“The one percent,” she told me while fighting back tears, “they make all the rules.”

There’s a story behind every housing ad on craigslist. I saw one by a 42 year-old man who had a room to rent. “Just me and my 9 year-old girl,” it said. “Available immediately.” Or the one by the single 39 year-old woman whose ad included the question “Are you single?”

The one I answered looked innocent enough, apart from the price. It was close to buses and shops, which is all I really look for when browsing these ads.

Yet here I was, sitting opposite the landlady in my abode-to-be. She was crying.

Jane hasn’t worked since her car accident two years ago. She has trouble remembering things, and needs to remind herself of appointments. I already knew that—this was my second trip to see the room this week.

“I feel so useless,” she said with infinite sadness in her voice.

She rents out the rooms in her green three-story house simply to earn a living. Her mother’s house went into foreclosure recently (hence all the items in the dining room) and now she’s fighting tooth and nail to keep her home intact.

“The one percent,” she told me while fighting back tears, “they make all the rules.”

Never before had I heard the popular phrase ‘one percent’ used with such trembling anger.

I’m used to hearing it from White middle-class 20-somethings as they sip their lattes at Starbucks. Or from Facebook-friends who tirelessly post news and blog posts about the Occupy Wall Street movement.

Watching Jane dry her tears, I realized one thing. None of us know what ‘the one percent’ really means.

Only people like Jane know.