88.5 WFDD - On The Margins

Every day in the Triad, families live on the edge. Some are looking for a home they can afford. Many others are just one bill away from eviction. The housing problems here are rooted in our history and shape our present and future, and the safety net meant to protect our most vulnerable citizens plays a major role.  On The Margins is a one-hour documentary including three stories from WFDD's investigation into housing struggles in the Triad.  It includes the story of a neighborhood on the edge of downtown Greensboro, where historic redlining maps shape its past, present, and future. Also, the impact and process of evictions in Forsyth County which, while routine, leaves a lasting mark on one’s credit and financial health. Plus, the surprising role the Housing Authority of Winston-Salem plays in the county's eviction numbers.  Plus, we answer your questions. This is On The Margins.  This reporting project is a collaboration between WFDD, Carolina Data Desk at The UNC School of Media and Journalism and Wake Forest University's Journalism Program. It was made possible through funding from the Knight Foundation.  Music composed and recorded by 1970s Film Stock. Story does not include AP content #housing #winston-salem #affordable housing #evictions #housing authority #larry woods #forsysth county Economy Normal Tweet

Phleam Tart lives in an apartment complex managed by the Housing Authority of Winston-Salem. He says he’s confused by the onslaught of bills he receives and fears being evicted. EDDIE GARCIA/WFDD This reporting project is a collaboration between WFDD, Carolina Data Desk at The UNC School of Media and Journalism and Wake Forest University's Journalism Program. It was made possible through funding from the Knight Foundation. To understand the philosophy behind the Housing Authority of Winston-Salem, start at the top and rewind the clock to 2015. That’s when Chief Executive Officer Larry Woods testified before the U.S. House of Representatives Budget Committee. He was there to make his case for more flexibility in how his agency operates. He shared his view that public housing, this system of housing the poor, is in desperate need of repair. “Our current system is broken, plain and simple. Right now there is no exit strategy. We are simply warehousing people in our programs,” says Woods. He wants tenants to come in, find their footing, and get out. Woods told the committee that the social safety net had “morphed into flypaper.” He says government policies are strangling his ability to steer people towards self-sufficiency — the social mission of the housing authority under Woods. But a WFDD and Carolina Data Desk investigation found that, for many residents, that exit from public housing is coming at the height of instability. Since 2014, the Housing Authority of Winston-Salem filed the second highest number of evictions in Forsyth County. In 2018 alone, it brought evictions against nearly 40 percent of the households living in its public housing units.   In a recent interview with WFDD, Woods defended his agency’s practices. "This is not a charitable operation. It wasn't designed to be a charitable operation. It has expenses just like everyone else,” he said. But evictions have become such a matter of routine at the Housing Authority of Winston-Salem — or HAWS —  that they dominate eviction court calendars several days a month. This amounts to nearly 600 cases a year; that number is equal to about half the total units HAWS owns. That’s an astonishing number, according to Director of Litigation Eric Dunn with the National Housing Law Project. The nonprofit's work focuses on enforcing the rights of tenants in the poorest communities. According to Dunn, a housing authority initiating that many cases against tenants would seem to “indicate that there’s some kind of fundamental problem with the way they’re managing the program." Housing authorities are allowed to evict people. In fact, they have a lot of flexibility in how they go about their business. Winston Salem’s housing authority drafts its mission statement, sets its budget, and the leader shapes the agency’s philosophy. But Dunn says when a housing authority is more business-minded, it can be less sensitive towards the struggles facing low-income families. "Teach A Man To Fish"  Thousands of the community’s poorest residents make a home at HAWS' properties such as Cleveland Avenue Homes and Piedmont Park Apartments. There you’ll see families, children, and the elderly. Some residents are able to work; others rely on disability payments. Each earns less than 80 percent of Forsyth County's median income. Residents don’t live here for free. They pay what the federal government thinks is fair: 30 percent of their gross income. At the very least, a tenant has to contribute $50 a month — a relative bargain and the most basic of responsibilities, if you ask Woods. He expects these renters to be “model tenants.” Larry Woods’ philosophy on public housing took root in New York. As a child growing