My first foray into off-campus housing in Ann Arbor was both devoid of local knowledge and poorly thought out. I transferred to the University in summer 2008, and my only criteria for living quarters were that they be centrally located and not too much like a dungeon. I settled on an apartment within a house across from Liberty Plaza on South Division Street and soon found a roommate.

The location was perfect — right in the heart of urban Ann Arbor, not too far from Main Street or Central Campus. I had a large bedroom with skylights and a comfortable balcony. I thought I deserved a pat on the back for my wonderful find.

But before classes had even started, things got fishy. We assumed that students occupied the other apartments in the house, but we were the only ones. Nearly all of the other residents were part of the state’s Section 8 housing program — state-subsidized housing that helps low-income households.

The problems ensued from day one. Excruciatingly loud, violent confrontations took place on a nightly basis between residents on lower floors. They threw furniture often, the crashes shook my roommate and I awake at night. Shady characters entered the house — by either invite or force — at all hours of the night and compounded the violence through what were obviously illicit drug deals.

It was general knowledge around the neighborhood that a fairly longstanding crack ring operated from within my house, and that one of the other residents was a prostitute despite clearly suffering from mental illness. The police were constantly paying visits due to complaints. There was no denying where I lived the day I kicked a used syringe off the front steps.

An older, scruffy-haired resident had a habit of panhandling near Borders, posing as a “hungry homeless man” in order to fuel his drug problems. Another resident was a middle-aged woman who drifted in and out of rehab and sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time. During one of her disappearances, a group of rough men who clearly knew her broke open the door and lived in her apartment, indulging in drugs and violence for weeks on end.

My friends and family suggested that I move out, even if that meant hiring a lawyer to get out of my lease. Neither my roommate nor I could study in the house because of the noise and smoke wafting from downstairs. And to top it all off, both the heat and plumbing posed major problems.

A young couple next door actually did move out in early October, taking the time to warn me that a murder could take place in the house at any time. I wasn’t as fearful as they were, but any time I walked outside at night, I clenched my fists and stayed sharply aware of my surroundings. And since my roommate typically spent weekends at home, I kept a large knife nearby for protection when I slept.

I relentlessly called my landlord asking for help, and he always acted appalled by what I told him and repeatedly promised to end the problems. Unfortunately, his laziness meant that nothing ever changed. One night, my roommate and I awoke to a violent domestic assault in the room below us, which was normal except for the sound of shattering glass and a man yelling that he was bleeding to death. Before we were able to respond, the police and an ambulance arrived outside to treat the victim.

The woman living downstairs was arrested for assaulting the man. I told my landlord if she wasn’t evicted, I was done paying my rent. Thankfully, he obliged. However, she clearly wasn’t the only major problem. There was a rape allegation that resulted in an arrest and various assaults, most of which went unreported. Once, a shady guest even threatened violence toward me for being disrespectful after he told me he was going into my house to do a drug deal.

One of the most absurd incidents occurred when I awoke to the screech of the alleged prostitute exchanging obscenities out the window with a woman in the park. Police arrived, and in the morning I learned that the two women had been flashing each other across South Division throughout the whole argument and had been reported by a passerby.

Finally, after several months of fearing for my personal safety and repeatedly calling the police to report the white van that showed up at the house to make drug deals each night, I learned about how I might be able to get out of my lease.

On a visit to the Ann Arbor Police outpost on Maynard Street in early April, I was informed that more than 50 complaints had been made about my house in the past year (I was not responsible for more than five). I told them the name of the alleged prostitute and others, and they rolled their eyes and said they knew my claims were true. My next step was to call the City of Ann Arbor, where the City Attorney’s Office told me that such a high number of complaints could possibly constitute a “nuisance” which would allow the city to seize the property.