A Tale of Two Cities (from the Capital)

This was a story that ran a few months ago in the Capital that I think really tells of the history, the challenges, and the players that are involved in the amazing gap in what is desribed as "two cities". Check it out...

A Tale of Two Cities


In Annapolis, rich and poor live side-by-side, but apart

By JEFF HORSEMAN and ERIC HARTLEY Staff Writers
First in a series
Published on 03/11/07

An Eastern Shore native, Anne Harrington moved to Annapolis 15 years ago for the sailing. She still loves the city, and she now has a racing sailboat and a power boat. But sitting in her Eastport home, now valued at nearly $1 million, she can hear the gunshots and the sirens when violence hits Harbour House, a drug-infested public housing complex nearby.


"It's a strange feeling that you're living right on the water in a nice community, and that's two blocks away," she said. "And that's how Annapolis is. ...

"It's sad that this culture of violence is in such a gentle community. It taints us. It's sort of like our dirty little secret in our perfect community."

Indeed, Maryland's capital is in many ways two cities. One, the charming Colonial version pictured on postcards, draws flocks of tourists and sends housing prices soaring as people move here for the sailing, culture and shopping. In the other, more people per capita live in public or subsidized housing than anywhere else in the nation, and many feel trapped in run-down homes surrounded by violence and drugs.

"I've seen little by little the dynamics in the city change from being middle class to a place where it's the haves and have-littles," said Antonio Brown, a 26-year city resident.

And more often than not, your skin color determines what city you're in. Whites in Annapolis earned more than twice as much as African Americans, according to the 2000 Census. Of the city's

2,207 public housing residents, 94 percent are African American.

Wayne Jearld, president of the county branch of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, said a certain class of African Americans in Annapolis don't feel valued.

"And if you're not valued, you're ignored," he said.

For many whites, the other Annapolis is hidden. A parking garage obstructs the view of Clay Street. You can't see the Newtowne or Robinwood public housing communities from Forest Drive.

That doesn't mean the two worlds don't meet. On inner West Street, black and white professionals often socialize in the trendy new bars and restaurants.

But the vast majority of poor blacks and their affluent white neighbors have little contact.

And sometimes the interaction is tragic. One of the city's most notorious murders was of Lee Griffin, a white Historic District man shot and run over in his own Jeep in 2002. A black teen from Robinwood was convicted in the case and is serving a life sentence. Another suspect, also black and from Robinwood, is awaiting trial.

Neighborhood rivalries in public housing last year were blamed for brawls at Annapolis High School and a Christmas shooting at Westfield Annapolis mall that wounded a black teen and an off-duty Secret Service agent.

Political leaders are taking note of the violence. A spate of shootings in the city's poor neighborhoods last month led to a recent summit of city, county and school officials.

Looking for causes of the violence, experts and community leaders often point to education, where the gap between blacks and whites is wider than the Grand Canyon.

While one-third of whites in Annapolis hold at least a bachelor's degree, four in 10 African-American men lack even a high school diploma.

Whites make up 80 of the student body at the private Annapolis Area Christian School but just 40 percent at the public Annapolis High, where low standardized test scores could lead to a state takeover.

Of course, the gaps are not new and certainly not unique to Annapolis.

But urban disparities nationwide gained greater attention after Hurricane Katrina, which ravaged and exposed New Orleans' impoverished underbelly.

Eric Brown is executive director of the Annapolis Housing Authority, which oversees the city's 1,104 public housing units. Having worked in housing authorities in Baltimore and Mississippi, Mr. Brown sees similarities between those areas and Annapolis.

"The problems seem larger here because it's a small city and it's the state capital," he said.

Good times

On the main streets, Annapolis is booming.

Park Place, a $250 million complex at West Street and Taylor Avenue, will bring a Morton's steakhouse and a Westin hotel, along with more than 200 high-end condos.

Downtown, trendy new restaurants are sprouting up on previously drab parts of inner West Street. Merchants say Maryland Avenue, with shops ranging from exclusive to quirky, is thriving.

Just beyond the city limits, a massive new mall and condominium complex going up in Parole will feature women's clothier Anthropologie, a new Whole Foods, a hotel and hundreds of condos. Meanwhile, Westfield Annapolis is planning a huge expansion that will send it past Arundel Mills and make it the county's largest mall.

Housing prices have skyrocketed, with $1 million homes no longer a rarity. And just in case people have any disposable income after all that home-buying and shopping, an Annapolis Porsche dealership is in the works.

It's no mystery what draws people, both tourists and new residents. As the city's economic development coordinator, Mike Miron, said, it's the history, the water, the shopping and the restaurants.

"Look at Annapolis. It's a great little town," said Roger Blau, who's lived in Eastport since 1979. "What town this size has all these amenities?"

Mr. Blau likes the fact he can walk downtown to grab some sushi and a beer, catch a play at the Summer Garden Theatre or see musician John Hiatt at Rams Head Tavern.

