It was around eight o’clock on a Thursday evening in February when Patricia Kidd received an email from the US Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). As the executive director of the Fair Housing Resource Center (FHRC) in Painesville, Ohio, Kidd was notified that her organization’s grant would be terminated, effective immediately, at the direction of the president. With the grant comprising 85% of FHRC’s funding, her team had to lay off three full-time and 12 part-time staff members the following week.At present, HUD supports over five million households through assistance like affordable housing projects, Section 8 vouchers that subsidize rent, and transitional housing, which temporarily shelters those seeking permanent housing after homelessness. “The government exists in the housing space to help right the real estate market’s failures, because markets never really worked for people in service sector jobs or those living on social security or disability,” shares Erhard Mahnke, the former outreach representative and housing policy advisor for Senator Bernie Sanders. Just last week, Mahnke gathered with 500 or so advocates, nonprofit leaders, public service agents, and more at the National Low Income Housing Coalition’s annual policy forum in Washington, DC. The consensus? “People of modest means in the United States are under attack.”Cuts brought on by the Trump administration and the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) are projected to cut HUD’s workforce in half, deplete resources for those on or seeking government assistance, and exacerbate the national housing crisis. “Our rate of evictions in Tarrant County, Texas, is five times the national average, and we are anticipating that will increase,” shares Carol Klocek, CEO of the Center for Transforming Lives in Fort Worth. “We’re very concerned about the impact on children, because families with young children are at high-risk of being evicted. And it’s hard for parents who can’t maintain a roof over their heads to keep their kids enrolled in school. These housing issues are root causes to workforce problems and literacy rates.”As for Kidd, the FHRC director, HUD cuts will also threaten her team’s ability to advocate for tenants, a majority of whom are persons with disabilities and seniors. “My job is to keep people housed, to prevent evictions,” Kidd says. Now, as one of three staff members who remain at her organization, that job has gotten increasingly harder. Kidd and other advocates are currently relying on legal strategy, like the class action lawsuit comprising more than 60 fair housing groups filed in Massachusetts against HUD and DOGE.As advocates and public officials continue to navigate the future of affordable housing, we sat down with three people to reflect on their relationship with government assistance. Kayla Miranda’s admiration for her community as a public housing tenant informed her career and purpose in housing advocacy. After growing up on Section 8 vouchers, Terrick Gutierrez is a notable artist who has exhibited and curated work across the country, including a series on public housing projects. And Kayla Gore cofounded a nonprofit in service for Black trans women in need of housing after her experience with transitional housing. Here, we hear from them directly.Public housing in three storiesKayla Miranda is a mother and organizer focusing on housing policy, education, and advocacy in San Antonio, TexasKayla Miranda, a public housing advocate from San Antonio, stands in front of the Alazán-Apache Courts, the public housing community where she lives. Photo: Brenda BazánI grew up in a middle-class family, but my younger brother was hit by a car when he was three. The driver's insurance did not cover his medical bills, so that put my family in a very precarious financial situation. We moved every year because we couldn’t afford the rent, and our water, phones, or lights were getting cut off. It was a constant battle. My parents were very conservative and Baptist, so they didn’t apply for assistance. My dad believed that you work hard, you earn what you get, and you don’t ask for a handout. That super strict, black-and-white mentality—it’s just not true. People aren’t looking for a handout. They’re looking for a hand up.I had a paper route growing up, and bought school supplies and clothes myself. I also helped around the house—cooking and cleaning for my family—after my mom was diagnosed with a serious illness. I eventually moved out at 17 and got married at 19. We started our own business, a construction company, and by the time I was 30, I owned a house and cars. We wanted kids, and could afford them, so we had three together.And then my mom’s health worsened and my dad needed help, so I moved home. We gave up the business, and my mom passed away. The bank sent us a notice that they were going to foreclose my parents’ house. When my dad called to explain our situation, the bank said they would refinance it, but then we got served with an eviction notice. So my dad took my mom’s life insurance policy, hired a lawyer, and appealed. A lot happened—more appeals back and forth that lasted a year. He ran out of money and we still had to move out.My dad remarried and moved away with my brother. My then husband was picked up on an immigration violation and was sent to ICE detention. He was our only source of income because I’d been staying at home taking care of the family. The kids and I moved in with my best friend, which is when we learned about public housing. My friend told