Middle East Baltimore Stories

In June 2005, I had the opportunity to tour East Baltimore with leaders of Save Middle East Action Committee, SMEAC, a group challenging impoverishment of the neighborhood by development-induced displacement. At that time, the project, proposed by Johns Hopkins Medical Center and led by the East Baltimore Development Corporation, was preparing to level the first phase of the project, a 20-block area adjacent to the medical center. during the tour, I had the opportunity to see the project area, and to talk to some local children who were playing in a fire hydrant. "We're having fun," one boy assured me. SMEAC's approach was to fight for relocation benefits that would actually be sufficient to support relocation; the right to return to the area; and protection from environmental hazards during the demolition. It was a true David-and-Goliath story: Giant Johns Hopkins literally towered over the battered neighborhood, which had suffered grievously from disinvestment.

On a second visit a few years later, I drove by and the children's play area had been torn up and all the houses were gone.

On this visit, I had the opportunity to tour with Leslie Lewis, one of the displaced residents and a leader of SMEAC. Leslie explained the long fight SMEAC had waged, still struggling on issues identified years ago, but also confronting others that had come up in the course of the fight. For example, SMEAC was aware of environmental hazards of demolition, but had not been as cognizant of the effects nearby construction would have on old brick houses. As the displacement played out, SMEAC was becoming more and more aware of what was at stake: the costs of moving, the difficulty in maintaining connections, the problems people faced in getting established elsewhere, and the possibilities that existed in other neighborhoods.

The change in the area was dramatic. Some of the glossy new buildings had gone up in place of the old houses. A very large grassy area stood vacant. Signs were everywhere, proclaiming the "New East Baltimore" was a place of vitality and culture. I didn't know all that much about the neighborhood, but I thought the signs bordered on insulting the old East Baltimore -- wasn't THAT a place of vitality and culture? I was to discover the answer on East Monument Street.

Leslie, Pam -- another SMEAC activist and area residents -- and I stopped for lunch at Northeast Market there. This market has been rated the "best public market" by City Paper, which prized its genuine atmosphere. I was thrilled to tour the place with local peoplewho could explain the food and the scene. Pam said her mother, who lived in the neighborhood, had been in earlier that day. Northeast Market is a crossroads of the neighborhood, a place of good cheer and connection. Peopl were greeting friends and neighbors on all sides. It is sometimes difficult for an outsider to appreciate the reasons for clinging to a neighborhood that has suffered disinvestment as serious as that facing East Baltimore. I instantly understood that the marker, with its lively and humorous vibe, provided a better insight than anything else I had encountered. Who wouldn't want to live near there?

East Monument Street is one of the Main Streets in Baltimore's Main Street Program. It is festooned with Main Street Banners, and is a very lively shopping district. The Main Street website orients the visitor to think of that Main Street as connected to Johns Hopkins and the new biotech center. But the reality is that it is the thriving center of the black community that took root there 50 years ago and which today is still active and devoted to the area.

My sense of that local connection was deepened by the opportunity to attend the launch of the book, Middle East Baltimore Stories: Images and Words from a Displaced Community, a book created by Art on Purpose with support from the Annie E. Casy Foundation. This event, held in the beautiful Reginald F. Lewis of Maryland African American History, celebrated the lives of people whose homes lie in the redevelopment area. The 240 people who came to the event were deeply committed to affirming the vital history of their neighborhood. In a time of contested images, I appreciated Beth Barbush's photographs of people posed in vacant lots holding pictures of their houses which had once stood there. You can listen to an hour of the stories on Marc Steiner Show, WEAA-FM. You can order a copy of the book by sending a check for $20 per copy (shipping included) to: SMEAC, 2111 Ashland Avenue, Baltimore, MD 21205.

Memorial Day 2009

Main Street, as the center of town, is an important site for observing holidays. Memorial Day may be the best of them all. In Englewood, where I live, Palisades Avenue is cleared of parked cars. The War Monument at the west end of the street becomes the center for a ceremony honoring local veterans. The parade participants gather in their assigned spots.

An appropriately patriotic set of words are delivered. The Mayor has created a plaque to honor the Tuskegee Airmen, one whom lived in Englewood. Other elderly veterans are there. The names of those lost are read, and one of the veterans comments that these were his classmates in high school. It helps to remind us how personal this all is. A young man reads "In Flanders Field," and another reads Lincoln's "Gettysburg Address." Through it all, a few listeners are attentive, while the young people gossip. A microscopic sound system is partly to blame: what are they thinking, there city officials? Haven't they been to Central Park for a concert lately? The ceremony closes with a the Englewood Fire Department's bagpipe player doing "Amazing Grace." It is a long set of cliches, but it supposed to be. People in uniform from today's armed forces, and those in the costumes of earlier wars, remind us that this is Memorial Day: the "ultimate" sacrifice is death.

