I live in my head so much I often forget the way I think, to most people, seems peculiar. To be fair a black polyamorous woman, unsold on bearing children and with zero interest in ever owning a home, does sound pretty peculiar. But what’s more fascinating to me is watching my agemates brainstorming ways of attaining this thing that I have attached little value to. What is it about purchasing a home that makes it such a desirable endeavour, even in the face of a housing crisis? What does it mean to say ‘I own this thing’, and why don’t I want to? Am I ahead of my time? Or will I end up homeless in a couple decades because I spent my mortgage money on shoe-and-bag? These are the questions that haunt me! And though I don’t presume I’ll answer them all by the end of this article, I do invite you to think with me.
When does one start dreaming of white picket fences? Is this something that occurs after the first viewing of Homes Under The Hammer? Or perhaps earlier, in childhood drawings of squares with triangles on top. I suspect that a large part of our attitudes towards housing are formed in our early years. I was lucky enough to only have known one home through the majority of my childhood. From birth up to about 14 years old, home was a beautifully built Victorian crescent in the heart of Peckham, London.