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Housing
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A ‘house proud’ family in one of the
Interfaith Apartments completely renovated units.
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Housing Partnerships
One
burdensome aspect of the booming economy is the rents now commanded in Boston for
even inadequate housing. At the same time, the public housing stock
that had been available is
being upgraded and opened to middle-income tenants. This may be a wise direction, since
mixed-income developments are healthier environments, but it also means there are more low-income people without a traditional resource. After struggling with all the options, we
sold our rooming house for elders. With only six small units, the rehabilitation cost was
prohibitive. The location of the building made it worth substantially more to a
commercial developer than a housing provider. With this capital Haley House is
joining Sojourner House, a family shelter, to create a development mixing elders
and
families: low, moderate and market-rate tenants. This is a serious challenge in an
expensive real estate market, and it is a substantial commitment of administrative time,
but affordable housing is a necessary element to insure a dynamic community.
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As a forty year old non-profit, Haley House serves as a soup kitchen, bakery, farm, and low income housing provider all mixed into one lively organization. A mix of stalwart staff, live-in volunteers, and eager college students, Haley House has its share of slightly eccentric, but hardworking community members- all of whom play an essential role in its operation. This past Friday I took the opportunity to sit with one of Haley House’s unacknowledged assets, Mr. Noel Bray.
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Haley House's Noel Bray |
Noel is Haley House’s go-to-guy for low-income housing and, of course, he’s a good chat. Walking into his apartment, I was struck by the property’s beauty. Was this really subsidized housing? Noel had music playing, offered me tea and a seat, and started right away. Within moments, I realized that I should throw my prepared questions out the window.
Noel began at the beginning—his beginning. As a child, Noel and his family would attend Catholic Mass at a Cathedral in the South End of Boston. The church’s attendees consisted of high profile, powerful, political figures. This Cathedral also hosted numerous members of the homeless community. It wasn’t difficult for Noel to notice this stark contrast in the social groups of Boston. Noel and his family would occasionally donate clothes to St. Francis on their way to this socially diverse mass. At the time, Noel had no idea how much this lifestyle would impact him down the road.
Noel’s ideologies began to fully develop during his time at college here in Boston. It was the pinnacle moment in the anti-war and civil right movements, and Noel thrived on the ideology. came to realize that the Catholic Church strongly deviated from his moral beliefs; they were on the wrong side of many moral issues of the time. It was during this time that Noel found himself pulling away from the church and its system of beliefs.
Noel found a like-minded group and began to read anti-war material, specifically The Catholic Worker. The Catholic Worker Movement, founded by Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin in the 1930s, attempts to ‘live in accordance with the justice and charity of Jesus Christ.’ They called for life lived virtuously through the eyes of Christ, not necessarily through the eyes of the Church. Even as a child, Noel had a difficult time understanding why someone who does not necessarily believe exactly what the church believes, whether because of culture or personal ideas, should be punished. The Catholic Worker Movement seemed to address this concern by focusing on righteous action.
Noel was jolted from a revolutionary contentment with a series of personal losses. The turning point came when the three most significant male figures in Noel’s life were tragically taken: his brother, father, and uncle. Depression enveloped him, and he soon lost his job and home as a result. He moved in with his mother who was also struggling. Noel soon ran out of money and saw no way out. Realizing his precarity, he began the search for healing and began to exercise and meditate.
Simultaneously, Noel realized that if something were to happen to his mother he would be left unemployed and homeless. Through meditation, Noel began to see himself as extraordinarily blessed. He focused on the positive and knew that radical changes would have to be made to dig himself out of this situation.
First, Noel started working with children as a counselor at a day camp and an after school program. He loved the children and came to the conclusion that he would act out of love, not for money, and his actions would lead to mutual benefit. He began to volunteer in soup kitchens, pantries, and AIDS clinics. Life was beginning to come around.
One afternoon, Noel was listening to the radio and heard a guest speaker, Kathleen McKenna. She talked about the Catholic Worker Movement and how it related to the ideologies behind Haley House. Noel’s exposure to radicalism and his roots in Catholicism combined with what he heard about Haley House, he knew he needed to talk to this woman. He began volunteering almost immediately in the kitchen and was soon offered a position managing a building of Haley House’s housing.
Noel loved the work. He loved what he was doing and the interactions and relationships he formed with people in this community. Noel was living the concept of doing what feeds you, and thus spreading happiness to others and himself. It is evident that this passion has not dissipated. He has effectively incorporated the housing with its neighborhood and has established a sense of community within the building itself. Isolation among tenants means tension. To counter this, he worked to create a familial atmosphere. Slowly, the building has become a happier place.
He is the house's handy man and beloved uncle. He is in charge of little jobs in his building such as changing light bulbs, cleaning common areas, and preparing the space for inspections. But when asked what a typical day in his shoes was like, Noel quickly answered that there was no such thing as a typical day. Each day, Noel can expect several people to knock on his door, sometimes for residential needs, but many times just to talk to someone who will listen. Noel also tends the larger organization through tending houseplants, feeding the cat, and keeping an eye on the staff vehicle. Each Monday and Thursday, Noel takes care of the recyclables. He packs up the truck with barrels of cans, bottles, jars, and cardboard and unloads it in Boston's recycling center. On Sundays Noel transports baked goods from the Haley House Bakery to a local church.
