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By Tom Price
January 2000

	The news exploded over the Tenleytown/Friendship Heights community in Upper Northwest Washington like the city�s famous Fourth of July fireworks.
	The District of Columbia government was going to open a 50-bed shelter for homeless men in an abandoned police station, on a corner shared with a church, a nursery school, an elementary school and the edge of a quiet, affluent, white-collar, neighborhood of single-family homes.	
	Because there weren�t 50 homeless men hanging out in the vicinity of the site, they would be bused in from other parts of the city each night and shooed out the door each morning.
	Neighborhood response was frenzied.
	Nearly 1,000 jammed a hastily called community meeting at Janney Elementary School, overflowing the gymnasium into the halls and onto the lawn and sidewalk outside.
	Lawyers were mobilized. Legal actions were filed. City officials were besieged. 
	And the government retreated -- about 20 blocks south along Wisconsin Avenue, to Guy Mason Recreation Center, at the edge of another upscale residential neighborhood known as Massachusetts Avenue Heights.	
	The neighborhood response was identical, but this time Mayor Sharon Pratt Dixon would not retreat. The battle was joined -- in court, before the zoning board and even in the National Park Service which had participated in the recreation center�s development.
	The mayor was demonized as an amoral politician who was out to boost her standing among poor and minority voters by forcing an unneeded shelter into the city�s whitest and most-affluent ward. The white and affluent residents of Ward 3 were demonized as racists and elitists who might talk the liberal talk but wouldn�t tolerate social services for the needy near their backyards. The shelter�s intended residents were alternately depicted as the innocent victims of a cruel economic system and heartless rich folk -- or as drug- and alcohol-crazed predators who would molest the neighborhood�s children, rape the women and mug the men.
	A few neighborhood residents spoke out in favor of the shelter proposal, but most expressed a mixture of outrage and fear.
	�Crime will come with this,� one resident warned  during the mass meeting at Janney, which lasted three hours and featured more than 125 speakers, almost all of whom condemned the city plan. �I personally have been assaulted by a homeless person, and we will all have that story to tell soon.�
	A neighbor of the Guy Mason center wrote to The Washington Post that he opposed the shelter proposal because �I do not want the quiet streets of my neighborhood to become infested with the lazy, the addled and the drug-addicted beggars who already litter too much of this city.�
	�They went ballistic,� is how J.E. McNeil remembers the reaction of so many of her neighbors and fellow Janney School parents. �They were totally hysterical.�
	They also, in the end, were totally successful.
	Some two years after the mayor first revealed her early-1991 plan for the shelter near Janney School, the city government let the concept of the Guy Mason shelter fade away.

	--------------------------------------------

	At first glance, this appears to be a classic case of the arousal -- and eventual triumph -- of what has become known throughout the United States as NIMBYism:
	Affluent individuals, feeling assaulted by big government, fortify the walls that they have erected to isolate themselves from the troubles of the less fortunate. �Not in my back yard!� they declare. And their yards remain unsullied.
	In fact, this really is a story about the triumph of community:
	Neighbors seized the initiative from government institutions to help the homeless in their own -- arguably more effective -- way. At the same time, they preserved the neighborhood character that they felt was threatened by the government�s shelter plans.
	Today, nine years after the controversy erupted, a half dozen shelters are scattered around the ward, including near both Janney and Guy Mason. Several formerly homeless men live in apartments along Wisconsin and Connecticut avenues. A house in a single-family neighborhood has become a group home for five formerly homeless women and a caretaker. A staff of nine -- backed by scores of volunteers -- provides a variety of services to the homeless from a refurbished Wisconsin Avenue house that has been named Friendship Place.
	All operate with widespread support and nearly universal acceptance because:
	 -- They were created and nurtured by neighborhood residents who paid serious attention to their neighbors� concerns.
	 -- They are operated by a community organization that embraced neighbors with varied points of view and tapped the resources and good will of religious congregations, business councils, citizens associations and other neighborhood groups.
	 -- The issue confronting the community was redefined. At first, most residents saw the question as: How do we protect our neighborhoods from the big, impersonal, incompetent government�s plan to dump 50 bums on our doorsteps? Over time, it became: How do we help our homeless neighbors?
	It�s a model that could be used across the country by communities facing any number of social challenges.

