Stacey Lozada, a 32-year-old mother of a five-month-old son, should have been enjoying peaceful days in her rented house in Brooklyn. Instead, she found herself at the center of a nightmare: her home was overrun by raccoons, and the landlord's inaction forced her to sleep in her car with her baby. This story, which could be a horror movie script, is an example of systemic problems in the rental housing sector faced by vulnerable populations, particularly Section 8 program participants.
It all started with a squeaking noise that Lozada heard inside her walls. At first, she thought it was minor — maybe mice or branches rubbing in the wind. But when the sounds intensified into thumping on the roof, she decided to check. “I carefully opened the boiler room door and suddenly heard screaming and fighting. I was panic-stricken,” Lozada recalls. Grabbing her baby, she rushed to the kitchen, but the scratching followed her — this time from the ceiling. Not having time to grab diapers or baby formula, Lozada left the house.
Outside, standing with her baby in her arms, she noticed the source of the chaos: a raccoon emerging from a damaged chimney pipe. “I grabbed my phone to film it, and thought: ‘Oh my God, that’s a raccoon!’” she says. Soon, she saw several more — at least three — scurrying across the roof as if it were their territory.
Lozada immediately informed her landlord, but the response was sluggish. “I sent messages, submitted requests through the portal, but the reaction was minimal,” she says. Eventually, the landlord replied that he had contacted a pest control company, but without any clear timeline for resolving the issue. For Lozada, who was left homeless, that response sounded like a verdict. “I asked, ‘Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do with the baby?’” she recalls. In response, she was only told that raccoons in the walls would not get into the living spaces — a claim experts refute.
“Raccoons are not just an inconvenience. They can tear apart walls, chew through wiring, and spread diseases such as rabies and leptospirosis,” explains Barbara Reichloff, a housing attorney with the Legal Aid Society. “Their presence renders the dwelling uninhabitable, whether they are running in the living room or hiding inside the walls.”
Without relatives in the area who could shelter her, Lozada was forced to spend three nights in her car, alternating between the front and back seats to find some place to sleep for herself and her baby. “It’s not what you dream of after giving birth. You want peace, safety, a home. Instead, you’re in a car, not knowing what might happen,” she shares, her voice trembling as she recounts her ordeal.
New York State law clearly requires landlords to provide proper living conditions, but Lozada’s story highlights gaps in this system. “The landlord should have acted immediately — relocating her to a hotel or reimbursing her for the rent during the period when the house was uninhabitable,” Reichloff states. Instead, Lozada was left unsupported, and the management company Summer House Legacy limited itself to a brief comment that “the situation is being addressed,” without providing any details.
Five days after the initial raccoon report, an inspector finally arrived and trapped three juveniles on the roof. “That means the house became their nest,” Lozada says, now afraid to return home due to health risks. She plans to hire a lawyer and leverage her experience to advocate for other tenants, especially Section 8 participants. “I feel like I’m treated as a minority because my landlord knows I receive my rent subsidy from the government. But I want people to know their rights and not tolerate such treatment,” she declares with conviction.
This story is not just about raccoons. It exposes deeper issues within the rental housing system, where vulnerable tenants like Lozada are often left voiceless. While she fights for safety for herself and her child, her case serves as a reminder: even in a city that never sleeps, basic rights to safe housing remain out of reach for many.
