{"id":147835,"date":"2020-09-23T12:41:59","date_gmt":"2020-09-23T16:41:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=147835"},"modified":"2020-09-23T14:46:00","modified_gmt":"2020-09-23T18:46:00","slug":"dear-building-residents","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/09\/23\/dear-building-residents\/","title":{"rendered":"Dear Building Residents"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Dear Building Residents,<\/p>\n

I grew up underneath you. Some of you made a show of knowing my name, would call to me and wave if you passed me in the lobby. Some of you didn\u2019t even know your building superintendent had a daughter. My father, when he was still your super, used the computer in our basement apartment to write you letters a little bit like this one\u2014notices telling you to please be advised about upcoming hot-water outages and elevator-maintenance work, which always ended with an apology for any inconvenience and a note of thanks for your patience and cooperation. He would often tell me there were lots of worse jobs out there. But last year, when he announced at sixty-six that he was leaving the job, one of you, surprised, asked him why. You thought he\u2019d stuck around the building for over thirty years because he loved being a residential super, or working for you, or the Upper West Side location.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Please be advised: he was mostly there because he wanted health insurance.<\/p>\n

Spelled out like that, it all sounds a bit underwhelming. In fiction-writing textbooks, there\u2019s often a passage urging fledgling writers to ask, What does this character want? \u201cAccess to affordable health care to protect his family\u201d lacks narrative oomph\u2014despite the fact that affordable health care is what so many people want, need, and increasingly don\u2019t have. That access, or lack thereof, has bent the course of my parents\u2019 own stories in ways that may not have been cinematic but have always been high stakes. You don\u2019t know about these contours, which is partly why I want to tell you now. It seems strange to me, in a late-capitalist-end-times way, that I can know your life from your garbage\u2014the garbage room was right next to our apartment\u2014yet you don\u2019t know the way the health insurance industry shaped my family\u2019s life.<\/p>\n

When I was a kid, every year on my birthday (celebrated beneath your very feet!) my mother would tell the story of how my parents were between paychecks on the day she went into labor with me, six weeks before the due date. \u201cWe had to borrow twenty dollars from a neighbor for a cab to the hospital,\u201d she\u2019d say. My parents were broke when I was born, but not for any of the reasons that we see often in movies and books (drugs, alcohol, fallen-from-grace genteel poverty, et cetera). Rather, my mother had developed an autoimmune disease in her late twenties that forced her to leave her job. She paid for health care as needed out of pocket. With my mother only able to work sporadically, the savings my parents had vanished. And the money from my dad\u2019s job meant no Medicaid, either.<\/p>\n

Are these technical details about health care access boring? Thank you for your patience while the building staff works to tell you this necessary story as efficiently as possible.<\/p>\n

When my parents decided to have a child, my father found a new job doing building maintenance, which was supposed to offer insurance after my dad had worked there for six months. After the six months passed, my mother became pregnant with me. The health care company deemed my mother\u2019s pregnancy a pre-existing condition and said my father would have to work there a year before my family would become eligible for pregnancy benefits. Outraged by this, my father\u2019s boss at the time, Jerry (a man my mother described, whenever she told me this story, as \u201ca complete gangster\u201d), paid for my mother\u2019s health care out of pocket. The system failed us, but we were briefly protected by this individual\u2019s simultaneous anger and compassion. \u201cFor a little while, I worried we\u2019d have to name you Jerry,\u201d my mother told me over birthday cake, \u201cthough we decided against it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Is this information, my inclusion of the birthday cake detail and my mother\u2019s voice, too personal for comfort? A reminder: Please do not store personal property in the hallway, including but not limited to scooters, bikes, and strollers. These are fire hazards.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m thankful that Jerry had the financial power to back up his outrage. I\u2019m thankful that my father\u2019s job as a residential super gave all three of us health insurance when I was growing up (even though we had to go through a three-month trial period at the beginning of my father\u2019s employment, during which time my parents had to pay for our private health insurance out of pocket; even though our insurance from the building never included pharmaceutical benefits). And I\u2019m enormously<\/em> thankful my parents were able to get on Medicare last year and that my father doesn\u2019t have to be a sixty-something-year-old essential worker in the city right now. I\u2019m thankful that after years of hard work and paying into this system, my parents won\u2019t have to rely on the luck of meeting people like Jerry. Is this a thank you letter after all? To whom? So often, when writing to someone with more resources, more power, my expression of gratitude seems to creep in on just the other side of lack.<\/p>\n

When I\u2019ve told others that I grew up in a rent-free basement apartment of an increasingly upscale building in Manhattan, they often assume that I wished I was one of you, the residents to whom my father wrote neutrally worded letters. Dear building residents: I do not require access to your residential units or your lives. While I certainly envied how your apartments got natural light, I liked my life and I didn\u2019t want to be you. I heard your arguments in the hallways, your calls of complaints, and knew you were just people. Sometimes it seems to me that we\u2019re unconsciously subscribing to one very limited story about inequality\u2014the nonrich aspiring to be like the rich\u2014over and over. But I\u2019ve experienced a second story: that of the nonrich aspiring simply to live. Working a lifetime, just so as not to get screwed over by a health care industry that can easily eat away any savings and bankrupt them without any real social safety net in place.<\/p>\n

The first story, the hyperaspirational I-wanna-be-one-of-the-elite stories, is the one we see most often on screens. It\u2019s sexier, with its big ole arc, and is also more appealing to various gatekeepers. Baked into it is the inherently flattering idea that the rich must be doing something right because the rest of us want to be like them. And there\u2019s the false idea that if we try hard enough, we can be. The second story\u2014the one of shaping a life\u2019s work around access to affordable health care\u2014can be more difficult to handle because not only does it take away the glowing feeling of being envied, it suggests that we need to work together to end the extreme disparities in our country, designing a health care system that is fair and humane. It is not only a matter of moral urgency\u2014though caring about each other\u2019s well-being, especially now, is one of the crucial ways to feel connected in a time of so much insolation\u2014but also stems from the way our health care system so often keeps people from getting care until they\u2019re in expensive emergency situations, which wind up costing more for everyone and destabilizing medical access for all. When people are left with hospital bills they can\u2019t pay, the hospital charges those who can pay more to make up the difference. (Dear building residents: \u201cthose who can pay\u201d is a euphemism for you.)<\/p>\n

This second story, while perhaps less cinematic, is deeply important, especially now, as millions lose their health insurance during a global health crisis; as our president tries to overturn the Affordable Care Act; as already cash-strapped hospitals struggle to provide care for the thousands who need it; and as so many essential workers risk their lives and the lives of their families. It\u2019s a story that needs to be told more frequently. As more people lose their jobs in this pandemic, and as more people need care that costs astronomical amounts they can\u2019t pay (and which you yourself will wind up paying for through higher medical costs), the fragile health care system in place may itself be what struggles to survive in its current shape.<\/p>\n

Maybe this is<\/em> the kind of letter my father used to write you. A notice. Something is wrong in the building and there\u2019s a good chance, if you\u2019re paying attention, that you are about to be more than inconvenienced.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Lee Conell is the author of the story collection <\/em>Subcortical and the recently published debut novel <\/em>The Party Upstairs. Her short fiction has received the\u00a0Chicago Tribune\u2019<\/i>s Nelson Algren Award and appears in the\u00a0<\/em>Oxford American,\u00a0Kenyon Review,<\/em>\u00a0Glimmer Train,<\/em>\u00a0American Short Fiction, and elsewhere.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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