	---------------------------------------

	The initial shelter plan touched off a loud, dramatic, bitter battle of angry residents against government officials who were egged on by groups of political activists -- some determined to promote the rights of the homeless, others wanting to force Ward 3 to bear more of the unpleasant burdens of urban life.
	As reported by The Washington Post, shelter opponents had faces that were �mottled red with rage.� At public meetings, they scoffed, jeered, shouted -- even howled. They were fearful, outraged and furious. The dispute was filled with �seemingly inexhaustible venom.�
	 �There's no compromising,� one shelter opponent declared. �They�ll meet massive resistance if they put it here.�
	�We�re going to fight this tooth and nail,� another warned.
	Led by parents of Janney Elementary School students, opponents of the first shelter proposal organized a committee of lawyers, contributed to a legal fund and retained McNeil and Rick Ricks, her husband and law partner, to attack the plan in court. 
	The city government caved almost immediately, discovering that the old police station, which had been vacant for several years, would require at least $75,000 in renovations and an unspecified amount of time to be brought into compliance with codes.
	So the battle shifted south to Guy Mason Recreation Center, with a new cast of opponents, a new team of lawyers and new legal challenges to the city�s plans.
	Over the next two years, shelter opponents would pay some $100,000 in legal fees. Advocates for the homeless would stage a takeover of the recreation center and would disrupt Easter services at a neighboring church whose congregation opposed the shelter.	
	�It's not even a debate,� one neighbor lamented. �It�s a series of theatrical positions that have been staked out.�

	-----------------------------------------

	While nearly all residents of the neighborhoods opposed placing a 50-bed shelter near a school or in a recreation center, some were unsettled by the fury they witnessed among their neighbors. They did have, they believed, some obligation to help the homeless. As early as the immediate aftermath of the raucous meeting at Janney Elementary School, friends began discussing their concerns. Soon -- in living rooms, coffee shops and church basements -- small clusters of neighbors were independently creating a new movement.
	Among those who attended the Janney meeting was Kathleen Partridge, an octogenarian who had reared four children in the house where she still lived about 10 blocks away. She found her neighbors� conduct �shameful.�
	The crowd hissed the few speakers who supported the shelter proposal, she said. When a minister stood up to  endorse the shelter, she recalled, �they made vomiting noises at him.�
	�It wasn�t a good location� for a shelter, she agreed, �but people overreacted. They were so angry. It was like paranoia. It was discouraging.
	�When we came out of the meeting, we were so shocked, a few of us. We talked on the phone. We said we ought to do something. I guess we were just expressing our unhappiness.
	�We had one small meeting at someone�s house. We had another and another and another, and the ranks sort of swelled. 
	�I think it was just people calling their friends.�
	
		-------------------------------

	Shortly after the Janney meeting, Jean Duff, who was rearing 3- and 5-year-old children about two blocks from the Guy Mason Center, had a similar reaction to the activities of her neighbors.
	Duff led a neighborhood organization -- Friends of Guy Mason -- that was renovating the recreation center�s playground and that met regularly in her living room. Talk at those meetings turned naturally to the city�s plan to move 50 homeless men in next to the swings and slides.  
	�I don�t hold that spending money on emergency shelter is the best investment,� Duff said. �Most people are homeless because of addictions, mental illness and poor health -- things that are very, very serious problems that are not fixed by a shelter bed, which I would regard as a Band-Aid. The city was investing a very large amount of money for a very poor return.
	�But my attitude was mild compared to the concerns of my neighbors, who were just very scared, very misinformed and absolutely adamant that this thing would not take place. I found myself very troubled by this. There was absolutely no doubt that we had homeless neighbors, and there were absolutely no services in the ward for homeless men and women.�
	Because the Guy Mason battle continued for nearly two years, Duff found herself attending a large number of community meetings that grew �more and more intense and more and more vitriolic.�
	�Many of these meetings were bitter, personally contentious,� she recalled. �The thing was incredibly polarized. People were bringing video cameras to record the meetings. Clergy were coming and denouncing neighbors as evil people.�
	As she became acquainted with a growing number of neighbors who felt strongly on both sides of the dispute (including Partridge and her friends), Duff searched for a common ground that didn�t involve the Guy Mason shelter. She circulated a proposal that �we organize as neighbors to help our homeless neighbors.� To try to bridge the neighborhood fissures, she asked Lois Williams to join in convening a community meeting about the proposal.

