The Washington Post - 22.08.2019

THURSDAY, AUGUST 22 , 2019. THE WASHINGTON POST EZ RE B5

17. Federal officials said the final
    capacity would depend on the
    city’s licensing requirements.
    The D.C. Child and Family Ser-
    vices Agency found the contrac-
    tor’s application for the facility
    “inadequate” but did not reject it
    outright, according to a D.C. offi-
    cial who spoke on the condition of
    anonymity to discuss an ongoing
    matter.
    The emergency regulations,
    which were adopted Friday, do
    not name the project specifically
    but would not allow for facilities
    with more than 15 children and
    would require the agency’s direc-
    tor to sign off on any facility
    housing between eight and 15
    children.
    The rules expire in mid-De-
    cember. A permanent version
    must go through a public com-
    ment period before taking effect.
    A person who answered the
    phone at Dynamic Service Solu-
    tions referred questions to HHS.
    The federal agency did not im-
    mediately respond to a request
    for comment.

SHELTER FROM B1 The owner of the proposed
shelter site, Douglas Develop-
ment, also has been facing pres-
sure to back out of the deal.
D.C. Council member Brandon
T. Todd (D-Ward 4), whose dis-
trict includes Takoma, wrote a
letter to the developer asking offi-
cials to “terminate any action” at
the property, and he said he and
other community leaders have
not heard from the federal con-
tractor that plans to operate the
facility. Local activists also are
planning a protest in front of the
building next week.
Douglas Jemal, who leads
Douglas Development, said his
business leases the four-story
building to the international lan-
guage school Education First,
which in turn planned to lease the
building for the immigrant shel-
ter.
“Douglas Jemal and Douglas
Development has nothing to do
with this, whatever you want to
call it, this facility. Nothing,” Je-
mal said Wednesday during a
phone interview. “The language
school is paying the rent, they are
not in default, and if they want to

sublease it to a legal use, they have

every right to do so.”

Education First did not im-

mediately respond to a message

seeking comment.

Several elected officials said

they did not want to be complicit

in the Trump administration’s

policies of separating immigrant

children from their parents.

But the shelter in Takoma is

meant to house minors who ar-

rived at the border without a

parent or guardian until they can

be placed with a relative or spon-

sor in the United States. Some

may have been separated by their

parents or in legal disputes sur-

rounding their status, but most

are unaccompanied.

A group of six D.C. residents

who held senior positions in HHS

under the Obama administration

wrote to Bowser last week urging

her to reconsider outright opposi-

tion to the proposed shelter.

“While the District’s intent in

opposing an unaccompanied chil-

dren’s shelter is noble, such action

is unlikely to benefit children and

may make it more likely that

children are harmed, forcing lon-

ger stays in crowded Customs and

Border Protection facilities or in

massive temporary shelters that

are not licensed by a state or local

child welfare agency,” they wrote.

Asked on Wednesday about

that letter, Bowser said her ad-

ministration is “making sure

emergency housing facilities that

support children are small and

dignified, and that’s our position.”

Jemal criticized the mayor’s at-

tempt to stop the shelter, saying

that she and others were conflat-

ing the issue of unaccompanied

minors who need housing with

family separations.

“I thought we are a blue area —

we welcome illegals, we are a

‘sanctuary city,’ ” Jemal said. “Now

these are kids, juveniles that have

crossed the border illegally.

Where are we supposed to put

them?”

The mayor and other officials

have said they also object to hav-

ing dozens of vulnerable children

under one roof. They also criti-

cized Dynamic Service Solutions

for lacking an extensive track rec-

ord caring for children.

“If the Trump-Jemal approach

was presented with smaller, dig-

nified facilities with known pro-

viders, the District of Columbia’s

response would be different,”

John Falcicchio, the mayor’s chief

of staff, said in a statement. “No

more warehouses.”

District officials recently

closed a large shelter for home-

less families at the former D.C.

General hospital site and are

building a network of smaller

facilities spread out across the

city.

The disappearance of 8-year-

old Relisha Rudd from D.C. Gen-

eral in 2014 put a glaring spotlight

on poor conditions at the shelter.

“We know when facilities are

too big to support children,

okay?” Bowser said at a news

conference this week. “And I don’t

need to remind anyone we don’t

know where Relisha Rudd is —

and her parent was with her.”

Council member Brianne K.

Nadeau (D-Ward 1) is considering

legislation to prohibit large-scale

facilities for children, which

would effectively turn the mayor’s

emergency rules into law.

Jemal said conditions at the

language-school site are far better

than the motels that the city uses

as overflow space for homeless

families.

“The facility is magnificent —

and then go to New York Avenue

and see our facilities for children,”

Jemal said. “Where should the

emergency legislation take place:

Should it be on the [language-

school site] or the shelters on New

York Avenue?”

[email protected]

Maria Sacchetti contributed to this

report.

