S1 E3: David Crispell
TIME STAMPS
0:00 - Intro
0:37 - Who is David Crispell?
3:43 - How Jubilee Home Started (Accidentally!)
5:39 - Entering Black Space as a White Neighbor
8:51 - The Trash Can Story: A Lesson in Dignity
14:06 - What Does Jubilee Home Do?
22:22 - The Shooting That Changed Everything
26:21 - The History of Durham’s Hayti District
42:06 - Gentrification, Preservation & Fighting for the Soul of Hayti
48:09 - Closing Thoughts: Holding Space for the Past & Future.
DESCRIPTION
In this episode, we sit down with David Crispell, co-founder and executive director of Jubilee Home, to discuss his work in Durham’s historic Hayti District. David shares his journey into community development, the power of relationships in transformative justice, and the lessons he's learned from the resilience of those often overlooked.
We explore how Jubilee Home provides supportive housing for individuals with justice involvement, the challenges of gentrification, and the importance of preserving Hayti’s history amidst rapid urban change. This conversation is a powerful reminder of the sacredness of place, the necessity of listening, and the radical hospitality that shapes meaningful community work.
GUEST
Born of red clay and nourished in the waters of the Eno River, Rev. Dave Crispell is a born and raised Durhamite who loves this place. He is eternally grateful to the Eno, Occneechi, and Tuscaroran indigenous peoples who cared for this land long before his own people immigrated here. He is Amber’s husband, Asher and Zekie’s papa, Mark and Peter’s brother, Pat and Gary’s son, and Jockamo’s human. Along with the titles of neighbor, coach, and co-worker, he is also co-founder and executive director of Jubilee Home.
Give To Jubilee Home: $JubileeHome
Learn More About: Jubilee Home
TRANSCRIPT
Dooley: Well, Dave, thank you so much for being with us on our South to America podcast. I’d love for you to start by introducing yourself.
Crispell: Yeah, Dave Crispell—who is that? That’s a great question.
I’m a father of two, a husband to one, a human to two dogs. I’m a son to Pat and Gary, a brother to Mark and Peter. I’m of French Huguenot and German descent. On my father’s side, my ancestors came over from France during religious upheaval when Catholics were cracking down on non-Catholics. Many Huguenots immigrated and settled in the Hudson Valley, New York. That’s where my father’s side of the family is from.
They stayed there until my father and mother eventually moved south and settled in North Carolina. I was born and raised in Durham—a proud North Carolinian. I left, thinking I would never come back, but almost immediately, I realized I wanted to return. I have a deep love for this place and its people.
Along with that, I’m also the co-founder and executive director of Jubilee Home, where we serve individuals with justice involvement through supportive housing and wraparound services. I’m also a Little League coach, a community member, and a neighbor.
Dooley: That’s great. I hope the Little League season has been going well. I have some friends in Phoenix who are coaching, and they’ve been having a tough season.
Thank you for sharing that. I’d love to hear more about your work at Jubilee Home, but before we get into the specifics, I want to ask:
How did you get into community development work? How do you define community development philosophy?
Crispell: Yeah, sure. That’s a big question.
I’d say that most of the community development that has happened around me, through me, or alongside me has been… not happenstance, but also not planned. We didn’t set out to do community development, necessarily. It kind of came with the territory.
So, in reference to Jubilee Home and Hayti, and how we’ve become part of the community—it’s really been about learning from the people around me.
Jubilee Home ended up in Hayti not as part of a master plan, but because of a series of circumstances. We were looking for property all over Durham. We had a few deals fall through. Eventually, we ended up in the community we’re in now. And, interestingly enough, we landed right on the busiest drug corner in Durham.
That was not part of the plan—it just happened that way. One day, all of a sudden, we owned the busiest drug corner in Durham, with a house that had been abandoned for the last 30 years and needed a lot of love.
We had to make some choices about what that meant.
How were we going to enter into a space that already existed without us?
Some people come in with the mentality of “cleaning up the neighborhood.” I understand that perspective, but I think it’s deeply flawed. It implies that what was already here was trash, and that’s just not true.
This community was full of humans—people, neighbors, and, now, friends.
Dooley: That’s powerful.
Crispell: Yeah. And for me, as the only white dude within at least half a mile, I had to recognize that I was stepping into a space that was already occupied and alive in its own way.
Our goal was not removal.
Our goal was not to clean up.
Our goal was not even to change anyone.
