Her bathtub faucet couldn’t turn off, and the constant splashing sounds frustrated LaJoe to no end. And even then, the bathtub’s water was scalding hot. Describing LaJoe’s trials, Kotlowitz wrote, “Cleaning her house was the only way she [LaJoe] could clear her mind, to avoid thinking about what might happen, or what might have been. The housing authority used to paint the apartments once every five years, but with the perennial shortage of money, in the 1970s it had stopped painting altogether. LaJoe couldn’t remember when her apartment was last painted. No matter how hard she scrubbed, the smudged walls never looked clean.” (Kotlowitz 26-28) Kotlowitz said it best— no matter her efforts, LaJoe’s apartment could never, ever be clean. Every attempt she made would be as futile as Sisyphus’ shouldering his boulder up the hill. The windows were too small. The “closets” were two-foot-deep dents in the wall. The curtain rods were missing, the kitchen cabinets were rusted through, and the insistent gurgling of a hot bathtub was always running in the background. Many take for granted the simple human dignity of a home that is possible to