ST. LOUIS — Tiffany Johnson had a mouse problem. They scurried behind the walls in her Carondelet duplex and chewed through bags of chips in her pantry.
When she saw a tail disappearing down the drain as she put her kids in the bathtub, she hit her limit.
But it would be six months before she could find a new place.
A years-long housing crisis that was mostly held at bay by the pandemic’s eviction moratorium and federal stimulus payments has roared back this summer. Surging inflation, spiking real estate prices and a dwindling supply of affordable rentals have left low-income earners grasping for a lifeline and housing advocates sounding the alarm.
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“It will be a train wreck, and it’s coming right down the tracks toward us,†said Robert Swearingen, an attorney with Legal Services of Eastern Missouri.
Johnson, who drives for Amazon, moved into a house in Dutchtown in May. At $1,510 a month, the rent is a reach — two-thirds more than what she had been paying for the duplex.
The mother of five pinches pennies wherever she can. Her brother or sister watches her kids while she works. She doesn’t drive unless it’s to get to an appointment. And she unplugs everything in what feels like a losing battle to keep her electricity usage down.
“My Ameren bill is so high,†said Johnson. “It’s just ridiculous.â€
A has eviscerated the budgets of many Americans. Food costs are up 11%. Gasoline, which has , is still 19% higher than a year ago. While there are ways to skim from some bills — adjusting the air conditioning, switching to public transportation — housing costs are fixed.
Unless they are accelerating.
Across the United States, more than four times faster than income, according to Clever, a real estate data company. In ºüÀêÊÓƵ, escalating rents predate the pandemic. For smaller units, the climb has been even steeper: , one-bedroom apartments increased 14%; studios, 18%.
“There’s a lot of things going on all at once, putting pressure on low-income people,†said Yusef Scoggin, the director of human services for the city of ºüÀêÊÓƵ. “The amount of assistance coming in is unprecedented, but the people needing assistance is at a whole other level.â€
The United Way of Greater ºüÀêÊÓƵ provides funding to 80 agencies that offer housing support. In the six months prior to the pandemic, 37% of calls to the United Way’s helpline were housing-related. In the first six months of this year, that had ticked up past 45%.
In late 2020, the federal government earmarked $25 billion for the . A second round of rent and utility aid, topping $21 billion, was appropriated in March of last year. received two $29 million slices. was allocated almost $9 million in the first round and $12.4 million in the second. All together, just over 10,000 households have received assistance — from more than 32,000 applications — through mid-August.
Up to a third of people who could benefit never apply, housing advocates say. The process can be daunting. One in five ºüÀêÊÓƵ households don’t have broadband internet. The online application, through a third-party vendor called LiveStories, requires an email address and scanned copies of at least six documents.
“Systems can complicate the stress,†said Scoggin. “There are organizations in the community that provide help, but their manpower can only be so large.â€
Johnson connected with the Urban League of Metropolitan ºüÀêÊÓƵ to cover the first three months’ rent at her new place in Dutchtown. After that, she’s not sure what she will do. She is socking away as much income as she can.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,†she said.
Their own beds
The National Low-Income Housing Coalition, a nonprofit based in Washington, estimates Missouri workers to afford market-rate rent for a two-bedroom unit. Missouri’s hourly minimum wage is $11.15. Many larger companies have boosted pay during the labor shortage, but nationwide, more than 60% of working , according to a study by antipoverty advocacy group Oxfam America.Â
The situation is more dire for folks on a fixed income. Maria von der Heydt has squeaked by on disability for 15 years. Two years ago, she moved back to ºüÀêÊÓƵ with her four children after breaking up with their father. They were starting over with nothing.Â
A friend took them in, and the family of five shared the living room for 18 months. Each week, von der Heydt would drive around, stopping at every “for rent†sign she came across.
“There weren’t a lot, and most of them were out of my price range,†she said.
Finally, in May, von der Heydt found a home in the shadow of Carondelet Park for $900 a month. It puts her in the “cost-burdened†category — along with about two-thirds of those in the lowest income bracket — of spending more than 30% of income on housing expenses.
To compensate, she visits her neighborhood food pantry, shops secondhand for clothes and washes her hair with homemade shampoo.
Her kids finally have their own beds, thanks to donations from . The boys squeezed their mattresses together in their room. Down the narrow hallway still lined with boxes, the girls did the same.
“It’s a little bit of a growing up experience for them,†von der Heydt said. “I need my family stable, and my house is at the center of that.â€
Housing insecurity generates a waterfall of consequences: elevated stress, health problems, severed social connections and sometimes job loss. Children are often forced to change schools.
Tamika Brown of Spanish Lake is desperate to keep her three kids, ages 11 to 17, in Hazelwood School District. Their friends are there, and the teachers know them. Her oldest daughter will be a senior this year.
But the rent on her two-bedroom home jumped to $800 a month in August. It was $650 when they moved into the little brick bungalow with brown siding four years ago. She can’t absorb the increase with the $13 an hour she makes at a residential-care center.
