The Renters' Dirge

I'm done. I've had it with beige walls, vertical blinds, outdated stoves and minuscule mailboxes. I want to do aerobics at 6 am without worrying about waking up the tenants below. I'm sick of guessing what the smells are that lurk in our kitchen cupboards from past occupants. And what exactly are those stains that won't come out of the bathroom tile? We didn't make them. I hate the guilt that accompanies each nail I drive into our walls that we are under contract not to violate. As much as I love our neighbors next door, I really don't need to hear their bedroom conversation every night as I drift off to sleep. I'm through mourning the premature death of every plant I bring home because of the lack of sunlight in my apartment. I have to walk down two flights of stairs, across a concrete courtyard and go through two sets of locked doors just to get to my car.

My home is a rented storage unit that floats two stories above the street and will have no memory of us after we leave. I've taken down most of the ratty window fixtures, upgraded all the cabinet knobs, removed doors, and installed shelving. But each of these improvements needs to be carefully undone when we leave so that we aren't fined for our thoughtful upgrades.

Most renters have grand aspirations of home ownership. None of us plan to stay long. But some of us never get out. It could happen to me. Since high school graduation 10 years ago I've lived in four shared homes and nine different apartments. I'm disgustingly urban. Good for me. Now where's my 40 acres and a mule?

Yes, I'm of course grateful to have a roof over my head, live in a nice city and have a wonderful circle of friends. Let's just blame this little nesting attack on my pregnancy and leave it at that. Or chastise me for my whining and greed. You know you want to.

I'm in good company with my grief. Apparently our friend Maya Angelou was a renter too:

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.