Community at a crossroads

Fitchburg's activists say it's time for the city to embrace, not attack minority residents

by Chris Kanaracus

Social worker and community activist Michael Alvarado takes a visitor for a walk around his neighborhood, a ramshackle to slightly worn section of Fitchburg, sometimes referred to as Ward 5B, that houses a large chunk of the city's rapidly growing minority population. It's hot today, the sun nearly white in intensity; but it's a dry and welcoming heat, one that brings residents out of their apartments and onto the streets, where they mingle, talk, stroll, and relax.

Within minutes, it seems everyone knows this unassuming, deceivingly fit man in his mid 30s -- especially the kids. Like the half-dozen black youth playing two-on-two in the small playground on North Street. Or the three Laotian kids -- with eyes that are somehow as innocent as the homemade tattoos on their forearms are menacing -- who sit and smoke cigarettes in a meager patch of shade next to their apartment building. Or any one of the Puerto Rican teenagers pushing her baby down Day Street.

A simple wave from Alvarado brings a speeding, hyper-stylized Camry to a halt by the roadside, where the four passengers shut off their deafening radio and step outside of the car to chat for a few minutes.

"You know, these kids aren't gang members. There's no organized gangs around here anymore. I'm not saying everyone's an angel, but the perception of a lot of [outsiders] is that this is a bad area, with bad people living in it," says Alvarado.

"What they don't understand is that there are a lot of very good, upstanding, caring citizens here. But they ignore that, they downplay that. If they help us, we can do a lot," he says.

In the past decade, Fitchburg -- a city of about 40,000 located about 20 miles north of Worcester -- has watched its strong, manufacturing-based economy erode. The downtown area, once home to scores of small businesses, now sees its street-level tenants nearly outnumbered by empty storefronts.

But during the past few years, the city has begun to regroup. An economic revitalization plan, spearheaded by the chamber of commerce and a local group named Fitchburg by Design (FBD), has enticed more than $150 million worth of new development. Among the projects underway are a new high school on Route 31 in the western end of town and a proposed technology center based in a now-vacant GE plant. There's also a downtown clean-up/refurbishment project (mostly complete) not unlike that undertaken in Worcester several years back, with new sidewalks and vintage-style lampposts. Tax, rent, and loan incentives are in place to attract new business.

Minority leaders like Mike Alvarado are all for turning the city's fortunes around. But they say there is just one problem -- the city has never fully welcomed them, and its plans for the future don't include them. Now they want in, and their numbers are growing.

For nearly parallel to the arc of its financial woes, Fitchburg has also experienced a dramatic demographic shift -- local black, Latino, and Asian populations have increased by as much as 1000 percent, and now make up approximately 20 percent of the overall population (the school system is even more diverse, with nearly 42 percent minority students as of 1997). White flight has been in effect as well -- between 1990 and 1995, every two departing white residents were replaced by one new person of color.

But jobs for minorities in city government and services have not grown in accordance with the population. A 1992 study, "The Minority Affairs Assessment Report," commissioned by then-mayor Jeffrey Bean, drew guarded but dire conclusions concerning the status of Fitchburg's minority community. Further, it called for widespread reform. But an affirmative-action plan for public service, first proposed in that report, has yet to be implemented. Many people of color say (as they did when surveyed in '92) that they continue to be singled out by police for undue harassment and are indirectly blamed for increases in drugs and crime. For unlike the national crime statistics that have decreased in recent years, Fitchburg's have increased. Larcenies are up 47 percent and robberies 34 percent from last year. And several within the city's minority-activist community allege that what is being created by the city's (in)actions is essentially a social time bomb.

"They say most of the crime and drugs is coming from this minority community, from minority areas. Well, what makes a place ripe for that?" poses Adrian Ford, director of Three Pyramids Inc., the largest of only two private minority-affairs agencies in the city. "I'll tell you what. No opportunity. No jobs. No foreseeable future."

Ford says that even though "things have definitely gotten better" since he founded Three Pyramids in 1973 (during the civil-rights movement), the city has generally lagged behind the needs of the minority community, and no more so than today. "If they think there is a problem now, wait 10 years down the road. People feel isolated, like they don't belong, that they're not wanted to take part. That creates an atmosphere of desperation."

