MODEL HAVENS FOR THE HOMELESS
CCNV'S SPRUCED-UP SHELTER AND A HOUSE FOR 12 WOMEN
By Benjamin Forgey
Washington Post Staff Writer
Column: CITYSCAPE
Saturday, December 26, 1987
; Page C01
You may find it hard to imagine the sight of a dentist's chair in any way
spirit-stirring, but it can happen. What it depends on is the context. A clean
little cubicle with the chair and all of that other chilling, metallic stuff
-- nobody's hapless castoff equipment, mind you, all brand new and up-to-date
-- installed in a residence for homeless people, can make you count
well-cared-for teeth as blessings, and make you realize that yes, this is
right, this is the way it ought to be.
The transformation of the shelter established and run by the Community for
Creative Non-Violence (CCNV) is something to see -- the big building at 425
Second St. NW on the edge of the city's judicial district, for so many years a
piteous eyesore, now looking presentable, pleasant. But its new, patterned
skin of softly tinted tiles is only part of the story, and the lesser part.
Inside, where by necessity an assortment of society's left-outs were housed
temporarily in conditions as philosophically distressing as they were
physically disheartening, housed like so much trash, things have changed more
fundamentally -- clean, warm-toned walls in place of dirty, institutional
green ones; tiled bathrooms and showers that work; medical facilities
(including two dental offices); great factory-size refrigerators.
On the other, smaller end of the spectrum of responses to homelessness
there is the row house in a Northeast neighborhood, unhappily a familiar
sight, its windows and doors boarded and bricked, its back yard a scene of
hopeless abandonment, its interior rooms a record of sorry habitation. Artist
Stewart White's evocative drawing shows what this relic could become -- a
contribution to the neighborhood, a beckoning warm place, a hearth, a home.
This transformation, too, will happen. Within a year a group called Housing
Opportunities for Women (HOW) expects 12 more or less desperate tenants and a
resident manager to be living under its aegis in this house, each with her own
bedroom, each having access to a kitchen, two bathrooms and a small gathering
space fitted into every one of the building's three floors.
The difference in size alone between the two projects is, of course,
enormous -- the downtown shelter, when finally done in a month or so, will
provide 1,700 beds plus rooms for 45 live-in staff. Differences in scale are
commensurate. The CCNV operation is institutional. Its gleaming new kitchen,
the equivalent of an Army mess hall, will dispense meals, via elevators, to
dining halls located in each of the facility's "village" complexes. Women at
the HOW residence, by contrast, will cook their own meals.
But both places are vital links in an obviously incomplete chain of
services for the very poor; both operate according to the long-recognized
(though frequently violated) principle of closely connecting services
(medical, psychological, social) with the basic necessity of shelter; and both
illustrate the rapidly blurring distinction between emergency shelter and
long-term or even permanent low-income housing.
HOW organizers fully recognize the possibility that some occupants (each
paying a rent of about $150 per month) may need or desire to stay for a long
time. But the HOW approach, theoretically at least, represents the penultimate
link in the chain, a transitional living arrangement for "formerly homeless"
women that encourages them to help each other to make the last, difficult
steps to a self-sustaining existence in the open marketplace for housing and
jobs.
The design for the renovation was contributed by a big, busy local
architecture firm, the Weihe Partnership, in response to the nationwide
"Search for Shelter" program inaugurated last summer by the American Institute
of Architects (AIA), in collaboration with the Neighborhood Reinvestment Corp.
and the American Institute of Architecture Students.
This program is at once a modest and farsighted attempt to bring together
the energies and talents of architectural students, working professionals and
a host of agencies and individuals grappling with the problem of the homeless.
With an idealism chastened by the failure of so much large-scale public
housing in the postwar period (and also by the obvious lack of money for
housing in the Reagan era), the AIA program consciously abjured the big,
predetermined solution, opting instead to respond "to people rather than
abstract ideas," in the words of former AIA president Donald Hackl.
