Well, I finally found a DC neighborhood that hasn't gentrified yet-- although that doesn't mean it won't. Getting to the beginning of the Greater Deanwood Heritage Trail meant taking the Metro to Union Station, then a long number 96 bus to 52nd St. (The second half of the bus ride was the most alarming part of today's expedition: all signs pointed to the bus's having sustained a flat tire, but the driver appeared not to notice as we bumped and rattled and hurtled to and fro along the streets. A man behind me said to his neighbor: "I'm just here visiting a friend, hope I make it out alive.") From 52nd St., I walked north along Division Ave. until I reached the beginning of the trail at Foote St..
Division Ave. near E. Capitol St. had that poor-but-respectable look: small, drab houses with neat yards, quiet streets with trees. As I approached Deanwood proper, though, the air of respectability diminished. There was more trash along the street, everything looked grimier, and almost all visible people were male and appeared to be just hanging around. Not that I felt directly threatened at any point; just out-of-place and highly self-conscious. It didn't seem like a place where white people from outside the neighborhood go for exploratory walks.
It also didn't feel like a place where it was appropriate to pull out my phone and take lots of photos of everything; there was little that was picturesque, so I would have been transparently documenting the exoticism of everyday (black) poverty. One thing I did wish I got a photo of: the police station. I was passing a series of houses with front porches on which groups of young men were hanging out. Just past one of these there was a clearing in which a police station suddenly appeared: long and low and vaguely ominous, with an impressive number of police cars parked in rows along the street outside. Maybe twenty or thirty of them. In that location, with that degree of overwhelming police presence, they seemed to be overtly threatening their immediate neighbors. I wish I could show you; I should have shown you.
There was one truly beautiful spot on the trail: a low mosaic building just across from Marvin Gaye Park, of obvious historic value. (I learned, upon later research, that this building was the club in which Marvin Gaye began his career.) But the park was, again, full of men standing around, and there was an ancient, perhaps drunken homeless guy on the corner in front of the mosaic, and once again it did not seem appropriate to photograph the scene with all these unconsenting people in it. (This park is apparently much nicer than it was a few years ago, as is detailed here.)
On Nannie Helen Boroughs Ave, a hopeful note: a line of greenhouses tended by community gardeners. I like their sign.
Division Ave. near E. Capitol St. had that poor-but-respectable look: small, drab houses with neat yards, quiet streets with trees. As I approached Deanwood proper, though, the air of respectability diminished. There was more trash along the street, everything looked grimier, and almost all visible people were male and appeared to be just hanging around. Not that I felt directly threatened at any point; just out-of-place and highly self-conscious. It didn't seem like a place where white people from outside the neighborhood go for exploratory walks.
It also didn't feel like a place where it was appropriate to pull out my phone and take lots of photos of everything; there was little that was picturesque, so I would have been transparently documenting the exoticism of everyday (black) poverty. One thing I did wish I got a photo of: the police station. I was passing a series of houses with front porches on which groups of young men were hanging out. Just past one of these there was a clearing in which a police station suddenly appeared: long and low and vaguely ominous, with an impressive number of police cars parked in rows along the street outside. Maybe twenty or thirty of them. In that location, with that degree of overwhelming police presence, they seemed to be overtly threatening their immediate neighbors. I wish I could show you; I should have shown you.
There was one truly beautiful spot on the trail: a low mosaic building just across from Marvin Gaye Park, of obvious historic value. (I learned, upon later research, that this building was the club in which Marvin Gaye began his career.) But the park was, again, full of men standing around, and there was an ancient, perhaps drunken homeless guy on the corner in front of the mosaic, and once again it did not seem appropriate to photograph the scene with all these unconsenting people in it. (This park is apparently much nicer than it was a few years ago, as is detailed here.)
On Nannie Helen Boroughs Ave, a hopeful note: a line of greenhouses tended by community gardeners. I like their sign.
On 49th St., a middle-aged man passing by wearing a "Black Lives Matter" tshirt hit on me. I mention the tshirt because it prejudiced me in his favor. Also, I have to respect the rare individual who is capable of hitting on a total stranger on the street without coming off as aggressive or mocking. I'm not a fan of stranger ambush, and I would totally make the rule that no man shall accost a woman walking by whom he does not know. But, if you're going to do it, do it like this man: get in with the compliment (and don't make it overtly sexual), be friendly and respectful, and get out again. Telling the woman to "have a good day" and then MOVING ON wins you extra points. No creepy following or pestering. I actually felt more welcome in the neighborhood after this guy hit on me, and that is, believe me guys, highly unusual.
I'd meant to stop and have some coffee and lunch while I was in Deanwood, but there were no restaurants along my way, just a few tiny makeshift food stores. (I did see a Wendy's and a McDonald's a bit off the path, but did not go there.) Deanwood is kind of a food desert. What there was, instead of restaurants, was churches. Churches and churches and churches. A couple of them were biggish and pretty, like this one:
I'd meant to stop and have some coffee and lunch while I was in Deanwood, but there were no restaurants along my way, just a few tiny makeshift food stores. (I did see a Wendy's and a McDonald's a bit off the path, but did not go there.) Deanwood is kind of a food desert. What there was, instead of restaurants, was churches. Churches and churches and churches. A couple of them were biggish and pretty, like this one:
But most of them were like the food shops: tiny, dingy, in mostly residential buildings, with names like "Macedonia Holy Church on the Rock" and "Divine Love Baptist." I'm having trouble finding the names, actually, of the more obscure ones, and yet it was the profusion of obscure ones that struck me. In one location there were three contiguous church properties. What Deanwood lacks in business investment, it apparently makes up for in faith.
The Minnesota Ave. Metro station, where I ended my walk, was dimly lit and had large amounts of water dripping from the entrance onto the floors below. Even Metro looks like it invests less in this neighborhood.
May Deanwood find a way to enjoy greater prosperity without its residents being wholly run out of town by rich white people.
May Deanwood find a way to enjoy greater prosperity without its residents being wholly run out of town by rich white people.