DETROIT, MI — I arrived at Faye Warner's new apartment on a bright, blue-skied, but bitterly cold January day. There was no trace that a plow or salt truck had passed through since the big storm a week before. I pulled over behind a parked car to let an oncoming vehicle squeeze through the narrow straits, worried I might lose momentum and get stuck in the foot-deep snow. 

Warner arrived home from her night shift at 6:00 a.m. and spent the morning working a food distribution shift at church. She had yet to sleep and was due back to work at 10:00 p.m. Still, she was wide-eyed and welcoming when I arrived.

A repairman from the furniture company sat at the kitchen table, repeatedly lifting the dining table leaf, smoothing the seam with each screwdriver turn.  The table is a rental.  The Prussian blue microfiber couches Warner bought, along with new bathroom accessories and curtains waiting to be hung.  The church donated many smaller items.  She is still in need of a a bed.

Warner lives with her younger of two sons and part-time with his boys, aged four and seven.  The children share a small bedroom with matching single beds pushed against opposite walls, leaving a narrow strip of walking space between. The room also holds a television and a pile of toys. The plan is to decorate with stick-on decals.

Her new home is in a sturdy, 99-year-old full-brick building in the historic Palmer Park neighborhood of Detroit. Visitors enter through a shaded courtyard, where a fresh polyester "WELCOME" flag snaps in the wind. The building sits among those still tied up in post-bankruptcy uncertainty and across from a once-regal apartment building from the same era, long since boarded up.  Inside, Warner’s unit is clean and bright, with original hardwood floors.  The building is from an era when things were built to last.

Still, this is not what Warner planned.

After being forcibly evicted from the Leland Hotel in December, Warner's life has been upended. She was forced to leave her home of 15 years with a day’s notice and little more than the clothing on her back.

The Leland Hotel was evacuated on December 10, after months hanging in the balance amid bankruptcy and sale proceedings. The closure came despite stern warning from Federal Bankruptcy Judge Maria Oxholm,  that DTE not cut power. The property was $57,000 in arrears. Two days later, the building mysteriously lost electricity, and residents were summarily put out.

Pets were left alone in the cold and dark for days.

The parties involved are now pushing for a rapid sale. The stalking horse bid stands at around $3.8 million, a low estimate for a prime downtown property.  The Leland sits on an entire city block near multiple freeways.  Since 2005, it has been on the National Historic Registry.  It is within walking distance of major amenities, shops, restaurants, and sporting venues.  Even in its dilapidated condition, the land alone could likely fetch far more; some estimates place its value north of $100 million.

The proposed auction platform, Ten-X, opens bidding worldwide. In 2014, Chinese investors descended upon Detroit like scavengers after the hunt, picking up prime distressed landmark properties for pennies on the dollar.  They were the largest investor in the city second only t0 Rocket Mortgage founder, Dan Gilbert, who no question took the lion's share.  Israeli and German-based firms have recently acquired Detroit properties through Ten-X.  The situation raises questions about who benefits from a low-ball price and a rushed sale.

To sell the building, tenants must be formally evicted, as they hold month-to-month leases that automatically renew. As Judge Oxholm stated at the January 30 hearing, tenants’ interests must be formally "extinguished" before the building is deemed "free and clear" and a sale can proceed.  The selling parties repeatedly pushed for an early March auction date several times.  Oxholm denied each request.

While the eviction law is meant to ensure due process, in this case it may have a damning effect. An eviction on record becomes a lasting black mark, making future housing tougher for Leland residents to secure.  There is no such thing as a "no fault" eviction.  Default judgment is always as scarlet "E."

"These are the things that I need."  Warner eagerly shows me phone images of her square photo tile collage covering her Leland apartment walls.  The image is from 2018.  "It's way more now.  Because with everybody that passed, I put up a picture.  As the kids got older, I put pictures up.  My kids' dad just died last Monday.  So all his pictures are up . . . I want those."

Photos, her prized shot glass collection, and sentimental items aside, Warner is without the things essential to daily life.  "My nebulizor is there.  My son's nebulizor is there, so we can't do our breathing treatment.  I ended up having to take him to the emergency room."  Her nursing school materials, birth certificate, and personal effects were all left behind as well.

Warner is in need of practical items such as pots, pans, kitchen utensils, and storage furniture.  She quickly packed her work uniform, two pair of shoes, and nothing else.  Her grandson brought with him a pair of boots.  Her son began bagging up his boys' items but ran out of time.  The half-filled garbage bag sits idle on the Leland floor.

