Feb 2003: Finding Anacostia

Chapter 1

Bzz....bzz...bzz...

The nagging buzz of the alarm clock penetrated my dreamless sleep. Shoot, 4.30 already........it seemed merely minutes ago when I laid down. It would be many, many hours before I would once again learn to enjoy the mindless comfort of my Sleep Number mattress.

Waking up at “O-dark-thirty” was never pleasant, but it would be severely painful for my fitness report if I didn’t make it to work on time. (O-dark-thirty is military jargon for “earlier than the rooster crows”)

Automatically I sat up, eyes fuzzy with sleep, and fumbled in the dark to still the alarm, unaware just then that I had woken up to a day that would forever change my life.

As good as auto-pilot, I showered and shaved, and dressed to face a freezing wintry morning in the nation's capital. The biting wind stung my face as I stepped on to the snow-covered streets with caution to negotiate the short walk from the Metropolitan mid-rise apartments in Pentagon City to my office at the Pentagon. The normally invigorating ten minute walk seemed like eternity that morning.





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My short walk from the Metropolitan Apartments to the Pentagon

   As my boots scrunched on yesterday’s snow, my mind had already wandered firmly into my office setting, letting my thoughts slip lazily over the job that awaited me at this early, silent hour. Privately and for the last three weeks that I had embarked on this wicked regimen, each weekday morning, I had often times categorized it as menial and monotonous. But in stark reality, I knew how critical and valued this by-product would become.

My crucial task was to conduct a targeted online search, browse Navy-related articles or ones of relevance to the Navy and collate them together in one concise PDF document. In particular, I would have to browse the 5 major metropolitan papers that CHINFO, or the Navy Office of Information, subscribed to daily: The Washington Post, the Washington Times, USA Today, Baltimore Sun and the Christian Science Monitor. I have always been baffled by this particular combination, but it never once occurred to me to ask why.

    This “CHINFO News Clips” the twenty or twenty-five pages of methodically culled Navy-related and sociopolitically relevant news of the day that I religiously prepared each morning, is electronically distributed to the entire Navy leadership before they are served their first cup of java. Some of Washington’s powerful decision-makers and opinion shapers within DoD and USG were also on the obligatory distribution list.

In the distance I could see the massive concrete and steel behemoth known colloquially as the "Five-sided Palace", the bright lights beckoning, enticing me to the warmth of its secure fold. I quickened my pace, my chilled body longing for the almost maternal embrace of the heated atmosphere within. As my breath steamed in the frosty air, I imagined the pampered feeling of being enveloped by the pungent aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. My near-frozen body yearned for my first mug of steaming java. Just a few steps more .......

I headed to my office located in the B ring of the 4th corridor, specifically 4B463, the same wedge that was damaged on 9/11 and now arose like the proverbial phoenix from the ashes of the ghastly terrorist attack.

Now looking at the cozy interior, still shining with the fresh glow of newness, it struck me anew as it does every time I enter the building, as symbolic of our resurrection from the brutal onslaught of terrorism.

    As I settled myself down comfortably in my office embracing my mug of steaming hot java, my thoughts sobered as they dwelt on the prevailing global political arena. There was no doubt that trouble was brewing in the Middle East drama, with hostilities escalating at dizzying speed. The UN reported that Iraq has not come to a "genuine acceptance of the disarmament that was demanded of it," and President Bush announced that the US is ready to attack Iraq even without a UN mandate. So, it became very apparent that the US was poised to strike Iraq at any moment, and all the tension, the suppressed excitement, the anxiety of an impending war was almost tangible around me at the Pentagon. It was getting translated into laborious top level meetings, long hours and lots of pizza deliveries. As much as it got the adrenaline pumping, I felt a tinge of fear mixed with anxiety. Several of my close friends and colleagues were forward-deployed to Kuwait . How long would they serve in a violent land with an indefinite end date and what was the fate of the impending war? How were their families coping while they were overseas? Would they return home safely to hug their children once again? An unsettling feeling of disquiet tugged at me as I reviewed the news of the day – so slow, so lethargic, as if everything was holding its breath in anticipation. This feeling of calm before the storm was unnerving and I was feeling over the edge.

