Leisureville (10 page)

The residents of Youngtown could survive the black eye they were getting in the press because they had already dropped out of society to a certain extent, but the attorney general's much-anticipated ruling proved to be a crushing body blow. According to the state's
findings, Youngtown wasn't an age-segregated community, and legally it never had been. Therefore, the town's attempts to enforce the policy were entirely unlawful.

For all his bravado in marketing, Big Ben Schleifer never actually wrote any language into Youngtown's original deed restrictions to ensure the community's future as an oasis for the aging. It probably never occurred to him to do so: who else would want to live in a retirement community in the middle of nowhere with no schools and no access to any other family-oriented amenities? Schleifer was so far ahead of his time that it would take the legal system—and the spread of Phoenix—decades to catch up, but in 1998, they eventually did.

When Congress passed the Federal Fair Housing Act in 1968, many types of discrimination in the sale, rental, and financing of housing were outlawed. But age discrimination wasn't addressed; the act was designed to eliminate only discrimination based on race, color, religion, and national origin. It was later amended to prohibit discrimination based on sex, in 1974, but it did not address age at all until 1988, when it was further amended to prohibit discrimination based on handicap and something referred to as “familial status”—households with children under the age of eighteen.

The congressional debates over the protections given to familial status were particularly contentious, with the result that these households were not granted the same blanket protection as the other categories. Family advocates pointed to well-documented reports of discrimination against families with children in the housing market, but landlords' groups and advocates for senior citizens argued that some housing should be reserved exclusively for older citizens because they often have special needs, as well as a preference for an age-homogeneous environment. The early developers of housing for baby boomers were also among the many industry opponents to the legislation. At the time, child-free, amenity-rich
suburban condo complexes for singles in their twenties and thirties were rapidly growing in popularity.

Although Congress acknowledged that discrimination against families with children was prevalent, it sided with the powerful landlords' and seniors' lobbies, thus making prohibitions against children the only type of housing discrimination specifically protected by federal law.

“We recognize that some older Americans have chosen to live together with fellow senior citizens in retirement type communities,” a House report stated. “We appreciate the interest and expectations these individuals have in living in environments tailored to their specific needs.” The amendment of 1988 exempted “housing for older persons” from the Fair Housing Act, thus, under certain circumstances, permitting an absolute ban on children age eighteen or younger.

The amendment permitted the banning of children under the following circumstances: the housing was specifically designed for senior citizens under the aegis of a government program; the housing was occupied exclusively by persons age sixty-two and older; or at least eighty percent of the housing was occupied by households with at least one person fifty-five or older. (If the percentage of homes owned by residents of the qualifying age drops below eighty, a community loses its age-segregated status and the gates are suddenly opened to one and all.)

Commercially, this “fifty-five and older” exemption was the most malleable and therefore became the darling of developers. Limiting housing to people who are sixty-two or older severely limits the demographics of potential buyers. Imagine having to turn away an interested couple because one spouse is only sixty-one. Such restrictions greatly reduce the marketability of a development. Nursing homes usually apply this restriction, since they are unlikely to attract younger residents anyway.

Lowering the age limit to fifty-five opens the market to a much larger demographic of potential buyers, especially if only one member of a household has to qualify. A sugar daddy can still live with a twenty-five-year-old wife or even a college-age child. And if the real estate market sags, a developer has the option of abandoning the eighty-twenty mix and opening up the properties to all ages.

To help justify the need for age restrictions, the amendments of 1988 to the Fair Housing Act required such communities to provide “significant services and facilities specifically designed to meet the physical or social needs of older persons.” The wording was somewhat vague, but the intent was not: retirement communities may exist because they cater to the special needs of their elderly residents. The Department of Housing and Urban Development came up with a long list of what serves these special needs, such as communal cafeterias, wheelchair accessibility, and specially designed athletic classes, but developers complained that these requirements were unduly onerous, especially for no-frills lower-income mobile home retirement communities. Congress scrapped this provision altogether in 1995 with passage of the Housing for Older Persons Act, and retirement communities no longer had to justify their existence.