me how to get food stamps, Medicaid, and how to apply for social security for my son.I got approved for a unit in a public housing development in Gardendale in May 2016, but I couldn’t afford to pay my phone bill so, with my phone cut off, they couldn’t reach me and gave the unit away. I stayed with my older brother briefly. Then I got a car, and that’s where we ended up staying for about a year. My brother hired me at his lawn care business, so I was making enough to make the car payment.Kayla Miranda (third from left) sits in her living room with her kids Nadia Miranda-Colgrove, Pablo Miranda-Colgrove and Melody Miranda-Colgrove. Photo: Brenda BazánIn 2017, we were approved for another unit in public housing, and I signed the lease. I walked in and remember thinking, ‘What am I supposed to do with this [small space]? I can literally touch each of the walls with my arms spread.’ Then I turned around and looked at my oldest daughter. She had the biggest smile on her face and said, “Mom, look, we have a stove!” That makes me emotional. It gave me a whole new perspective on life, to see through the eyes of gratitude.Everything went well for a year. I kept to myself. We weren’t doing great, but we were surviving. I was happy then, because I didn’t have to worry. The one thing I could count on was that I had the rent. I didn’t have to stress every single month.Then the complex got a new manager. Soon after she started, I received a lease violation for cigarette butts on the sidewalk. They weren’t mine. I appealed, it went away. Then I start getting 10, 15, sometimes 20 violations a week. And it wasn’t just me, it was everyone. They’d accuse me of having unauthorized occupants live with me, when really my brother would help me out by picking up and dropping off my kids from school. I filed a grievance each time.Then management started taking pictures outside of my unit; it felt like I was in prison. Eventually, they tried to evict me for nonpayment of rent, but I pay my rent every month. The judge evicted me, but I filed an appeal on time so we remained in the unit. We won, and we’re still there.This is how I became an advocate. I got invited to my neighborhood meeting with the Historic Westside Residents’ Association and started sharing my story. The association’s co-chair, Leticia Sanchez, then brought me to San Antonio’s Housing Commission. After a nine-minute speech, the entire room erupted in applause. It was all over the news. That was, I guess, my first action.A painting given Miranda for her work in the community hangs on the wall in her living room in the Alazán-Apache Courts in San Antonio, Texas. Miranda came up with the slogan central to the community's campaign for better conditions: “We Expect M.O.R.E: Maintenance issues fixed; Options for public housing; Respect our rights; and Equal treatment.” Photo: Brenda BazánA poster reading “the neighborhood is not for sale” on Miranda’s wall above her desk. On the community feel of her neighborhood, Miranda shares, “it’s a small town feel in a big city,” where the norm for neighbor care is checking in on and cooking for each other during bad winter storms or gathering together every second Saturday of the month so elders can “give oral histories of how things used to be.” Photo: Brenda BazánEvery day we fight for fair, affordable housing. During COVID, the San Antonio Housing Authority Commission voted to demolish my housing complex, Alazan-Apache Courts, to create mixed-income housing. So a group of advocates campaigned to get the property named as one of the 11 Most Endangered Historic Places in an effort to prevent demolition and put us in the national spotlight.From there, someone from the neighborhood became the CEO of San Antonio Housing Authority. In his first meeting, the first thing he did was announce housing as a human right and stop the demolition plan. The second thing he did was meet with me. I was then appointed by Councilwoman Terry Castillio to the Building Standards Board and the 2022 Housing Bond Committee, where I fought for and won the first housing bond the city has ever seen. The bond dedicated funds to public housing so we could update and add new units.But in 2022, the mayor replaced the entire commission. They were, and are, refocused on demolition. They gave back all the housing bond funds to the city. Then they started targeting tenants for overdue payments. I knocked on every single one of those 601 doors to help folks submit their payments; some of which were just $1 for getting a key copied; they just hadn’t paid because they thought the rent was $0 and they hadn’t checked their bill.For Miranda, “public housing gives us an opportunity, but it doesn’t come without challenges.” These are photos from community demonstrations alongside a sticker that says “my neighborhood is not for sale” on her desk. Photo: Brenda BazánWe’re still navigating this crisis, now compounded with HUD cuts. There’s a lot of panic. People are getting evicted left and right, and the maintenance issues and staff disrespect are back. We have 6,000 public housing units here in San Antonio. I expect that will be downsized, maintenance issues will worsen, and there will be even more evictions.A lot of the families have been here forever. We are a community of essential workers, a community of immigrants. We do a lot of cultural organizing and programming to get people back to their roots. I love my community, I love my home, and I love the people in it. It’s just the best place in the world to be. But developers want what we have. They