When I asked Noel what changes he would like to see happen here at Haley House, he really didn’t have many ideas. The changes he wants to see are on a much larger, political scale. His best advice would be to vote, and to all those people who see the outcome of elections as irrelevant to their lives, Noel hopes they realize that there are issues that may not affect you, but they will affect somebody.
Noel certainly had a lot to say--all of it very interesting--but when asked if he would ever devote his time to a book, he did not seem too concerned with it. He had tried to write his story once, but unable to complete it, he realized that it was not a main concern. He did not want writing to exclude his other work. No book necessary, Noel is busy enough leaving his legacy in helping others and taking care of the truck.
--Patricia Harvey
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The Rooming House
575 Tremont |
My first look at the Rooming House was through the rain from
across the street at the Bostonian Market. I had sought temporary refuge here from the
torrential rain, to protect my goin out dancin clothes. Sharon and
I were beginning our courtship; for this evenings date I was to meet her at the
Rooming House before heading out. It was early spring 1986, and Tremont Street was being
rebuilt. Jersey barriers prevented pedestrians from crossing. Impatient to impress, I
hopped the barrier and landed knee-deep in mud. Stuck with no other alternatives, I
trudged through the muddy street to the Rooming House. As I opened the gate at the bottom
of the stairs, the gate produced its telltale clank-CLANK sound, alerting everyone in the
house of my arrival, including the dapper and quick-to-judge Albert who came to open the
door. My, my, come in, you must Sir Walter Scott. The Queen awaits you
upstairs. Thats what he said. I can only imagine what he thought of me as I
stood there half drowned and filthy.On later dates I would be
met at the steps by Albert, and the other residents of the building would, when the
weather allowed, spend a good part of their day sitting on the front steps, conversing or
observing Tremont Street. While friendly, they would take the opportunity to interrogate
me. Where are you going out to? How late will you be out? What exactly are your
intentions? I enjoyed these moments, and also began to realize the importance of the steps
in the life of the house. It was the only common area where the folks could get together
daily and see each other. The gate at the bottom of the steps is fairly useless as a
barrier and quite decrepit, but it afforded those on the steps with a certain sense of
security, or the feeling that they were apart from the hubbub of the street.
As I became a regular visitor, and eventually a resident of the Rooming
House, the interrogations ended, and I was welcomed to join the step sitters. Typically,
my arrival at the steps would bring the usual chorus of greetings, followed by a litany of
the days happenings along Tremont Street. Oh, theres this one man who
keeps walking back and forth; I think hes trouble. From smiling Eddie Greene,
an update of the Red Sox: I call that fella Boyd Squirt Can, hes no Oil Can,
just Squirt Can, he cant get anbody out. Stanley would chip in the
status of some mechanical device in his room. Albert would shake his head ruefully, grab
my hand, and say, quietly, Ignore them, run along, will you be back out later?
How quickly Albert moved me along was a good barometer of how he and the other residents
were getting along that day.
Bringing a meal to Albert recently, I noted how disconnected I now feel from
the house. My access to peoples lives and stories began right on those steps every
afternoon. To understand how things were in the Rooming House I needed to be met by the
stories on the steps. I brought my 5-year-old son along last week. As we were leaving he
pointed to the gate and said, Why is this here? It doesnt even work!
Well, I tried to explain, its kind of like a
doorbell.
--Gerry Bilodeau |
Within weeks of our owning the building, Thomas Burdett died.
I had never met him.
The police came for his body
He had no family or friends.
We looked for mail, for some connection to someone.
There were only piles of empty SSI envelopes.His room
was full of electrical wires
Strung like a canopy from a single, bare bulb.
Large dresser drawers full, full of electrical wires
And piles of carefully cut pieces of gray cardboard
From old cereal boxes,
Used to make grocery lists
To send his housetop neighbor, Stanley,
To buy food and whiskey.
The whiskey bottles were neatly stacked
From ceiling to floor all empty
filling, filling
The only closets in the two-room apartment.
I remember the windows were opaque brown
With nicotine and soot.
The light of day did not shine through at all.
Jim Madrue helped me lift them out for scraping and scrubbing.
I remember scraping and scrubbing the stove, too,
Grime so thick it acted as a protective covering
For the surface underneath, perfectly preserved, shiny white.
This was before recycling and sorting garbage,
So over the course of that summer,
We put the entire contents
Of Thomas Burdetts apartment
Including two of the walls
Out on the sidewalk on garbage days.
I was a bride then, eager to make a first home,
And our tenant mate, Stanley, would yell,
What the _____ are you doin over there, makin a ______damn
palace?
Truth be told, when it was done,
It was a palace, for us:
Sun filled the rooms
And the big, rumbling trucks on Tremont Street
Rocked us to sleep in our loft bed.
The only un-palace like part
Was the sceavy gross bathroom we shared
With (Stinky) Stanley.
Now, sixteen years later,
Parts of our family photo album show pictures
Of smiling tenants Albert Vendetto, R.N. and Annetta Little,
Holding our first child.
For years I sent Christmas cards to old friends
At 575, remembering how sad it was
To find none in Thomas Burdetts drawers after he died.
And always, always, whenever I clean a toilet
I think of Stanley.
--Annie Doyle |
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