Despite the amendment's obvious drawbacks, the civil rights community nevertheless saw progress through the haze of compromise. Not only did the legislation require the federal government to strictly enforce the entire Fair Housing Act and pave the way for physically and mentally handicapped renters and homeowners; it finally addressed the plight of a previously ignored demographic—families with children. Even the choice of the relatively young entry age of fifty-five was seen as a small victory because the barrier age for many retirement communities, such as Sun City, was then just fifty.

The civil rights community had a particular interest in the legislation because it saw discrimination against children as a proxy for
discrimination against poorer minorities in general, who often have large families. Minorities were routinely turned away from potential rentals on the pretext that children were not permitted. A study conducted at the time by the Department of Housing and Urban Development found that neighborhoods with a white majority were twice as likely as predominantly nonwhite neighborhoods to have anti-child housing restrictions.

Before the legislation, landlords, developers, and neighborhood covenants could arbitrarily discriminate against families with children. There was no federal law addressing this situation, and only a few states attempted to forbid such discrimination. It was not unusual for housing complexes to routinely charge higher rents for families with children, or forbid them altogether without cause. Moreover, couples could be evicted if the woman was pregnant.

The first language addressing age segregation in Youngtown didn't appear in deed restrictions until 1975—much later than had been presumed. With an increasing number of young renters moving into the community, Youngtown city officials sensed trouble on the horizon. To neutralize the threat, the city council voted to officially incorporate age restrictions into the town's bylaws. Nearly two decades after its founding, children were finally verboten, or so the town elders thought. They aggressively enforced the new law and evicted more than 100 families until their legal charade collapsed in the face of the attorney general's finding in 1998.

The ruling hit the seniors of Youngtown hard. With the law no longer on their side, their humble paradise was inevitably going to be invaded by hordes of children. To add insult to injury, the state ordered Youngtown to pay Chaz's family $30,000 in restitution. Although this was a meager amount under the circumstances, it was nonetheless seen as a princely sum for a troublesome brat. When news of the settlement was announced at a packed town meeting, it was greeted with an audible gasp, then silence. Sensing that things could soon turn ugly, the town attorney warned residents,
“Retaliation … is a violation of state and federal law and will be prosecuted accordingly.”

Chaz and his grandparents moved out anyway. Chaz had been briefly celebrated in the media as the Rosa Parks for his generation, but he soon fled the spotlight. I was eager to speak with him on one of my trips to Arizona, but locating him proved to be quite a challenge. It was as if Chaz had simply vanished.

Even after I eventually located him, by means of an unlisted cell-phone number, it took numerous awkward calls to persuade him to meet with me. “That was a long time ago,” he complained. “I'm living a different life now.” When I told him that I came bearing greetings from Dan Connelly, Youngtown's current police chief, who was an officer during the incident, Chaz began to relent. “The chief said he hoped your life was going well since the events at Youngtown, particularly because they should never have happened in the first place,” I told him.

Now in his mid-twenties and married, Chaz is the picture of earnestness. Still skinny as a beanpole, he is casually but neatly dressed when I catch up with him at a coffee shop in Phoenix. He wears his hair combed straight back, has a thin mustache, and wears eyeglasses.

“I don't begrudge older folks who want to live alone together,” Chaz says, much to my surprise. “There's a lot of crime and violence in today's society. There's no respect for old people anymore. They have wisdom and stuff to hand down to people. But kids today are unruly. The way kids are dressing, talking, and acting, it makes
me
feel like an old man. But people in general don't care about each other any more. The world is a wicked, violent place. And it's not going to get better until people start living the word of God. That's the only real solution.”