But a sense of desperation isn't exclusive to Fitchburg's minority groups. The latest blow to downtown was delivered by Fisher Junior College, which announced last week it will close its Main Street doors on July 9. The school is just the latest in a series of mill and manufacturing-company closings -- such as one longtime downtown anchor, a GE steam plant -- that have affected the community all the way down to its Swedish- and Finnish-American roots.

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Unlike national crime statistics that have decreased in recent years, Fitchburg's have increased. Larcenies are up 47 percent and robberies 34 percent from last year. And several within the city's minority-activist community allege that what is being created by the city's (in)actions is essentially a social time bomb.

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Indeed, the "twin city" of Leominster (the cities share a border line), a community of similar physical and demographic qualities, has seen its fortunes -- both social and economic -- thrive while Fitchburg's have steadily eroded. More than 150 plastics-related businesses operate in Leominster. Crime rates are comparatively lower there.

Many in Fitchburg point to the lack of easy highway access into the city. While Leominster is a short hop off of Route 2, a visitor to Fitchburg has two options: a four-mile slog from I-190 down traffic-choked Route 12, or a 10-mile overshoot past Route 12 to Route 31, then it's a seven-mile trek down secondary roads to the center of town. Fitchburg mayor Mary Whitney says that while the nation's economy may be booming, such cumbersome access routes have all but left Fitchburg out of the running for companies looking to expand or relocate.

Ford acknowledges that the city at-large is hurting, and that the problems minorities face when trying to join the mainstream aren't exclusive to Fitchburg. But, he says, there is one difference when it comes to his town -- the city is in a position to make a powerful choice.

"This city is at a crossroads . . . it's starting to come around, starting to wake up," Ford says. "The people that run things around here have a choice. Include everyone now and create a better place for all, or don't, and see what happens."

But not many in city leadership are moved by such an argument. Police department spokesman Captain Charles Tasca says such a notion "may be prophetic," but in his opinion "today's headlines are tomorrow's pigeon droppings." Others, like Ted Brovich of Fitchburg by Design, express surprise. "Fitchburg's always been receptive to minorities. . . . I'd even go so far as to say that the city has bent over backwards to accommodate them.

"Any one of those people who want to take advantage of the programs and incentives we have to start a small business down here can do so," he says. "And as far as including or not including anyone into plans, I really don't think it's anyone's responsibility but their own to get involved. The minority community is very much plugged in to City Hall. How can we help it if they don't push their own agendas?"

Ford unsuccessfully holds back a derisive snort when told of Brovich's remarks. Then he replies, "It's just that kind of attitude that keeps people out of the loop. To truly believe in the value of diversity, you have to have a plan to include it, and then act upon that plan."

A new economic assessment report released in May, commissioned by the city and conducted by the Somerville-based Mt. Auburn Associates, offers one answer: "For success to occur, Fitchburg must promote diversity as an economic strength . . . it must embrace its shifting cultural and racial identity . . . it will not thrive unless the majority is taking part in its future."

To that end, the report proposes a program modeled after one conducted in Hartford, Connecticut, by the Study Circles Center of Pomfret. In Pomfret, a panel of 10 to 12 community representatives were "trainers," individuals who learn leadership, mediation, and similar skills. Trainers were then assigned to groups of 10 or so minority residents to discuss what steps should be taken to improve the quality of their lives.

"You see, even the city's own study is telling them that they need to do something, and that nothing has really changed since the one in 1992," says Ford. "I think they really believe what they're saying, that they believe they are open to diversity. But actions are the true measuring stick, not simply a willingness to listen."

Some say that Fitchburg's downtown plan not only hasn't included minorities, but is an attempt to rid the area of them. Local attorney John Bosk, a veteran of several high-profile cases involving minority youth, says that proponents hope "that getting rid of the poor people and slapping a new coat of paint on things will bring all kinds of new business to downtown."

Indeed, one of FBD's hopes is to move several social service agencies (that serve many minorities) away from Main Street.