	--------------------------------

	Williams was an unlikely ally. A lawyer who lived near Janney, she had represented the homeless in class-action lawsuits that resulted in court orders for shelters to be opened throughout the city. She was active in a Ward 3 committee that advocated creation of shelter and services for the homeless in the ward. She was keeping in touch with a group of clergy who were meeting because they believed their congregations were obliged to clothe, feed and shelter the naked, hungry and homeless. Rather than viewing a 50-bed shelter as too big, she thought it was �a paltry sum.�
	�I did not regard it as unmanageable or as a difficult number for the neighborhood to serve,� Williams said. �I didn�t believe it was best to put it in the recreation center. But, if the choice was between that and nothing, there was no choice. 
	�I came away hardened by some of these angry community meetings. If it was a choice between people�s selfish interests in the affluent neighborhoods and whether folks would live or die or have to sleep outside, to me it was just a clear imperative.�
	Williams first encountered Duff at a community meeting.
	�She was speaking for neighbors of Guy Mason,� Williams recalled, �and I thought: �Here we go again!� But it was quite different.
	�She said: �We�ve got to do something. We don�t think the recreation center is the place to do that.� But there was willingness to look at other options. They sort of challenged the church people to step up, and the church people sort of challenged them to step up. It became clear we had some common goals.�

	-----------------------------

	Together, Duff and Williams called a meeting at St. Alban�s Episcopal Church, about four blocks from Guy Mason, in October 1991. They invited leaders of community organizations and individuals who had attended meetings about the controversy, regardless of their opinions about the city�s plan. Some 40 neighbors attended and began to create what became the Community Council for the Homeless.
	As proposed by Duff, the fledgling organization�s first rule was: �We would not talk about Guy Mason.�
	�We recognized that people disagreed about this,� she said, �and it was not germane to this discussion. The idea was that we would try to serve homeless neighbors and that our stance toward them would be as neighbors.� 
	The organization�s name was chosen carefully to reflect its goals.
	�It was a movement of the community,� Duff explained. ��Council� suggested it was a horizontal, rather than a vertical, organization. The homeless were the focus of concern. The name suggested it represented a  
variety of interests in the community.�

		--------------------------

	The group that felt the most troubling challenge in the shelters controversy was the clergy. All of the faiths with congregations in the area taught an obligation to help the poor. Yet most of those congregations� members were opposed to placing a large shelter near Janney or at Guy Mason. Shelter opponents held meetings at St. Columba�s Episcopal Church, across the corner from Janney, and at St. Luke�s Methodist Church, across the street from Guy Mason. And clergy who commuted from the suburbs were subject to attack as outsiders who had no personal stake in the battle. �Where do you live, anyway?� was a question routinely directed to shelter supporters at community meetings.
	Especially concerned about the issue because of his church�s location, St. Luke�s pastor Andrew Gunn invited his fellow Ward 3 clergy to a meeting to discuss the matter. About two dozen attended. A few started thinking about offering shelter in their churches. And that thought meshed with the first plan of the newly formed Community Council, which had decided to ask local congregations to consider hosting small shelters.
	St. Luke�s opened the first shelter, with six beds year round, in December of 1991. St. Columba�s, St. Alban�s, Metropolitan United Methodist and St. Paul�s Lutheran followed with shelters that would be open only during the winter months. The Roman Catholic Church of the Annunciation decided to maintain two transitional apartments for the homeless.
	The churches supplied the facilities, some financial support and a base of volunteers. But the shelters really were broad community projects, with the Community Council raising additional funds and helping to organize a larger volunteer corps to support the congregations� activities.
	Providing more than a bed and a roof, the church-based shelters try to help their residents toward self-sufficiency. They offer access to counseling and training. The volunteers help to reconnect the homeless with the broader community by sharing meals at the shelters and developing friendships with the residents.
	The St. Luke�s shelter has housed about 250 men since it opened, the majority of whom �have been able to put their lives back together,� according to Gunn. �When they left us, they had jobs and money in the bank, were self-sufficient and were able to move back out into the community and become productive citizens.�
	Thomas Omholt, the pastor at St. Paul�s, tells of a shelter resident who became a Sunday school teacher at the church after getting control of the alcoholism and depression that drove him into homelessness in the first place. 
	�He�s a bright guy who�s now gainfully employed� in the Washington area�s booming high-tech industry, Omholt said.
	The clergy encountered some opposition to the shelters, both within their congregations and among their neighbors. But most members and neighbors supported, or at least accepted, the church shelters -- primarily because they were home-grown and carefully explained.
	�Unlike the mayor,� Omholt said, �we did our homework.�
	Both Gunn and Omholt planted the idea first with church members who were likely to react positively. Then, in concert with those members, they moved on to educating their full congregations and the surrounding neighborhoods.
	Omholt asked his church�s social ministry group to consider the needs of the homeless in the church�s neighborhood and what if anything the congregation ought to do about it. �They came up with: �Why don�t we do a shelter?� Omholt said. 
	�That was a small group focused on meeting the needs of people -- they were easy. Then it was a matter of selling it to my (church governing) council. And then I wanted to take it to the full church, because I felt it was important enough to need congregational approval.
	�We had a series of workshops on what is homelessness, who are the homeless, what are homeless folk dealing with. One workshop was theological: As a church, why should we be entertaining the possibility of doing this. We asked some St. Luke�s volunteers to come over and tell us about their experience.�
	They also sponsored neighborhood meetings and made presentations to community organizations, such as the PTA for the school across the street from the church and the local Advisory Neighborhood Commission, an elected body that was created by city law to provide neighborhood input to the city government and that often serves as a forum for a broad range of neighborhood concerns.

