Million $ Road

“Certain habits of mind -- distinguishing between arguments and opinions, admitting self-doubt, rethinking assumptions -- are imperative for collective life.” Andrew Delbanco, The Nation

According to a report issued by Zillow, there are 500 cities in America where the average cost of a home is one million dollars. Astronomical housing prices have been a fact of life in my hometown of Santa Barbara for as long as I can remember, including the day back in the early 2000’s when I wrote my local legislator to oppose a housing development on what had been a small urban farm; at that time, the homes were projected to start at $500,000. That was only the beginning. Inventory is scarce as ever and rents are punishing for working folks. We gave up on the dream of home ownership a long time ago. 

My favorite place to walk is Garcia Road, which starts right across the street from our bungalow, and winds up and up to the Riviera. Garcia is a quiet street with limited traffic, lined by multi-million dollar houses, many of which have spectacular views of downtown and the harbor, and on clear days, the islands in the Santa Barbara Channel. On a recent walk on a day filled with warm sunshine, I felt the sun on my back and heard birds chirping in the trees. I considered all the good fortune I’ve experienced in my six decades of life -- five of which have been lived here -- and felt, not gratitude as much as astonishment. For every person like me, basically content, healthy, how many are like the African woman I read about in The Nation who made a 6,500 trek from her home country of Cameroon to Brazil, through Central America and Mexico, and finally the United States. After coming to the attention of the security forces back home she was arrested and repeatedly raped. She could not stay in Cameroon, her only option was to leave, to go into the unknown. I try to imagine what it must feel like to be forced to undertake such a desperate journey. And that was just one woman’s story, one that happened to gain the attention of a journalist. What about the thousands of forced migrants whose stories will never be known? In the years ahead, as climate change and political unrest make life untenable in more and more places, the world will see more migrants, refugees, and displaced human beings. As far as I can tell, we have no plan to deal with this eventuality. 

I don’t know if unregulated capitalism kills compassion, I suspect it does, though perhaps not at the individual level, because I often see small acts of compassion; it’s at the collective level where scores of human beings are deemed disposable or unworthy. After everything I’ve experienced, studied, read and lived through I shouldn’t be surprised that my country is more willing to build armaments and prisons than schools and hospitals. It shouldn’t surprise me that providing even basic medical care for its citizens is simply a bridge too far or that the American government can break Afghanistan and then blame the Afghan people for their demise. Dig to the root of all of it and you find money. America coddles its wealthy and punishes its poor and still has the audacity to refer to itself as a Christian nation. 

It’s too much sometimes and I feel an overwhelming sadness and sense of powerlessness. Should I just close my eyes and ears and live my comfortable life, convince myself that I deserve my comfort? Should I not notice the homeless person sleeping in the alley behind the motel on State Street, on a night when the temperature dipped into the low 40’s? Should I ignore the lost and broken souls I see around town? 

Some fifty years ago we made the Market our true God and Profit our King. Ever since we’ve busied ourselves slapping a price sticker on almost every aspect of our lives. Unregulated capitalism is cruel, and in the wrong hands wicked.