The parade starts, and the sound is suddenly audible. The kids in drum corps know how to make some noise. The karate school wakes everyone up by breaking boards in mid air and performing spectacular tumbles. The Korean drum band is equally determined to get the crowds' attention, in their case attracting attention with sound and the most beautiful costumes. A group of young people in uniform march by. The 10-year-old boy I am standing next to says wistfully, "I'd like to be in the army."

"It's dangerous," I say.

"I'd like to do something for my country," he replies simply. On his return from the Army, he plans to help the President. "I saw President Obama and I'd like to protect him," he informs me. On another note, a steel drum band passes, playing "This land is your land."

Not that long a distance, not that many parts, but what a glimpse of America in this moment.

Walker Evans’ Postcards of Main Street

Walker Evans, the great American photographer, was an avid collector of postcards, and his collection is now at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Of the 9,000 postcards in his collection, 700 are on display. As noted by Roberta Smith in the New York Times, "The show opens with a bank of postcards that offer plunging views down the middle of scores of American Main Streets, an almost scary tribute to the country’s can-do spirit, can-doing it again and again.” There are – David Chapin and I counted – 312 postcards of Main Street. This astounding display invited our study. David pointed out that most use one-point perspective that meets the horizon at one-fourth the way up the image. I noted the number of trolley tracks, and my reaction, like that of Smith, was a certain awe of the enthusiasm for urban development – and even inter-urban connection, David noted – among US citizens 100 years ago. It reminded me of the story of General Motors’ systematic attack on the trolleys which opened the way for the triumph of private cars. This kind of privatization of course continues apace, currently moving into private computers and personal phones. While Main Street represents a centripetal force pulling us together for social and economic exchange, our economy runs on incredible centrifugal forces. The result for our cities can be troublesome, as noted by Jane Jacobs: “Probably everyone is aware of certain dependencies by a city on its heart. When a city heart stagnates or disintegrates, a city as a social neighborhood of the whole begins to suffer. People who ought to get together, by means of central activities that are failing, fail to get together. Ideas and money that ought to meet, and do so often only by happenstance in a place of central vitality, fail to meet. The networks of city public life develop gaps they cannot afford. Without a strong and inclusive central heart, a city tends to become a collection of interests isolated from one another. It falters at producing something greater, socially, culturally and economically, than the sum of its separated parts.” (from The Death and Life of Great American Cities, p. 215)

7 AM Eastern Winter Time

I go to Palisades Avenue in Englewood nearly every morning at 7 AM. I have come to expect it to be dark and dreary. Much to my surprise, this week I arrived to find that it was considerably brighter. What a relief! Winter is far from over -- snow is expected today in fact -- but nights are getting shorter and the days are getting longer so Spring cannot be far behind. All of this made me think about seasons on Main Street. Main Streets are tenaciously busy: the tracks in the snow are mute testimony to the many comings and goings throughout the day and night. But the ways of moving are tempered by weather. People walk quickly and rush inside on cold winter days. They linger over their coffee cups looking out the window with dreams in their eyes. In the summer they don't want to go in and they drink ice coffee while delighting in the patterns of the sidewalk ballet. In an urbanized world with cars and indoor heating we tend to keep going no matter what. We can lose sight of the cycles of the natural world, as I did in thinking it would always be dark at 7 AM. Yet if we look more closely, we find Copernicus was right and Main Street, like the rest of the Earth, revolves around the sun.

