Housing

Part of the SJ Sounds Series

Written by Enrique Muñoz
Audio design by Josh Nicolas

[AUDIO DESCRIPTION: A dream never fulfilled. A chase that never ends. Caught in an endless loop of madness. Finding joy in temporary moments as we further descend into the California Dream l.]

The Present

Apparently, like dog years, being thirty is like being 45… but in gay years. And when you're actually 40 years old, you might as well just plant yourself in a grave with 'RIP' etched on the headstone: Rusty, Irreverent person.

But I’m totally OK with that now.

I married my husband when I was 33, when I unburdened myself of toxic people and traded them for long friendships with many wonderful dogs. I liked my 30s better than my 20s, which I would dub "High School, Part 2: The College Angst Years". Now I'm 40 years old, and I love it except for one thing– the part where I wake up early in the morning to use the restroom and return to bed only to have the sensation of wanting to use the restroom again.

People call me sir, I don’t cringe at that word anymore. I like telling dad jokes and wearing Nike’s New Balance. I comb my hair backwards and complain how Discord hurts my eyes.

I am old enough to have perspective like Marcel Proust on the events that formed my life, though not so much that a soggy madeleine crumb will make me write a million-word novel. Though, I wish I could be as accomplished as him.

Instead, I quietly sit down, and marvel at things that seemed not possible within my lifetime while sipping a green tea latte at Starbucks. One time, I saw a young Latino teenager introducing his handsome boyfriend to his mother... And the mother, instead of chasing off her son and his boyfriend, gave her son's boyfriend a warm hug and a kiss.

In my time, which wasn't that long ago, Latino families would reject their gay sons and daughters, forcing them to become homeless. But now, these young Latino men get pink unicorn cakes and positive affirmations from their families.

"I was born 20 years too early," I say to my husband Rafa, "when I came out, my mother put a knife to my throat and said, 'I gave you life, and I can give you death. Choose.'"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Rafa says dismissively, because I told him this story too many times. "You don't need to talk about your telenovela mom anymore. The past is behind you. Look ahead to a happier future. If you need to remember something, instead, remember when we proposed to each other."

And I do remember the night when the Supreme Court of the United States, seven years ago. Rafa had picked me up from the gym and parked in front of the supposedly haunted Toys' R' Us store on the El Camino Real.

"It would be nice to be married, you know. We've been together for 5 years now," I tell Rafa.

"Yeah, it would," he says.

"If we try our best, we could even buy a home. We could adopt kids and have a family."

"You know," I say, "I'm going to start a sourdough starter. I want us to be the family that makes sourdough pancakes every weekend."

"Then we'll have a home in San Jose. And we'll have kids too. I'm tired of paying 980 dollars every month to rent."

Afterward, we kiss, the kind of kiss that seals a promise between hearts. I’ve made many kinds of promises in my life. And I’ve been with many kinds of men in my life. But I never made a promise like that one, ever. Or been with a man like Rafa, ever.

That was 7 years ago, and life has changed since then. The Toys “R” Us on El Camino does not exist anymore. It was torn down and there’s a new building. Many new buildings have sprung around us, most tiny rentals or big luxurious condos. Rafa and I still live in the same apartment. Which still looks the same after nearly a decade, furnished with the same furniture that we claimed when they were abandoned on the streets. We still have the same beautiful green rug too, before which belonged to a woman who was being evicted from her home back then.

Everything is almost the same except for the rent. Instead of paying 980 dollars, Rafa and I pay 1,950 dollars monthly.

Most of our old neighbors, the ones who knew our names and we knew theirs, have left. And their apartments are worth closer to 2,300 dollars in rent. But at least we knew Crystal from the apartment complex next to us. We had known her for over 10 years, and she had lived in her apartment for over 20 years. We were good friends with her and her husband Trampas, who passed away in 2018.

When new neighbors come in, they leave after a year or two. They’re not neighborly, and they view the apartment complex as only a place they sleep after working at Google, Apple, or another big tech company.

I wouldn't mind that these engineers lived in my complex, but they're the reason why my rent went up 5% yearly and often times more. Until recently, when Sunnyvale passed rent control. Now– I'm only charged 3% yearly... plus inflation, which equals to… 5%.