Chaz informs me that he is now a Jehovah's Witness, and spends much of his time knocking on doors bearing witness to the glory of God. He hands me a religious booklet titled “What Does the Bible
Really Teach?” One illustration depicts an intercontinental missile circling the Earth and a crazed criminal holding a gun to victim's head. The caption reads: “The casting of Satan and his demons out of heaven brought woe to the earth. Such troubles will soon end.”

As far as Chaz is concerned, Youngtown did two things wrong: it broke the law, and it didn't show any sympathy for his family's special circumstances. “I didn't move to Youngtown because I wanted to; I moved there because I
had
to,” he tells me. “Things were really bad back home. It was an abusive situation. My grandparents pleaded with the town council. All they were asking for was nine more months. But the council wouldn't budge. They didn't show any compassion or mercy.

“What they were doing was illegal anyway. Youngtown wasn't age-restricted; they were just faking it. If it had been legal, I would have left. I wasn't about to chain myself to my grandparents' house. I'd have gone back to live with my mom if I had to.

“It got real nasty. You'd think, being old people, they'd be more mature. I wasn't a pristine kid in those days, but I was a still a nice kid. One neighbor said I was a real sweet boy. I didn't go around vandalizing and creating havoc. I don't see how I was such a hardship. I didn't even hang out in Youngtown. I met my friends in Peoria. But I don't think those old folks really cared whether I was a criminal or not. They didn't want young people there, period. They didn't want to get to know me.”

Given its close proximity, I asked Chaz if he ever visits Youngtown. “I go back sometimes,” he answers. “It brings back a lot of sad memories. I'd hate to see it happen to somebody else, another young person. I think there's always room for compassion, for empathy for what someone else is going through. When I drive by Youngtown and see all the families, I can't help thinking, ‘Is that because of me?' And you know what? I won't lie—I do like the fact that Youngtown is filled with young people.”

* * *

Youngtown's transition into a multigenerational community was awkward, to say the least. The town had no schools or playgrounds, and the library, well stocked with large-print books, had no children's section. “We don't have the land or resources to build these things,” the mayor at the time said. “Youngtown is an island. It was never designed for children.” The police chief was equally perplexed —what would happen to the seven PM curfew for visiting children? “We used to pull over a carload of kids because they didn't belong here,” he said. “Now they might be residents.”

In many ways, Youngtown before Chaz was already a dying town on the wrong side of the tracks from Sun City. Many of Youngtown's residents were doing their best just to hold on. The geriatric community reinvested little to nothing in its public structures and common areas, let alone its private residences. Its businesses left, residents of Sun City avoided it, and the nation forgot its historical significance.

Ask anyone to name America's first retirement community and the answer will probably be Sun City. It was Del Webb on the cover of
Time
, not Ben Schleifer. And it was Sun City that grew and grew, while Youngtown stagnated. Schleifer said his biggest regret was that Sun City wasn't at least ten miles away so that his community wouldn't have to be compared with it.

But after years of stasis and benign neglect, the housing market was opened up to everyone. Young families flocked to Youngtown for many of the same reasons its older residents had come: crime was negligible, homes were unusually affordable, and taxes were incredibly low—Youngtown doesn't tax its residents, but relies instead on state revenue sharing and a local sales tax. Once Youngtown was thrust into the greater real estate market, its artificially low property values shot up more than thirty percent practically overnight, and well over 200 percent in ten years. Many seniors chose to sell their homes at a handsome profit.

As Youngtown's aging retirees died or fled across the street to Sun City, the town filled up with young families. The retirees and their treasured traditions were fast disappearing, swallowed up by youth culture, much as everywhere else. Boom boxes blasting rock and rap replaced tabletop radios playing golden oldies; children's shrieks and teenagers' shouts replaced gentle greetings; and complaints about kids playing in the street fell on deaf ears. The Saturday dances, barbecue picnics, and quiet strolls were a thing of the past, replaced by a lingering fear that crime would soon threaten whatever remained. A deep well of resentment grew between the generations, who interpreted the name “Youngtown” to mean different things.