in public housing, he witnessed people climbing out of the system through hard work and perseverance. This background shaped the mindset he later brought to HAWS, which he calls the "self-reliance model." “Give a man a fish, he eats a day. Teach him how to fish, he feeds him and his family for life,” says Woods. When Woods came to the housing authority, the agency was in crisis. The former chair of its board and executive director were under investigation in a property-flipping scheme. But when Woods took the helm, he saw a different kind of crisis. He saw residents who planted themselves in the system generation after generation, not working towards self-sufficiency. “Subsidized housing is just that; it’s subsidized housing,” says Woods. “For some reason, it becomes almost as if this is a permanent fixture. I don't believe families in subsidized housing need to be a permanent fixture.” And that’s not what all tenants want either. But with the cost of rent on the rise, it can be hard to work your way out of the system. Ebony Black, who faced eviction in the spring from her Piedmont Park apartment, says she and her partner have tried. “We work good jobs, you know, we've been to school,” says Black. “We're just not some people who just live in the 'hood and want to live here and take advantage of the government. We are educated people. We are a family. You know, we are trying to move from here, but it's just like we can’t get up. It’s like we got stuck somewhere. And it’s just not working out.” Some tenants do manage to scrounge together money owed. But the deck is stacked against them in court; the vast majority of the time, the magistrate grants the housing authority’s request to evict. But officials at HAWS say only 151 households, that’s about a quarter of those they tried to evict in 2018, were actually displaced. Woods considers those empty units an opportunity. “If you don't want to fish, you don't have to fish. But let somebody else grab that pole and allow them to fish,” says Woods. Some people say they don’t want to see the proverbial fishing pole passed so frequently. Dan Rose with the advocacy group Housing Justice Now is one of them. While he and his group canvassed Cleveland Avenue apartments this spring, he urged residents to take action. “We need everbody to fight. That way we can clog up the courts. Make it so they can’t just keep pushing people out one right after the other," he tells a resident. Voices “Null And Void” It’s not just late rent that lands people in eviction court. WFDD found a surprising factor driving evictions: unpaid bills for gas and electricity. In 2018, half of the cases HAWS brought against tenants included debts for utilities. Often, these bills can be really high — hundreds of dollars. And some people, about 100, owed more utility than past due rent. Why does this matter? For people on fixed incomes, an unexpectedly high utility bill can put them over the edge.   The bills can be confusing for people like Phleam Tart. He’s a sharply dressed guy with a tidy apartment in Piedmont Park who prides himself on taking care of his business, no matter what. But money’s tight. He’s disabled and on a fixed income. He calls that the “ugly part about this situation.” And lately, his utility bills have become unpredictable. “You see what that bill is?" says Tart, as he flips through a printout he requested from the property’s management office. "Now how in the world am I supposed to pay that much money?” The housing authority sets a limit on what it says Tart should use. If he uses more than it allows, it comes out of his pocket. HAWS issues these bills to tenants like Tart; they don't come directly from providers like Piedmont Natural Gas. But with HAWS’ maintenance staff reading the meters and a bill that can be difficult to decipher, he’s becoming frustrated and suspicious. “This is supposed to be for my bill,” says Tart. “Now, I don’t see my name on here nowhere. But at the same time, this is supposed to be my bill. This is our biggest problem over here. We can't talk to nobody from Piedmont Natural Gas because we don't have nothing in our name. So our voices is null and void.” Tenants can feel unheard, breeding fear and distrust of the system. Tart feels eviction is almost wielded as a weapon. “We don’t have a defense for it,” says Tart. “Because soon as you go against the grain, any type of way, they will use that eviction power.” The housing authority has software that automatically triggers an eviction notice if rent is unpaid — whether that’s $500 or $50. But it makes special cases for hardships. Larry Woods says that’s on the tenant to alert the office. “We're not being mean. We're not being vicious,” says Woods. “Again, I think it’s giving people a false narrative to say it's OK not to pay and there's no consequences. There are consequences. If there's a hardship, we will take a look at it. You have a right to come in and say, ‘This is my hardship,’ and provide documentation.” Tenants say they don’t always feel the door is open. And they have reason to feel that way. WFDD acquired a document distributed to residents of Piedmont Park last fall that says as much. It announces a new policy: no more tolerance for late rent payments. No exceptions. Housing authority officials distributed a memo last fall revising its rent policy.   