ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN ARKANSAS LIFE

Watching It Fall

Houses come down in many ways. Forgotten, turned over to time and the elements, demolished. This is the story of the Brittnum Rooming House—and the people who were there to see it come down

By Jordan P. Hickey | Photography by Arshia Khan

IN DECEMBER, the lot is empty, as it was the month before and the one before that. The earth is plush and pliable underfoot. Deep wending ravines made by the tread of a backhoe are cut deep in the lot, and grass grows around but not within them. And to stand there, as the sun drops and it gets dark and the details of the empty lot are lost in the fading light, it’s difficult not to wonder about the history of the place—to wonder if some gasp of echoed words had been spared demolition, released in a sickening pop from the wood as it splintered and allowed to echo frailly through the air. But to stand there, feet fighting the loose soil, with no one to tell the story, there’s nothing there but the stubborn notion that there was history there and then there wasn’t.

*

IT’S MARCH 17 and in a room on the second floor of Little Rock City Hall, the city’s Board of Directors is holding its biweekly meeting. On the evening’s agenda, there’s a Capital Improvement Revenue Bond that needs issuing and a contract for a new chlorine feeder at the Jim Dailey Fitness and Aquatic Center that needs authorizing, among a number of other matters that need to be addressed. Thirteenth on the agenda, there’s a matter fairly familiar for the board: Five structures in Little Rock need to be condemned as “structural, fire and health hazards.” (Over the course of the 2015 calendar year, there will be just shy of 50 such structures—commercial, residential, two mobile homes—whose fates are determined by such ordinances.) More often than not, there’s very little reason for those measures to be challenged. But on this evening, Mayor Mark Stodola says there’s someone there to speak. A Dr. Narcissus Tyler, he says.

A woman makes her way to the dais and in an airy, lilting voice explains that she owns one of those at-risk properties. The Brittnum Rooming House, located at 1325 W. 12th St. It’s a property that’s been in her family for many years—nearly 50, she’ll later note. And standing there before the board, she asks for leniency and more time. She knows it’s not in the very best of shape, exactly, but given its history—how it was built in 1913; had been a boarding house catering to black blue-collar workers beginning in the ’30s; how some of the earliest black Arkansas Travelers baseball players, including Hall of Famer Fergie Jenkins, had once called it home, as had Howard Love, former president of the Urban League of Arkansas, when he was a student at Philander Smith College—it’s a place whose history makes it worth saving. As of that evening, she goes on to say, she and her team have already submitted paperwork to the Arkansas Historic Preservation Program in an attempt to be considered for the National Register of Historic Places. There’s even a chance it may be included on the Historic Preservation Alliance of Arkansas’ list of—she leans close to the microphone—most endangered places.

Upon finishing her opening remarks, she faces questions from the members of the board. They ask what she plans to do with it (a residence for Philander Smith students) and where she hopes to procure funding (at that point, still uncertain). To hear those questions, it seems she faces an uphill battle, a process that will take no small amount of time and money—at least $196,000, according to a booklet of information she’d provided the board, dated from 2011. But even though there are times when she stumbles over her words, she seems adamant that her rehabilitation efforts will be successful.

There seems to be a shift in the tide, however, when Tyler is questioned by Ward 1 City Director Erma Hendrix. She asks Tyler if she wouldn’t mind stepping aside and then asks Director of Housing and Neighborhood Programs Director Andre Bernard to come forward, saying, “I want the board to know the whole history before we vote.” Based on her questions and Bernard’s explanations, it becomes clear that the house has actually been vacant since around 2003. And that letters requesting inspection from the city, sent as early as Aug. 30, 2010, had been returned unanswered. After an inspection Oct. 27, 2010, the house was deemed to be “unsafe/vacant.” In the years that followed, however, it had been largely left alone. In fact, the only reason that the Brittnum’s failing condition had been brought to the city’s attention was that its western neighbor—demolished just weeks after the meeting—was undergoing an inspection.

Toward the end a lengthy exchange that goes on for almost exactly 10 minutes to the second, Hendrix eventually asks Tyler: “Do you think it’s fair to the residents and to the board, and to me as a ward representative, that that house has been vacant this long and no attempt has been made to do anything to this house? You’re not the only one who has been here—I can show you a list that [Little Rock City Manager Bruce Moore] has supplied me with—that, in the last five years, 251 houses have been torn down in Ward 1.”

According to that memo, the 251 demolitions that took place in Ward 1—a sprawling area that spans from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock’s eastern edge to east of the Clinton Presidential Center, encompassing all of downtown, the Central High School Neighborhood Historic District and much of the area surrounding the Clinton center—constituted 75 percent of all demolitions (333 in total) from 2010 through 2014. The next highest of those are Ward 2 with 44 demolitions (or 13 percent) and Ward 7 with 23 (or 7 percent), both of which comprise much of southwest Little Rock.

