Christmas at the Creamery

In December of 2024, I thought everything was finally aligning.
On December 12, my feature with Bold Journey was published, a piece that celebrated the growth of Homecrest & Co. and the story behind it. It felt like a milestone, a moment when my continued hard work was starting to pay off for what I had built out of resilience, creativity, and long nights of work.

Just one week later, on December 19, I carried the first boxes into what I thought would be a new beginning: The Creamery Apartments. I imagined this move would mean stability, a safe home for my children, and the freedom to expand my business with a downtown storefront. Outwardly, I was a woman on the rise. Inwardly, I was about to step into a reality I never could have predicted.

Living in Boxes

The apartment I walked into was filthy.
I couldn’t bring myself to unpack my things in that kind of environment. Instead, I developed a routine: I would clean one section of the apartment at a time, deep-clean it, and only then unpack a few boxes. It was the only way I could live there without feeling overwhelmed.

I started with the kitchen. Christmas was only days away, and I wanted at least one space where I could cook and feel human again. On December 23, I even filmed myself vacuuming out one of the pull-out cabinets, the cabinet was filled with debris, another reminder that I wasn’t moving into a clean, ready apartment but one that required hours of work just to make usable.

For three weeks, I lived this way, scrubbing floors and cabinets, unpacking slowly, and dragging out trash, all while juggling the possibility of opening a downtown location on the Kalamazoo Mall and trying to keep my small business running.

And it wasn’t just the filth. For those first few weeks, my bedroom had no working light, no fan, and no electricity. Every night, I walked into a dark, airless space, lit only by whatever lamp I could stretch from another outlet. The message was clear: the Creamery had handed me keys to a unit that wasn’t ready, wasn’t safe, and wasn’t maintained, but expected me to make it work.

I also documented the bathroom on December 27, 2024, showing the damages that remained even after I had already turned in my move-in checklist. Another video shows me after spending five hours scrubbing both bathrooms, unable to remove stains that should never have been left for a tenant to face in the first place.

The apartment never felt like a home.

Meeting 317

Not long after moving in, I met my next-door neighbor in 317.
She invited me into her apartment. Several children were there, running around, and one child came up to me and wrapped me in a big hug. I was a stranger, but their new neighbor. It was a sweet but strange moment, one that hinted at how much those children longed for connection.

The next day, she visited me. We talked, and she began sharing that she had faced constant problems since moving in. Soon after, I met her sons, one who lived down the hall on the third floor and another who didn’t live there but often visited. I even met one of them in the parking lot, where he spoke openly about issues at the Creamery.

It was around this time that the maintenance tech approached me. He asked, “So what did you think of them?” His question caught me off guard. Then he added, almost casually, “Just be careful.” That was the first time I realized something wasn’t right.

Christmas Day

By Christmas morning, I had at least a functioning kitchen. I cooked quietly, by myself. I remember recording a short video that day, narrating as I prepared Christmas dinner in the newly cleaned kitchen. In the background, though, there was no silence, only chaos.

The Creamery was nothing like what I had been promised.
Juveniles under 16 and unhoused people were slipping into the building almost daily. Strangers came and went like it was a revolving door. The walls were so thin you could hear everything. And what you couldn’t ignore was the police presence, with the Kalamazoo Department of Public Safety (KDPS) cruisers showing up every single day, most days, multiple times a day. It felt less like a home and more like spring break in a motel, only without the fun.

Screams Through the Walls

On Christmas Day, the family next door screamed and fought from 11 a.m. until 1 a.m. the following day. Through those paper-thin walls, I could hear every shout, every argument, every crash.

It was supposed to be a day of rest and reflection, but instead it triggered memories of trauma, amplifying the loneliness I already felt. The promises of safety and stability had unraveled in less than a week.

I knew then these were not typical neighbors.
And I also knew that what I had been told about the Creamery was a lie.

Reflection

Looking back, the symbolism of that Christmas is sharp. A week earlier, I had been celebrated for resilience, for building a business out of nothing. But on Christmas night, the walls of my new home echoed with screams, police lights flashed outside, and I realized I was sitting in the middle of a broken promise.

The cracks in the foundation weren’t just physical, they were systemic. And only days later, they would split wide open.

Jennifer L. Dayton
Founder & Executive Director
Kalamazoo Justice Project, Inc.

The Kalamazoo Justice Project is a nonprofit organization dedicated to exposing housing injustice and supporting tenants through advocacy, transparency, and truth.

Legal Disclaimer:
The views expressed in this article are based on publicly available information, cited sources, and the author’s lived experience. This content is provided for informational and educational purposes only. It does not constitute legal advice. All individuals and organizations named are referenced in the context of their public roles and responsibilities.

BLOG 4: EVIDENCE FILE

Media Link

Bold Journey: Meet Jen Dayton — Published December 12, 2024

Main Photo Credit: The Creamery Apartments, Kalamazoo, MI — Source: U.S. Green Building Council