Residential Gang Bang
Why I Can’t Bring Myself to Root for the Ravens This Weekend
The condo felt confining once COVID-19 protocols kept us indoors. Like many, I began to crave fresh air like I never had before and a garden to which to tend in between video calls. In hindsight, I mistook stability (something my insides had very little experience with) for growing boredom after four-plus years in Baltimore City. I needed change, and what could be more radical of a change than pink sunsets, green hills, and corn stalks after living in cities for so long. That cute Cap Code in the Baltimore suburbs — in a neighborhood with Os and Ravens flags adorning just about every other home — housed a printing press in its basement before its renovation. What more of a sign did I need! I felt in my bones that I was called to buy that house, which I named “Franny” as a term of endearment. She would be the perfect backdrop in which to write and heal and later on, in which to thrive and start anew.
The Universe had other plans.
Our first night at Franny, the cats and I took shelter in the basement during a tornado watch. I stared mouth agape as water gushed in from under the door and through the porous cement block, which the (male) inspector had rated as satisfactory just a few days prior. Soon thereafter, I learned through what I thought would be routine maintenance that Franny was sold to me with known code violations — even though I had hired a (male) realtor, said (male) inspector, and (male) title insurance agents to conduct due diligence. My housewarming presents were hot wires throughout the house, an open methane leak, and a faulty beam that might have made Franny collapse in on herself had I put something heavy upstairs.
This hazardous situation required me — me, who was still equally terrified and repulsed by unknown men at that time — to put my microscopic amount of faith in them. They came into yet another of my violated spaces with their purple hoodies and brown boots and pet my cats with their smoke-scented fingers. I had to negotiate discounts and contracts with them, stick to my guns when they wanted to flake on their original offers, and fire some, telling them no even after they knew where the cats and I slept every night.
It took close a year’s worth of effort, half a year’s salary plus dipping into savings, a revolving door of (male) contractors, two ultimately useless (male) lawyers, and haggling with bumbling and highly resistant (male) county officials to make that supposed-to-be-sanctuary habitable and legal.
The whole experience was, in a phrase: sheer bleeping torture.
It wasn’t the stress of the project, of the house constantly being covered in sawdust for a year, which broke me down. My grief wasn’t entirely over hemorrhaged money, either (even if this could be a post about how special interests usurped the interests of the taxpayer and consumer).
What really upset me was the familiar feeling of transgression. That house represented my third assault in my then-33 years; my mind could not process it as anything else. The episode was another conscious betrayal at the hands of men, including those with significant powers invested in them by the state of Maryland and her licensing agencies. I resented down to the lining of my organs that the happiness of owning my first home was replaced by the well-earned expectation that men were in my life only to use me, to disrespect my intellect, and add to the list, to steal my money. With every invoice for services rendered, every new problem with Franny alerted to me, my nerves, muscles, digestive system, and thoughts brought me back to how I tepidly survived those three and half years in college in New York post-rape, and how I once again stumbled in Abu Dhabi post-assault. Whereas those incidents were time-bound (even if their impacts lingered on), the saga in the house was an every-day, sometimes all-day event for over a year.
But this time, I knew I was in the right. I hadn’t “put myself” in a compromising position asking for “what I deserved,” as my inner shame unfairly chorused for years. Objectively, I hired licensed professionals who egregiously failed to uphold their responsibilities to me, my cats, and Franny, whether out of incompetence or malice. This newfound righteousness buoyed me to fight back like I did not have the courage to do when I was younger. As I did, I found an unexpected source of support from the very population I was furious with: men.
Two of my neighbors were quite handy and generous with their time, and my guard fell down around them immediately. Both would become something between father-grandfather types — fatherly in giving advice and helping out around Franny (particularly since my own father lived three hours away) and grandfatherly in offering the warmth that I never knew from Giddo and Grandpa Al, who both went to the grave before I was born. My neighbor to the right recommended my primary contractor who, over time, became an architect, a county clerk whisperer, a shrink, and a brother all in one. I was almost disappointed when his share of work ended and his detail-delinquent, though kind contractor crew, who pronounced their Os with rolls like the hills near Franny, no longer came to the house to work and eat my food and drink my coffee. This sentiment first dawned on me as I was journaling the following spring, much to my complete awe at how God does His thing to help us bind our wounds.
Simultaneously to project-managing house repairs, I went down every rabbit hole with state and county authorities to attempt to collect remedies. Whenever I tried to hold one party accountable for their role in this debacle, said party deflected blame and pointed the finger at another cook in this hellacious kitchen. I hit wall after wall and ultimately spent more on legal fees than I was able to recoup.
Even once the house was restored to safety, I couldn’t talk myself into being happy there, nor could I drive past county offices without a few choice phrases and hand gestures. As soon as I had enough energy to think about packing moving boxes, I put Franny on the market. I hired a female realtor this go-round, and she got Franny sold within three weeks. I then ended my stagnant crusade with the Maryland AG’s office and state licensing and consumer protection bodies for the sake of a fresh start in the City of Brother Love. It’s been over a year since I wrote a first draft of this piece and have made terms with — nay, released — most of the anger captured within. That’s partly due to my own efforts to purge years of trauma, but also due to the warm hug that Philadelphia has held me in since I became a resident.
Did the Ravens do anything to me personally? No. Were they complicit in this residential gang bang? Of course not.
Do the Ravens represent a source of deep pain and wear its state flag on their uniforms? The same flag on every website and email signature to which I appealed in vain for justice, let alone help? Yes.
And so, I just can’t bring myself to cheer on my “home team” of close to six years this Sunday. I just can’t.
Go big or go Mahomes.
