by Stephen J. Rolfes
Question:
When is a neighborhood not a neighborhood? Answer: When people
living there are so divided by fear and class that they erect walls around
themselves. In the case of the Klotter
Street war, the walls were literal.
On Klotter Street in Cincinnati, rich and poor live close by each other—the two worlds separated by a steep hill and a small series of picturesque steps. Now those steps are closed, and a tall, prison-like chain link fence runs right through the center of the stairway. Symbolically as well as literally, one cannot cross from one world to another.
Cincinnati, like Rome, is a city built on seven hills. Over the past 200 years, the wealthier residents have steadily retreated up these hills, leaving the basin and downtown area to the poor. By the turn of the century this retreat had progressed far beyond the hills, as the middle and upper class fled to new suburbs, returning to the city to work. Meanwhile the basin and hill area overflowed with poor immigrants, mostly African Americans and Appalachians escaping poverty in the South.
Among these formerly fashionable streets left to the poor was Klotter. It is a narrow, dead end street near the bottom of Clifton Heights, one of Cincinnati’s steepest hills. By the early 1960s the once proud homes showed years of neglect by slumlords. Many were condemned. The inhabited houses had been divided into apartments, or at least into space for two families. Here lived not only the working poor, but also a number of elderly people who had quietly resided there for years, noting with sadness the changes in their neighborhood. But the most devastating change was yet to come in the 70s when the economy went sour, interest rates soared and, most importantly, gasoline prices went through the roof. Suddenly it was no longer feasible for young couples to buy an expensive home in the suburbs a half- hour drive away from their place of work.
That was when Klotter and a number of similar streets that terraced the hillsides were rediscovered. Despite the ravages of time and neglect, these were good houses built by an earlier generation of German immigrants. All featured a spectacular downtown and northern Kentucky. Most importantly, they could be bought up for very small amounts. The director of the Cincinnati Chorus was even able to secure funding from H.U.D. to purchase his house on Klotter!
The process had begun as far back as 1966, when Rene and Nick Makras bought the first house. They considered themselves urban pioneers, the first professional couple to move into this “hostile territory”. Their house, like so many others, was a complete shambles, including a bathtub dangling through the ceiling! But they put money and a lot of hard work into their investment. Soon their house was not only a showplace, but quite valuable as well. The Makrases now had a superb home with an impressive view, located quite close to downtown.
Other buyers followed throughout the tough times of the 70s. One by one the old, neglected houses were remodeled as professional couples moved in. The real estate market reflected this new trend. It was not unusual to find that a piece of property had risen in value as many as six times. Shrewd investors were rushing in looking for a high, fast return.
Amid this boomtown mentality, there was one thing that no one bothered to consider: What about the elderly and low income people who were already living there? The situation was best summed up by an elderly woman who had lived alone in an apartment on the street for many years. She complained that, in only a few months, her landlord had tripled her rent but had not made a single improvement to justify the increase. Barely scraping by on Social Security, she obviously could not afford to remain in her home.
Nor could many others on Klotter, Liberty Hill, or any of a number of hillside streets that were being “rescued” by the young professionals. A new word was created for this problem: displacement. The problem became so pronounced that “60 Minutes” did a story on the trend. The new residents bragged about the wildly rising values of their property, unaware that the story also included interviews with housing advocates who complained that the poor had nowhere to go. There was simply no new public housing being built. The old, displaced residents had to move “somewhere else,” although no one bothered to ask exactly where that was.
That was the 70s. By 1997 things were again changed. Klotter Street was saturated with all the young professionals it could handle, surrounding a few low income people who had been able to stay. Now there was a new problem. Back in the real estate boom time of the 70s, the speculators had been asked about the problem of crime. They assured nervous buyers that as the population changed and the undesirables were removed, crime would no longer be a problem. They were half right. True, the criminal element that dwelt on Klotter had indeed been displaced. But what about the next street down the hill?
About the distance that an average man can throw a baseball separates the remodeled houses on Klotter from those below on McMicken Avenue. From down there the view is not so panoramic. There has been no rush to remodel these homes. It remains as it has been for years, strictly low-income.
Just as an earlier group of pioneers suffered attacks from the indigenous people thay forced off their lands, the modern urban pioneers also had a conflict with the existing residents. In this case, young criminals in the basin area found the new, wealthy homes, unattended during the work day, a tempting target. Soon the crime rate, particularly breaking into or vandalizing luxury autos parked on the street, rose significantly. there was a crime reported every day on this street alone.
And so we come to the steps and the war that followed. The physical layout of Klotter Street actually gave young criminals on foot an advantage over the police in their patrol cars. The street is long and narrow and ends in an abrupt dead end. Each side is lined with expensive cars parked in front of the remodeled homes so turning a vehicle around is quite difficult. But the street is connected to McMicken and the basin area by flights of concrete steps. Young criminals could use these steps to make a fast getaway on foot while the police cars were maneuvering to turn around then drive all the way back to Ravine Street. By the time they reached McMicken, the fugitives would be long gone.
The usual solution to such a problem would be to form a neighborhood watch, with neighbors keeping an eye out for suspicious activity and alerting the police. Unfortunately, the young professionals of Klotter Street lived in a neighborhood without actually being part of the neighborhood. There was no mingling between the low income people and the new residents, only mistrust.
The Klotter Homeowners Association decided upon a more extreme course of action. They motioned for the Cincinnati City Council to close the stairways, which would cut off the convenient escape route for criminals. At first it appeared that the controversial motion would be quietly approved, until word leaked out to the low income residents. Then the war began.
Led by the Over the Rhine Community Council 9the low income basin area located between downtown and the hillsides), the battle was on. It was argued that closing the steps would not only block the escape routes of criminals, it would also cut off poor residents from bus lines, playgrounds and even a church. One example given was a great grandmother who used the old steps everyday to take her great grandchildren to the playground. What would people like her do when the sidewalks were icy in winter? The only other way down is Ravine Street, an extremely steep hill.
There was also a symbolic element that was not lost on the low income people looking up the hill to be renovated, unaffordable houses. Before there was an invisible wall of income education and opportunity separating the rich from the poor. Now the Homeowners Association wished to erect a literal wall, physically separating the two groups. Klotter Street would become a tiny medieval walled- in city. All that was missing was a moat. No wonder one housing advocate labeled the proposal economic segregation.
It was up to the City Council to decide who would win the war. Of course, there never really was much of a contest here. On March 18, 1998, the council sided with the homeowners. Shortly after, a tall chain-link fence was erected, effectively sealing off the historic stairway and the low income people who used it. And the displacement continues. Although the hillsides are now filled with expensive homes, usually behind ornate fences of iron spikes, now the basin itself is being “reclaimed.” main Street in Over the Rhine is becoming a mecca of art galleries and nightclubs. Once again, property values have soared as the development spills over to nearby streets.
The most extreme case of current displacement on Cincinnati is along Eastern Avenue, a street whose backyards lead right to the banks of the Ohio River. The old residents, almost exclusively low income Appalachians, have been forced out in a dizzying rate, with bulldozers right behind them. Unlike the hillsides, here the old wooden homes are quickly bulldozed, and new, rather tiny townhouses are being erected in their place. These new houses sell for more than $200,000. This time, however, it was the urban pioneers who were displaced. In 1997 the Ohio River flooded, forcing both rich and poor out of their homes. I can’t help wondering what kind of fence these pioneers will want to erect.
Originally printed in America Magazine.