“Anything is better than being homeless,” says Rose Labbe in a thick accent that basks in the warmth of her island heritage. She is a middle aged Haitian woman and is seated with her legs crossed on a black wooden crate in the backyard of her three bedroom house. She is five feet two, caramel skinned, and dons a blue scarf on her head in a wrapped style. Her dress is red and matches the color of her eyes which signals the many hours of work she puts in as a part-time McDonald’s employee and full time Amazon warehouse worker.

Seated on her throne of a crate, she gives me the likening of a tired Erzulie, a figure of strength and passion in her native homeland ready to take on any obstacle and carry on a life cognizant of a faraway American dream; one she probably formed as she watched different American sitcoms on her antenna TV in Haiti seven years ago. Erzulie, a goddess of motherhood and hard work, is manifested in Labbe because those two attributes are especially important for her as a Haitian immigrant making this dream.

However, this American dream borders on the line of being a nightmare. And, Labbe is very unsure of what she is actually living. As an immigrant woman living in a slum, she finds it difficult to assert her human right of fair and safe living quarters due to the limitations she faces in Miami.

When we meet she tells me she is dissatisfied with her landlord who charges $2,000 in rent for his less than mediocre property in south Opa Locka located in Miami, Florida. When driving into her neighborhood, there is an air of indifference to the area. Yes, the signature Miami flavor is present in the form of tall palm trees hovering over the sidewalk. Freshly painted houses are packed neatly in in their land plots and let passer-bys know that the area hosts tenants who have accumulated some sort of affluence. Huge fences and gates hug the houses in protection and the many soccer vans and trucks that are parked in driveways signal the busy lives the residents of the area probably lead.

So busy, that many do not recognize the green and white slum-house located at the very end of the street. It is tucked away quietly with overgrown hedges, decorated with broken windows, and embellished with six broken-down cars parked in the very front of the property. An orange home befriends the slum house and wears prettier paint than the slum-house does. A white, castle-like two story home with a mechanical gate stands in front of it on the other side of the street and its extravagance makes the green and white building look pitiful and miniscule. This is where Labbe lives.

“The met kay [Haitian creole for landlord],Dady is not the best but the house does what it has to do,” says Labbe as she quickly stands on two work-beaten, swollen feet to attend to the boiling cauldron of tea on the one and only burner that works on her stove that I noticed when walking in. The lawn around her home stands in tall, sporadic mounds, and she high steps in order to make her way to the house. I see her morning laundry flying in the wind on her makeshift clothing line on the far east side of the property in proud abandon.

Labbe hobbles back to me and apologizes for our inability to stay inside of her home on this hot, late November afternoon.

“The air-conditioning has never worked since I moved into the house three years ago,” says Labbe apologetically. “It is breezier outside anyway so we should be able to talk out there.”

I wrinkle my face and wonder what Labbe does in the Miami heat during the summer with no air conditioning to provide relief. According to housing codes provided by Miami Dade County, all houses and apartments should be equipped with working AC units due to the tropical climate that the city endures. Her rental property is practically inhabitable and, as I grimace at the army of palmetto bugs [cockroaches] that lavish on the outside, exposed sewer system in Labbe’s backyard, I realize that she has fallen victim to a Miami slumlord: independent cartel like landlords who privately own properties and then take advantage of gullible tenants by charging exorbitant amounts for rent.

The Rise of Miami Slums for Immigrants

One would instantly wonder: “How could one accept living conditions like this? Labbe’s rental property is rented out for $1900 per month and is fully equipped with a one-burner stove, non-working refrigerator, struggling central air unit, and toilet that flushes only “when its in the mood.” Many would run far away from living arrangements like this due to the price and hassle of living there.

However, upon further investigation, this seems to be a normality for many Miami residents where rent is super high and the quality of housing very low. Like Labbe, many are forced to live in “slum-like” houses without amenities like air-conditioning, water, and rodent-insect extermination.

“I moved into this house two years ago after I was evicted from my apartment in Little Haiti,” says Labbe at the beginning of our conversation. They were renovating the building into something for newer people and I needed a home quickly. This was the only place that said yes and for my circumstances, it’s not a bad one.”

Like Labbe, many people feel desperate to receive housing and settle for slum-like properties. The problem of Miami slum houses and apartments has been a long enduring one for many marginalized communities. Following the Miami McDuffie riots in 1980, James Hall, senior county housing inspector, was tasked with helping people get out of bad properties that were unsuitable to live in. Liberty City was a prime location for slums, and housed the majority of Miami’s African American population.