And there’s this line: “The management office will know [sic] longer set appointment’s [sic] to duscuss [sic] unpaid rents.” We showed this notice to Woods. He read it, and after a minute of silence, he chose his words carefully.  “This is...this is troubling for me because we do set up appointments, and we do allow families to go into payment agreements," he says. Woods hadn’t seen this memo until we showed it to him. We asked him if property managers should have this kind of discretion. “Again, I think it was poorly written because tenants can go in and meet with their manager,” Woods says. "Managers are accessible. They can go in and talk to them and have discussions with them.” The Housing Authority of Winston-Salem's official policy, approved by the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, specifically says residents must have an opportunity to discuss possible evictions. On its face, this memorandum is in direct conflict with that. National housing expert Eric Dunn says, “That’s just antithetical to the mission of providing housing to the people who are literally the poorest people in the country.” Since we spoke with Woods, officials from HAWS say they’re circulating a new memo, clarifying that tenants can talk with property management about rent concerns and hardship exemptions. And HAWS says it’s making sure that property staff understands this. The Cost Of Business Evictions come with many costs, from the personal to the financial, whether you’re a plaintiff or a defendant. And it costs the housing authority a significant amount of money to go through this process. So much so, that it begs the question: is it worth it? Here are the dollars and cents: At least $330,000: that’s what the Housing Authority of Winston-Salem says it was owed from tenants it tried to evict in 2018, according to a review by WFDD and Wake Forest University Journalism students of these case files. And that money is hard to collect. What does it cost to go to court to try? That totals $80,000. And don’t forget the cost of turning over the units. That’s also also a hefty bill. For 2018 alone, at least $300,000. Add it all up: a ton of money. HAWS could be out more than $700,000. As for the people who go through the eviction process, it’s the personal cost that follows them the most. “When they put that mark on you? That’s like a tattoo,” says Tart. “You can’t get rid of it; you’re marked. So wherever you go to try to get a place to stay, they have that on your record. And you are hindered as an individual." So for 2018, there are at least 364 unique defendants, whether they ultimately exited from the Housing Authority of Winston-Salem or not, who now wear that mark. They’re also marked for purposes of creditors and in the national public housing database. That keeps them from entering the system again until they settle what they owe. Year after year, money does come trickling back into HAWS. It comes as tenants try to square away their credit. Woods says he welcomes them back into the Housing Authority of Winston-Salem, so long as that old debt is settled. And Larry Woods says only then you can reapply. “Each site has a waiting list, and you can go to a site and put your name on a waiting list," says Woods. The thing is, they go to the back of the line. And right now, there are nearly 12,000 people waiting ahead of them. Eddie Garcia: garciaea@wfu.edu   Story does not include AP content #on the margins #housing authority of winston-salem #evictions #triad housing #larry woods Poverty Economy Housing Normal Tweet

Sisters Wanda Faye Shelton (left) and Rachel Barbre (right) hold a photograph of their mother who passed away at 97. DAVID FORD/WFDD This reporting project is a collaboration between WFDD, Carolina Data Desk at The UNC School of Media and Journalism and Wake Forest University's Journalism Program. It was made possible through funding from the Knight Foundation. For the past 22 years, Wanda Faye Shelton has called this modest 3-bedroom bungalow home. On a rainy morning in March, the 72-year-old widow is packing up boxes filled with four generations of belongings, and making tough choices on what stays and what goes.  Shelton says she receives a little more than $700 in Social Security benefits each month, but $300 of that went to rent and left her with about $14 a day to pay for her other expenses.  “I can’t — I just couldn’t pay all the bills,” says Shelton. “I didn’t get enough to pay the rent and the lights and the water.” Shelton doesn’t want to leave this place. Her landlord is evicting her. She’s not alone. Winston-Salem and Greensboro have among the highest eviction rates in the country. For people like Shelton, the math is simple and unforgiving. Sluggish wage growth and rising rents mean you can be just one car repair, utility bill, or health crisis away from losing your home. Since 2014 in the Triad, more than 100,000 eviction cases have been brought against people just like her — renters on the thin line between being sheltered and homeless.  