“Yay, rent control…”

But 2020 was the first year in a decade that rent didn't go up because of the COVID19 Pandemic. Rent didn't go up because renters were either finding another place to live, or becoming homeless.

"We don't say 'homeless' anymore." I hear every single voice from every single young person that I've ever met, the kind who you need to hide your admiration for Rocky Horror Picture Show from, say to me when I have an Archie Bunker moment. "The correct word is 'unhoused.'"

"Unhoused, unhoused, unhoused…" I tap my head as if I could tap out "homeless" and push "unhoused" into my brain with my finger. But I don't fear being unhoused. I fear being homeless, especially in Silicon Valley, which is why I went back to school and earned a license for phlebotomy. 

Rafa and I might have become unhoused if I hadn't earned my license before the Pandemic because we both lost our jobs. And the only job available that paid really well was COVID testers.

"I didn't know that either,' my friend Denise said when I told her that the homeless are now called unhoused. We worked at a COVID testing center during the Pandemic when I noticed that she lived in her car. Denise had been sleeping on the living room floor, on top of my green rug, because she is *tap, tap, tap* unhoused. She's 59 years old, her hair is black, her skin pale, and her green eyes match the carpet. It is the only thing that matches in my little apartment. Denise is also diabetic and doesn’t have access to medical care.

Though Rafa and I already rented our bedroom to two people, we decided to let her stay with us. At least until after winter. We felt bad for Denise, especially when she worked as an essential worker. And Denise was very thankful that we allowed her to stay in the apartment where it was warm.

“You can take a ride with me to work,” she says, and I thank her. “You don’t need to ride with the homeless anymore,” Denise says as a joke, but she makes a condonsencing face when she says homeless. And though she makes a joke about the homeless on the 522, VTA’s Bus 522 has that reputation. Some people call it the homeless shelter on wheels, where unhoused people often ride on so that they can have an hour or two of sleep. But the unhoused aren’t the only ones who sleep there. People on their way to and from work often sleep on the Bus 522, including me.

With my head leaning on the window, riding the bus (especially on my way to work) feels like flying instead. You see people and things just for a second before they become small and vanish behind you. But many times, I would fall asleep on the bus. Especially if I take the one bus that has a loose nut in the light fixtures where it travels back and forth, banging from one end to another. That sound is annoying to other people, but puts me to sleep. And sometimes dream about a better life where Rafa and I could only work one job each. I wonder, what do other people dream when they’re on the 522?

I came to a realization that most people who ride on the 522, because you need to get to work or are unhoused, share the same dream: The 522 Dream.

What is the 522 Dream? It is the wish for success and prosperity. For a house. Why else do people work? So that they can buy their house. What else can you dream of if you don’t have a home?

And by coincidence, while thinking about homes, I see a house for sale before it quickly disappears from my view.

“We should check out that house," I tell Rafa what I had seen earlier that day, while Denise takes a shower before bed. “I want that house so badly.”

"I want a million dollars," he says to mock me because he's angry. Because Denise is sleeping in the living room with us, we have less freedom. We can't stay up late to watch TV or be in our underwear in our own apartment.

"It was small, and the front yard was small too. That would be easy to take care of. Just big enough for me to grow a few rose bushes."

"We can't even afford to live here by ourselves," Rafa says, and he's right. We couldn't even afford to buy matching furniture.

"We're in our 40s. We should have started buying a home 15 years ago." I say.

"With what money?" He asks.

When Denise finishes her shower and gets ready to sleep on top of the green carpet at the foot of our bed, we turn off the lights. I think about the house and the roses I could grow at the front. And then, I began to dream about living in that house.

I would have roses. I would have weekend barbeques. I would have a fig or apple tree in the front door because my husband would love to pick a fresh piece of fruit right before he goes to work.

Christmas! You can't forget Christmas or the Three Kings Day. Our families would come together and open their presents on Christmas Day as we drink coffee and hot cinnamon tea.

The house's color would never be boring, like beige or white. I would paint it pale yellow and dark maroon– and the neighbors would be pissed about it and complain to city hall. And being contrary as I am– I would then paint my beautiful house in bright Pepto Bismol pink!

I felt alive thinking about the little house that held my biggest dreams.

