Why I Love My Life in SC

My last apartment before I moved here was in the ghetto. I mean it: no heat, no AC. Mold growing inside the walls. Couldn’t run a microwave and an iron at the same time because it would throw the circuits. There were about 21 apartments all facing a center pool/courtyard. They all had stories.

#1 was a 1br/1ba inhabited by about a dozen (maybe more) migrant workers. They picked apples and grapes. No women and children. The men crowded into that tiny place, and often took turns sleeping in shifts. When it got to be prime picking season, it seemed the population grew – and you’d often find people sleeping in cars in the parking lot. I’m sure they sent their extra money back to their families in Mexico. The extra money after they paid rent and partied, that is. On Friday nights you’d find them carrying cases of Corona back to their apartment, pissing everywhere, laughing, singing, and catcalling to young females like me. It can be quite intimidating when you come home from work to find there are 4 of them standing in your assigned parking space.

#7 was a meth lab. You could smell the distinct stench of burning bread on most days. I think even they didn’t like the smell. They almost never closed their door. Instead, they pinned up one of those woven Mexican blankets over the doorway. Their location was perfect, because right next door was the laundry room, which was a known drug dealing location. …and yes, everyone knew about it. Eventually the laundry room was closed & locked nightly at sundown ~ at request of the local police.

Upstairs lived Nim, a bartender about 4 feet tall. She could kick your ass, and will if you give her half a reason to. My roommate didn’t like her too much, but I always got along with her well enough. ... maybe that's because I never gave her any reasons. (I'll keep stories of my roommate out of this entry, but will say she was not great. She'll probably stay in the ghetto until she dies - if she's not dead already.)

Next door lived a woman with 2 of her children. Barely making it by. The apartments were so bad, and living conditions so awful that HUD wouldn’t grant section 8 assistance for our complex anymore. But she didn’t want to move. She worked hard, but was a shitty mother. She lost custody of one of her children, and was in a battle to keep the other two. There were rumors that her boyfriend may have molested her children. Quite possible, but it was only speculation based on claims from the grandmother, who wanted custody of all of the siblings. Her kids left a space heater on and burned their apartment down the week before I moved out.

The fire next door was the final straw. It was only icing on the cake that my truck was broken into the day before I moved. Kinda funny how the cops know exactly where you are. And the cop who came by to take the report was nice enough. He knew I wasn’t part of the ghetto trash I was surrounded by. And he said to me, “Well, aren’t you glad you’re on your way out of here? I’m sure you’re going to a much better place than this.” (or something to that effect). Yeah, he’s right. Sometimes I miss things from back home, but I don’t miss my old life.

I could go on telling stories about the shitty tenement I lived in, but why bother? You get the gist of it. The point is, I’ve been there – and guess what: I’m not anymore. Sometimes I take things for granted. And then I see people who have lived a truly sheltered life. There are tons of them here. They truly don’t know how good their lives are. Sometimes I share stories from back home with them – letting them know that they should be glad for what they have. And I’m grateful that my stories are only memories. I’m so lucky to have stayed long enough to gain insight – but not so long that I’d go down their paths. There are some neighborhoods I just don’t want to return to.