Our goal was to get to know people and build relationships while we worked on this house—this house that just so happened to be at a nexus of the black market economy in Durham.
As we did that—as I, our board, and our volunteers came into the space and got to know people—you quickly realize you’re in deeper than you ever planned to be.
Dooley: What do you mean by that?
Crispell: When you form relationships with people in a community full of pain and trauma, you take on some of that.
That means sitting in courtrooms with people.
That means visiting people in hospitals.
That means, as a white guy, you become the “safe” person to call 911 in emergencies.
It might mean spending your own money to make sure someone has clothes, food, or the things they need.
It means learning how to use Narcan. It means helping connect people with services they can trust.
And all of this happened slowly. The house had been abandoned for 30 years. It needed a ton of work, and we didn’t have money to bring in contractors.
So, I was doing a lot of the work myself, which slowed things down—in the best way possible.
Dooley: That’s such an organic way of engaging the community.
Crispell: Yeah, and that slow process gave us time to build relationships.
For example, about a year in, we had this old foundation wall by the sidewalk where people used to sit. Two women in particular—Miss Robin and Miss Pat—would sit there every day.
They’d drink beer or something stronger, and when they were done, they’d just toss their cans into the overgrown lot where our garden is now.
Every morning, I’d go outside, clean it all up, and think,
"God, I’m picking up these cans again. This is ridiculous."
Dooley: Did you ever say something?
Crispell: Oh yeah. And I handled it poorly at first.
I probably made sarcastic comments.
I might have said something condescending about “having nice things.”
I might have even tried to use my privilege to guilt them.
But eventually, I realized… there was no trash can.
Where were they supposed to put their trash?
People aren’t going to carry their trash around all day if there’s nowhere to put it.
So, after I got over myself, we put in a bench and a trash can.
And guess what?
People sat on the bench and put their trash in the can.
Dooley: Laughs Simple but powerful.
Crispell: Right? When you treat people like humans with human needs, they respond in kind.
Here’s the wildest part: A little while after we put in the trash can, this young guy on a bike rolled up. He was maybe 18 or 20.
He was angry because he couldn’t get dope on credit.
So, as he rode past the trash can, he kicked it over in frustration.
And, man—four or five people jumped on him immediately.
They weren’t having it. They were yelling at him like,
"You don’t mess with the trash can!"
Dooley: Laughs That’s incredible.
Crispell: Right? That trash can became a symbol of respect and mutuality.
It’s such a simple thing, but it’s a reminder: People care when you care.
Dooley: Wow. That’s such a great story. It’s amazing how small things like that can transform a neighborhood dynamic.
Crispell: Fine, man. I appreciate the respect you guys show for this trash can and our efforts to have a little bit cleaner place, but like, we also don’t need to beat anyone down about this. But it was just—it was so funny to me that, like, oh, this trash can is a symbol of respect and mutuality, right? We all need trash cans. And it’s like, a trash can is a pillar of functioning communities. We just don’t think of it that way because we always have them.
And so, when this guy disrupted that pillar, he paid the price. I’m sure he already probably said some stuff when he couldn’t get credit, but it was just such a great picture of, like, when you come into a space and are open to the people who are already here, willing to learn, listen, and be a part—people will respond to that. People will be open and maybe even protective of you in some ways.
So, just a somewhat humorous, but also really powerful way that I recognized that. Like, I mean, thank you guys that you would feel the need to beat somebody down for my trash can, but also, probably don’t need to do it quite like that next time.
Dooley: That’s awesome. It seems like it’s been such a journey—from you being in the community, to that, to now all the work that you do through Jubilee Home and all the services that Jubilee Home offers. So maybe talk a little bit about that. I’d love to hear—what are all the services that Jubilee Home offers now, and what’s the hope for the future?
Crispell: Yeah, sure. I’ll do my best here. We’ve got a whole staff, and sometimes I don’t even know all the stuff we’re doing!
But, so now Jubilee Home has grown. We have three properties in the same community, on this corner that is no longer the busiest drug corner in Durham. In fact, it’s one of the more quiet, almost suburban-ish corners now—which is sometimes shocking, sometimes lovely, and always beautiful.
And so, in those properties, our bread and butter offering is transitional and supportive housing. What that means is, for folks with justice involvement, they’re coming out of incarceration, or they’ve been kind of cycling through the jail system and need a stable place to land—they can end up at Jubilee Home.