When Hendrix says she’s got just one question left and asks Tyler why she’s not already restored the house, Tyler explains that it’s largely been a matter of funding and finding the right people to help in her efforts. “I have not been able to get a team together until recently, to assist with making sure that the building can be restored,” she says. “It takes a team, and you have to have the right people together to get the right … to get work done.”

As debate on the ordinance runs its course—eventually coming to an end 43 minutes after it started—a few of the other board members take up in favor of Tyler. Ward 6 Director Doris Wright, for example, says, “My only problem with it is that it’s another vacant lot—y’know? And we keep talking about these vacant lots. And if she has a snowball’s of a chance, I’d rather see her have a chance because we can always tear something down.”

After a bit of discussion, Ward 2 Director Ken Richardson then says, “Since this is already on our list, I’m comfortable with requesting a 45-day extension until she gets notification from the [Historic Preservation Alliance of Arkansas] on two factors: Whether or not there’s historic value and whether or not this property makes the Most Endangered list, which I think creates more opportunities for her to do [what’s necessary]. And at the same time: When she comes back before us, she needs to have a more concrete, clear plan with respect to her financing of her rehabilitation efforts. So I make a motion that, Bruce and Mayor and colleagues on the board, that we defer this for 45 days.”

The motion to defer is passed 6 to 3. The mayor then explains to Tyler that she’ll have until the board meets again May 5—and says he’d encourage her not only to work on pursuing the historic designations for the house, but also to work on a “real renovation plan that can be executed.”

*

OVER THE COURSE of the next month and a half, as word spreads of the house, there’s no shortage of people and organizations who come to its defense. At the May 5 meeting, the first person to address the board—even before Dr. Tyler—is Vanessa McKuin, head of the Historic Preservation Alliance of Arkansas, who explains to the board that the house has been chosen as one of eight structures listed on the alliance’s annual Most Endangered Places List. She provides a detailed history of the house, ultimately explaining that it was chosen for that list “because it represents an important aspect of our city and our state’s history. And because it represents a class of structures about which questions of significance, integrity, rehabilitation potential are unanswered. And the bulldozer blades and the wrecking balls guarantee it will remain so.”

However, as the meeting progresses, one of the central dilemmas facing folks who seek to restore and rehabilitate these structures begins to take shape and guide the conversation: Namely, despite the efforts that have been made, it seems that very little tangible progress has been made. When asked what she has done, Tyler says she’s received a letter of support from the Fergie Jenkins Foundation. When pressed as to what else she’s done—“Will you tell me exactly or in detail what you have done from that time till now to try and rehab this house?” asks Ward 4 Director Brad Cazort—she says she received a letter about the Brittnum’s inclusion on the Most Endangered list.

(Not mentioned until much later in this exchange is another letter—also provided to the city—that Tyler received from the Arkansas Historic Preservation Program saying, “Unfortunately, due to the dramatic changes to the porch and exterior cladding of the structure, the requirements of the National Register for historic integrity have not been met.” The letter goes on to say that although the house could still be considered for the Arkansas Historic Register, that designation is largely honorific and won’t make the Brittnum eligible for tax credits.)

When asked what else she’s done beyond asking for a letter, she explains that she has a building permit and had contacted a contractor who “wasn’t able to show up.” She goes on to say that, at that point, she has personal funds “to secure it, to make it straight and then to do something in front to make it nice—the porch part, the upper level and the lower level.”

“You have enough funds to make that structure presentable?” Cazort asks, gesturing to a photo of the house being shown on the screen fixed to the wall behind the directors.

“To make that … right side … in the back secure. Secure,” she says. “And the front part, the upper part and the lower part. Now, if you look on the other side, it looks much better on that side. I’m sorry, go ahead.”

“I appreciate your being up here,” he says, “I … just think you’ve taken time and have not done anything, and I’m not going to be supportive of extending your time. I can’t speak for the rest of my colleagues, but I do appreciate your being here.”

As the meeting progresses, the odds of the city granting an extension seem increasingly unlikely—particularly when City Manager Moore says he’s “not sure I would send my staff into this house” to get interior photos, or that the four-month extension Tyler is seeking would be largely to see if the house could be named to the Arkansas Register of Historic Places. At the end of the meeting, though it opts not to pass an emergency clause, which would have immediately made the Brittnum eligible for demolition, the board votes to condemn the structure in 30 days. In other words, Tyler has 30 days before the Brittnum can be taken down.