Those attractions and others have brought great changes to Eastport and the Murray Hill neighborhood downtown, Mr. Miron said. The next wave, he thinks, is outer West Street, with Park Place and, further out, a new retail office and apartment complex called 1901 West leading the charge.

"Twenty years ago, we didn't have condominiums in the city," Mr. Miron said. "And that's a new demographic we see coming in. That's where I see the wealth for the most part."

Though the new growth is striking, there's long been a lot of money in Annapolis, as shown by old-line stores like W.R. Chance Jewelers on Main Street or Johnson's, a clothing store at State Circle and Maryland Avenue.

There are newer stores catering to a hipper crowd. At Vertu, a new clothing shop on Maryland Avenue, a pair of jeans goes for $218 - or $178 for the kind that come with the cuffs fashionably frayed.

All this half an hour from D.C. or Baltimore and two hours from the beach, as Mr. Blau, who's been selling real estate for about a year, tells prospective buyers.

It's a compelling pitch.

Except, that is, for visitors who drive a street or two over.

Ms. Harrington, who's also in real estate, said there are certain routes an agent takes to avoid showing a client the less desirable parts of the city.

In a city of less than 40,000 people, the haves and the have-nots aren't far away from each other. Public housing is just a couple blocks from the State House.

Mr. Blau has seen people change their minds about buying homes on the spot when they saw something that didn't fit their vision of Annapolis - not just public housing, but sometimes just modest private homes.

"They think it's all $800,000 houses," he said. "It's not what they expected."

Bad times

They have elegant names like Robinwood, Annapolis Gardens, Eastport Terrace and Harbour House. But Annapolis' 10 public housing communities look anything but regal.

Smashed beer bottles, fast food wrappers and plastic grocery bags are everywhere. College Creek Terrace, one of the nation's oldest public housing communities, has dirt for lawns. Boarded-up doors and windows are common.

It's hardly an inviting scene for commerce. But there is business, if not the legal kind.

Across the street from College Creek Terrace, Ernest Brown of Clay Street watches cars - some Mercedes Benzes - swoop in to pick up drugs from dealers on street corners.

The crime and violence disproportionately affect African Americans, who make up a third of the city's population. Blacks accounted for 71 percent of the city's jail inmates in late February, two out of three city police arrests last year and six of the city's record eight homicide victims last year.

Mr. Brown, 58, who is not related to Antonio Brown or Eric Brown, said he doesn't bother the dealers and they don't bother him. "You don't want to make it hard on yourself," he said.

Mr. Brown was born toward the latter end of Clay Street's golden age, when it was known as the Fourth Ward. Back then, Clay Street was a Harlem in miniature, where you could buy groceries and dance at nightclubs featuring acts like Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington.

"We didn't have to read magazines to look at J. Lo. And Beyonce. We had them in our community," said Zastrow Simms, who grew up on Clay Street.

In the old days, Mr. Simms, 72, said you could "flush away" the bad times.

With Clay Street now plagued by drugs, "It seems like the bad times are here forever."

He blames urban renewal for destroying Clay Street. The federally funded program razed African-American-owned businesses in the 1960s, replacing them with a municipal parking garage.

While the wrecking ball went to work on Clay Street, bulldozers were busy clearing land for Robinwood and Newtowne. The rows of two-story townhomes were built with one way in and out, which led to isolation over the years and later became the perfect setup for drug dealers on the lookout for police.

Bywater Mutual Homes has a similar setup. It's not public housing - a nonprofit corporation controlled by residents owns the homes - but Antonio Brown said drug dealing and nighttime gunfire is common.

Mr. Brown, 46, said he's seen cars with Florida and Georgia license plates pull into Bywater for drugs. Some vehicles have boats in tow, he said.

Once isolated from the city's core, Robinwood, Newtowne and Bywater are off Forest Drive, the city's busiest thoroughfare. They're surrounded by pricey real estate like Kingsport, a subdivision of 172 single-family homes just south of Bywater.

Billed by its Virginia developer as a "neo-traditional neighborhood," Kingsport includes a fishing dock, pool and walking trail. Its home models have names like "Ashmont," "English" and "Evesham."

All feature stately brick architecture with columns, bay windows and huge garages. They typically sell for $700,000 or more.

Kingsport's Web site features springtime photos of downtown, which is about two miles away. There aren't any pictures of what's right next door.

Hanging on

Most of Ray Simms' neighbors don't look like him anymore.

The 47-year-old African-American grew up in Eastport, once a blue-collar waterman's enclave near the heart of Annapolis. Today, crab boats have given way to yachts, and weathered two-story homes stand next to waterfront palaces with boat lifts in back and BMWs in front. Most are owned by whites.

The wooded field where Mr. Simms used to play baseball and football now has a house on it. He hardly sees kids in Eastport anymore. The neighborhood grocery and laundromat are now restaurants. Where he used to shoot pool is now a cafe.

