“NOTICE OF RENT DUE TO TENANT”
To: LILA CARTER
NOTICE
You currently owe the Owner/Landlord of the property mentioned above a total of $11,424.00 for rent and additional fees from November 2013 to July 2015. This amount must be paid within FIVE (5) days of receiving this notice, or you must vacate the premises. Failure to comply will result in the Owner/Landlord initiating proceedings under the Real Property Actions and Proceedings Law to regain possession of the property.
As the words flashed on the paper, my mind raced through my bank account—nonexistent funds—and the rent-free apartment listings on various sites. The truth was, I didn’t owe any money, let alone that staggering amount. But the bold, capitalized FIVE DAYS felt cold and unyielding to my reality. I was disheartened to discover that the letter from 126 years ago contained little more than a fabricated claim wrapped in an inescapable threat.
Since I moved in eleven years ago, I’ve followed a quirky method of delivering my rent: the egg-and-spoon approach. Each month, on the fifteenth, I write a check, trek down from my fourth-floor apartment to the second, and slide it under the door of the building manager (the landlord’s niece). She then dutifully delivers it to her uncle’s apartment below. It’s an old-fashioned, indirect way of ensuring my rent reaches the landlord, but the family appreciates the personal touch.
This routine has gone off without a hitch for over a decade—no surprises, no missed payments. In short, there was no money owed.
Still clutching the letter, I stepped outside, where confusion gripped me like a vice. I spotted my landlord, Mr. Edwards, emerging from his basement apartment—perhaps he had just delivered the notice that turned my world upside down.
“Mr. Edwards!” I called out, waving the paper. “What is this?”
“You owe me money!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the street. “You never pay your rent! I know how many people are living in your unit! Hundreds!” His anger was palpable, spittle flying as he raged.
This was so out of character for him that I was taken aback. Shocked, I yelled back. We stood there, exchanging heated words until I stormed back inside, tears streaming down my face as I dialed my mom, who didn’t offer much comfort.
“Do you owe him money?” she asked.
“NO!” I replied.
“Then you have nothing to worry about!”
But I did have something to worry about. I had five days to come up with a large sum I didn’t owe; otherwise, Mr. Edwards would take my apartment and everything I owned. I felt imprisoned, unable to leave my home, even to walk my dog, fearing I’d return to find law enforcement waiting to evict me. The number for the lawyer listed in the letter was my next call, where I disputed the claims.
“You don’t owe anything?” the lawyer asked.
“That’s right,” I confirmed.
“You’re fully paid up?”
“I’m fully paid up.”
He expressed concern about my landlord’s mental state and age, and I hoped that would settle the issue.
However, two days later, another notice arrived, this time in a certified envelope. I tried to reach the lawyer again, but he wouldn’t answer. The next day brought another letter, and soon I received a certified letter from yet another lawyer, this time claiming I owed $19,992—a sudden increase of $8,000. How many five-day notices were they going to send?
In desperation, I called 311, who directed me to the South Brooklyn Legal Hotline, only to find it was busy during their limited hours. I spoke to several lawyers who advised that without a proper eviction notice or lawsuit, I had no recourse. Even if I was innocent, a court appearance could tarnish my rental history in New York City forever. No one seemed to care that my five-day window was closing rapidly, potentially forcing me into my mother’s cramped one-bedroom apartment with my five-year-old brother and our dog, Maxi—named, unintentionally, after a feminine hygiene product.
To the best of my understanding, fabricating debts and pressuring someone into paying is called extortion. What kind of lawyer sends these letters without verification? What were my rights? I began researching my situation but found little guidance. In my frustration, I wished for a community of fellow tenants who had faced similar situations—where were the others like me?
That’s when I recalled a project by conceptual artist Matthew Bakkom titled “New York City Museum of Complaint.” He had scoured letters to city mayors from 1751 to 1969, compiling them into a broadsheet. I had always admired this project and felt compelled to dive into the archives myself. My goal: to uncover past tenant complaints in my building, maybe even my own apartment. If I could find sufficient evidence of negligence and poor conditions, I could hold it against Mr. Edwards.
For three years, I’d struggled with heat issues—my apartment often felt like a freezer. Each time I reported it to my landlord, he insisted that he had heat and that my apartment was warm. If I had suffered through three years of cold, surely other tenants had faced similar hardships.
Upon visiting the Municipal Archives, I was unprepared for the volume of grievances I’d have to sift through. Scrolling through microfiche, I realized the odds of finding complaints specific to my Brooklyn building were slim. However, I did stumble upon a complaint from my former East Village apartment, dated August 2, 1888.
The letter was from James C. Bayles, President of Health and Sanitation, to Mayor Abram S. Hewitt, detailing several complaints. One complaint stood out: a resident reported that undertakers were dumping ice, previously in contact with corpses, onto the streets. Bayles noted his doubts about the potential danger posed by this practice but assured that appropriate action would be taken if necessary.
In another instance, residents complained about the stench of dead horses left in the street.
As I read through these historical grievances, I realized that not much has changed since those days—people still complain about nuisances, weather conditions, and urban challenges. The process of communicating grievances has evolved, but the core issues remain the same.
However, I lost track of time, engrossed in the complaints of East Villagers from over a century ago. I worried I had wasted precious time that could have been spent preparing my defense against Mr. Edwards.
When I dashed home, desperate to check my mail, I ran into my mail carrier.
“You have another certified letter,” she informed me.
“Really?” I asked, panic setting in.
She glanced over her shoulder. “There’s a British real estate agent informing landlords of how much they can charge for their apartments. Many landlords are trying to evict tenants.”
“Seriously?” I replied, incredulous.
“Seriously. Don’t complain about anything—don’t give him a reason to evict you,” she warned.
“Well, I told his niece all winter about the heat issues. They never fixed it,” I said, feeling defeated.
“That’s not his niece,” she corrected me. “He doesn’t have children.”
I was confused—she had been calling him “her father” since I moved in!
This whole experience left me grappling with questions about rights and community resources. If you’re in a similar situation, there are excellent resources available, like those at Resolve.org for family building options.
To learn more about home insemination, check out our blog post on intracervical insemination. For those looking for trusted supplies, Make a Mom offers a comprehensive selection of home insemination kits.
In summary, navigating tenant rights and landlord disputes can be a daunting process, but history teaches us that we are not alone. Understanding our legal rights and connecting with community resources can empower us to stand up against unfair practices.