When they come here, they’re going to be surrounded by a staff who’s working really hard to be on their team. So, we do an assessment, figure out some of their goals they want to accomplish while they’re here. We let them answer that—we may supplement their goals a little bit, try to beef them up—but for the most part, we’re listening to what they want, and then that’s going to guide how we support them.
You know, there are some basics we have to do, right? We’ve got to get a birth certificate, we’ve got to get a Social Security card, we’ve got to get a state ID. We have to make sure there’s a way for them to eat, and that there’s some level of income they can live off of when they leave here—whether that’s a job, disability, Social Security benefits, whatever their specific situation is.
But alongside that, we’re really working to meet their needs and their goals. And because we’ve entered into a community that also has pretty high needs, we’ve sort of accidentally—but also intentionally—become a community hub. That wasn’t part of the original business plan or anything, but it just happened.
So, what that means is, maybe someone doesn’t have an address because they’re unhoused. If they know Jubilee Home, they can write down 404 E. Umstead as their mailing address for everything, because they know if their mail comes here, we’re going to find them, and they’re going to get their mail. Or they can just stop by and grab it.
It also means we have water, feminine hygiene products, harm reduction materials like Narcan, condoms, alcohol pads—basic medical supplies. Folks can knock on the door and ask, and sort of no questions asked, they’ll get what they need.
And we have an open-door policy. If someone is ready to not be out here grinding anymore—if they’re tired, if they’re hurt—if it’s just been going really poorly recently, and they’re at the end of their rope, we’re ready. We’re ready with resources, we’re ready with support, and we’re ready with non-judgment to begin a journey with them to get them where they need to go. Even if that’s not Jubilee Home.
We’re not really concerned with whether Jubilee Home is the perfect place for them or not. If it’s not, we’re here to find another partner agency that’s going to house them or meet their needs better than we can.
So, we kind of operate in a bit of a community hub space. I’m trying to think of some of the other assets we have that folks can utilize, but that’s how we exist in our community.
And support looks like all kinds of things, especially for our residents. You walk in the door, and all your basic needs are ready for you—we’re ready to welcome you in. You’re going to get whatever meal it is that you’ve been thinking about while you were locked up—that’s going to be in your lap by the end of the day.
And then, from there, we work on things like food stamps, job training—maybe they’ve never had a real job before and need to go take some classes to learn what a resume is. We work through all of that stuff and get them equipped, however that needs to be, so that they can move towards independence.
And ultimately, that’s our goal—to help them get on their feet, however that looks.
Dooley: That’s good. I’m curious—I’ll ask this question before asking one about Hayti, but based on some of the things you’re mentioning—are there any stories or any lessons that you’ve learned from the folks that you’ve worked with in community and the people that you’ve served at Jubilee Home? Have they impacted you in any way, or is there something that you’ve learned from them?
Crispell: Oh, we don’t have that kind of time!
Yeah, I mean—I’ll say some of the more straightforward lessons I’ve learned. One is, I never knew what bravery, courage, or strength really were until I came into this space.
I live a pretty privileged life, if we just want to be plain about it. I am male. I am cisgendered. I am white. I had access to high levels of education. I’m not in poverty, and I’ve never lived in a family under the strain of poverty. Two parents. My adverse childhood experience (ACE) score? Zero.
I won the parenting lottery when the stork dropped me off at my parents’ door—because I’m sure that’s how it happens, right?
I won the lottery.
And so, I have never, for once in my life, had to be brave. I could just get up in the morning, put my shirt on, walk out the door, and by and large, be fine.
So many of the folks I’ve gotten to know, so many of the relationships I’ve built here, are with people who have to claim their own dignity every second of every day. They have to assert their own will to live every second of every day.
They have to pick themselves up.
One day, before we had the house open, I was out here painting. I was up on a ladder, almost two stories above the ground, above our brick staircase that you walk in when you come into the house. I was up there, painting the fascia white.
And this car pulls up to the house on the other side of the corner, sticks a hand out the window, and unloads a clip into the house.
Dooley: Wow.
Crispell: I recognize that I cannot jump off this ladder without really hurting myself. I look over and see that my dad, who is painting with me, has protected himself and is good—I don’t need to worry there. And I look at this car, this maroon Lexus coupe, and I factor in that it is facing my direction, that it will leave the neighborhood by driving past me.
And I think—if this guy cares that I’m a witness, then I’m in mortal danger, right?
Dooley: Yeah.
Crispell: And the truth is—he drove off. He unloaded his clip and sped away like he was always going to do. He didn’t give two shits about me, right? Because why would he?