A Home For Generations Gone For decades, Shelton shared the monthly rent with her mom and one sister. They’ve both since passed away, leaving Shelton to stretch her fixed income to pay rent, and care for her teenage granddaughter, Jamie. Even with help from her part-time job at McDonald’s, the numbers just don’t add up. Shelton tires easily after recovering from a recent outbreak of shingles. She can only pack for short spurts before needing to rest. She slowly scans the cluttered room illuminated by a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling at the end of a bright orange extension cord: half-filled boxes, stacks of papers, a few photos and paintings hang on the dark pinewood walls. ”I’ve never gotten an eviction notice — never,” she says. “And I’ve never been in a situation where I really don’t have a home. I don’t have a place to live.” For all of the money that her family has paid in rent during the past 42 years, they could have bought this house several times over. Now she’s out and has no claim on it. For Shelton, this is personal, and she’s losing trust in people.  “They Just Don’t Have The Cushion”  The reality is — when it comes to eviction court — all parties lose something. For landlords, this is income. It’s money spent changing over a vacated unit. It’s also money lost when renters stop paying and while the apartment remains empty. That of course gets resolved with a new tenant. But for renters, often the working poor, eviction can be the beginning of a long downward spiral.  Families in low-income communities often struggle just to pay their daily bills, says former North Carolina Housing Coalition Executive Director and current Durham County District Attorney Satana Deberry. “So, they tend to kind of fall behind on rent, any kind of issues they might have with their car, if they have a family member who has to be bailed out of jail, and who has other financial issues,” she says. “They just don’t have the cushion to both pay their rent and deal with the kinds of things that come up every day.” Eviction 101 But for all the stress evictions cause, the process itself is strangely mechanical.  First, the landlord goes to the county clerk of court’s office. There, he fills out a request to eject the tenant. Almost always, the reason is simple: the tenant is short or late on rent.  Charles Spenser (left) and Richard Zucarro (right) were evicted from this rental home. Zucarro describes the hearing as "pretty cut and dry." DAVID FORD/WFDD The landlord comes to court two weeks later. He needs the blessing of a magistrate to evict his tenant.  At 9 o’clock every morning, tenants and landlords file into a nondescript waiting area. Anywhere between a handful to dozens of people sit in chairs lined against walls. A magistrate calls out names, one case at a time, and quickly swears them in.  The questions come rapid fire: Do you have a lease? What does your lease say about rent being due and notice to evict? With office doors left wide open, deeply personal, life-changing discussions are on public display. Renters don’t have to come to court. In fact, coming to the hearing — just like answering the sheriff’s knock to deliver the court papers — carries an unusual risk. The tenant is on the hook for the payment and his credit takes a hit. Skipping court and not answering the sheriff’s knock? The magistrate can’t order a monetary judgment against you.  Once in eviction court, the matter is typically resolved in a matter of minutes. Usually, the tenant doesn’t show up. But when she does, things can quickly get expensive.  East Winston tenant Arkba Hurst (right) says a sheriff's deputy served him an eviction notice as he was getting ready to go to work. DAVID FORD/WFDD About a third of the time, the cases are dismissed. Often, it’s because the tenant and landlord reach an agreement and the case gets tossed the same day of the hearing. Other times, the tenant brings proof she already settled her debt.  Whatever the judgment is, both the tenant and landlord have 10 days to appeal. Then the landlord can go back to the clerk's office and ask the sheriff's office to assist while he changes the locks. That final knock from the deputy comes about 10 days later. Instructions are simple: grab a few necessities like medicine, a change of clothes, and get out. Tenants can arrange to come back for their belongings at a time that's convenient for the landlord.  For those evicted, the stakes are high and the impacts are felt immediately.  