The uncertain future of low-income housing in the heart of D.C.
This is the second installment in a two-part series exploring gentrification in the heart of Washington, D.C., and how some of the District’s most historically troubled blocks have struggled to move beyond their past. | Part I
As I walked through the Sursum Corda housing cooperative one afternoon, I encountered a group of men congregating on a sidewalk amid the blanched brick buildings. Sursum Corda is one block south of Truxton Circle — but the close proximity does little to spur respect between the two neighborhoods.
“We ain’t Truxton Circle,” one of the men said to me, leaning against the hood of a blue sedan. The group behind him murmured in agreement. “This here is Sursum Corda. We might fuck with them niggas in the back alley on New York Ave. — but we don’t go past that.”
The animosity between the two neighborhoods simmers in a place designed for love and unity. Sursum Corda, roughly translated from Latin, means “lift up your hearts.” In the mid-1960s, a Georgetown alumnus named Eugene L. Stewart spearheaded the housing initiative that — unlike other low-income housing efforts — allowed residents build up equity by owning their units. The housing cooperative’s unusual horseshoe layout was meant to foster a tight-knit community, and the Sursum Corda Cooperative Association partnered with religious organizations to provide services to underprivileged residents.
Several decades into the housing experiment, the horseshoe design proved difficult to police, which fostered criminal activity instead of close community ties. The flood of heroine, and later crack cocaine, catalyzed a surge in territorial beefing and street violence.
Today, the tension still lingers.
“Truxton niggas is a bunch of snitches,” shouted one of the men from the back of the group. “Sursum is for real niggas.”
Words, words, words. But words drop bodies on these blocks. Saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, flipping during an interrogation — these are capital offenses out here. Even the prospect of someone snitching can end in cold blood.
In 2004, 14-year-old Jahkema “Princess” Hansen was shot execution style in Sursum Corda after witnessing 28-year-old Marquette Ward murder a neighborhood drug dealer. Ward, who was rumored to have an ongoing sexual relationship with Hansen, grew concerned that she would turn him over to the police. He went so far as to secretly follow Hansen to a police station after detectives had summoned her. Ward confided in another notorious player around Sursum Corda, 22-year-old Franklin Thompson, that Hansen might flip. Ward offered Thompson $8,000 to ensure her silence.
Only five days after Ward murdered the drug dealer, Thompson burst into an apartment in Sursum Corda and opened fire on Hansen and several friends sitting around the dinner table. Hansen got up and ran, though one of the bullets struck a 12-year-old girl sitting at the table. After chasing her through the house, Thompson shot Hansen twice in the back of the head.
Hours before the murder, Thompson allegedly offered her a grim admonition: “Little sis, you best not be snitching.”
The murder garnered national headlines and catalyzed the effort to redevelop — and reform — some of the most troubled neighborhoods in the heart of D.C. In 2005, the District’s New Communities Initiative formulated an ambitious project called Northwest One. The plan aimed to redevelopment nearly 50 acres of land west of North Capitol Street — including housing complexes like Sursum Corda and Temple Courts — and usher in mixed-income housing, retailers, and a new school. From the outset, public officials and housing advocates alike saw promise in the project. Northwest One aimed to distinguish itself from failed redevelopment efforts of the past — notably the permanent relocation of mostly low-income black families from Southwest D.C. in the 1950s and 1960s.
The New Communities Initiative laid out a set of key principles to achieve its ambitious redevelopment goals. One-for-one housing replacement ensured “no net loss of affordable housing units in the neighborhood.” The opportunity for residents to remain in the community during redevelopment, or return if they were temporarily displaced, guaranteed that “current residents [would] have a priority for new replacement units.” Mixed-income housing would “end the concentration of low-income housing and poverty.” Finally, an emphasis on building first promised the construction of new housing before “the demolition of existing distressed housing to minimize displacement.”
But from the start, Northwest One was beset by a series of stumbling blocks and outright blunders. In 2007, fresh off an election victory, Mayor Adrian Fenty fast-tracked the demolition of Temple Courts — the large affordable housing complex at the heart of Northwest One. Although a replacement complex had not yet been built — breaking one of the central principles of the New Communities Initiative — Temple Courts tenants were relocated with the promise of being able to return. By late 2007, before Temple Courts was demolished, Fenty secured an agreement with a group of developers to raze and rebuild much of the Northwest One project area.
But as the dust from Temple Courts settled, the Northwest One project unraveled. Discussions to transform Sursum Corda into a mixed-use development never came to fruition. The group of developers hoped to build mixed-income housing on the land where the D.C. Housing Authority was headquartered, but the agency failed to pack up and move to another location. Finally, when the developers reviewed the title for the land where Temple Courts once stood, they discovered a 40-year-old mortgage policy that allowed only subsidized housing to be built on the property. The inability to construct mixed-income housing and retail space on the site torpedoed any chance of raising funds to redevelopment the land. After refinancing the mortgage, the maturity date for the policy was set for 2024 — but developers didn’t have that kind of patience. Instead, the property was paved over and turned it into a parking lot. In September of last year, the Office of the Deputy Mayor for Planning and Economic Development began soliciting new proposals for the property.
Northwest One wasn’t a total bust. The project yielded a new school, which includes a library and recreation center, and two apartment complexes, 2M and The Severna. Of its 314 units, 2M offers 59 deeply subsidized units reserved for displaced Temple Court residents. The Severna, comprised of two buildings, offers a total of 161 affordable units with 78 reserved for displaced residents. But these complexes put only a small dent in the deep need for affordable housing in the neighborhood.
