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5.14 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 6 3 Continued on page 107 during the Ronald Reagan era, funds for programs that assisted low-income indi- viduals and neighborhoods were drastically slashed. From 1950 to 1990, the population in Smoketown declined 70 percent. Tree- quarters of the remaining population lived in Sheppard Square. By the 1990s, O'Bannon was in her third decade working with Sheppard Square's children. Kids from other demolished hous- ing projects in the city moved to Sheppard Square, inciting violence over turf. One of her worst days on the job took place in the late '90s. It was spring, dusk pleasantly set- tling into the evening sky. Kids were playing in Lampton Park next to PCC. Jump ropes slapped the ground. Basketballs thumped on courts. "Mama Jeanie!" the kids started yelling. A fght had started at the park. Someone with a gun was looking for a young man named Tony. Kids ran inside to the game room. O'Bannon walked out. She approached Tony, who stood near PCC in baggy jeans and a T-shirt. "Come inside, Tony," O'Bannon said. "I'm not coming in," he replied. "Tony, please. I'm getting ready to go over there and lock the door," she said. Every time there was chaos in the park, PCC went on lockdown. "Please, Tony, this is the safest place you can be," O'Bannon pleaded again. Broad- shouldered and six feet tall, she had a few inches on Tony. "Ms. Jeanie, just lock the door," he said. "I'm no punk. I'm not going to be running from nobody." She reached for him. He backed away. She turned around, walked into the center and clicked the locks. Less than fve minutes later, shots rang out. Tony's body collapsed; one foot lost its sneaker. "It was a real awful sight," O'Bannon says quietly. Tat was neither the frst nor last time a young person she knew died. Around this time, it seemed many in the area grew numb to it. One afternoon, when two young men were found shot dead next to a dumpster in Sheppard Square, everyone just went about their business. Kids rode by on their bikes. Police didn't bother to cover the corpses. No one paused at death. In that respect, she's glad the old Sheppard Square is gone, even though it meant losing her job at PCC. O'Bannon misses a lot of the kids she used to work with. Many moved to subsidized apartments in west and south Louisville. She wonders if the new neighborhoods will help improve their futures or leave them longing for their old home. Some research indicates that moving away from concentrated public housing into mixed-income areas does boost a family's sense of safety. But it's not uncom- mon for families to wind up in neighbor- hoods that aren't much better of than the ones they were in before, in terms of schools and amenities. Meyzeek Middle School, right across the street from Sheppard Square, served that population and ranks as one of the best in Jeferson County. One study showed that girls seem to respond to their new neighborhoods better than teenage boys, a population O'Bannon constantly worries about. More than 70 families still live relatively close to Shep- pard Square, so she does occasionally hear a familiar voice calling out, "Ms. Jeanie!" or "O'Bannon!" Once they have her attention, one question tends to follow: "Ms. Jeanie, when are they gonna open up PCC?" Sheppard Square and PCC aren't a package deal. PCC operated as a private nonproft. "You know, they might not," O'Bannon says. L isten to 26-year-old Lavel White talk about his frst memories of Sheppard Square. It sounds like an 11-year-old's dream — all your friends in one spot and 16.5 acres of space at your disposal. White and his buddies ran, rolled and karate-kicked the air, practicing their ninja moves. Other kids had their own games, like a rif on baseball where whoever catches the ball earns the next at-bat. When it was time for White to return to his apartment, the carefree kid rarely made it past the concrete stoop with wobbly pipe railing. Inside demanded a tougher veneer. White, his older brother and his mother, who battled addiction, had previously been living in other housing projects and home- less shelters before arriving at Sheppard Square. In their six years there, his family life remained volatile. One Christmas his mom bought him a guitar, only to pawn it within days. After saving up money from washing cars, he bought a DVD player. She pawned that too to pay their $12 rent. He recalls lots of fghts between the three of them. With little structure at home, White often stayed out late, overslept and wound up truant and in trouble at school. Public housing in America was serving only the most needy families then. Te new Sheppard Square wants to prevent that from happening again. By abolishing distressed housing, building new structures and blend- ing incomes, the goal is to strike a healthier, more diverse neighborhood, a place where children whose parents may be without work still see a neighbor diligently head out with a briefcase every morning. When White frst heard about this plan to rejuvenate Sheppard Square, he seethed with anger. He set out to make a documentary, called Raising Hell: HOPE VI. Or something along those lines. "It's not the buildings; it's the people," he says. Tearing down his home seemed shortsighted. But searching for alternatives can prove exas- perating too. No simple solutions exist. White often comes back to, "Get them educated." In 2010, White graduated from the University of Louisville with a major in communications and a minor in Pan-African Studies. He credits PCC with nudging him in that direction. When he struggled in school, O'Bannon tutored him. When he was hungry, PCC fed him. When kids wanted to beat him up, he headed for PCC. In return, White feels deep loyalty, not only to PCC but to Smoketown. Even when he moved out of Sheppard Square in high school, he visited his old neighborhood almost every day. After a brief stint living in California to work in flm production, his frst stop in Louisville was Smoketown. On his forearms, tattoos of the words "Smoke" and "Town," engulfed in fames, span wrist to elbow. He didn't end up making that anti-HOPE VI flm. Te Louisville Metro Housing Authority actually helped fund his fnished product, More Tan Bricks and Mortar: Te Sheppard Square Story. Watch it, and familiar themes emerge. "People watching out for each other." Tere's that phrase again. No one recounts a place that in 2010 wound up 14th on a survey of the most dangerous neighbor- hoods in the U.S. He showed the flm at PCC the night before the center closed. It felt so strange. He'd been there every step of the way. From a kid watching shirts ripped of during fghts to demolition day in 2012. He photographed that frst hungry scoop of "the bricks," the nickname for the projects. On that night, listening to memories, watching footage of his home — now just dust — it was the closest thing he's seen to a ghost. "You're like, 'Wow, how did this happen?'" he remembers think- ing. White's opinion on the HOPE VI project has changed. "Over time I realized you can't change policy," he says. "It's just going to be what it is. It's a cooked deal." Tirty years ago, federal decision-makers concluded that '40s-era concentrated housing projects had to go. Instead, subsidized housing should be scattered throughout a city. And due to less money available for afordable housing, big projects, like the new Sheppard Square, should be mixed-income housing on a good piece of real estate, a place into which the pri- vate sector won't mind sinking some money. 58-63 Shepard SQ.indd 63 4/21/14 12:42 PM