On January 30, Detroit Fire Marshal, Donald Thomas, testified that the building's unsafe condition prevents the residents from reentering. A for-profit moving company has been hired to move the residents' personal effects. Between the two hearings on January 12 and 30, the moving quote doubled.  It now stands at $200,000.

Some residents, including Warner, live on the 18th floor.  The elevator has been out of service since December 2.   It stands to reason that if a moving company is able to enter the building, the residents should be able to do the same.  Warner says she once climbed all 18 floors and nearly "met Jesus," but she would do it again to retrieve her things.  No one is pushing back on the idea that safety officials should supervise.

Warner worries about theft, carelessness, and damage. 

"A lot of times the movers are people released from prison, so that's a concern.  How hard is to put a ring in your pocket?  If they take something, you may not realize it that day.  Little things you may not notice right there. And then, intimate stuff. I don't want them packing my underwear and my bra."

The fate of many former residents remains uncertain.  Some worked at the Leland as maintenance staff or parking attendants. Others rely solely on disability income. Many are seeking emergency Section 8 housing, which is notoriously difficult to secure due to high demand and scarce availability.

"When I first moved in, they were charging $600 for two bedrooms and two bathrooms then they went up to $975 for me.  A lot of people stayed there because if you fell behind or anything, he'd let you slide. It was the cheapest place. And I kept my unit up. I could look right out and see the Tiger Stadium [sic] scoreboard."

Warner has lived and worked in Detroit her entire life.  She retired from the Detroit Fire Department after surgery and recovering from a debilitating spinal injury sustained on the job.  She then spent 13 years as a communication specialist in the ER at Detroit Receiving Hospital and later as a paramedic with DMC Express, Joe Louis, Henry Ford during COVID, in-home care, and most recently for the casinos.

Currently enrolled in nursing school, Warner recently reduced her hours to part-time to meet academic demands. That decision complicated her housing search.

"They wouldn't give me a place on part-time. So in order for me to get a place, I asked my job to go back to full-time . . . [the landlord] worked with me.  Luckily somebody quit and I got the full-time spot."

Some residents have delayed finding new housing, hoping to return to the Leland. When inheriting the building after longtime owner, Michael Higgins, died in September 2023, Luis Ramirez planned to renovate and grandfather in longtime tenants at reduced rates. Those plans collapsed when the property entered bankruptcy last fall.  Still, many residents speak warmly of Ramirez.

"I don’t think he’s trying to sabotage us," Warner says. "He just got in over his head."

Most of the residents currently reside at a budget chain hotel in a neighboring Southfield.  Some have no cars.  The nearest food available is at a gas station convenience store across a busy divided highway.  Detroit has endured weeks of subzero temperatures.

The City of Detroit has offered six months of hotel lodging and assistance with first month’s rent and security deposit. Warner explains that her son signed a lease too soon and missed getting that money.  Funding is not available retroactively.

Thirty-five former residents are now represented by the Detroit Tenants Union’s newly-formed Leland Hotel chapter, led by Steven Rimmer. Rimmer secured pro bono counsel from Patrick Foley, who argued on January 30 for access to residents’ belongings and for lease transfer to the new owners under existing rates and terms.

Warner urges others to move quickly.

"I keep telling them they need to find somewhere," she says. "You don’t want to end up back on the street."

Housing insecurity ripples far beyond the loss of a roof, unmooring lives entirely in its wake. It washes out routines, erodes health, disrupts education and employment, and its tide pulls already fragile families firmly under tow.  Even for those as resolute as Warner, survival becomes an act of constantly navigating systemic barriers while paddling to stay afloat.

Writ large, stories like that of the Leland reveal the slow erosion of the social contract’s very foundation.  Work feels increasingly disconnected from security and opportunity. The legal system appears jiggered in favor of the monied and powerful.  When stable shelter becomes precarious, upward mobility stalls, communities fragment, and generational progress halts. The result is an America where survival replaces aspiration, and the once buoyant American dream—waterlogged and untethered—drifts off course to drown.




Images from Unmoored in Detroit : The Human Cost of a Broken Housing System will be on display as part of Karen Lippowiths's Extended Stay photographic exhibit during the month of April at the Novi Civic Center at 45175 W 10 Mile Rd. All are invited to the opening event Thursday, April 16 6-8 p.m., which features light refreshments. Lippowiths will be on hand for a meet-and-greet as part of the event.