My home — a little 1920s bungalow in South Los Angeles off Slauson Avenue — is for sale. In the mornings, I check my email and Zillow reminds me that something I cherish is being offered up to strangers.
Dread gathers in my stomach. I’m not ready to leave. But two months ago, after ongoing talks with my husband, Marcus, a real estate agent — It’s a seller’s market right now. Housing prices are at an all-time high, but experts are predicting another housing crash is just around the corner — I agreed to let him list our house to “test the market.”
“We’re not even going to consider it if we get offers less than $950,000 to a million,” Marcus said. I saw the dollar signs flashing in his eyes and I understood. He grew up city-poor (South Central L.A. during the ’70s and ’80s) and I grew up rural-poor (small-town Louisiana around the same time).