In Washington, as elsewhere, this process produced an outpouring of people
and companies willing to spend their talents or to donate materials or
services to the cause of improving the lot of homeless people. But only in
Washington and two others of the 32 participating cities did the immediate
response produce a design for a real building. It worked this way here mainly
because a single firm committed itself to finding a doable project -- the HOW
residence -- and then proceeded to do it.
After a session with the HOW people a group of Catholic University
architecture students devised a number of alternative floor plans, which were
refined, again in close collaboration with the client, by Marc Nathanson, an
associate partner in the Weihe firm. "An architectural tour de force this
isn't, and it shouldn't be," he observes. "It's a straightforward, livable,
economic facility. In a way, though, you work harder for a client like this --
they just don't have the 'eye' that our commercial clients have. It's like
working for God."
That, I suppose, is the main point. Professionals of all kinds have skills
needed by the courageous and sometimes lonely bands of people who are devoting
themselves to the keep of our less-fortunate fellows. The needs are not
necessarily big ones. The office of the Calvary Baptist Emergency Women's
Shelter, for instance, is a room where the director, a psychiatrist and a
social worker often have to do their special jobs all together and all at
once. The only requirement is a couple of partitions. Architect William Reed,
who heads up his own small firm in Chevy Chase, was able to help draw up a
plan. He promised to help make sure the construction is done correctly, too.
The problem of connecting good intentions with actual needs, however,
remains critical. Although Laura Adkins of the Weihe Partnership has assembled
an impressive list of both needs and potential donors, it is a job clearly
beyond the capacities of a single person or company, a job that perhaps the
mayor's new Coordinating Council on Homelessness could do, despite its
unwieldy, 73-member size.
And, to stress the obvious, volunteerism -- corporate, religious or
individual -- is in itself insufficient to the task, an inevitable fact of
life often overlooked by rah-rah cutters of federal housing budgets for the
past seven years. That's a macro policy that's had a clear negative impact,
as, obviously, has a macro-macro economic policy tilting impressively in favor
of the upper end of the social register.
Neither of these projects here discussed could possibly have been
accomplished without public funds. The HOW residence will be renovated with a
$266,000 40-year loan from the District government, a loan that basically is a
gift. (The interest charge is zero percent, and should HOW occupy and operate
the place for its intended purposes for a decade, repayments will cease.) The
downtown shelter, you will recall, came about only after CCNV leader Mitch
Snyder went on a hunger strike in 1984 until he got enough federal money to
start rebuilding. The District government, at last recognizing a bargain, came
through early this year with the $6.5 million needed to complete the $14.5
million project.
Even so, despite that money and all of the other heartening gifts, such as
Pepco's contribution of $300,000 worth of electrical equipment or an
individual's donation of $10,000 worth of medical equipment, the scope of the
homeless problem forced cutbacks in the CCNV program. By far the most serious
was the decision -- a necessity, Snyder says -- to convert most of the
single-bed spaces to Army-style bunks, and thereby to increase capacity from
1,000 to 1,700.
That's like getting a 700-bed shelter for almost nothing, but it's a great,
great loss in terms of privacy and dignity for the tenants. Such forced
overcrowding is an effective strategy in an Army barracks, where the object is
to create a cohesive, responsive unit in a tight command structure, but it's a
counterproductive one in a place devoted, as it should be, to the care and
feeding of the individual body and soul.
Still, one cannot help but be thankful for the combined efforts of all
involved. The volunteer spirit is crucial -- that dentist's chair, for
instance, will be manned by a professional who won't be getting paid for his
or her time, and such efforts will be duplicated by those of hundreds of
others in the coming year. And one can't help but be uplifted by the idea that
for at least a dozen women in Northeast D.C., next Christmas will be
certifiably happier than this one.
Articles appear as they were originally printed in The Washington
Post and may not include subsequent corrections.
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