"When our lease was up several years ago, there was pressure on us to move to another location," says John Benard, who heads the local welfare office.

A Main Street church was asked to move its soup kitchen entrance to a less-visible side of the building; and a local day-labor agency was asked that its employee entrance be moved from the front, on Main Street, to the back door, which adjoins a parking lot.

"These people are trying to go to work, and the city doesn't want them outside smoking butts," says Alvarado.

Ted Brovich says there is no insidious intent to either situation. "The area in which those agencies are located is some prime real estate in the heart of downtown that needs to be used for new business. No one is trying to say that people can't have social services, but they don't have to be downtown either," he says. "In addition, there is a lot of loitering that goes on down there, and that is a problem."

It's a problem that Fitchburg leaders tried to solve in 1994 with an anti-loitering ordinance that prohibits people from obstructing city sidewalks.

Perhaps another, more striking element of Fitchburg's plan is not on Main Street but just north of it: the "gateway" project, based around centrally located North/Green streets neighborhood, otherwise known as Ward 5B. The vision behind the project, which has been in the works for several years, is to create a physical link between the city's downtown and Fitchburg State College, which sits atop a hill about a mile away.

Mayor Mary Whitney says, "For a long time, it was as if we didn't have a college here. It's time to admit that Fitchburg is a college town."

Until the gateway project, Fitchburg State College (FSC)students traveled to and from the campus via the John Fitch Highway, located around the perimeter of the city. The route was encouraged by school officials at the time as a way to avoid the 5B neighborhood, which until a few years ago was, in the words of one resident, "pretty wild." As a result, FSC students have been a rather insular bunch, and Fitchburg's leaders want that to change.

A walk around the North Street site suggests that message is indeed being sent -- and in bold style. North Street, formerly a modest two-lane road, has become a nearly double-wide boulevard, replete with brick-lain sidewalks and vintage lampposts. Piles of half-cleared rubble sit in lots once occupied by apartment buildings and warehouses. Enormous yellow cranes tower over the site of the soon-to-be FSC athletic center. Even the gleam of the road stripes suggests a place in flux, of a change afoot.

But the kids playing basketball at the little, one-acre park just down the road from the gym site do little but scoff. One 16-year-old looks to his left and right with brief disdain and says, "It's not for us."

The very nature and location of the gateway project would suggest the same, as it cuts a shiny, slickly painted path through the heart of a lower-middle-class, mostly minority neighborhood of three-deckers and small homes. "It's like an invasion," says Mike Alvarado, who along with his dismay at his neighborhood's transformation expresses a measure of betrayal. "I feel like I was used by the college and city." Several years ago, when the project was just getting underway, he says he was approached by city leaders to rally support in the area. "At the time, we were told that the neighborhood kids would be allowed to use the new gym. Now they are saying that can't happen, that it's a liability issue."

FSC's spokesman Mike Shanley says the college has yet to decide who can or cannot use the gym facility.

"I don't know what Mike Alvarado thinks he was promised, but we haven't ruled anything out," he says.

When the notion of a city-sponsored insurance rider is brought up, Alvarado shakes his head. "The city won't put out money for that, or at least I have my doubts."

His doubt stems from the demise of a program started by former mayor Jeffrey Bean, in which small amounts of money were set aside for youth programs in several needy Fitchburg neighborhoods. Alvarado ran the program in Ward 5B, in which he organized activities like camping and hiking trips and youth basketball leagues. "The kids loved it," he says softly.

"Five grand a year, that was all. And the week after they cut my money, what do you know, they've spent $40,000 on new streetlights for downtown." Mayor Whitney could not recall the specific program Alvarado refers to, but says that "if that money was cut, it was probably an instance of redundancy, that the money would have been coming in from a different source," she says. "I'm open to look at anything."

Indeed, the perception of Mayor Whitney within the community is largely positive. Whitney's voter base is primarily among the elderly, historically the social group most likely to vote, most likely to own homes and property. The centrist-to-conservative Whitney succeeded Bean, a self-styled progressive, in 1997. Most critics point to Fitchburg's city council, a body Adrian Ford calls "one of the laziest, self-serving, old-school bunch of people I've ever seen."

