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| “Behold: the dream they keep telling us we’re lucky to have.” |
They told us if we worked hard and followed the rules, we could have a good life.
Nothing fancy—just a home that didn’t fall apart around us, enough money to keep the fridge stocked and gas in the car, maybe even a little left over to take our kids somewhere fun once in a while.
A museum trip. A day at the park. A little slice of joy.
Instead, we got a 105-year-old house with more problems than plumbing.
Years earlier, we’d taken out payday loans just to survive—food, electric, basic needs—and the high interest buried us.
Collections came calling. Our credit crumbled.
Then came the eviction.
We moved in with family, thinking it was temporary.
But life doesn’t always wait for you to catch your breath.
We were forced out before we were back on our feet.
Renting wasn’t an option—not with our finances, not with the market, not with our credit bruised and limping.
So when we tried to buy a home the “normal” way, the answer was always the same:
Not interested. Not qualified. Not their problem.
So we turned to owner financing—scraped together everything we had for the down payment.
After a few years of struggling and barely making ends meet, we paid it off in full.
But the woman we bought the house from never transferred the deed.
We had an email that said we owned it, but we weren’t sure it would hold up in court.
That was our version of “homeownership.”
Eventually, we found a different house in another town—cheap, rough, but something.
The first bank said no. So did the second.
But we kept trying until, finally, someone saw us for who we were:
Not a credit score. Not a cautionary tale.
A family clawing our way toward stability.
They gave us a chance—and we’re making the most of it.
After another few years, and nearly losing that second house to foreclosure, we own it now—with a title this time.
A real deed. A real name on paper.
Finally.
And yet, people still talk about “privilege” like it’s some kind of blanket that wraps all white folks in comfort.
Excuse me?
After bills, we barely have money left for food—let alone extras.
If we hadn’t paid off our house, we wouldn’t be living this version of the “good life.”
And I put that in quotes, because it’s not comfort—it’s survival with a lock on the door.
I don’t leave home much—not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t afford to.
If this is privilege, someone else can have it.
I’m not saying life’s been easy for anyone else.
I know plenty of Black, brown, and white families stuck in the same boat, trying to row with broken oars.
What I’m saying is this:
Poverty doesn’t discriminate—and neither should our conversations about it.
The real divide in this country isn’t about skin color.
It’s about money, access, and the illusion that hard work always pays off.
We’ve worked our fingers to the bone, and still, we’re barely treading water.
That’s not failure.
That’s the system.
And that’s my reality.
“I know God’s got a plan, but I’d sure love a spoiler alert. Until then, I’ll keep flipping these pages—because what else am I gonna do? Give up? I don’t have the luxury.”
—Tammy