Nearly 90 percent of the time, the tenants lose. Some pack up the moment the sheriff tacks the notice on the door. Many leave before the hearing takes place. Others settle up and find a way to stay, even after the landlord wins in court. And still others linger until the sheriff makes that final knock on the door. "Almost Impossible" On Wanda Faye Shelton’s day in eviction court, she appears even smaller than her barely five-foot frame. Her imposing son, Bobby Lucas, sits beside her, whispering in her ear, translating what he can of the unfamiliar process. He says the experience was unsettling. “Just how many people there were — it was just heart-wrenching,” says Lucas. “There were 24 people being evicted just from that company that day.” Lucas and his mom didn’t come here to win. They knew the rent was too steep for her to manage. They came with one simple request: a few extra days to pack up a house and basement filled over decades. “They said they would give us until the end of the month but after that couldn’t guarantee anything unless we pay a month’s rent,” he says. Wanda Faye Shelton’s son, Bobby Lucas, will store most of their possessions in the building behind his trailer home. He says the move has been hard on his family. DAVID FORD/WFDD   That day in court will follow Shelton for years. Because she showed up, she’s now responsible for unpaid rent, and court costs. The demand letter came in the mail just a few days later: a debt of nearly $1,400. “You should take this seriously, as a summary ejectment will stay on your record for 10 years and could make it difficult for you to obtain credit in the future,” the letter states. And her name is now marked in another way, too. It’s a bright red flag for landlords. She was a tenant who didn’t pay her rent.   Meanwhile, in the Triad, the rental market is booming. At the Vista Realty home office in Winston-Salem, President Heather Coleman manages 1,000 apartment homes. Business people like her know that after a month or two of unpaid rent, the chances of recovering that money are slim. They have to cut their losses quickly.  Coleman credits much of the company’s longevity and success to careful background checks. Even with that discretion though, a Carolina Data Desk analysis of court data shows the company brings an average of nearly 600 eviction cases every year — among the highest rates for a property management company in Forsyth County. “The best thing to know about someone is their history,” she says. Today, Coleman contracts a third-party software company to run detailed screenings on all of her tenant applicants.  “So, we look at the last couple years to kind of see what their history is, especially if they owe any apartment or housing community,” says Coleman. “They’re automatically denied, to be honest, if they do. Again, it becomes a pattern: if someone has skipped out before, they probably will skip out again.” There are exceptions — if they can demonstrate an ongoing legal dispute for example, or prove that that they’re paying off their balance. For Wanda Faye Shelton, that’s out of the question. It's the same story for the thousands of renters like her. Greensboro Housing Coalition Executive Director Brett Byerly sees daily how the stain of eviction lingers. For his clients, the rental options are limited, and they’re not good: broken windows, mold, crime. Byerly says a routine computer search for an affordable unit might show 40 hits. But once filtered for landlords who don’t screen for evictions, the numbers dwindle down to just two or three. Byerly adds that the people he sees most often are single mothers. “In the same way that a young man gets locked up for some kind of minor drug charge, what we’re seeing is that young women are getting pushed out in the same way that these young men are getting pushed out,” says Byerly. “Because now I have an eviction and nobody in the world wants to talk to me.” Byerly says it’s a cycle that’s becoming increasingly difficult to break. “It was easier when the vacancy rates were 8 to 10 percent for people with evictions and things on their background to be able to still access some sort of decent housing,” he says. “It’s almost impossible for someone in this market that we’re in with the vacancy rates being what they are to access anything decent — or maybe to access anything at all.” “Very Scary”  Shelton hoped to get into a public housing unit, but there are no spots available. She’s on the waitlist. Housing Authorities in Forsyth and Guilford Counties simply don’t have the resources to meet the current demand, and wait times run between three and seven years. For now, with nowhere else to go, Shelton will share a trailer home with her other sister. Wanda Faye Shelton scans her living room, overflowing with four generations of belongings, trying to decide what stays and what goes. She says in moments like these she feels overwhelmed. DAVID FORD/WFDD   “My granddaughter and I are going to have to stay with her a little while and maybe go stay with my daughter...we’re just going to have to bounce around until we can get something,” says Shelton. When asked if the future scares her, she nods. “Yes, very...very scary,” she says. Shelton’s sister Rachel Barbre, who is herself battling bone cancer, is helping as much as she can with the