That’s maybe something I learned too—maybe I learned a little humility about my insignificance in the world.
So I get down, you know, call the police. I’ve always been very clear with everyone in the neighborhood—I don’t call for many things, but I will always call for shootings. No matter what happens, I will always call for shootings.
So, you know, the police come, we give our statements, tell them what happened, all that stuff. And it’s about two o’clock in the afternoon when the police leave. No one was struck, no one was injured. And this is something my white ass didn’t know—but if no one gets hit, the police don’t really care about the shooting that much. They just have other things they worry about.
So, they pack up and get out of here.
It’s about two in the afternoon, and I think my dad is packing up and leaving, and I’m like, yeah, that’s it for me. Like, you know, if I’m ever 100 feet from a shooting, I’m gonna call it a day.
So, I get in my car, back out of the driveway, and start to pull off. And I look—this is when we had a pretty large unhoused community on Dowd Street, back near where our garden is. And I see our neighbors picking up all their folding chairs and camp chairs, everything they use, and putting them back where they were.
They’re getting comfortable again—or at least, as comfortable as they can be there.
And I had to really reckon with the fact that—I get to leave.
I have the choice to stay in this area where I was just traumatized, where our whole neighborhood was just traumatized. And I have the ability and the privilege to get in my car and drive away.
And my neighbors don’t have that.
They don’t get that choice.
This is their community. And what are they going to do? Pack up the whole encampment and move it two blocks away just so the same thing can happen there?
And so, having to reflect on some of that—having to get to know the strength and resilience required of some people in this world, and frankly, not required of me—that’s been a real eye-opener.
To understand that the folks who are probably the least respected and the least dignified in our communities are the people we should be looking to for strength and fortitude.
Because the shit they deal with every day is just off the charts compared to what I might consider something going wrong in my day.
Dooley: Yeah.
Crispell: So yeah, that’s one. That’s one small anecdote.
We could be here all day if we wanted to go deeper, but I’ve got a graduate degree from this place. Duke would be envious.
Dooley: That’s so powerful. And I think it makes it even more powerful knowing the history and the context of the space where all of this is happening.
We talked to Bishop Laney through this podcast a while back, and he also serves and pastors a church in this community—the Hayti community.
And I feel like my wife and I view you as like a Hayti historian or expert, almost.
You’ve been a great friend and resource for us—someone we can go to with questions about the space. If we’re thinking about something, or wondering, “Hey, what happened here?”—you’re the person we ask.
And so, as someone who is deeply knowledgeable about Hayti’s history, can you share what makes the neighborhood so unique and significant in the city of Durham?
Crispell: Yeah, that’s a—that’s a serious question right there.
So, I know a lot about Hayti simply because I had to, right?
I had to learn.
I had to be honest with myself that I was a white guy coming into Black space. And if I was going to do that—if I was going to occupy and develop Black space—I needed to understand the full weight of that. The extreme impacts of that.
So, I tried to pay attention. I tried to show up at all the community meetings, and I tried to learn from the elders that are here—to learn from the folks who were raised here.
For those listening who don’t know Hayti’s history—Hayti was this sort of model community of Black achievement and self-determination.
They called it Black Wall Street.
You could get your own insurance, get your haircut, see a dentist, go to the seamstress, buy a dress—all from Black-owned businesses. And it thrived.
It was both a residential and economic center. A deeply connected community.
Now, you hear developers talking about “multi-use developments” where you have workplaces, entertainment, food, housing—all in one area. But Hayti was that before it was cool. Hayti was already doing it.
And it was a really tight-knit community.
But it was still the South, right? Durham claims its progressive bona fides now, but Durham was a Southern town under all the same Jim Crow laws and threats of violence that defined the mid-20th century—and, if we’re being honest, much later than that too.
And that was really interrupted when this idea of “urban renewal” was pitched by the federal government.
Or, as the old-timers here call it—urban removal.
They designed the interstate to come through the middle of town, claiming that Durham was a growing city and needed better access for people to travel in and out.
But that highway wasn’t built through Duke’s property.
The highway didn’t impact prominent white establishments and properties—they made sure of that. But what it did impact was Hayti. It sliced Hayti in half, separating the residential area from the economic area, and bulldozed a huge stretch in the middle—right through the heart of the neighborhood. A six-lane highway’s worth of homes and businesses were wiped out.
