The human side of N.J.'s affordable housing law

For Alicia Tucker, it means she can own a home in the kind of community where she grew up.

For Ann Magonigal, it means she can rent a modest apartment near her longtime church, even on a meager retirement income.

And for Vandana Singh and Prabhat Kumar, it means a home with a yard where their three daughters can play.

The debate on New Jersey's affordable housing requirements is often abstract, an argument that pits a government mandate meant to help people in need against the rights of towns to control their character.

But for these four, affordable housing is a tangible reality, "a blessing," in Singh's words. Their stories are of people grateful for New Jersey's aggressive affordable housing laws and of the communities around them, grappling with the conflict of idealistic goals and real-life limitations.

They are snapshots of individuals among tens of thousands of New Jerseyans in housing set aside for those with low or moderate incomes - up to $59,440 for a family of four in Burlington, Camden and Gloucester Counties.

Leaders in Moorestown and Chesterfield, the Burlington County suburbs where the four live, see positives in opening a door to the less affluent. But they fear that recent housing quotas, and new rules on how to meet those requirements, will force unwanted makeovers caused by an onslaught of construction and ancillary costs.

New Jersey's affordable housing requirements - the result of the Mount Laurel state Supreme Court case in 1975 - are headed back to court. More than a third of New Jersey municipalities have joined a lawsuit to block the latest obligations, which call for building or rehabbing 115,000 low- or moderate-income units by 2018.

The court fights of the past paved the way for Alicia Tucker to buy a home in Chesterfield, where she can leave her front door open and not worry when her children ride their bicycles.

The laws helped her afford a place where son J'maurie, 11, has his own bedroom with a poster of basketball star LeBron James on the wall, and daughter Priya, 15, lives in "the princess room," with glittering pink curtains and a pink comforter.

It's a dream that had seemed out of reach.

Tucker, 36, is a secretary for a urologist at the Cancer Institute of New Jersey in New Brunswick. For six years she had an apartment in nearby Franklin, N.J., where her children shared a room. Knowing they needed their own spaces, Tucker looked for a bigger place, but even a small three-bedroom condo cost $300,000, she said.

"I know what my budget needs to be," she remembered thinking. "We're going to move in there and be on the street a couple weeks later."

Tucker thought about moving South, but then she found Chesterfield Greene, a Toll Bros. development that includes 10 homes in five duplexes for low- and moderate-income families.

After waiting and hoping - she was 33d on the list of applicants - Tucker got the call, and with a $1,000 down payment she got a house in the sprawling community of "luxury" homes.

Moderate-income homes, like Tucker's three-bedroom, cost roughly a quarter of the $500,000-plus paid by her neighbors. Low-income houses were even less.

At the closing, Tucker cried, partly from joy, partly because after paying the last set of fees she didn't know if she could afford furniture.

She moved in December and now comes home to a place much like those around it, though not as large. But like the rest, it has vinyl siding, a neat lawn and wide sidewalks. Flowers and wind chimes hang on her porch.

Only close observation reveals that Tucker's home is different. There is no garage, and her porch is smaller. And while it appears close in size to those around it, Tucker's building contains two affordable residences. Around the corner is a door to a low-income unit adjoining hers.

Tucker said neighbors and the management treated her like anyone else.

Nearby homeowners gathered to chat while strolling on a humid night. They said they welcomed affordable housing at Chesterfield Greene. James Murray said the homes brought diversity.

"I've never heard anyone say one comment on it negatively," he said.

Mayor Lawrence Durr said he was happy, too, that Chesterfield had opportunities for people with lower incomes. "We recognize that everyone is not as affluent as the other," he said.

But Durr said he worried about what the future held for the 21-square-mile community of just under 7,000 people. In 2000, Chesterfield's $85,000 median household income was about twice the national figure.

The town is a blend of farmland and historic villages with touches that recall colonial times. Much of it is off-limits to development, thanks to a preservation program encouraged by the state.

The town designated a 550-acre site for most of its new construction. Of the 1,100 homes being built, 6 percent must be affordable housing. Tucker, Singh and Kumar all live on the site.

Durr said he feared the latest state requirements for Chesterfield - up to 69 additional affordable units by 2018 - would bring pressure for more building. He doesn't know where the homes would go.

"I'll be honest with you," Durr said. It "scares me half to death."

The new quotas are based largely on the amount of development the state predicts for each town. State officials say municipalities will have to add affordable housing only if other construction comes in - a possibility that could be headed off by Chesterfield's widespread preservation.

Towns say the rules create a self-fulfilling prophecy, however. The regulations can force them to change their zoning, which they say will attract increasingly dense development and require them to provide more affordable housing.

As of last week, 227 towns had joined the lawsuit against the new rules, according to the New Jersey State League of Municipalities.

Durr said he wanted Chesterfield's affordable housing to have "dignity and style," unlike that in towns where builders used the state rules to cram in massive, shoddily constructed affordable housing developments. The sites become trouble spots and carry a stigma, he said.