Mike Alvarado's ward is served by a 22-year-old Fitchburg State College student, Rick Lapointe. "We haven't seen him at any of our community meetings in a long time," says Adrian Ford. "We try to get him to come around, but what can we do? We've complained to City Hall."

Mayor Whitney says she is "well aware of Rick Lapointe. . . . I've tried to get him involved as well. But the fact is, I just don't have firm jurisdiction over what he does. He's a college kid that got in over his head."

Several telephone calls made by the Worcester Phoenix to Lapointe at his home were not returned.

But when such a void in minority leadership is pointed out by the very people who could fill those roles, obvious questions arise. Mike Alvarado says it's only a matter of time until he runs. Adrian Ford says that the idea of running for public office has occurred to him, but he hasn't run for a number of reasons. "I've got my hands full with Three Pyramids and the Spanish Center [Ford is currently the acting director]," he says. "Now is not the time for me to drop that."

Ford says training others to run for office is a better idea, and he has started to do just that with a $10,000 grant from the Greater Worcester Community Foundation to fund leadership-skills classes for minority youth.

"It's going to take more than one person of color in City Hall to make any sort of difference," he says.

But City Hall isn't the only area of Fitchburg's government that many minorities say they feel isolated from and misunderstood by.

"I would say, 90, 95 percent of the cops are ballbusters," says one 16-year-old as he leaned on the fence next to the basketball court at the North Street playground, delivered not with indignation but with a weary nonchalance.

"They stop me all the time. In the car, you name it. They even arrested me one night for cutting through the park," says another teen hanging out on the court. (A city curfew prohibits people from using the park after 8 p.m.; it's an ordinance that Alvarado says wouldn't be necessary if lights were installed, as promised.)

Perhaps one reason for such strained relations between residents and police stems from an oft-heard rumor among minority advocates -- that Fitchburg's community policing program (one that began much like Worcester's, with beat and bicycle cops supplementing patrol cars in problem areas) has essentially been dropped by chief Edward Gallant, the reason being that officers were becoming too friendly with the neighborhood, says Ford and Alvarado.

Fitchburg police spokesman Captain Charles Tasca expresses surprise at the sentiment: "We haven't changed a thing. It's the same as it's always been."

The program's inception came on the heels of the 1992 beating of Cleghorn (another depressed area of Fitchburg) resident Jody Thibeault by two men armed with baseball bats. Called by police at the time "one of the most brutal beatings" they had ever seen, the incident was key to the Fitchburg Police Department (FPD) acquiring federal grant money in 1994 for a community-policing program.

By many estimates, the program was a success, placing up to five full-time officers on walking beats 365 days a year. Incidents of reported rape, robbery, domestic disturbances, disorderly conduct, and assault declined significantly from 1994 to 1997. In news stories from the period, residents spoke highly of the increased level of safety and improved dialogue between police officers and the community. "It was good. You had a couple of rookies from time to time that they threw in there without proper training, but there were a number of those guys that genuinely, truly cared about the job and the people they were serving," says Alvarado.

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Perhaps the biggest tensions between minorities and the police have risen from past actions of the FPD's Special Response Team (SRT), which garnered national headlines after a 1994 raid and arrest of a group of teenagers in front of a Green Street apartment dwelling.

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Yet now, Alvarado says, the dialogue is all but gone. "At the beginning, it was four officers out there walking the beat all the time. Now there's one, and I don't even know his name."

Perhaps the biggest tensions between minorities and the police have risen from past actions of the FPD's Special Response Team (SRT), which garnered national headlines after a 1993 raid and arrest of a group of teenagers in front of a Green Street apartment dwelling. The arrests, based officially on violations of a city loitering ordinance (but which some observers say occured after one in the group insulted a police captain who had ordered them to move along), were carried out by masked, badgeless SRT members armed with automatic weapons. The teens charged in court they were loaded into a van, stacked upon each other like kindling, and driven around town for several hours before being processed. The "ninja" case, as it is known, resulted in a lawsuit led by local attorney and civil-liberties advocate Bosk. He and his complainants (seven of the youths involved in the incident) lost their appeal to the First Circuit Court of Appeals in May, and after four years of litigation, Bosk has given up.