	------------------------------------

	Community Council members soon concluded that the church-based shelters weren�t enough. In the spring of 1992, they hired a young woman to be what they called a �street worker� -- to research the extent of homelessness in Ward 3, listen to what the homeless said they needed and attempt to link them with help. By the end of the year, they decided they needed a facility from which they could coordinate their volunteers and offer such daytime services as counseling and medical care. 
	As was typical throughout the council�s creation and growth, someone called a meeting. This time it was Nathan Baxter, who invited clergy and members of congregations throughout the ward to the Washington National (Episcopal) Cathedral where he was dean. At the meeting, Sister Mary Griffin and Donald Boardman agreed to lead the effort to open a facility.
	Sister Mary, who lives in a Tenleytown convent near where she grew up, had been working with the homeless and hungry for years. Boardman, a semi-retired real estate development executive and member of St. Columba�s Episcopal Church, had become an advocate for the mentally ill because of his son�s difficult struggle with schizophrenia.
	For months, they searched unsuccessfully for a location.
	�Everywhere we went, it was clear the landlord wouldn�t take the risk on an organization like ours,� Boardman said, �because the images were really of all these unwashed people lounging around. Then, out of the blue, a real estate colleague of mine mentioned that this house on Wisconsin Avenue would become available.�
	The owner was moving out of town and wanted to sell. Boardman and Sister Mary already had raised between $25,000 and $30,000, mostly by soliciting congregations. Now they accelerated their efforts, seeking foundation grants and recruiting �angels� -- individuals willing to make loans of between $1,000 and $5,000 with the thought that the debts might eventually be forgiven. At the same time, a homeless woman died on a bench in front of the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, and in an effort to make a public response HUD Secretary Henry Cisneros contributed $60,000 toward the purchase from his discretionary fund. Also at the time, another friend of Boardman�s offered to rehabilitate the exterior of the house for free.
	Every year, the building trades magazine Roofing Siding Insulation coordinates a charitable rehabilitation project. Randy Denchfield, who grew up in the neighborhood and now owns Denchfield Roofing in nearby Silver Spring, Maryland, brought Boardman�s need to the magazine�s attention and the house became the publication�s 1994 undertaking.
	A local architect did the design for free. About 20 manufacturers donated the supplies. About a dozen Washington-area contractors volunteered to perform the work. As a result, the house became the best-looking property along that commercial strip of Wisconsin Avenue. 
	The founders christened the facility Friendship Place -- to honor the name of the neighborhood, Friendship Heights, and to impart an amiable message to affluent and homeless neighbors alike. 
	�It was a name that conveyed what we hoped it would be,� Sister Mary said.
	The attempt at friendship wasn�t universally reciprocated at first, however. When plans for the facility became known in the fall of 1993, about 85 nearby merchants signed a petition of protest. The Washington Post described them as �furious,� fearful that vagrants would congregate in the area, bringing drugs and crime with them, frightening away customers and eroding property values.
	�We don�t think they have the right to deprive us of our livelihood,� one angry property-owner complained.
�If they are going to be in front of my restaurant,� a prominent restaurateur declared, �I am out of here.�
	Because the property was zoned for commercial development, Friendship Place had the right to operate the kind of program that was planned. But, just as they had when developing the shelters, the Community Council members worked to win neighborhood acceptance of Friendship Place.
	�There is a real community here,� Boardman said of the Friendship Heights/Tenleytown area. �And the community has a history of doing things responsibly.
	�I think the neighborhood wants to protect its character and scale and safety, and that�s not unreasonable. What people seemed to fear was that a concentration of drug addicts, mentally ill and dirty people would hang around in large clusters in our neighborhood. I think I�d oppose that myself.�
	To address the fear, Friendship Place supporters met with business owners and residents and attended numerous community meetings, putting out the message that they would be helping homeless people get off of the neighborhood�s streets rather than bringing more in.   
	�We had hundreds of people who would come out to these meetings and say I live right here and I volunteer,� Duff said. �I think it was absolutely key that this organization could call on neighbors to come out and testify to the merits of the work and say they themselves were involved.
	�We had a spirit of compromise. We were not rabid. We were not dismissive. We listened. We talked. We educated.�
	They also signed a formal agreement with the area�s Advisory Neighborhood Commission, in which the Friendship Place Board of Directors pledged to �take seriously the concerns of our neighbors about loitering, increasing numbers of homeless in our area and disruptive behavior in general.� They promised that Friendship Place would:
	 -- Not operate as an overnight shelter, soup kitchen or shower facility.
	 -- Not distribute cash handouts.
	 -- Schedule client appointments only between 8:30 a.m. and 5 p.m. on weekdays.
	 -- Restrict staff and volunteers from parking on nearby residential streets.
	 -- Urge clients to leave the area if they caused problems and to withhold services if they refused.
	 -- Meet monthly with a community advisory committee that included both residents and business owners.
	�Friendship Place made certain representations to us, and sometimes they were reluctant to put it on paper,� said Marian Fox, the neighborhood commission member who negotiated the agreement. �That made me very uneasy. Because, if that is what you�re willing to do, why won�t you agree on paper to do it?�
	With the signing of the agreement, the neighborhood commission voted, 4-1, to support the project. Most of the opponents adopted a cautious, wait-and-see attitude. Over time, most of them became supporters.
	�I was one of the activists who was against it at the beginning, because I was three doors away from them,� said Jack Bubis, who owns a neighborhood beauty shop. �After many meetings of outrage, our group (of business owners) was going sue them. We were all willing to pay to fight this.�
	When the business owners became convinced that Friendship Place was not going to bring more homeless into the area with a shelter and feeding program, �it was accepted,� Bubis said. The facility�s track record over the years has won it solid support, he added.
	The computer store next door maintains the Community Council�s computers for free. The frame shop next to the computer store frames the organization�s artwork and certificates. The nearby Amoco station maintains the Friendship Place van. A new multimillion-dollar condominium complex is providing some parking for staff and volunteers.
	Marian Fox has joined the Community Council for the Homeless board.
	Bubis now regularly cuts the hair of one of the neighborhood�s long-time homeless men.
	�It makes him feel good,� Bubis said. �It makes me feel good.�

