I had choices and was free to move on without barriers like skin color, sparse resources or a lack of opportunities.
The Silent Years Begin
Shelly drove up to our place the day we left. Susan, who by now, knew everything, left us alone. It was not a terrible goodbye. We both knew we wouldn't see each other again. We stared at each other for a long while, neither one of us really wanting to see things end so abruptly, but knowing it had to. We smiled and said a tender farewell.
Postscript: Many years later as I reflect on this, I still feel a deep responsibility to the people who lived and worked at Rigsby. I realize too that it was Shelly that held that community together. What began as naïve white curiosity turned into something much more important — the start to a dismantling of my own prejudices and assumptions. The people of Rigsby weren't subjects of my good intentions; they were my teachers. They didn’t ask for that job nor should they have ever felt obligated to do so. If equal rights were true for everyone, this story would be fiction. What I know with absolute certainty is that no one should ever have to arrive at a place in their life where utter survival comes at the high cost of human dignity.
*See supplement titled: The State of Public Housing in America 2024
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