Now, slums have popped up all over Miami Dade County and targets another vulnerable group: immigrants. Without the proper tools of economic mobility, language acquisition, and knowledge of housing resources, many live in slums with the inability of knowing the options for homes that do not present hazards to their families. Immigrant groups are especially at risk for slum housing due to Miami’s dense population. According to research done by the Center for Immigration Studies, fifty nine percent of Miami’s population are foreign born immigrants and this includes 1.7 million that frequent its metropolitan area.

With a high demand for the housing of these individuals, more slums have emerged and the prices for them have significantly increased. The Miami Housing and Community Development Plan states that fair market rent for one-bedroom to three bedroom living quarters should range from 997 dollars to 1,991 dollars. However, rent prices on Zillow, popular home acquisition software, share that the pricing for different homes from private owners range from $1,300 to $2,500.  These prices are heavily inflated and can be attributed to the “appeal” and lifestyle that comes with dealing with the city.

Deal Breakers

Fandy Sanchez, thought he received a good deal when he signed a lease for a two bedroom apartment in North Miami Beach that was rented out for $1,500. He is a fifty year old man with three daughters and a wife named Milagros. He migrated from Columbia to Miami nine years ago and both him and his wife work as line cooks at the North Miami Beach McDonald’s restauarant.

Sanchez is also short man, standing at only five feet and six inches. He greets me outside of his once white now dirty cream apartment complex in a neighborhood in North Miami Beach that many called Victory Park, a gang affiliated territory marked by the various Jordan sneakers that line the telephone poles outside on the street.

I pass a basketball court that is only three minutes away from the location given to me by Sanchez. The North Miami Beach police department is located right beside the court. Black and brown children are seen walking to the park surrounding all of these neighborhood amenities and to onlookers it seems like a popular, safe area for families to enjoy time together free of worry and strife.  

When meeting Sanchez, I noticed that he wore outdated trousers that seemed to be thrifted from a nearby Goodwill. His wife beater was cocaine-white and mocked the white color that colored his building behind him.

We walked inside of the complex and it immediately darkened:

I smelled the stench of urine on the brown tiles that lead to the building’s elevator. Empty bottles of soda embroidered the walkway and I instantly felt uneasy. We entered the elevator, filled with litter and the stench of Black N’ Mild cigars and he pressed the button that led to the top floor.

I was not ready for what would meet me inside of Sanchez’s home. Inside, we walked to his bedroom where the roof has caved in reckless sorrow, and buckets held water from rains of tears. Black mosquitos have also met their deaths in the buckets of water in the room.

 Milagros, his wife, is seated in a corner of the yellow painted room. She sits so comfortably that it is as if she is just watching the hole grow bigger as the days pass by. In pink pants and a black shirt, she sits with her right hand supporting a cheek on her face while the other just limped on her left leg restlessly.  

It is Thanksgiving Day, and she sits in regret. Instead of the smell of turkey and ham, we all inhale the cracked asphalt and drywall from the ceiling in unison. A few rats run around the debris when I attempt to pick up a piece from the roof.

“It happened six weeks ago. We pay $1,500 every month for a broken roof. My landlord will not fix it. He is never there,” says Milagros Sanchez when asked why her roof is the way it is in broken English.

They also think that there is nothing that they could do about it.

“I signed the paper for this place for a year and we have only been here six months,” says Fandy Sanchez with his back against his bedroom door. Before, he lived with his family in a one bedroom place in Pok’ a Beans, another marginalized community in Miami, with another family living in the apartment’s other room.

“Even though the roof is bad, I think this is better,” says Sanchez again. “We have more room here for the family, we just have to work this out!”

Labbe feels the same way about her home in Opa Locka.

“I never would have had the opportunity to have a house if not this one,” says Labbe as we continue to sit on crates in her backyard. “I’ll just fix everything that’s broken when I have lajan [Haitian Creole for money]. The met kay [landlord] tells us he is doing us a favor already.”

The Slumlord Problem

Unbeknownst to Labbe and Sanchez, landlords are supposed to give tenants the basic amenities that make the properties livable and hazard-free. The Minimum Housing Code is also a law that requires all houses and apartments to be maintained in sanitary condition and contain basic household equipment. Violations of these codes can be prosecuted through the judicial system. There is a hotline on the Miami Dade County housing administration website that tenants can call in order to report their landlords for their failure in addressing issues relating to their property.