want our community.Terrick Gutierrez is an LA-based interdisciplinary artist whose work explores urban life in LA through the lens of the rapidly changing built environment, such as liquor stores and public housing projectsTerrick Gutierrez photographed at his studio in Los Angeles, California. Photo: Da'Shaunae MarisaI grew up in South Central LA on governmental assistance, and we moved around because of housing insecurity. By the time I graduated high school, I had moved five times—all of these places were within a few miles of each other. It was me, my mom, my three sisters, and one of my brothers. You have to move where Section 8 vouchers are approved and you can afford the limit.As a kid, I knew we were on Section 8. It wasn’t until I got older that my mom started explaining some of what happened, like that we had to move because of a landlord who wouldn’t repair our toilet that used to overflow. My mom hated moving because it was costly. I think one of the reasons these places were substandard is because sometimes the landlords just cared about getting paid. Section 8 was guaranteed for them, and there weren’t incentives to renovate.Until I was three or four, we lived in a back house with an alley entrance. The landlord lived in the other house on the lot and was a pastor. We would go to her church every Sunday. It was actually this landlord that helped my mom apply for Section 8 housing. After that, we moved to a very small unit, our first on Section 8, with an unresponsive landlord. We had plumbing issues, and the sewage from the toilet came out and flooded the entire house, which soaked into the carpet. He knew my mom was an immigrant and he would take advantage of that, assuming she didn’t know our rights.Works by Gutierrez in his studio. His piece on the left, Jordan Downs, is based on the public housing project where his mom and late grandmother lived. “My mom knew everybody in her building complex and would babysit the neighbor's kids. My granny was the candy lady and would sell ICEE cups during the summer from her apartment. That history of community is lost, or overshadowed. That's what I want to bring to light in my work,” Gutierrez shares. Photo: Da'Shaunae MarisaSo we moved. The next place was bigger, but I still shared a room with my mom. It flooded once from the rain because the entryway was on the ground level. We moved again when I was in sixth grade. I don’t recall us having problems with the place there, outside of it being really hot and we didn’t have AC. From what I remember, we had to move because initially the landlord said we could have dogs, which we did, and then they changed their mind.Our last move was to a back house a few miles away that had four bedrooms, the most spacious we had lived in. It was the first house where, after my brother moved out, I had my own room—which was especially good news for a teenager. There was parking underneath but none of us used it, so that was our play area. That was the place where I felt most grounded, where I didn’t have to keep adjusting to new friends or neighbors. It’s where I felt the most at home.For my senior prom, we hosted our “champagne party” at this house. That’s when you have family and friends come and see you off with your date before the dance. Many people would rent nice cars so they could pull up with their dates on their side, in their tuxes. My mom had hinted she wouldn’t be able to rent one for me, but then surprised me as people arrived to our house saying she’d pooled money for a Chevy convertible. I went outside and there it was on this red carpet for prom pictures. That’s one of my fondest memories there. That, and the fact that it was the best house we had for our dogs, Haze and Lil’ Mama. They were happier, and even had two litters there, which we then gave to friends. And that’s where I lived until I graduated high school.There’s a misconception that people who live with government assistance are lazy or trying to live for free, when most of us just couldn’t afford other places in LA. Housing is expensive, and it’s hard to make a living wage. My mom was a caregiver, she worked with elderly folks. We wouldn’t have been able to live in South Central without Section 8.Another piece in Gutierrez's public housing series, Brewster-Douglass. On the impetus for his series, Gutierrez says: “A few years ago, I was living in New York in a newer development right off the water. Sometimes I would go to the roof, and on one particular night, I looked out at the housing projects across the street. And that just stuck with me: what positions someone to be across the street versus here?” Photo: Da'Shaunae MarisaPhotographs of public housing projects that inform Gutierrez's series, which works to reshape public opinion around communities who live in public housing. Photo: Da'Shaunae MarisaWhen I was living in New York, I began working on my public housing series. I couldn’t afford traditional materials, so I used paper towels for cleaning my brushes, and would see these intricate colors and textures. When we think of paper towels, we think of wiping our hands clean and tossing them because they’re disposable. I think that’s similar to how the government has stalled on improving these complexes. It’s as if the people there are considered disposable. My work is about reclaiming value, both in the materials I use and the subject matter.Living on Section 8 has given me a vast perspective on life, on people, on how we live, whether that be our shared values or struggles. There’s a lot that you witness growing