From Shooting Gallery to Home:
The Transformation of 544 E13th Street

In 1984 the heroin operation called "Outstanding" controlled a stretch of abandoned buildings, owned but ignored by the city, on 13th Street. The dealers had escape routes dug through the foundations of buildings, and rules for shooting up ("clean up your blood") posted in the halls. Cars were brought to the block to be stripped. Residents described it as a war zone. It was a scene repeated through out the Lower East Side.

But in January 1984, Operation Pressure Point combed through the Lower East Side, block by block and building by building, arresting 11,000 people, and freeing up dozens of buildings. Meanwhile, the market for affordable housing was still quite tight. Local activists and artists in need of affordable housing put opportunity and vision together, and began a squatters movement.

One of those people was long-time neighborhood resident Alfa Diallo, who one day in early 1984 was observing #544, which had been a shooting gallery and was now boarded up. Something said to him that he should organize a group to take on that building.

The condition of 544 when it was opened up was dreadful. The plumbing system had been ripped out, there was no electricity. The roof had holes, there were no windows, and 30 cats resided there. The first two floors were densely stacked with refuse. That first summer the group gutted most of the building, did a quick repair job on the roof, and sealed the building for winter. Safety was the homesteaders’ first concern. The building was thought of as a construction project. A series of work projects were prioritized and carried out through “work parties” that consistently upgraded the building’s condition.

A Dream

That first winter the building had no heat or electricity. But a vision pulled the four dedicated homesteaders who were living there – Alfa, Annie, Dana, and Jean – through. From the beginning the group was dedicated to creating a low-income co-operative, organized as a democracy. Membership requirements were the willingness to work and the desire to participate in a co-operative association – but within that there was also a value placed on recruiting a diverse group from the neighborhood, and priority for those in need. All new members were voted in by a 2/3 majority at one of the co-operative association’s meetings. Maintenance fees, assessed to cover common costs such as roof repairs and hallway lights, have ranged from $40 to $100 per month, plus an initial $500 membership fee. Residents were more or less responsible for renovating their own apartments.

What kept the cost so low is what groups like Habitat for Humanity call "sweat equity." In that first summer they filled 7 or 8 dumpsters with cleared rubble, moving everything from concrete rubble to used needles. Some members took courses in maintenance and management. Slowly, the building was made more habitable.

The opportunity to live in self-help housing has indeed made a difference for its residents. Marisa says it allowed her to raise her children without having to work full-time. "Without it, I would've been forced not to be part of my children's childhood," she says. Karen, who started helping with the building a year after it opened and moved in several years later, is similarly grateful. She is no longer able to work due to multiple sclerosis, and is getting by on only a SSD check. "This housing market is prohibitive," she says. "I have a roof over my head, and I'm grateful for that." As anyone who's looking at the city housing crisis might expect, the need is greater than the availability. Despite the hardships and the work requirement and the meetings (it's like living with extended family says Karen), the 11-unit building has always had more people interested in joining than spaces available.

The vision of the building has also been wider than helping its own residents. "We looked at it as a neighborhood renaissance," says Marisa. "We wanted to create a safe area out of one that had been neglected and abandoned." Annie recalls how, along with five other squatted buildings on the block, they helped plant trees, cultivate gardens, and organize block parties. "It wasn't about cheap rent only," she says. "It was about doing something different."

Struggle for Survival

As if rejuvenating a block weren't a hard enough task, the residents of 544 have also lived for 18 years in a legal limbo. From the beginning, they worked at negotiating with the city to become official. In the early years they secured letters of support from the community board and prominent politicians. But before they could come to an agreement, the climate shifted. Developers were beginning to show an interest in the now revitalizing neighborhood, including the squats, and the city was reluctant to pass up the opportunity to make a profit on the properties.

The residents of 544, which managed to stay relatively low-profile, survived one eviction attempt in the mid-1980s because the notices had been improperly served, and three raids in the mid-1990s that did succeed in clearing the other five squats on the block. 544 only survived because, sandwiched between a church and mental health clinic, the lot was too small to interest the developer who had requested the 5-lot parcel across the street. Nonetheless, the residents didn't know that at the time. "We were walking on eggshells," says Karen. "I was terrified," recalls Annie. "They sealed us into our building for hours during the raids, and the police sharpshooting team used the roof as a strategic lookout." The residents didn’t know how far the police occupation would go.

By the late 1990s, the residents association knew something had to be done to preserve their vision of self-help affordable housing in the Lower East Side. The tenuous legal status was making the building vulnerable to people - within and without - willing to take advantage of the lack of legal authority that the elected tenants association had. And another eviction attempt could always be around the corner.

Becoming Legal

Then in 1999, representatives from 11 remaining squats, including 544 E13th, contacted the Urban Homesteading Assistance Board, a city-wide nonprofit with over 25 years experience helping tenants create legal low-income cooperatives in previously city-owned buildings. As an organization that believed in tenant ownership, but also had a close working relationship with the city, UHAB was uniquely positioned to facilitate the negotiations.

After three years of confidential talks, an agreement was finally reached. (For more detail on the agreement, see the press release.) Though it will mean higher maintenance fees, the prospect of becoming legal at last is a big relief to many in the building. "It has really blown hope into our tenant association," says Marisa. "We have more energy now," agrees Alfa, who is currently the homesteaders’ association president. "This way you can settle and work on stabilizing whatever wasn't - your own personal projects and whatever needs to be done with the building."

Once renovations are complete, the residents of 544 are looking forward to focusing on helping people stabilize a secure affordable home. And that's the vision the homesteaders have had all along.