In 1994, the SRT again made the news in the neighborhood. This time the unit used tear gas to coax out a suspect, though he was no where near the building. The stake-out was witnessed by more than 200 residents who gathered to protest the police's excessive use of force. Again, in 1996, the SRT was involved in another highly embarrassing blunder. Having cornered a single, unarmed man wanted for minor drug violations in a six-unit apartment building, officers chose to use two flash grenades to gain entry. One grenade landed on a sofa, causing a fire that burned the dwelling to the ground and left eight families homeless.

"They got away from the old ways of doing things when the SRT came around," says Bosk. "Back in the day, Dave Caputi, Don Richards, and Ed Thurston [three older vice cops] had it down to a science. They knew the street. They knew who was selling. They'd go up, knock on the door, `Hey, you're busted.' That's it. No machine guns required."

Since those incidents, the visibility of the SRT in everyday policing in Fitchburg has come nearly to a halt. "You used to see them ride around in their little van all the time," says Alvarado. "I haven't seen them at all, not for a while." But Bosk sees this fact as a small victory, far short of a change of heart. "They've choked on it," he says. "I think it's a result of the national picture changing enough to where that sort of thing isn't tolerated by anyone in the community." Indeed, even the local Fitchburg Sentinel, a paper not known for radical, anti-establishment stances, published an editorial in June condemning the behavior of the SRT in the ninja case.

Some evidence suggests that the SRT could re-emerge, for while in 1998 Fitchburg police officers spent a department-wide total of four hours in classes on drug forfeiture and proper search and seizure, 498 hours were spent on the firing range and 1472 hours of training were undergone by members of the Special Response Team.

On the surface, it would seem that the SRT is gearing up for war, perhaps in response to the growing crime rate. (Indeed, chief Gallant, in his latest annual report to the city, points to the local methadone clinic as a possible reason for the increased crime.)

Tasca, though, defends his department, asserting that the SRT training has nothing to do with the current crime statistics. Instead, he says, it's a matter of improving the force as a whole. "Those types of trainings don't lend themselves to simple, one-day seminars. It's specialized training that takes time to complete."

What many agree the Fitchburg police lack is something shared by every city department -- non-white faces. The FPD currently has two black and one Hispanic officers on its force of 90, and no Asians. The numbers lag behind the city as a whole, with minorities comprising approximately 20 percent of Fitchburg's population.

"Anyone can sign up [for civil service], take the test. If people don't sign up, what are we supposed to do about it?" Tasca asks.

Quite simply, people like Ford and Alvarado want that sort of attitude to change. They want to see invitations given to talk followed by swift, decisive action. They want to see Fitchburg follow the lead of places like Boston, whose 1994 program "Operation Ceasefire" involved police, community leaders, church officials, social workers, and even the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms in an effort to curb gang-related drugs and violence. Boston's government used aggressive and extensive community-policing efforts, after-school activities, neighborhood clean-up efforts, and job-training programs. What resulted from such a cohesive, proactive union was results -- not only greatly reduced crime among inner-city youth, but increased hope for the future, providing jobs, structure, and at least the start of a belief that the rest of the world is open and waiting for them.

Right now, people in Fitchburg don't buy that, and it will take a lot to convince them. Alvarado and Ford say they and their peers are, and have always been ready to do their part -- they simply hope the city finally will as well. What makes them nervous is the fact that the time to do just that has never been more ripe than now. What is happening in Fitchburg is not about a subtle change in a zoning law, or about a few flower beds to beautify Main Street. This city is making huge, far-reaching decisions about its future, and in Alvarado's and Ford's opinions, a legitimate, concerted effort to promote diversity hasn't been among them. "There's a lot of potential here," says Ford. "I hope they will finally realize that."

Alvarado makes his point literally, as he leans on the fence at the North Street playground and gestures to the neighborhood at-large. "These people are tired of being pointed at, of being the easy suspect. They're hard-working, decent people like anyone else," he says. "They don't want to have a label . . . they don't want to be minorities."