up in a community like South Central, both good and bad—some of the most devastating things you can see, but also some of the most beautiful things. My upbringing prepared me to learn how to manage that. But also, in my family, we leaned on each other, and there are a lot of factors that have helped me get to where I am.Kayla Gore is the cofounder of My Sistah’s House, a nonprofit dedicated to equitable housing, healthcare advocacy, and career resources for Black trans women in Memphis.Kayla Gore, co-founder and executive director of My Sistah’s House, stands for a portrait at one the latest builds by the organization. My Sistah’s House is an organization dedicated to helping trans and queer people face housing instability and access to services. Photo: Andrea MoralesI grew up in public housing until probably fifth grade, with two older brothers, one younger brother, and later my cousin, whom my mom adopted. Our family size changing might have been why we moved from house to house. We stayed in a lot of affordable housing projects, each for a few years at a time.The apartments were bland, similar to a jail, with bars on the windows and doors. I remember green paint, like teal, and linoleum black-and-white tile floors in every home. But I also remember the social elements that came with living in public housing. The free lunch that brought kids and sometimes even parents together. All of us kids were pretty close-knit. Since the park area didn’t have much equipment, we had to be really creative and make up games without toys. But friendships weren’t that long, because people moved around a lot.Affordable housing set my mom up with access to programming others didn’t have, specifically education around home ownership. I was in fifth grade when she bought her house, and I remember paying attention when my mom said, “We’re staying here, we don’t have to move anymore.” I realized this is our house, I can say we have a family house. The previous owners had added this big den off the back, which made it multilevel. It had a really big patio, which we’d never had.I moved out of that house around my 19th birthday and stayed with roommates in East Memphis for a few years. In that time, I was incarcerated, and eventually, at 22, moved back into my mom’s house to reorient myself into society. Back at home with my mom, I was looking for housing programs and initially signed up for a shelter, which had a long waiting list. Then I entered a transitional housing program. In the beginning, I identified as a male. I felt like I was fast-tracked through that program because I was cute, I was young, and that gets you through a lot of obstacles.Gore's organization, My Sistah's House, grew out of her own lived experience and desire to show up for others in similar positions. “When we are fighting for people who have the least,” she says, “we have to make sure they have the most.” Photo: Andrea MoralesWhen I began to transition, I started to see barriers go up, and blatant discrimination. I noticed how I was slowly being exited out of the programs. I didn’t feel a part of the community; I knew I wasn’t wanted there. So I went right across the street to a private complex. It was a 15-unit building with maybe three or four occupants. My door barely worked; I didn’t have a real kitchen. There were no appliances, but that was all I could afford on short notice.I moved around a bit, and then my mom got remarried. She moved in with her new husband and wanted me to live in the house she still owned, the one with the big patio. So I did. And that’s where I started my nonprofit. I had been working at OUTMemphis and noticed that a lot of trans adults were calling or coming in; similar to my own experience, they couldn’t find placement.I had this big house, so I offered to let folks from the community stay with me. With time, this supportive network organically grew. We didn’t name it, we didn’t really claim it as anything, it was just word of mouth. People knew it was a place to go where you could lay your head and rest. That evolved into My Sistah’s House, the nonprofit I cofounded to provide emergency housing and drop-in services for trans people in Memphis. Over the past nine years, we’ve moved to South Memphis. We now run a tiny house project made up of 11 homes for trans people and their families.In a city where safe, affordable housing is out of reach for many, the tiny home initiative under My Sistah’s House is transforming the South Memphis neighborhood into a thriving, self-sustaining hub. Photo: Andrea MoralesGore holds blueprints for tiny homes at My Sistah’s House. Photo: Andrea MoralesIn February, HUD announced that they would stop enforcing the Equal Access Rule, which affects our community tremendously. Before, programs feared losing funding if they discriminated based on gender or sexuality. Now that’s no longer the case. Many trans people will be out of housing. People tend to prioritize women and children above trans women. There’s a lack of awareness of who has access to these programs.Between the repeal and HUD cuts, I fear that a lot of people are going to need our services again, and that there will be a scarcity of housing. It’s going to increase a demand that's already high. We already have a waiting list. We’re being pulled in different directions and recently had meetings with officials at HUD to discuss the implications of these repeals and cuts. We have to advocate and organize, because it’s going to put a lot of stress on the housing market and, ultimately, it’s about life and death.