*

AT A BOARD MEETING June 2, Tyler again appears before the city—this time during the citizen communication portion of the meeting—and explains that she’s secured a contractor and is set to move forward on the first phase of a plan to rehabilitate the Brittnum. She asks them to consider removing it from the demolition list.

Asked about the phases, she then turns the mic over to the man standing behind her, Kwendeche, an architect specializing in historic rehabilitation and restoration, who’s been helping Tyler throughout the process. He explains that he’s met with a contractor, been inside the house just two weeks before and that he’d come up with a five-phase plan to help rehabilitate the property—beginning with the western side, which needed new lumber, and then later moving into the interior of the house to stabilize the structure, the floor joists, the roof joists and then eventually the roof. Even though the house seems to be in rough shape, he believes that it could be saved.

As the meeting progresses, however, there’s once again considerable talk about financing—there’s a lengthy exchange in which City Director Cazort presses Tyler on whether she has not only the necessary funding for the first phase, but also the entire project (“I’m going to ask you one more time, see if you can get me an answer: Do you have funding available to complete this house, totally, no matter how many phases it takes, do you have the financing or funding readily available to complete this house? Yes or no?” “No.”). But even still, as the meeting comes to a close, the board decides that it will give her 30 days to complete that first phase—to rebuild the western side and make it presentable.

*

IT’S WARM on the morning of July 16, and there’s orange plastic netting running a rectangle along the perimeter of the Brittnum Rooming House. A group people—a dozen, give or take a few—stand in a line in front of the house. The siding on the western side of the building has been stripped away, leaving much of the interior open to the air. Through the hole—a gash that runs along much of the western side—it’s possible to see peach-colored walls and the sky beyond through a hole in the roof. A green couch split open balances on the edge of the hole. There’s a ceiling fan suspended by its wires like a tangled marionette just a few feet above the floor.

It takes a moment to realize that this—everything that’s happened to the western side—is the first phase of the proposed rehabilitation. That this is what had been done after a $9,000 building permit had been taken out. At a city board meeting three days before, the city directors seem to have been similarly incredulous. Even one of the structure’s most fervent supporters, Ward 2 City Director Richardson, upon seeing the images of this new development, said that “as the person who made the motion to give the homeowner additional time, these photos look really, really horrible in comparison to what we saw when I made that motion.” He went on to say that “if the contractor has done this and this is work that they’re doing to improve it … [and] if this work is done intensely, it doesn’t seem like we’re going to be moving forward in a way that’s going to make this solid, stable and aesthetically pleasing to the community, so this is quite confusing for me.” (Tyler was not present at that meeting, though the city had told her about it July 1, and she’d thanked them for the notice.)

But even still, on this July morning, despite the failing appearance of the house—despite the western side open to the air, despite the lip of the porch’s awning that appears to have partially fallen in—despite all of this, there are people in front of the house who still believe that it truly means something and feel that it could be saved. A reporter from KTHV-TV, Channel 11 places her camera in front of the line of people standing along the curb—people who’d answered Tyler’s call to come out and rally for the house on this July morning—and she asks Tyler, Why is it that this house is important to you?

After Tyler explains that the house has been in her family for decades, and that there’s so much history in that house that merits saving, there are other people who speak, most notably Annie Abrams, a resident of the area since 1946 and a well-known civil-rights activist. As Abrams speaks about the house, about the neighborhood, a silver BMW pulls up. The man who gets out of the car stands there for a moment, watching her speak, before calling out to her by name. Hearing it, she turns his way just for a moment but finishes what she’s saying before acknowledging him, the exasperation clear from her voice.

“Ms. Abrams?”

“Yes?”

“Now, you know me,” he says, walking up to the house.

“And you know me, she says. “You’re the Smith boy.”

“Yes, I do,” he says. “And I live in this community. I’ve lived in this community for over two decades. … So I’ve seen this house go from being livable to unlivable. And the real history hasn’t been told, Ms. Abrams.”

“It has…”

“No, I’m talking about the last 40 years of this house’s existence.”

“You’re not even 44.”

“I know, I’m 54,” he says. “But I’m saying the last 40 years of this house’s existence has been a drug haven, it’s been a house of ill repute, and it’s been in this condition for a lot of years. And nobody has been concerned about the history until this time … I just really think that you get to a fail safe.”

“Well, that’s your opinion.”

“That’s my opinion. But I have an issue with this property.” After they go back and forth a few more times, Smith goes on to say, “If you check the criminal history of this neighborhood at this address, you have a number of assaults, battery, stabbings, shootings, there’s been drugs sold in this house, there’s been alcohol, prostitution, everything in this house … since the current property owner has owned it.”