My old stompin' grounds

Professor Hirofumi Minami, an environmental psychologist from Japan, was in town for a visit just before Christmas. David Chapin, an architect on the faculty at CUNY Graduate Center, had hosted Hiro during a year-long stay that began in September 2001. For Hiro, whose research has focused on the recovery of Hiroshima after the atomic bomb attack in 1945, that was a remarkable time to be in New York. The three of us collaborated in an effort called "NYC RECOVERS," an alliance of organizations concerned with the social and emotional recovery of NYC after the attack on the Twin Towers. Hiro's knowledge of the recovery of Hiroshima was very inspiring to us. He pointed out that, in Buddhist tradition, the seventh year after a loss is a very important point in recovery. So, reconnecting in this seventh year after 9/11 was a great experience for the three of us. After much discussion, we decided to visit Hoboken, NJ, where I used to live. Both Hiro and David had read about my life there in my book, House of Joshua: Meditations on Family and Place. On Christmas Eve we set out to see three parts of Hoboken: the light rail stop at 2nd street, the new riverside park, and Washington Street. I proposed the light rail stop because the station is surrounded by a fence that cuts off access from the housing projects. We got the light rail at the Hoboken rail station, an elegant place with historic connections to the river and the world. We had a great ride on light rail and appreciated its speed and simplicity. While you might think that you would most want poor people to be able to access public transit, that does not appear to be the case in this instance. The fence at the 2nd Street station was a shock to my friends, as I thought it would be. Indeed, I was shocked myself, seeing it again. Why not put in a gate? We got back on the light rail, thinking to go back to the rail station, but instead ended up at Newport Mall. The crowds getting on and off there made it clear that the light rail is big help in the local system of movement. Another train took us back to Hoboken, and we walked over to the riverside park which is just next door. David pointed out that the park was deserted. Although there were a lot of people out, there was not much to do by the river on a rainy day and people were staying away in droves. About this time I got a call from my daughter Molly asking if I could get some yarn for a present. She quickly googled yarn and found out there was a store on 4th Street. Hiro and David were happy to go with me. We found Patricia's Yarns easily. Its warm display of yarn and the fortuitous presence of some happy young knitters inspired us all to buy yarn. Outside, David pointed out an empty store which used to be a unisex salon, a term he dated to the 1970s. Patricia's Yarns, by contrast, was definitely Hoboken now. We walked north on Washington Street, which Molly believes to be the best place in New Jersey to do Christmas shopping. David and Hiro were happy to stop again at Big Fun Toys for more last minute purchases for my grandchildren. David got interested in the absence of war toys which led to lovely conversation with the store personnel. Hiro and David agreed that doing a bit of shopping was an excellent way to get past the facade of a town and start to feel a part of its rhythms. I have found that having lunch also helps to get a sense of Main Street wherever you are. I proposed the Elysian Cafe. the Cafe is housed in space that has been a Hoboken eatery for more than a hundred years. Lovingly restored by Joyce and Eugene Flinn, the cafe has a Paris Bistro menu and feel. It was calm by the time we got there for a late lunch. Over lunch, we talked about cities. Hiro explained to us about urbanization in Japan, which began with his parents' generation and has continued in his. Managing the farms is becoming a pressing question, he told us. David spends his summers in farming country in Ohio and had much to add ab0ut the development of ex-urbs. As our time together drew to a close, we agreed that we should meet again soon and share visits to other cities in the US and Japan. (photo: Mindy Fullilove and David Chapin walking on Washington Street, taken by Hirofumi Minami)

Did we cancel Christmas?

As I have been walking up and down Main Streets, I realized that I wasn't seeing the lights and decorations that I expected.  I was missing the joyful shoppers, hurrying with their arms full of packages and contented smiles on their faces.  I was even missing the incessant Christmas carols oozing out of every possible auditory device.  I walk past stores with their windows plastered with "Huge Sale" signs, but hardly an elf or reindeer in sight.  All of this raises the critical question, "How did the Grinch get us?"  I have been thinking that it's time to shake ourselves out of these doldrums.  It's time to find that special, indefinable something that is the essence of Christmas, the thing deeper than cash and presents, the thing that in the face of everything will help us affirm that we will confront these times in solidarity and joy.  

Whose street?

"Main Street," according to Wikipedia, is a figure of speech indicating the retail and social center of neighborhood, village or city.  In the American collective imagination, Main Street belongs to the city and its people.  In older times, it's where the teens met at the malt shop and the farmers talked about corn prices.  More recently, it's where Starbucks is or isn't, depending on your town's social status.  What's important is its openness as the market center of a larger unit. In that vein,  Salt Lake City has an interesting counter story.  Several years ago, the city sold a block of Main Street to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, a church which is very powerful in the city and in the state of Utah.  The block has become a private park, governed by the Church.  Suddenly the collective thoroughfare is interrupted, and new way of organizing behavior inserted.  This manifestation of the beliefs of the Church of Jesus Christ is uplifting to members but an imposition to non-members who often feel oppressed by the Church's political power.  When are we entitled to access to that which flows?  To take another example, in a recent decision, the Montana Supreme Court ruled that wealthy landowners could not bar their fellows from the trout-rich stream that ran through their lands.  One of the landowners, Kenneth F. Siebel, was very upset.  He was quoted in the NY Times as saying, "I've put time and energy and love into the property and it's all gone and it's a shame."  Obviously the property was still there, and still in the improved condition to which he had brought it.  What made it seem "all gone" if strangers could visit?  And what about flow in cities -- should we protect the flow of Main Street the way we protect trout streams?