It was one of the ugliest houses I'd ever seen. Factory-like, its brick facade and sterile, concrete porch with functional overhang hunkered behind a hot yard of river pebbles and weeds. Two sagging junipers, full of wind blown trash and spiders' webs, stood ragged sentinel in the yard. It was literally repulsive.
And it was far too expensive: $550.00 per month, not including utilities.
The neighborhood is called The War Zone, and this is no exaggeration. Desperation, trauma, violence and hopelessness wound through the daily lives of Mexican immigrants, Cuban "political refugees," east Texas trailer trash and a ragged assortment of African Americans. Bud Light and crack were the sources of entertainment.
Prostitutes, crack dealers and homeless alcoholics vied for the "cherry" spots: trees near sidewalks by day for some escape from the blistering Albuquerque sun or light posts at night, so customers or fellow "bums" could spot them more easily.
It was a hideous, run-down, sad and frazzled house on a hideous, run-down, sad and frazzled street.
But it was two doors from my church. So I decided to move in.