Emergency rules in D.C. bar licensing of a 200-bed shelter

BY IAN DUNCAN

baltimore — A decade ago, the
Baltimore City Council president
dispatched a junior aide to deliv-
er a speech to mark the demoli-
tion of a blighted neighborhood
in Northeast Baltimore. Brandon
Scott returned this spring to
celebrate the choice of a develop-
er to build homes in the area.
Now, though, he was council
president himself.
“This is a great day,” said Scott,
a Democrat. “For me, it’s also one
that brings up a lot of emotion
and sentiment. I cut my teeth in
city government cleaning up
these lots.”
Only weeks before, Scott, 35,
had vaulted himself to the presi-
dency, part of a shakeout from
the resignation of Baltimore
Mayor Catherine E. Pugh (D) in
May. In doing so, he claimed the
city’s second top political job for
a wave of younger politicians
who have won office in Balti-
more.
Scott and his peers say their
outlook has been shaped by
growing up in the 1980s and ’90s,
years in which Baltimore saw
economic decline, drug addic-
tion and violent crime — and an
often-punitive response by police
in the city’s black neighbor-
hoods.
Those who know Scott say that
upbringing fostered a monklike
seriousness and dedication to
helping Baltimore that propelled
him rapidly through the political
ranks.
“The city’s like a family. Some-
body has to be the strong one
that says, ‘We are going to be all
right and this is how we’re going
to do it,’ ” Scott said. “I honestly
believe that’s why I was put on
this earth.”
The next prize for the new
generation could be the mayor’s
office, and Scott has said he is
considering running next year.
The race could pit him against
Democratic Mayor Bernard C.
“Jack” Young, a veteran politician
whom Scott replaced as council
president who is also thinking of
running. The potential for an
electoral competition has helped
stoke tension between the two
African American leaders.
Scott’s father, the son of a pig
farmer who also worked as a

janitor, moved to Baltimore from

North Carolina. His mother

moved to the city as a toddler

from Virginia.

When Scott was born, the

family was still poor. Growing up

in Park Heights, the oldest of

three boys, Scott said he was

exposed to violence in the neigh-

borhood and battles between po-

lice and drug dealers. A basket-

ball game in the church lot might

be interrupted by gunfire or by

officers demanding that children

tell them where dealers had hid-

den stashes of drugs.

“That stuff had a dramatic

impact,” Scott said. “You’re going

to either hate that so much that

you want to change it or you’re

going to just become accustomed

to it.”

The family worked its way into

the middle class after a relative

who started the Coldspring heat-

ing and air conditioning busi-

ness hired his father. His mother

secured union jobs at Sweetheart

Cup and a Giant supermarket on

Reisterstown Road.

Getting into Roland Park El-

ementary/Middle School in fifth

grade, which his mother targeted

for its advanced academic pro-

gram, was akin to “going from

here to Pasadena, California.”

The family remains close, and

Scott said he’s still expected to do

chores.

“When I’m in my parents’

house or my grandparents’

house, I ain’t the council presi-

dent,” he said.

Longtime friend Jabari Bush

met Scott when they were stu-

dents at Mergenthaler Vocation-

al Technical High School. They

had long bus rides home, which

give them time to talk about the

rap music they love, Wu-Tang

Clan in particular.

When Bush’s mother died,

Bush went to school to say what

had happened, but a teacher

started yelling at him thinking

he was going to make an excuse

to miss class. Scott went to the

principal’s office and straight-

ened things out, Bush recalled.

Bush, now assistant principal

at City Neighbors High School

and Scott’s campaign chairman,

described his friend as ambitious

— and intensely competitive dur-

ing the Wednesday night basket-

ball games they’ve tried to keep

up even as their careers have

taken off.

“He’s the littlest guy out there,

but he goes harder than any-

body,” Bush said. (Scott retorted

that he is, in fact, taller than

Bush at 5-foot-9.)

Athletics carried Scott

through to his high school gradu-

ation in 2002. He got an assist

from his track coach, who ush-

ered him into the CollegeBound

program, which encourages city

students to consider, prepare for

and stay in college. Scott went

through the program with Alicia

Wilson, a former Sagamore De-

velopment executive who is now

a Johns Hopkins University vice

president. She’s also Scott’s cam-

paign treasurer.

Scott earned a degree in politi-

cal science in 2006 from St.

Mary’s College of Maryland in

Southern Maryland, where he

conducted what he called a hos-

tile takeover of the Black Student

Union and then served as its

president. Scott is still paying off

his student loans but joked that

his lender appreciates his new

job’s salary of $122,000.

In 2007, Mayor Martin O’Mal-

ley (D) became governor, so

council President Sheila Dixon

became mayor. Then, council-

woman Stephanie Rawlings-

Blake’s colleagues chose her as

their leader, leaving her council

seat vacant. Scott applied for the

spot but wasn’t picked. Rawl-

ings-Blake offered him a job on

her new team in the council

president’s office.

Scott worked as her represen-

tative in a swath of Northeast

Baltimore, attending community

meetings, keeping her apprised

of issues in the neighborhood

and troubleshooting problems.