move, steadying the ship and reminiscing about their mother's final days in this house. “We have our memories of her being here,” says Barbre. “She wanted her family like a glove fitting tight. And we tried to do that.” And so it was for the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren who visited this place. As they load the last boxes, both sisters take small comfort in those memories. “I worry about Faye, but the hurt is here too in my heart — in my life because this is home,” she says. “But it won’t be home anymore.” And for Wanda Faye Shelton, she doesn’t know what the future holds. But she knows it won’t be easy. The very safety net programs like Social Security and government housing assistance set up to allow seniors like Shelton to live out their lives with dignity aren’t enough. All she’s left with now is another bill she’ll be unable to pay.  NOTE: Music composed and recorded by 1970s Film Stock. David Ford: fordcd@wfu.edu Story does not include AP content #on the margins #eviction #tenant #renter #eviction court #durham county district attorney satana deberry #triad housing #greensboro housing coalition executive director brett byerly #magistrate #rent Economy Housing Normal Tweet

The redlining map of Greensboro depicting "best," "still desirable," "definitely declining," and "hazardous" areas in which to lend. These maps were created by the Home Owners' Loan Corporation. Image courtesy: Mapping Inequality This reporting project is a collaboration between WFDD, Carolina Data Desk at The UNC School of Media and Journalism and Wake Forest University's Journalism Program. It was made possible through funding from the Knight Foundation. Today, in our project on the Triad’s housing crisis, WFDD reporter Bethany Chafin takes us to a Greensboro neighborhood for a rare glimpse into a place at risk of losing valuable affordable housing.   This intersection at East Bragg Street and Martin Luther King Jr. Drive near downtown Greensboro is a dividing line. It's between two neighborhoods, and only one is thriving. If you look to the right, you can see downtown. The tallest building in Greensboro peaks over the horizon. And there's Southside, a bright and shiny redevelopment zone that began 20 years ago. It's a vibrant area; brick townhomes surround yoga studios and hair salons. There's perfect landscaping and new sidewalks as well as Dame’s Chicken & Waffles, a city favorite. To the left of this intersection is the beginning of Ole Asheboro. Homes are boarded up. Lots are vacant and littered. People loiter at a corner Citgo gas station; the neighbors call them “day walkers.” WFDD has spent nearly a year exploring the Triad’s housing crisis. Families pay more than they can afford; in Greensboro alone, nearly 40 percent of residents struggle to meet their housing costs. The region’s two largest cities top a national list on concentrations of evictions. We dug deeper: how did we get here and why? What can be done to attract growth while preserving housing where it’s needed most? It was a series of old maps that led us to Ole Asheboro. The maps have become, in some ways, predictors of where gentrification happens. But that new investment and those new residents had not come to Ole Asheboro. The federal government drew up these maps after the stock market crashed in 1929. The colors guided banks to make safer bets on where they loaned their money. The practice is called redlining and used race as one of the “hazards” to warn away banks. Ole Asheboro was considered high-risk, colored yellow and red because of the nearby black neighborhoods. For each neighborhood on the federal redlining maps, there was a detailed "Area Description." This is an excerpt from the area called C6 which included the majority of Ole Asheboro. Image courtesy of Mapping Inequality   Why does this matter? Ole Asheboro has nearly 700 residential properties – vital housing stock in a city that doesn’t have enough affordable options. In fact, Carolina Data Desk found the current average tax value of a home here is nearly $50,000, which is still within reach for low-income buyers. So, how do you a lift a neighborhood stained by lending discrimination? And how do you preserve the culture and affordable housing it provides? Is it even possible? To find out more, go left, into the heart of the neighborhood. Rooted At Home Jody Martin stands outside his house on Tuscaloosa Street. Martin knows this view, these homes, and these neighbors like the back of his hand. He grew up here, and he plans to grow older here. “My parents bought this house back in 1953. The white people that used to live in the area started moving out and then the first black families moved into this neighborhood,” he says. This was a defining moment in Ole Asheboro. Some black families settled here after the city cleared what it determined to be "slums" nearby, where homes had reached such a level of decay that the city bulldozed to start over. Jody Martin, a lifelong Ole Asheboro resident, surveys the street outside his home. BETHANY CHAFIN/WFDD