Her landlord was reimbursed for three months’ rent through the federal ERA program, but she is still $2,100 in arrears. Last week, she applied for ERA again, but she won’t know the outcome for weeks, she said.
“I worry about it a lot,†Brown said. “We’re just trying to keep our heads above water.â€
Raining indoors
For families like Brown’s, who fall under the lowest-income threshold, there just aren’t enough properties in their price range. For every 100 extremely low-income Missouri households — capped at $26,200 annually for a family of four — there are according to the Low-Income Housing Coalition.
A hot housing market, with buyers spending above asking, has pushed moderate-income would-be homeowners back into rentals. Interest rates on a 30-year, fixed-rate mortgage shot past 5% this month, from 2.77% at the same time last year. And July’s flash flooding forced hundreds of residents from complexes that became uninhabitable, multiplying competition for space.
When people can’t find an inexpensive place to live, they have few good options. They double up with family or friends, bounce between motel rooms or a car, or settle for substandard living conditions.
“People will desperately take anything they can find,†said Swearingen, the Legal Services attorney. “They end up in the clutches of another slumlord.â€
Alice Johnson has been leaning on the generosity of friends since she was forced to move from Spanish Cove Townhomes in Spanish Lake early last month. Johnson had lived there for three years. Her rent was $665. The landlords paid little mind to repairs, she said.
“The ceiling was cracked,†said Johnson. “When it rained, the rain came in on my bed.â€
Still, she wanted to stay. The two-time cancer survivor gets dialysis three days a week. She passes out easily. Moving was not on her to-do list.
But in June, she received a notice that Spanish Cove, which had been sold to an Ohio-based redeveloper, was taking her to court for back rent. She disputes that she owed as much as they claim but knows she was behind by at least $2,500.
The 76-year-old wants to get into subsidized senior housing, but the waiting lists seem interminable. And her court case comes up when potential landlords screen her.
Leaving everything behind
The Spanish Cove situation, said housing advocate Chris Willcox, provides an example of why there is a deficit in affordable housing and a relative glut of high-end options. The new owners, Pepper Pike Capital Partners, told residents it was planning a $16 million renovation project.
The complex is responsible for the — 310 — in the region since the start of the pandemic, according to data from the Eviction Lab.
“A lot of investors have figured out we have affordable housing,†said Paula Carey-Moore, the senior director of housing with the Urban League of Metropolitan ºüÀêÊÓƵ.
They add amenities and hike the rent. Or they fix up houses for short-term Airbnb-type rentals, she said.
Lasting repercussions from the pandemic — job cuts and health crises — coupled with an unstable economy have ensnared people who have never needed a hand before, said Carey-Moore.
“Some people had great jobs,†she said. “But they found themselves in a place they never imagined.â€
Rhonda Alexander of Normandy has a degree in social work. Until this summer, she was the one providing support to others. But this month, the mother of four attended a rental-assistance clinic in Wellston hosted by A Red Circle, the nonprofit Willcox works for.
When the agency opened its doors, a dozen people were already in line. Willcox and his crew of volunteers stayed 90 minutes after closing time to wrap up the last of the ERA applications.
Alexander came because she had slipped a month behind on rent, despite trying to pick up extra money delivering for DoorDash.
“I feel the stress, but you kind of have to shake it off,†Alexander said. “You sit down and feel it, and then you get up and keep going.â€
The strain on Santaisha Laster of north ºüÀêÊÓƵ County has left her hair falling out in clumps. For her, the pandemic triggered a mudslide of troubles.
In March 2020, Laster, who has diabetes, was working as a certified nursing assistant. She quit her job, afraid she would catch COVID, and was out of work for a year.
Then, the rent on her two-bedroom house in Berkeley jumped from $765 to $900. She couldn’t keep up. On July 1, she and her two young sons were evicted.
Laster couldn’t pay for movers, so she had to leave behind almost everything: her washing machine, shelves overflowing with children’s books, lamps and tables, even clothes and shoes. The basketball hoop her boys loved to play with was abandoned in the backyard.
She moved in with a friend, then an uncle. Amid the turmoil, she lost her work-from-home job with an insurance company. The disrupted schedule unnerved her sons, both of whom have developmental disorders. The 7-year-old started wetting the bed they all share. The 5-year-old tripped over a stack of boxes and broke his arm.
“I feel so bad for the boys,†Laster said. “It’s really traumatic for them.â€
A month ago, she found a new job, at a skilled-nursing facility in St. Charles. She’s been taking double shifts whenever she can, dropping her sons off with a relative.
Laster is afraid the eviction will be a black mark even if she can find a place within her price range, but she can’t stay with her uncle indefinitely.
“I don’t know where we’re going to go next. I’ve been looking under rocks and all kinds of trees,†she said. “We’re in a crisis.â€
All she wants is to be home.