Landlords of slums prefer to be absentee, and only show up to collect their monies. The Miami Herald published an article in 2014 that investigated the Vaknins couple, who lived in a 2.4 million home in New Jersey, but owed the city of Miami 2.4 million dollars in unpaid code, building and fire violations. They forced tenants to live in moldy, broken apartment buildings while charging exorbitant amounts of rent. The Miami Dade Housing authority cracked downed on these landlords and claimed that the tenants were not at fault. However, the Vaknins continued to be absentee and only collected their money from the six different rental management companies they owned in Florida. In fact, they can even be said to be landlords who created the blue print for cash-greedy slumlord control—rodent infested properties, dilapidated infrastructure, and worn out equipment.

Labbe’s landlord, although a private owner of his home, is also absentee. Dady Pierre, an American naturalized Haitian native, owns three homes. He rents out two. On December 3^rd, 2019 at 9:45AM, he came to visit Labbe at their once a month check in where she hands over the cash, and he, on the other hand gives her the ability to live in the home for another month.

Pierre is a tall and brooding man who seems to live with a scowl. He pulled up to his slum in a Lexus sedan, and parked on other side of the street as if running from the house’s quiet shame. He wore a white dress shirt, black slacks, and shiny black dress shoes that looked like it costs the same amount of Labbe’s rent check.  

He then walked inside his property.

With a short greeting to Labbe, Pierre took the money. While I approached him, to speak about the properties he owned, he explained in creole: “I do not rent to you. If you want to know, rent from me and that’s that.” With those brass words he crossed the street, entered his Lexus, and drove off in what I presumed, monetary bliss.

Labbe’s shoulders slumped in despair as Pierre evidently confirmed that she was unable to assert her rights. We walk into her living room and we have a conservation about possible next steps.

-*”Manmi, [term of endearment in Haitian creole],you know that we can contact the local housing authority to make him fix all of the bad things in this house? Let me do that for you.”

-“It’s okay child. I don’t want to lose my house. It’s more than a good thing than bad. I don’t want him to tell me to leave.”

Labbe tells me this with a pleading look from her face. And, for a moment, I also feel defeated like the wilted leaves that cover the walkway into her home. However, I realize that this is expected especially for people apart of immigrant communities. According to The Guardian, immigrants primarily live in fear due to the lack of information they have on American systems and thus, cannot receive the resources needed to alleviate the problems they face, especially in housing.

Sanchez lives in fear of the authorities that police his slum apartment.  I persuaded him to go down the leasing apartment on the first floor and threaten the rental property manager in doing the necessary repairs.

“I don’t want trouble,” says Sanchez. I told them already and I don’t want to get evicted. I have too much problems for that.” His wife Milagros nods her head steadily in agreement while listening to our conversation.

The families living in these slums are also deeply affected by the horrible living arrangements they have been subjected to. In the property managed by slumlord royalty, the Vaknins, a young sixteen-year old African American boy dislocated his neck after his family’s rented apartment’s ceiling rained down on him back in 2014. For many people subjected to the tight hold of slumlords today, it is the same dilemma.

Labbe’s fifteen year old daughter, Michelange Jean, approaches me with a special request before I leave their rented property. She did not go to school that morning and listened to the conversation I had with her mother earlier. Jean is dressed in a blue jeans and pink t-shirt with black Nike slides and black socks. She taps me on the shoulder lightly before I exit the house’s rusted white gates into the Uber I called five minutes prior.

“Please contact the housing people for us,” says Jean with worry on her face. “My mother needs all the help that she could get. The man who owns the house doesn’t want to do anything. We live with rats and cockroaches. The AC and fridge barely works. We can’t fix it all.”

“I can’t make that decision for your mother,” I respond. “She has to make that decision for herself.

And, this is what people suffering at the hands of their landlords have to realize. In order to stop slumlord epidemic in Miami, the courage to fight against this ever-growing mafia has to be there. Only then will fair and equitable housing for all be a reality for every demographic in Florida.

Until then, slumlords will continue their reign as Miami housing gangsters using the weak and vulnerable to their greedy benefit. It is a sad reality but, to those struggling through, it is the only way possible.

– Michidael Ceard