You wouldn’t notice the motel if you drove past it. Certainly you’d never think of staying there.
It looks like the sort of place that rents rooms by the hour. Decades have passed since its heyday, if it ever had one.
It is painted a bland beige marred by water stains, skid marks where tire has met wall, and the occasional spot of blood. A few dents in the cheap outer wall testify to rage and frustration that can only be alleviated by the angry satisfaction of putting one’s fist through a solid surface.
It is probable that you wouldn’t ever have a reason to walk up the stairs to the second floor, holding your nose against corners reeking of urine.
You wouldn’t have to decide between gripping the grimy handrail to keep your balance on stairs made slick by dirt and grease or taking your chances with the slippery footing.
If you were to knock on any door at this motel, you’d be unprepared for the smells that assault your senses when doors are opened.
It would be clear that this motel is not populated by people who have extra money for Pine-Sol or Windex. The smell of sweat, diapers, unwashed clothes, or too many bodies living too closely in a too small space are overpowering, even from outdoors, especially when mixed with the acrid smell of burning rocks of crystal meth or the cloying scent of marijuana.
You wouldn’t imagine that this motel is home to a dozen or more families, that it represents a landing spot at the end of a long fall, or maybe a step up from living in a car or a shelter.
You wouldn’t ask yourself how a family of nine could fit into one room with their belongings — beds, clothing and even a refrigerator. The question of cooking there wouldn’t be on your mind; hopefully you’ve never had to make the recipes that can be concocted with ingredients from the dollar store and able to be prepared with an electric skillet or hot plate.
You probably wouldn’t stop to think about how many of those appliances are from second-hand stores, how many have fraying cords held together by black electrical tape.
The logistics of washing dishes in the tiny motel bathroom sink wouldn’t occupy your thoughts.
At a glance, you’d see the motel room doors are all painted the same fading green.
You might not look at the windows, some covered in brightly-colored blankets or crookedly-hung sheets, some decorated with taped-on coloring book pages that change with the seasons.
It would be hard to recognize the effort it takes to spray the windows with fake snow at Christmas time, or draw lipstick hearts on the glass near Valentine’s Day in an attempt to give the tiny rooms a semblance of home.
In a few windows, you’d see certificates of school achievement proudly posted, although certificates for perfect attendance are far less frequent.
Passing by the motel, you probably wouldn’t think about homework. If you’ve had a child in elementary school, chances are you’ve had at least one teacher recommend that each child have a clean, quiet, well-lit place to do homework. You may not ask yourself how children write 500-word essays in a tiny cramped room, when they’re expected to hold younger siblings or help parents collect enough recycling to earn money for dinner.
If you saw children playing outside in the motel parking lot, you wouldn’t guess that the games they play are variations of your own childhood games. Cops and robbers is now “Capturing Chapo Guzman” and tag involves a complicated set of rules involving dodging both entering cars and the withering gaze of the motel manager.
If you were present when a fight broke out, you’d watch children scatter like frightened birds, dashing from the parking lot or balcony into their rooms. You’d see them lean out their doors in fascination at paramedics or policemen who, after dealing with an overdose or a heart attack, sometimes look up and return the children’s shy waves.
Watching the children traverse the busy street from the motel to the nearby school, you’d see that they are a tribe.
A few older brothers run as fast as they can toward school just to have a few minutes away from clamoring younger siblings, but the majority walk together, making sure no one crosses the street without looking both ways.
Watching moms on laundry day trading the clothes their children have outgrown, you’d see that they’re a village. They trade day care, share dish soap, lean on each other to survive.
It’s a hard life, marked by poverty and despair, punctuated by glimpses of hope and even joy.
You wouldn’t notice the motel if you drove past it. Certainly you’d never think of staying there.
