Memoir | The Housing Projects
What They Whispered, and What I Became - Foundations, Part 1 of 6
The Whispers
Whispers of doubt echo through the streets of Washington, D.C., casting skepticism on whether anything good could ever emerge from Southeast (S.E.), the urban housing projects predominantly populated by low‑income African Americans, often underestimated and overlooked. These speculations, though harsh, persisted.
Like the biblical scripture that questions whether anything good could come out of the City of Nazareth, the response to such doubt is an invitation to witness the truth firsthand. Just as Nazareth was dismissed as a place from which nothing good could emerge, Southeast Washington, D.C. faced similar misconceptions.
Nazareth, Israel, is associated with Jesus as his boyhood home. History records it as one of the lowest places on earth, where people whispered that nothing good could come from it.
“Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?” Nathanael asked.
“Come and see,” Philip replied.
— John 1:46, King James Version
Living in Southeast Today
Having spent my formative years in Southeast, I can confidently say we are no different from individuals living in wealthy neighborhoods, at our core, we are all alike.
While I still call Southeast my home, I now reside in a cozy cooperative apartment where the residents are predominantly Caucasian. For many of us, this transition is seen as a step up, reminiscent of the African‑American sitcom The Jeffersons and its iconic theme, “Movin’ on Up.”
African American Women Working for the Federal Government
As the heart of the United States federal government and a global political hub, Washington, D.C. historically offered opportunities primarily to unmarried African‑American women with children. These jobs allowed them to break free from the limitations of the projects and provide for their families. Securing a federal government job paved the way for me to leave the housing projects as well.
I was fortunate, I had no children, and my mom always made us come in when it got dark. I imagine she believed that simple rule would keep my sisters, my brother, and me from getting pulled into the darker side of what happens at night.
In my mid‑twenties, I read Angela Y. Davis’s Women, Race & Class. Her insights helped me understand why African‑American women were often employed at higher rates than African‑American men. Her work deepened my understanding of the social forces shaping our community.
The Anacostia River
The Anacostia River serves as a visible divide between social classes in Washington, D.C. On one bank stand the United States Capitol, the Supreme Court, and the homes of the upper‑middle and upper classes. On the other side lived the working‑class African Americans of the housing projects. The contrast was stark, undeniable, and deeply symbolic.
Narcotics
Regrettably, narcotics became a pervasive issue within the housing projects. Many African‑American men faced significant obstacles in securing and maintaining employment, a modern‑day form of subtle enslavement. As a result, some turned to drug‑related activities as a means of survival, putting food on their tables and money in their pockets.
The Housing Projects Streets
In my community, the streets bore the names of notable African‑American enslaved individuals. I lived near Frederick Douglass Place on Sojourner Truth Terrace in Southeast. Memories of my old address, 1747 Sojourner Truth Terrace, SE, Washington, D.C. 20020, still linger.
The Courtyard
At the heart of my street was a vast courtyard affectionately known as The Court, surrounded by five small red‑brick houses with concrete porches. My house stood proudly at the top of the Court.
Evenings brought life to the Court as the housing projects “secular matriarchs” returned from their federal government jobs. They would gather with kitchen chairs, chatting, drinking, smoking cigarettes, and indulging in cannabis late into the night. They labeled my mother a pretentious snob because she never joined them.
My Mother, A Matriarch
My mother, a strong matriarch, shaped my desire to work hard and dress well. She is a light‑skinned African‑American woman with curly hair, an attractive figure, and a beautiful face. She wore dresses, large clip‑on earrings, and high‑quality bracelets, all from Casual Corner, a chic women’s clothing store considered high‑end in our area. She even wore CHANEL perfume.
Every evening, she returned home from her job as an office secretary at Georgetown University Hospital in her sturdy blue 1966 Dodge Polara, affectionately named Betsy.
After greeting the housing projects matriarchs, she settled in to watch the evening news hosted by the late African‑American journalist Max Robinson, sipping Sherry from a crystal wine glass she’d found at a Capitol Hill thrift store.
One evening, while watching a report about a conflict between the Israelites and Palestinian leaders, a United States delegation was dispatched to mediate the dispute. In that moment, I impulsively declared my desire to work for that federal government agency. Encouraged by my mother, I began the journey to pursue employment there.
Conclusion
And so, here I stand, a testament that something good can indeed emerge from Southeast Washington, D.C., far surpassing the expectations placed on those of us who grew up in the housing projects.
(Copyright © 2026 by Mia Z. Edwards. All rights reserved.)