“Our goal, as expressed in the recent RFP [request for proposal] is to maximize affordability for the developments to come,” wrote Joaquin McPeek, spokesperson for the Deputy Mayor for Planning and Economic Development, in an email. “Th[e Bowser] administration has worked with a sense of urgency to move this long-standing project forward — and with community input.”
As of now, Northwest One has failed to meet each of the overarching housing goals the New Communities Initiative established from the outset: buildings were demolished first; the area suffered a net loss of deeply subsidized housing; hundreds of low-income residents remain displaced; and the projected ratio of affordable-to-market-rate-housing was never met.
As affordable housing was demolished in Northwest One, luxury apartments cropped up only blocks away. When Chris Hines, who grew up in Sursum Corda in the 1980s, returned to the District after leaving for 6 years, he hardly recognized the surrounding area.
“That building was abandoned, that building was abandoned,” Hines told me as we stood at the intersection of First and N Street NE, pointing to new office and apartment complexes. “None of these were here.”
At dusk, Hines walked passed Avalon First and M on his way home. The apartment complex offers a wide range of amenities, including a fitness center, rooftop pool, and on-site pet salon. One-bedroom apartments start at about $2,300 a month — a typical rate for the area. Hines turned onto K Street and walked under the Metro overpass, the Loree Grand luxury apartment complex coming into view. But before reaching the end of the tunnel, he knelt before an old tent and unzipped his front door.
“It’s good the development that’s happening in NoMa,” Hines said, peering through the screen of his tent. “There’s money coming into the area — but for those people who are struggling, who were here before, the most you get is crumbs.”
Hines suffers from a dissociative disorder that causes significant mood swings. He receives mental health services through Catholic Charities, but his condition makes finding a full-time job nearly impossible. He earns money seasonally, and sporadically — raking leaves, shoveling snow, and sometimes helping people move. The cardboard box outside his tent collects change and the occasional sandwich throughout the day. He appreciates the passing generosity, but he reiterated: “It’s only crumbs off the table.”
What would help him get back on his feet most, he said, is stable housing.
But finding affordable housing in the area is a serious challenge — especially since Northwest One suffered a net loss of affordable housing over the last decade. In the heart of NoMa, where redevelopment is actually moving forward, less than 7% of the 4,365 residential units is affordable housing. This year, the John and Jill Kerconway Residence opened in NoMa, which offers 64 units reserved for homeless veterans and 60 units reserved for low-income adults — but demand for these apartments is very high.
While there are concrete plans to add an additional 172 affordable units in the heart of NoMa, “affordable” is somewhat of a misnomer. Over half of these units will be priced for residents making 80% of the area median income (AMI).
AMI is used to determine how affordable housing should be priced. In the D.C. metropolitan region, AMI for an individual and a family of four, respectively, is $76,020 and $108,600 — well above the national averages. The majority of “affordable” units in the pipeline for NoMa , as a result, will be suitable for individuals earning $60,816 and families of four earning $86,880.
A retaining wall on First Street in NoMa bears a mural that reads “Home Is Where the Heart Is,” the words flanked by two lions and the faces of eight African American boys and girls. The portraits — all smiles and optimistic eyes — depict young residents from nearby Sursum Corda.
Sursum Corda is slated for redevelopment into a mixed-use, mixed-income complex that includes retail space and 1,142 apartment units, with 199 units set aside for affordable housing. Of these affordable units, 143 will be reserved for current Sursum Corda residents with rent adjusted to their current affordability levels. Residents will relocate using housing vouchers six months prior to demolition and then move into available units after the first phase of construction is completed.
The project offers the promise to bridge the gap between the failed Northwest One project and the booming NoMa neighborhood on the other side of the street. In its development plan, the Sursum Corda Cooperative Association, along with its partner Winn Development Company, expressed a commitment to avoiding displacement and protecting the supply of subsidized housing.
But some residents are skeptical. Plans for redeveloping Sursum Corda have circulated for over a decade, though none has come to fruition. And residents need to look no further than a block away — where Temple Courts once stood — to see an example of failed housing initiatives.
A couple weeks after I first visited Sursum Corda, I ran into another group of men gathered in the housing cooperative. Donald Stevenson, a community activist and employee at the Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services, grew up in Sursum Corda.
“I don’t live here anymore,” he said, “but I still come around because I know it’s coming to an end.” His aunt moved to Sursum Corda in the 1960s and was an active member in the housing cooperative community. “My family has history here, but that history is about to become rubble.”
Stevenson is doubtful that the redevelopment will ultimately benefit Sursum Corda residents.
“That’s the curse of gentrification,” he said. “[It] make[s] long-term residents feel like outsiders.”
Stevenson’s friend, Drew, who was displaced from Temple Courts, also regularly visits the neighborhood. Despite his experience about a decade ago, he expressed optimism about the redevelopment project.
“The redevelopment is creating opportunities for people in this area,” he told me. But he also offered a piece of advice to developers: “Just don’t push people out.”
A few months ago, a chainlink fence appeared along the mural on First Street, the young black faces obscured by a purple banner advertising a group of development partners. The group plans to turn the lot into a sprawling mixed-use complex with construction taking place around the same time as the redevelopment of Sursum Corda. New restaurants, a movie theater, and luxury apartments will replace the smiling faces of local African American boys and girls. The question is: Will they return in the flesh, or be gone for good?
