PSU Magazine Winter 2006

IMI osL Americans are just one seri– lllJ ous illness away from public housing," says Marlene Clark, sipping coffee in her cozy north Portland kitchen. Clark-an articulate community volunteer, devoted grandmother, and lifelong contented homebody-speaks from experience. Donald, her hus- band , made a good living as a self– employed electri– cian. Clark was a stay-at-home mom. The family, she says, felt they could buy whatever they needed. When Donald's voice started getting hoarse, they knew it wasn't good, but without health insurance, they did– n't know what to do. Finally, a good friend insisted on sending Donald to his own doctor. Four days later, Donald was under the surgeon's knife to remove the cancer in his throat. After several years of disability, he died in 1999. D oday, Clark, who uses an electric cart to cope with disabling arthritis in her knees, is grateful to be living in public housing. She's also lucky. Across the United States, cities are using federal grants to demolish public housing projects-scattering the poor– est of the poor to parts unknown. Portland is doing things differently. At the often maligned Columbia Villa project-site of Portland's first drive-by shooting-a phoenix is rising. Attractive new public housing sits beside charming low-cost houses which sit beside thoughtfully designed 6 PSU MAGAZINE WINTER 2006 homes for the disabled and elderly. It's an experiment in mixed-income housing. An attempt to deconcentrate poverty, not-as virtually all other cities have done-by subtracting the poor, but by adding higher-income residents to a poor neighborhood. Another rarity: Portland is actually tracking what happens to residents dislocated from their homes. As a result, Port– land's experiment– success or failure-is being closely watched by cities around the U.S., more than 100 of which have similar demolition projects planned. Karen Gibson, assistant professor of urban studies and planning, was enlisted by the Housing Authority of Portland (HAP) to track what happens when the disenfranchised are uprooted from their homes and community. "I was hired to track the social aspects," says Gibson. ln other words, the people side of the project. ln two surveys conducted a year apart, Gibson asked residents how they were doing. A third survey is sched– uled for 2006. What she has found to date is a Columbia Villa diaspora made up of residents pining for a sense of community. Clark, who moved to Columbia Villa in 1997, can attest Lo that com– munity feeling. "It was a fun thing to move here ," she says. Houses were clustered around central courtyards. If someone chanced to light a barbeque grill, an impromptu potluck often ensued. "I'd take my dog for walks at 2 a.m. and feel comfortable," says Clark. "It was home. " By Melissa Steineger But Columbia Villa, where 1,300 people previously lived, was also run-down. D] ver the years, major infrastruc– ture like sewers, roads, and water mains had deteriorated. By the 1990s, Columbia Villa was deemed beyond repair. HAP was the Columbia Villa land– lord . When federal HOPE V1 grants became available in the 1990s, the agency hatched a plan-demolish one of the largest public housing projects between Seattle and San Francisco and rebuild a showcase for doing public housing right. But HAP had a tightrope to walk– demolish 462 run-down homes with– out destroying a community. HAP wanted to move people out, raze their homes, rebuild, and move as many of the same people back as wanted to return. Was that even possible? The agency recruited Columbia Villa residents to act as liaisons between the bureaucracy and the resi– dents. lt created on-staff relocation specialists, who served as case man– agers and advocates for the residents. They went door-to-door to ask heads– of-household what services they needed: Help in finding new housing? Money for moving? Help finding their way around new schools 7 Whatever need was found, the relocation special– ists sought to help. m esidents first began moving out of Columbia Villa in spring of 2003 and by October, the project was deserted. In November 2003, Gibson sent a survey to former residents to see how things had gone. "My areas of interest were their housing stability, satisfaction with ser– vices and their new community, and their interest in returning," says Gibson. She mailed surveys LO 374