"Why aren't you asleep?" my husband says. And all I want to do is tell him all the wonderful things that were in my mind. Instead, I give him a kiss that wakes him and then melts him into my arms. He breathes hard and fast before he stops. Because we hear Denise's inconspicuous little cough from the floor, a little *ahem* that throws us into a cold shower. Instead, I tell Rafa, "Call Joe Pink tomorrow. Maybe he can help us." And we sigh one last time before sleep. And all that I could think about– We Need Our Own Place.

Joe Pink is short and pretty. He worked with Rafa before becoming a realtor. He keeps his hair in a low ponytail when he is selling homes. His clothes are loose, and he doesn't belong in them. But he wears them for work. But when you see him at home, his hair is shiny and brown like coffee silk, and his dresses are chiffon and low on his soft shoulders.

"Honey, I think you should change your name to 'Jo' without an 'e'," I tell him. "Like Jo March from Little Woman. That's very cute." We haven't met since the Pandemic, and the first thing we do is compare our masks. My mask was decidedly heteronormaltive black but also silk to raise some eyebrows. Rafa's was the rainbow flag and thick cotton. But Joe's was just a plain surgical mask.

"You're the first people to see the house," Joe said, "It's a good thing you called me because Mike doesn't let people drop in. He's doing this as a favor for me." And it was a special favor because at least 3 people, passing by the house, tried to look inside the home.

"It's small," Rafa says. And it is small, smaller than our apartment.

"Yeah, but it has a chimney– It's like the Shire from The Hobbit." And I point to the wall. "We can decorate this side of the wall with tacky brown art from the Good Will. And above the chimney, we can put up a 'Live. Laugh. Love' wall art from Walmart."

There wasn't much for Mike to show. Everything was laid plainly in front of us, including the faults. The house said it had three rooms, but it was one room divided into three. The small slices of room reminded me of my teacher's pizza parties where one slice of pizza was cut into three pieces–

And like end of school year pizza, I was absolutely excited for an itty bitty piece.

"The house is small, but look what's behind." Joe tells us, “you’re in for a surprise.”

"Oh. My. God. Becky." I say when I see what's behind… The yard was the biggest yard that I had seen. I knew that older homes in San Jose were supposed to have big yards, but I could easily grow at least 10 big fruit trees. We could have huge backyard parties, and then an idea floated in my mind.

"I could make my own theater space in this backyard. We could even have a Rocky Horror Picture Show party." And I begin singing, "Let's do the time warp again," while Rafa sings the version from Timbiriche, "Bailen el baile del sapo."

Life, at that moment, felt full of possibilities. We prequalified for a home loan, and homeownership was within our reach.

Nothing was going to stop us… until something stopped us.

In this part of my story, I would like to say that Rafa and I now live in that little house. I would like to say that we are happily in our own home. But I can't. Someone else has bought that house, and I heard from Joe Pink that the person paid in cash and bought it over the asking price. Redfin says that it sold for over 800 thousand. I can't imagine myself ever holding 100 thousand dollars in my hand, much less paying 800K all at once. I also heard that the house is being rented, though I can't verify that it's true.

In the year since we attempted to buy a home, Rafa and I still live in our apartment.

We are the last of the neighbors of the old neighborhood, and we are still the lowest-paying rental unit.

In the conclusion of my story, I want to go back to what happened with Crystal and Denise.

Crystal, our neighbor over in the next complex, finally moved out. I spoke with her last Christmas.

Before the Pandemic, it was hard for Crystal to pay the rent. She had worked at the SAP Center, sold tickets at the Shoreline. She worked a 3rd job doing Doordash. But after 2 years of the Pandemic, she decided that she could save more money if she lived in her car.

"But I'm not really homeless," was the last thing she told me, "Cause I pay for a gym where I can shower every day."

"The term is not 'homeless' anymore, Crystal. People now say 'unhoused' instead." And that made her feel better. She was not homeless but instead unhoused.

But Denise, I feel guilty about her. I had kicked Denise out of my apartment. But before I did, she had moved into my bedroom when our last renters moved out. Bailing out their last month's rent that we needed.

In the beginning, it felt like serendipity that Denise had come into our lives. She needed a place to live and we needed to sublease. She would pay 500 dollars, which is not as much as what our last renters paid– but she would rent the room by herself.

