Dominican Republican: our man up north in Manhattan

National Review, Dec 31, 2006 by Jason Lee Steorts

I MUST confess to a sin, although among NATIONAL REVIEW readers it is probably more like a heresy: I have been, as recently as this year, a ward of the welfare state.

It wasn't my fault. I slipped onto the dole without even realizing it, and I am happy to report that the experience had a reforming effect. That is, it convinced me once and for all that "public assistance" is a generally rotten idea, encouraging people to do generally rotten things.

There is, in Manhattan, a neighborhood called Inwood, and until recently it was my misfortune to live there. Inwood is the northernmost tip of the island, a stone's throw from Albany and a quick stroll to the Arctic Circle. But in temperament it is southern, the majority of its population being composed of immigrants from the Dominican Republic (a relatively recent phenomenon; for much of the 20th century, it was predominately Irish).

Inwood is a reasonably safe place, but its residents have embraced the culture of the Latin ghetto, making it well nigh uninhabitable. I doubt there is any Manhattan neighborhood where you can find more trash on the street of a Monday morning, or where you must endure louder blastings of reggaeton "music" in those nigrescent hours before the cock crows, than in Inwood. I once had occasion to eat lunch with a woman who worked for an outfit devoted to the betterment of inner-city schools, or some similarly dubious cause. When I named my employer, everything was ice; but when I told her where I lived, she decided we could be friends. "Oh really?" she chortled in her joy. "How progressive of you." Inwood is that kind of neighborhood.

My roommates in Inwood were a young Dominican couple who subleased to me a room in their three-bedroom apartment (my rent was to include all utilities--a fact whose relevance will soon be clear). Liza had grown up in the United States. She spoke fluent English, was a high-school graduate, and hoped eventually to earn a college degree. Her husband, Salvador, was, as far as I knew, an illegal immigrant. He spoke scarcely a word of English and was chronically unemployed.

He was also not her husband, but rather her "husband," for Liza was guilty of immigration fraud. Several years before meeting Salvador, she had accepted payment to marry a Dominican man who wished to become a U.S. citizen, a goal to be made possible by the marriage. This man promised to pay for a divorce once he had attained his purpose, but subsequently refused. Liza was unwilling to pay for the divorce herself. When she met Salvador, she had not seen her husband in several years; but, as she was still married, she and Salvador had no choice but to live in sin. (Liza shared these details with me as a prelude to suggesting that I marry her cousin for $8,000. After reflecting on my market value and consulting a lawyer, I respectfully declined.)

Life with Liza and Salvador was fine at first. It soon became clear, however, that not all was well in their "marriage." Liza could not work because she was pregnant, and Salvador's failure to find a job led to frequent arguments about money. (These arguments were in Spanish, a language I understand very imperfectly, but Liza helpfully summarized them for me after the fact.) Their fights happened late at night, involved much shouting, and were often followed by other noisy conjugal activities.

Salvador eventually found an entry-level job as a bouncer at a local nightclub. He worked six nights a week and earned $100 a night, for a weekly take of $600, all of it unreported. Wealthy he was not, but his income--combined with the rent he received from me and from a second sub-lessee, a mysterious Greek who disappeared one day more or less without a trace--was enough to meet his family's needs. According to Liza, though, he brought home only $60 of his weekly $600. She suspected him of blowing the rest on booze and other women. His excuse was that he liked to get a shave and a haircut each week, and this is expensive. I leave the reader to ponder which explanation is the more plausible.

With Salvador on a quest for tonsorial perfection, Liza could not pay the bills. Enter the state. She applied to, and was accepted by, something she called "the HEAP." The first thing I learned about this HEAP was that it required me to buy whole milk. The HEAP paid for her milk, you see, but its vouchers were good only for skim. Since I liked skim and she liked whole, each of us would buy the other's milk, and we would swap.

Later that month, while browsing a newspaper, I learned more about the HEAP. Apparently it advertises. Why welfare programs advertise, I shall never know. I would prefer a "don't ask, don't tell" policy: Make it hard for people to ask, and tell them nothing when they do. But here, before my eyes, was an ad inviting all and sundry to avail themselves of the Home Energy Assistance Program. A visit to the HEAP's website revealed that it has nothing to do with dairy products (I suspect Liza had mistakenly referred to it instead of some other program of which she was a beneficiary). The HEAP does, however, subsidize the energy costs of qualifying persons. To qualify, a family of two must have a monthly income no greater than $2,307. Salvador and Liza made more than that, but, being ambitious types, did not let this mere rule stand between them and the HEAP.