While he’s certainly exaggerating, there is some truth to the claim. In the mid-’90s, for example, the house was not exactly unknown to the Little Rock Police Department. From 1993 through the end of 2002, there were 29 incident reports filed to the property. While many of them were minor disputes hardly warranting the call—say, the time on Sept. 25, 1993, when someone walked in the kitchen and stole a houseplant—there were instances of assault (though there’s no documented mention of prostitution or drugs in those incident reports).

“But if we tore down every house that has been …” Ms. Abrams starts to say.

“I understand,” Smith says, “but this one is past help.”

“That’s your opinion,” she says.

For much of the next hour, there are pockets of discussion and disagreement, the line of people that had once been a barrier strung along the front of the house condensed and bunched into circles of debate about the effect of vacant lots on future sale of homes, and what it means for prospective buyers to see a house either being restored or being torn down—whether the owners should have done more or could they have done more and did they have enough time.

For a time, it’s loud—loud enough that Kwendeche has to shush people, saying that an older man being interviewed for a television story, a soft-spoken neighbor who says he’d once lived in the house, is having trouble making himself heard. And then, eventually, people leave, some feelings likely still hurt and rankling, nothing having really been accomplished or settled. And the house is still ringed in orange netting, and the demolition permit still stands.

*

AT 9 A.M. ON JULY 24, the porch is already gone. Around the side of the house, a backhoe is picking the house apart. Along with a few guys from the demolition company that had gotten the bid, there’s Wendell Smith, the man who’d confronted Abrams at the rally—and who lives just across the street—and Jeff McRae, who owns the business next door, McRae Equipment Co., which buys and sells industrial and contractor equipment.

“Jimmy Hoffa slept on that bed right there,” Smith says as a rusted white iron bed frame comes tumbling from the side. The man in the backhoe’s cab is slightly hunched over, wears a white V-neck T-shirt and smokes a cigarette, his eyes lifted to the second story of the house where he’s pulling the roof apart, gently pressing, nuzzling the six-pronged iron scoop into crevices and gently pushing the pieces of timber away as if they were pieces of straw or toothpicks. Walls swing out as if they were doors on hinges. For a time, the scoop looks as though it’s trailing braided lines from a spider web, wispy things that hang from the prongs; it takes a moment to realize they’re the wiring of the house. In every moment as the house comes down, something is revealed and then pulled apart, the layout combusted and allowed to crumble, made to crumble—the sick and the cathartic sound of destruction.

Around 9:30 a.m., a code enforcer from the city stops by, wearing khakis and a quasi-iridescent blue polo. He wears a badge and has two cameras, one for film, one for stills. He spends some time chatting with a guy from the demolition company who’s spraying the house down with water to keep the dust from rising. After a few minutes, he walks to the front and stands with Smith, saying that he’s going to send Tyler a bill for the demolition and the dump fee. They get to talking, and Smith says he’s been trying to buy the land for the past few years—he’ll later explain that he’d like to buy up the lot to the west and perhaps put in a pair of ’40s or ’50s-era style town homes—and then asks the guy from the city about how he’ll be able to go about doing that once the house comes down.

At a certain point, what’s dragged from the house ceases to be distinguishable from the rest. Everything is shades of brown: white brown, gray brown, red brown. The backhoe moves up and down the ramp that the house has become. And then the front wall comes down, and then all that’s left is a portion of a hallway with a door that reads “private” and the banister of a staircase that now leads nowhere. And then the arm of the scoop comes through and pushes it over. And then the last bit of the façade is all that’s left, and then he digs into the floor with the sound of a crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. But it’s more than a crunch. It’s something that even at a distance you can feel in your chest—the move and violence of a bowling ball going step by step down a stairway. But not even that.

“Oh, he’s going to town now,” says the guy from the city.

It takes somewhere between 25 and 30 loads—7 to 8 tons each—to truck what’s left to the dump. All told, it costs the city $9,926 to do the demolition. A lien is filed Sept. 17, and Tyler is told that she will have to repay the city before it’s released.

*

IN MID-DECEMBER, the upset soil at 1325 W. 12th St. is still there. And in a way, to look at the scene as well preserved as it is nearly six months after the house came down, the comparison that comes to mind is the surface of the moon—footprints made and left undisturbed in the absence of some outside force to clear them away. And while the plot will likely change—perhaps Smith will build his town homes; perhaps grass and weeds will continue to grow and fill the divots left by the demolition—what was there is gone.

But there’s history in empty lots, stories in the stasis of memory near gone and fading. In some instances, there are plaques where the structures stood, and in others just memories parroted and passed down through the oral tradition of neighborhoods and hearsay—stories of those people who lived there and how they lived and how the places they called home eventually came down. But in terms of what of history is available there on the surface: When the structures are gone and the memories drained and faded, it’s as if whatever had been there had never been at all.