But Denise had her last job. Rafa and I housed her for 3 months without rent until, at last, we made an ultimatum. She would find a steady job and pay rent or leave. When she did not pay rent for the 4th month, I took away her key and told her to come back to pick up her clothes and furniture. We would keep her things until she picked them up.

Denise never returned to get her things. After 3 months, we decided to donate her things to Goodwill. The very last time I saw her was during Christmas, on VTA's Bus 522. She sat in the handicap sitting in front of the bus. Her leg had been amputated. And without a leg, how would she work?

Our eyes met for a brief moment before I walked to the furthest back of the bus. I could not miss this bus, it was the bus to work. But I really could not face Denise, so I closed my eyes instead. But when I did, I saw her eyes still in my mind. The same shade as my green rug.

And instead, I try to focus my mind on the sounds of the bus. The revving of the engines behind. The sounds of people talking. I try to concentrate on the sounds of the construction of buildings replacing older ones. But instead, I still see Denise's green eyes.

"You can't do anything for her. Focus on your own future," I hear the voice in my head say. In my mind, I hear Rafa say, 'The past is behind you. Look ahead to a happier future.'

And I look forward to my future, in my house where I can comfortably walk in my underwear without worrying about people looking inside my window. In my house, I'm surrounded by my garden of bougainvilleas and roses. And in my future, I don't have to work 3 jobs. Rafa and I will be together in the evenings, and we'll go to the beach on the weekend with our dogs. My children would eat sourdough pancakes from the starter that I made when we married in my happy future.

But I still see Denise's eyes. I see her stump. I see that she's hungry, hasn't showered for days, and has been wearing the same clothes for a few days. She is everything that I am afraid of. She's not unhoused. She is homeless. And people will treat her badly for no other reason than that she looks like she's homeless.

"Don't think about that, Enrique!” The voice in my head says, “Do the El Baile del Sapo with Rafa– Put on crazy wigs and costumes and have a big Halloween party, and put on a drag show in our backyard. Just don't think about those green eyes." 

But instead, I think about Crystal. And remember that she became unhoused because she lost her husband. And even though she works 3 or 4 jobs, she still lives in her car and takes showers at her gym. Three or four jobs does not make enough money for people to live alone. I realize that Crystal, years after Trampas’s death, didn’t even have enough time to grieve properly.

I now realize that I wouldn’t have time to grieve over him if he died. Without Rafa, I couldn’t survive the pernicious and expensive way of life in the Bay Area. Maybe I would lose our apartment. Maybe I would be forced to give up the green rug because of eviction… Maybe I would leave our furniture on the curb so that other people could claim… Maybe I would have to donate everything to Goodwill when I can’t take anything with me…. I’m diabetic, just like Denise. What if I lost my ability to work on both feet?

That night I felt afraid so I hugged Rafa in bed when he was asleep. He farts right into me, full blast, and still I think he’s perfect and wonderful in every way. Our little chihuahuas, who always sleep in bed with us, toot like their daddy. Soon I would have to wake up, take a shower, get dressed and catch the 522 early in the morning. There will be a few people on their way to work too. An unhoused person would be there too. And, like them, I will close my eyes for a little while and dream for a home to belong to.

We would dream the 522 dreams.

If you would like to take action to help those who have been affected by housing issues in the Bay Area, please refer to the following organizations that are working to help:

We would like to thank First Friday, Kaleid Gallery, and San Jose Stage Company for hosting this installation.

South First Friday is an eclectic evening of Arts & Culture in downtown San Jose's SoFA district (and beyond) every First Friday of the month.

Kaleid Gallery (Greek for beauty and form) was borne out of San Jose’s Phantom Galleries (art in vacant storefronts & alternative spaces project) in December 2006. Over 90 fine artists and designers from the San Jose area make use of a 6,000 square foot retail space with individual exhibits that include painting, sculpture, photography, ceramics, glass, jewelry and textile art.

San Jose Stage Company is recognized as the South Bay’s leading professional theatre company, devoted to new, cutting-edge work and reinterpreting American literature and world classics using innovative stagecraft, multi-media that propels the narrative, and accomplished, local actors in true repertory style.

SJ Sounds is a collaboration between More Más Marami Arts and Soundplay.Media. This installation is possible thanks to funding from the City of San José through the Abierto program, the support of our fiscal sponsor, The School of Arts and Culture.