As these thoughts and concerns swirled wildly in my stream of consciousness, I casually opened the Washington Post and began browsing its contents. One section, then the next ... suddenly I stiffened, my attention riveted by the Feb 13, front page story of the Metro Section. It was a two-page spread on the plight of a community east of the Anacostia River. The graphic story of this economically-distressed neighborhood tugged at my heart in the most peculiar way.

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    The writer’s passion and sensitivity added depth and poignance to an already heart-wrenching story. My attention was caught by the accuracy of the information and the upbeat tone that hinted at a better future around the corner, for the residents.

Such are the contrasts in the hilly neighborhoods of Bellevue, Washington Highlands, Congress Heights, [Frederick Douglass] and Shipley. Together, these five neighborhoods fill the bottom of the D.C. diamond, just east of Bolling Air Force Base.

It was sparsely populated until the middle of last century, when doctors, engineers and other professionals arrived to new neighborhoods of brick houses and bungalows. Many worked at nearby Bolling Air Force Base, just across Interstate 295, or at St. Elizabeths. Some of the public housing projects now being demolished were constructed as temporary government housing during World War II.

In the 1970s, thousands of poor African American families were relocated to these neighborhoods and the rest of [Ward] 8 to clear the way for "urban renewal" on the Southwest waterfront. Many were the children or grandchildren of an earlier generation of families moved to Southwest from Georgetown, Foggy Bottom and Dupont Circle, to clear those neighborhoods for affluent whites.

Like other financially struggling areas of the city, the neighborhoods in the southern tip suffer from a lack of retail shopping. Martin Luther King Avenue, across from the gated east campus entrance of St. Elizabeths, today offers little more than a barbershop, a convenience store, a discount general store and the Player's Lounge, a local and political watering hole. There is no dry cleaner, drugstore or hardware store, no place to sit down with a cup of coffee. The gaps remind Avery Thagard, the city planner assigned to Ward 8, of the mouth of an old man who has spent a lifetime without good dental care. "It's like missing teeth," he said. "We've got to find a way to fill these gaps with the type of neighborhood conveniences that other communities take for granted."

As I methodically consumed the information, savoring every nuance of expression, I was mentally shaking my head. No, not there, I thought. I had heard way too many horror stories from way too many people in different social strata. And this was even before I had ever stepped on the soil of Washington DC. Anacostia, the armpit of the nation’s capital, ironically, seemed saturated with crime and as sleazy as any downtrodden community could get. Not to be touched with a barge pole ...... that was the unspoken conclusion I had drawn over and over again.

The day dragged on, and with the passing hours I was conscientiously monitoring the overseas news, tracking each incident as it arose. And all the while, an inner voice was nudging me, trying to steal my attention to the dangerous dilemma of Anacostia. My mind was focused on the glimmer of hope I detected in the story; it yearned for the people, its presence, their plight. “That community is on the verge of a turnaround. This could be a diamond in the rough.” Like the tides, I learned to trust, the thought waves ebbed and flowed, and being a good military officer, I was determined to do my own reconnaissance.

It was like was jumping head on into an adventure in the wilds. The danger and the forbidding elements only whetted my insatiable appetite further. Anacostia was calling me in mysterious, unfathomable ways. No work week had seemed so long. Never had time dragged this way. I was impatiently counting the hours till the weekend when I would get the opportunity to do my own windshield tour of Anacostia.

    I couldn't wait until I returned home, realizing that the day got dark earlier and earlier as it got colder and colder. Almost the very first thing I did after kissing and hugging my five-year-old son was to succumb to the luring attraction of search engines and news clippings.   I expended critical hours surfing the web and learning everything I could about this unknown and dangerous side that lingered across the Anacostia. It seemed like the beginning of a mysterious love affair, but one that I wanted to seriously shake away. I was delving as deep as I could into the history of Anacostia, to get to know her, to understand the myriad complex facets that make her what she is today.