Returning from work as a plumber's helper, Mr. Simms sometimes can't find a parking space in front of his house. Back in the day, parking spots were respected.

Despite the changes, Mr. Simms consider himself lucky. He used to live in Harbour House and moved back home to care for his ailing father, who is now deceased.

The Simms bought their home for $8,000 when Mr. Simms was 8. Now, the four-bedroom home where he lives with his mother and nephew is valued at $672,500.

In today's market, "I would be homeless," said Mr. Simms, a distant cousin of Zastrow Simms.

Walking down Second Street Thursday, he came across a flier for a duplex on the market. He laughed at the "reduced" asking price: $948,000 for both sides.

Mr. Simms doesn't begrudge his new neighbors. But he feels bad for his African-American friends priced out by Eastport's changes.

"I don't know my (new) neighbors," Mr. Simms said. "We don't have that closeness anymore ... I wish (my old neighbors) were actually able to stand their ground and have an opportunity to buy their homes instead of being pushed out."

In Harbour House, Mr. Simms had to put up with loud music and partying. Now, he can sit on his front porch and hear the streetlights click on.

"It's still home," he said. "When I close my doors at night, I'm at peace."

When it comes to Harbour House's ills, Mr. Simms warned against blaming those who live there.

"There's people that have been living in Harbour House for a long time who have no problem, who have respect," he said. "The people who live in that neighborhood are not the problem. It's the outsiders who come into that neighborhood to make their money with their drugs and violence."

While black homeownership in lower Eastport is now rare, there still are significant numbers of African Americans in their own homes in the Parole area and other pockets around the city. Census figures from 2000 showed more than 300 black homeowners in the Parole area.

Solutions

Annapolis Mayor Ellen O. Moyer said people in public housing feel isolated from the rest of the city.

"It's public housing, school and back. That's their neighborhood," Ms. Moyer said. "We tried to push the concept that we're really one Annapolis."

To do that, Ms. Moyer said she's tried to give public housing residents a say through community forums, including a series of free-flowing discussions called "Let's Talk."

"As much as people want to make fun of dialogue, it's through talk ... that good things happen," she said.

The city has tried to work with the housing authority, but the authority's been a reluctant partner, Ms. Moyer said.

Eric Brown, the authority's director, said the authority will work with anyone who wants to improve the lives of those in public housing.

Antonio Brown believes building a bridge between the two Annapolises starts with not walling them off.

In the late 1990s, when developers sought to build Kingsport, Mr. Brown said he worked with city officials and developers to connect Bywater and Kingsport with roads and open space so Bywater wasn't isolated. Today only a traffic circle and a collection of ranch-style homes separates Kingsport from Bywater.

Though too often the two halves of the city don't meet unless it's through violence, there are people - black and white - who try to bridge the gap in positive ways.

Box of Rain, a sailing program for underprivileged kids, was founded by Ms. Harrington and other friends of Mr. Griffin, the Historic District resident murdered in 2002.

Through a seven-week summer program and a fall program with the Naval Academy, kids learn more than just sailing, Ms. Harrington said. They learn teamwork and discipline.

Over four years, about 80 kids have gone through the program, some returning to participate again.

"We've had a few kids that we've pretty much saved," Ms. Harrington said.

Each kid who completes the program gets a compass, a gift that's both practical and symbolic: "We're here to keep kids on course," Ms. Harrington said.

But it will take more than one group, Ms. Harrington said, calling solutions to Annapolis' problems "a community responsibility." More people need to help kids by mentoring them or getting involved in other volunteer work, she said.

To come together, whites and blacks need to overcome their stereotypes, said Dennis Conti, a white retiree who leads volunteer efforts on Clay Street.

Whites often view African Americans as welfare cases who don't care about crime, said Mr. Conti, the one-time interim head of the housing authority. Many African Americans in turn see whites who want to help as outsiders out to make a buck at their expense, Mr. Conti said.

Mr. Miron said private ownership might be the only way to help break the cycle of dependence that's kept generations of the same families in public housing. That raises fears of "gentrification" to some.

"That might happen, but it's not the worst thing that can happen," Mr. Miron said.

The housing authority has plans to renovate College Creek Terrace and the neighboring public housing community of Obery Court. But those plans have sparked fears residents will be displaced.

The city recently led a group of investors around Clay Street in hopes of spurring their interest in revitalizing the area. The investors walked away after negative comments about their presence appeared in the press, Ms. Moyer said.

"To pull this 'Oh, they want to steal your housing' bit - it's not only a low blow, it's totally dishonest," she said.

The public school system is promising to do its part. A legal agreement between the Board of Education and civil rights activists seeks to bridge the test score gap. Volunteers from troubled neighborhoods will try to reach problem students.

But if the two cities aren't brought closer together, those on both sides say, all of Annapolis will suffer.

"What goes around comes around. Sooner or later, it's going to come back to them," said Alice Johnson of Bloomsbury Square, a public housing community near the State House. "We're all in the same boat. When one sinks, we all sink."