	-------------------------------------

	Despite -- or perhaps because of -- the volunteers� successes, the Community Council�s board eventually concluded that the organization needed to become more professional. 
	In 1996, the council hired its first full-time, professional executive director -- Lynn Shea, a former deputy general manager of the New York City Housing Authority, who had most recently been working in a private social services agency in Washington.
	The organization now has a paid staff of nine and provides facilities for a physician and a psychiatrist to see homeless patients on a part-time basis. It plans to continue to expand the number of housing units that it manages and expects it will have to continue to add staff.
	
	-----------------------------

	Community Council members believe the last decade has taught them important lessons about themselves, about their community and about how any community can stand up to social challenges such as homelessness.
	The most important lesson, perhaps, is that the community itself is best equipped to take on the challenge. Neighbors who were terrified of the city government�s shelter plan eventually accepted the Community Council�s activities because the council is of the neighborhood. 	Because it was designed by neighbors who listened to neighbors, the Community Council�s plan took on a different scale and quality than the city government�s. Jean Duff and her colleagues constantly searched for common ground and were willing to compromise to secure it. And they discovered that their neighborhoods were full of resources -- from the religious congregations� physical facilities and moral suasion, to the skills and time contributed by architects, real estate developers, tradesmen and general-purpose volunteers.
	By befriending the homeless and treating them as neighbors, the volunteers cultivated relationships that may have helped some of the homeless more than social workers could have. They saved lives by getting men and women off the streets, connecting them to drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs, helping them get job training. 
	But, in the end, they realized they need the professionals, too. By providing food, clothing and good will, volunteers were enabling some homeless to stay on the street rather than helping them get off. And a kind of creaming was going on: They could not help the many homeless who suffered serious addiction and mental and physical health problems.
	The challenge for the organization now is to 
assure that professionalism and growth don�t erode the essential character that has made the Community Council for the Homeless a neighborhood success.
	�Our organization, because it�s grounded in relationships, because it�s driven by continuity in relationships, is very, very effective with people whose lives are characterized by broken relationships,� Duff said. �Because so many different people are involved -- professional and lay -- it�s a very creative process.�
	Together, the volunteer board members and professional managers must �balance the need for very professional, high-level, skilled care with continuing the strong citizen base and strong volunteer base,� she said. 
	�We don�t want to end up as a government agency.�

		(end)

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