Rita Crews, president of the

Belair-Edison Community Asso-

ciation, got to know Scott in

those years. He attended cook-

outs and flower plantings, but he

was also called on to do more.

She recalled a family with no

money to pay for a funeral and

another at risk of becoming

homeless. Both times, Scott

stepped up to help, Crews said.

“He does good deeds and he

doesn’t boast about what he

does,” she said.

In the 2011 election, a council

seat covering some of the neigh-

borhoods where Scott was work-

ing opened up after the incum-

bent decided not to run. Scott,

who had moved in 2009 to an

apartment in that district, won,

taking 55 percent of the vote in a

six-way Democratic primary.

Scott described his election at

age 27 and that of Democrat Nick

Mosby, then 32, to a council seat

in West Baltimore as the begin-

ning of the rise of the new

generation that has since gained

power on the council, in the city’s

General Assembly delegation

and at the state’s attorney’s of-

fice. Scott said he’s proud of his

role in that.

“Someone has to be able to

charge at the door,” Scott said.

“We can’t wait. Wait for what?

There are cemeteries full of peo-

ple in Baltimore who waited a

turn that never came. You don’t

wait.”

Scott continues to work with

Rawlings-Blake’s former fund-

raiser, Colleen Martin-Lauer, and

was a sometime ally of the for-

mer mayor. But Kaliope Parthe-

mos, one of Rawlings-Blake’s top

advisers and Scott’s former boss,

said he wasn’t a guaranteed vote

for the administration.

“People think he’s part of the

machine, and I get tickled when I

hear people say that — tickled

and a little frustrated,” Parthe-

mos said. “Did he work for a

mayor? Yes. But he’s a communi-

ty person. He’s extremely inde-

pendent.”

As a councilman, Scott worked

to bring transparency to restau-

rant health inspection records

and sponsored an expansion of

the city’s curfew for children and

teenagers.

Mosby, now a state delegate,

said he and Scott weren’t always

aligned, describing Scott as more

conservative. But he said their

upbringings shaped their politi-

cal outlooks in similar ways.

“We were able to see people’s

family lives go from being stable

to unstable overnight,” Mosby

said.

After Scott was reelected in

2016 to the council, Young chose

him to lead the public safety

committee. That gave him a high-

profile platform to comment on

crime and take the police depart-

ment to task. He showed an

interest in detail, instituting

monthly oversight hearings to

claw information out of officials.

Scott also made attention-grab-

bing moves, as when he demand-

ed police leaders produce a col-

laborative plan to reduce vio-

lence at a public hearing, then

abruptly ended the meeting

when they weren’t prepared to

present the full plan.

The focus on crime extended

beyond Scott’s official role. He

helped found the anti-violence

group 300 Men March, walking

from Baltimore to Washington in

2015 to raise awareness about a

surge of killings that started in

the city that year and has not

abated.

With Pugh on leave in April

amid mounting investigations

into sales of her “Healthy Holly”

books, Scott helped organize a

unanimous call by the council for

her to resign. When she quit in

May, he moved quickly to secure

the votes to get elected council

president by his peers.

After the vote and before the

official swearing-in, some of

Scott’s young colleagues sought

selfies with him on the floor of

the council chambers.

As council president, Scott has

set forth a 26-point plan he

hopes to enact before his term

ends in December 2020. It in-

cludes lowering the voting age

for city elections to 16 and re-

making the top levels of city

government, in part by changing

the composition of the city’s

spending board.

Reflecting on his success, Scott

says he sees how easily his life

could have turned out differently.

He compared himself with peo-

ple he knew in elementary school

who are gone, “either in the

physical sense, or they’re in pris-

on, or they’re walking around

Park Heights severely addicted to

drugs.”

“The only difference is, literal-

ly, home. That’s it,” he said. “And

that’s why I’m always so particu-

lar about how we can rebuild

families in the city. Because I

know having such a strong fam-

ily is a very critical part of how I

got to be where I am.”

— Baltimore Sun

MARYLAND

Council chief wants more for Baltimore, may go for mayor

“Now these are kids,

juveniles that have

crossed the border

illegally. Where are we

supposed to put them?”

Douglas Jemal,

who leads Douglas Development

JERRY JACKSON/BALTIMORE SUN

Scott lays out his legislative plan during a meeting with the

Baltimore Sun’s editorial board at the end of July.

KIM HAIRSTON/BALTIMORE SUN

Jabari Bush, left, gets a laugh from Brandon Scott as they and Alan Robinson hit a basketball game at a
Baltimore high school. “He’s the littlest guy out there, but he goes harder than anybody,” Bush said.

ULYSSES MUÑOZ/BALTIMORE SUN

Scott, the Baltimore City Council president, watches a video about the reopening of the Harlem Park

Recreation Center, which has new lighting, sports equipment and an upgraded multipurpose room.

“The city’s like a family.

Somebody has to be the

strong one that says,

‘We are going to be all

right and this is how

we’re going to do it.’ ”

Brandon Scott, council president