Some new residents rented space in large Victorians, left vacant as Greensboro’s movers and shakers migrated to the suburbs. Others, like Martin's parents, bought modest homes along streets like Tuscaloosa. An all-black neighborhood was what Martin knew growing up. He remembers his childhood riding his bike around the neighborhood down to his grandparents’ house. At home, he dove into comic books, and his soundtrack was guided by his mom’s love of Nat King Cole. When Martin was a boy, he once asked his dad if their family of four was poor. “'No, we’re lower middle class,'" he recalls his father saying. "Now, we were poor. I mean we lived in a 5-room house. But you know, we had everything we wanted.” Despite money being tight, Martin's family invested in their home — adding rooms and a basement. The wealth they built would be passed down to Martin when he inherited the house after his mother died. A home can be a family’s fastest way to build equity and have something to give the next generation. But there’s still a large racial disparity in average net housing wealth. According to a 2016 national Survey of Consumer Finances, for a white household, the figure is over $215,000. For a black household? It's less than half that at $94,400. But for Martin and his family, a house was about more than money. “When you don’t have the fear of wanting anything, needing anything, when you know you’re in a safe place, everything else is possible,” he says. Today, Martin still feels rooted here even though most of the neighbors he grew up with are gone. “All of the original black owners have either died or moved away,” he says. Like Martin, a lot of the remaining homeowners in Ole Asheboro have been here a long time. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, about half of them have been in their houses for at least 20 years. And quite a few for more than 40. As residents age out of the community, not all of the homes are staying in the family. And that could be a problem for Ole Asheboro. To see why, all you need to do is look a few blocks away to Julian Street. "Blighted" House after house is abandoned, left to decay. There's one that's really beautiful from the outside. But there’s a lock box on the front door, and the windows are boarded up. The window that’s broken is next to a yellow condemned sign from February 19, 2010.  A weathered sign posted on one of the many condemned homes on Julian Street in Ole Asheboro. BETHANY CHAFIN/WFDD This type of deterioration took root in the 1940s. Absentee landlords neglected maintenance on aging homes; others couldn’t afford these costs. And as a result of redlining, there were few new dollars or new loans being invested here. By the 1970s, the neighborhood was in serious jeopardy. And the city knew it. Stakes were high; Ole Asheboro had affordable homes the city didn’t want to lose. So, Greensboro invoked state law and declared Ole Asheboro blighted. This made things official. The city could intervene to stabilize the neighborhood. But no one predicted how long it would take.    Seeing Potential In Ole Asheboro In the 1990s, Michael Akins took his wife Barbara to see the house he wanted to renovate on Caldwell Street. At the time, she couldn’t imagine making a home here. “The disparity, the drug infestation, the prostitution that was going on ... This part of town at that time was so much different from the side of town that I came from,” she says. But Michael Akins saw a place of resilience, a community he'd be proud to live in. "People that I had known from growing up, this was a community they chose to move to in moving out of the projects or in moving out of the apartments that they had lived in. When they decided to buy a home, they came to a neighborhood like this." Today, with their children grown and gone, the Akinses are still waiting for Ole Asheboro’s potential to be fully realized. As president of the neighborhood association, Barbara Akins proudly points to the new downtown greenway extension, a community garden and recently installed public art. But she says it can be an uphill battle. “And you’re climbing, you’re climbing, you’re climbing. And you can’t get anywhere,” she says. Michael Akins adds: “Am I seeing some change? Yes. Have I seen as much change as I anticipated? No.”  They see the answer in more invested homeowners, people who will sit on their porches, mow their lawns, and plant flowers. Now, fewer than 42 percent of the residents here own. There are few signs that percentage is likely to increase anytime soon. Carolina Data Desk found for every 100 people living in Ole Asheboro, only eight applied for a mortgage. Across Guilford and Forsyth counties, that number was nearly double. And, for the homeowners who are coming, their arrival is through heroic effort. Barbara Akins, president of the Ole Asheboro Street Neighborhood Association, is a dedicated caretaker for this neighborhood. BETHANY CHAFIN/WFDD  A Win-Win Mary Witherspoon and William Scott are watching their new 3-bedroom, 2-bath house go up before their very eyes. They’re about to be first-time homeowners.   "She's been over there every day to talk to the contractor. When she rolls up, they say, 'We see you coming, Mary.' While I'm at work she goes over there and checks on the progress," Scott says while laughing. Until now, they’ve been renting a place just blocks away from the house they bought on Reid Street. And they’re bucking a trend. Black homeownership in Greensboro has been declining since the Recession. An American Public Media analysis shows that beginning in 2011, it dropped five percentage points in five years. The couple is thrilled about the opportunity. "That's all she talks about nowadays,” Scott says. “I got so much joy. I didn’t think we could be able to get this house. But we got this house. I am elated. I am happy,” Witherspoon says. A small, local nonprofit called Community Housing Solutions is making it happen. It’s a win-win — the neighborhood gets well-made homes and dedicated homeowners. Buyers get efficient, affordable houses and a chance to build wealth. It takes a lot to make this work: city-owned land, donated materials, volunteer builders. But pulling this off for Ole Asheboro's 132 vacant residential lots? Not likely. New homeowners Mary Witherspoon and William Scott stand outside their new house on Reid Street in Ole Asheboro. BETHANY CHAFIN/WFDD   Nibbles, No Bites Back on Julian Street, Carl Brower knocks on a "No Trespassing" sign in front of an empty lot the city cleared to make room for revitalization. “One of the properties that the city has bought. Available for someone to put a single family home in,” he says.   But it takes some imagination to see it. The grass is knee-high and there’s trash strewn about. It’s an eyesore. And a hard sell. Property values are low in this neighborhood. That means a brand new house here will immediately be worth less than a brand new house somewhere else in the city. Carolina Data Desk found the average tax value of residential homes in Ole Asheboro is just under $47,000 — a casualty of those redlining maps. By comparison, the city average is more than three times that at $160,215. Brower says, “[There's] traction being gained, but until we see these areas that are vacant and available, filled with homeownership and persons in the community that want the community to be what we want it to be, we’re going to have a never ending struggle.” For decades it’s been hard to get much here, whether residential or commercial. The neighborhood recently got a Family Dollar. But Brower says the property sat vacant for 20 years before that.  It’s the same story for another undeveloped lot nearby. “It’s been out for bid and looking for proposals for over 10 years. We’ve had a couple nibbles. We haven’t had a bite.” Despite that, Brower thinks the neighborhood is at a turning point. The intersection of East Bragg Street and Martin Luther King Jr. Drive between Southside and Ole Asheboro looking toward downtown Greensboro. BETHANY CHAFIN   He imagines a community where it’s not such a heavy lift to lure a Family Dollar. He welcomes a place like Southside where people can work, live, and play. The city’s been trying to court such an investment for a while. One thing is for sure. “It’s taking longer than anyone could imagine,” says Brower. At A Crossroads Back at the intersection near the gateway to the neighborhood, you can feel the revitalization of downtown creeping closer and closer. The question has always been how and will Ole Asheboro connect with downtown?     And there are so many more questions. Will family members stay or return, like Jody Martin wants? “I’ll be here, and I’m hoping if either my niece or my nephew want to, eventually they’ll take it over, repair it,” Martin says. Will it be renters or homeowners like the Akinses who move in as residents age out? “Even though my professional colleagues may not live over here, and the folk I’ve known haven’t lived over here … I always say it’s because this is where I believe I belong,” says Barbara Akins. And what will future development look like? Carl Brower says the line between uplifting and gentrifying is a very fine one. “We’re not trying to keep anyone from developing, but it has to be the development that fits the culture of this city and this neighborhood,” he says. But if and when the money starts flowing, it might not be up to them or the city. What is clear is that the next few years will be crucial. For now, residents wait, as they have for decades, feeling the pull of the future and the gravity of the past. Bethany Chafin: chafinbc@wfu.edu Exploring Ole Asheboro's Changing Neighborhood Story does not include AP content #on the margins #ole asheboro #redevelopment #triad housing #greensboro #downtown greensboro #southside #redlining #lending discrimination #affordable housing #ole asheboro street neighborhood association #development #investment #gentrification #carolina data desk #wake forest university journalism program #community housing solutions Race Economy Human Interest Normal Tweet