Vandana Singh and Prabhat Kumar know the feeling.

For seven years they had lived in a Mansfield development set aside solely for affordable housing. Singh recalled how people reacted when she told them where she lived. "Oh," she mimicked, affecting a sneer.

Singh and Kumar earned master's degrees in India, but had a rough going financially in New Jersey. While Singh stayed home with the children, Kumar worked as a credit analyst, earning in the $30,000s.

In March the couple moved to Chesterfield Greene, where the new homes gave them the chance to own a yard, a basement, and more space for their 7-, 4- and 1-year-old girls. About 500 people applied for the 10 homes.

"When this came along it was like a blessing," Singh said. "No matter what you go through, you don't want your kids to feel below anybody."

Despite living among houses far more expensive, Singh said the couple did not feel inferior.

"They drive a Mercedes," she said. "I'm happy with my Nissan van."

But some New Jerseyans balk at the state's role in shaping communities. Joseph Fiore, a psychologist from Cinnaminson and self-described "libertarian type," fumed when Democrats tightened municipalities' housing responsibilities this year.

"Government needs to mind its own business," Fiore said.

He said he supported helping the sick and elderly, but believed that others should work to improve their lots.

"It's one thing to help somebody, and it's another thing to prop them up," Fiore said.

He called Cinnaminson "a very fine town," but said he'd really love to live in Moorestown. Only he can't afford it, so he doesn't.

Ann Magonigal never thought she would live in Moorestown, either. She admired the leafy suburb as she grew up in Palmyra, but after retiring from RCA, where she was an assistant to a group of engineers, Magonigal had just a small pension and IRA. She traveled for a time in a motor home, but once back she couldn't find an apartment she could afford.

That was when her church, Epworth United Methodist, where she has been a member for 54 years, stepped in. Working with Moorestown Ecumencial Neighborhood Development Inc. (MEND), the church helped Magonigal move into Linden Place, a 26-unit affordable housing site for senior citizens.

President Matthew Reilly said MEND typically helped seniors or single parents who did not have college degrees and earned about $30,000. A two-bedroom MEND unit rents for about $650; a similar one down the road might be $1,100, he said.

"The $1,100 for them might as well be the other side of the moon because there's no way they're getting there," Reilly said.

Magonigal, 82, has lived for 19 years in a modest efficiency with a kitchen and one room that houses her bed, a couch, a recliner, a small television, and a huge scratching post for her cat, Angel. Her windows look onto a parking lot and a little park.

She and her neighbors jointly decorate the halls. In July, the windows in the two-story complex were dotted with U.S. flag stickers.

Magonigal, with an income of less than $15,000 a year, pays about $200 toward her $600 rent. The rest comes from state support.

One night she got "all gussied up" for a MEND dinner with donors and gave a speech.

"I look out at you people, and I can tell - don't take me the wrong way - but I can tell that you're affluent," she recalled saying. "You people probably have nice pensions that are going to be waiting for you when you're ready to retire, but there's an awful lot of people that just are not in that category . . . and I'm one of them. . . . I'm so grateful to you people for supporting MEND so that they can do this for us."

Magonigal smiled at the memory. She is now a member of the MEND board.

Working with MEND, Moorestown officials met their first two rounds of affordable housing requirements by scattering low-income homes around town, avoiding the kind of developments that can bring large-scale costs. Moorestown welcomed the housing, said Tom Ford, the town's director of community development.

But the town is now taking a different approach. It joined the lawsuit against the state after its housing obligation jumped by 412 units over the next decade. "That will definitely pose some big problems," Ford said.

He said the requirements were based on development four times more dense than the town wanted. It could force Moorestown to buy land or build new infrastructure, Ford said.

And Moorestown can no longer pay to shift some of its housing responsibility to its neighbors. In 1997, the town agreed to pay Beverly City and Mount Holly a combined $5.5 million to take on 274 of the units that would have gone to Moorestown.

Proponents of the deals, used statewide, say they provide affordable housing without over-building and bring money to communities that need it. Critics label the agreements an exclusionary tool that leads to few low-income homes in the suburbs. Lawmakers banned the practice this year, leaving towns fewer methods to satisfy larger obligations.

When Alicia Tucker searched for a home, "nine times out of 10" the affordable sites were in "inner cities or bad areas." She said she had nothing against those who lived there, but she grew up in suburban South Plainfield, N.J.

"My mom and dad, we were middle class," she said. And when she lived in Franklin with her children, "it was a nice area. I didn't want to move my kids to an area that they weren't used to."

In Chesterfield she found more of what she wanted, but it has taken getting used to. It's kind of "country," she said. And things cost more: Summer camp, for example, is $1,000 a week, too much to afford. She furnished much of her home with used items.

She said she had agreed to be interviewed to help raise awareness about affordable housing, which she said was hard to find.

If there is a downside to her arrangement, she said, it is the state's cap on the profit she can make when she sells her home. But Tucker isn't complaining.

"I want the next person to be able to afford it and experience the feeling of owning a home."