But then—the piece of urban removal that I think caused the lasting trauma, the thing that really defines our neighborhood today, is that promises were made to rebuild.
They told people that this destruction was necessary—"necessary" for Durham to grow, for progress to happen. That we had to endure deep destruction and disruption, but that we would build back—newer, better.
And then the highway was built. The destruction happened.
And that was it.
That was the end of the story.
They built a couple of public housing projects and told people, You can live there now.
They didn’t build neighborhoods.
They didn’t build communities.
They didn’t offer business owners the opportunity to get loans at reasonable rates to rebuild.
None of that happened.
Instead, there was a mass exodus of Black wealth from the area.
And so, Hayti carries this really big wound—both a physical scar, in the shape of a highway, and a deeply embodied pain of what was and what feels like it can never be again.
And our neighborhood is defined by that hurt.
By the deception that went into that hurt.
Because it wasn’t just white people doing Black people wrong. That would have been expected in that time. That wouldn’t have been a shock to anyone. It still would have hurt—but no one would have been caught off guard.
But some of the biggest backers of urban renewal were powerful Black leaders.
And when they removed their wealth after the devastation—when the white people backed out of their promises, which were probably given in bad faith in the first place—this neighborhood never recovered.
It’s why something like the busiest drug corner in Durham could exist.
Disinvestment.
Abandonment.
Letting a place exist as a shell of itself.
Dooley: Yeah.
Crispell: And that’s what happened.
At least now, it’s being acknowledged and spoken about plainly. That probably didn’t happen for a long time.
Dooley: Wow. Wow.
I feel like so many folks in community development focus on the people—like, How do we develop the people? But they sometimes forget about the story of the land as well.
What does it mean to be a part of the land’s development?
I think the last question I have for you is—looking ahead, how do you see Hayti evolving? What impact do you think future development will have on the neighborhood? And how does this all connect to your own work at Jubilee Home?
Crispell: Yeah. So, as is pretty common in this moment, development is on fire—in Durham in general, but in Hayti in particular.
Hayti is relatively small, but it’s positioned between downtown Durham—which is growing rapidly—and North Carolina Central University, one of the most prominent HBCUs in the country.
It carries a deep history.
It’s a Division I school, an economic driver, and a beautiful landmark.
And that makes Hayti very valuable property.
It’s prime for development and economic investment. And in some ways, I’m still blown away that it hasn’t been “cool” sooner.
Frankly, it’s a beautiful place. I feel so fortunate that we were able to settle in this community. We can walk to the library. We can walk to one of the biggest parks in Durham. We can walk almost anywhere we need.
The only thing we’re missing is a grocery store.
It’s a food desert.
But Hayti is about to flex under serious development pressure, and we’ll see what that means.
So, Hayti sits along what we call the Fayetteville Street Corridor—the main road leading from downtown in the north, past Central, and into Southern Durham.
In that corridor, there are two large, undeveloped plots of land.
Or, well—formerly developed, but abandoned and sold.
One of those properties is right on the edge of downtown and borders the highway—the deep scar of urban renewal.
And a developer purchased this couple of blocks for something like $60 million—an absurd number.
That’s a number high enough to buy most of Hayti.
And they plan to invest half a billion dollars into these two blocks.
Dooley: Half a billion?
Crispell: Yeah. And I don’t say this with any particular antagonism toward the developers.
Developers do what developers do.
They buy strategic property and develop it for maximum profit.
They see land for its value, not its history.
What they call the "best use" of the land is the most profitable use—not necessarily the most just use.
And they’ve been pretty plain in community meetings—they’re moving forward.
They invested so heavily in these properties that they’re, frankly, stuck.
They can’t make it affordable housing.
They can’t make it a space for a local barber shop.
They need to max out their profits.
They have to put in life science buildings they can lease for tens of thousands of dollars a month.
They have to make luxury apartments.
They have to cash out on this investment.
And that’s going to put serious pressure on the community.
Dooley: Yeah.
Crispell: The community is fighting it as best as they can. They’ve spoken out about how incongruous it feels—how it clashes with the history of Hayti.
But at the end of the day—developers are going to develop.
Maybe they’ll tweak their plans a little.
Maybe they’ll try to meet the community somewhere in the middle.
But they are going to develop that land.
And once they do—the doors are open.
Dooley: Yeah.
Crispell: I’m going to say this as a white person of a certain level of wealth who has entered into Black space—
When white folks enter Black space from a development standpoint, it opens the door to more white people.
White bodies represent a level of safety and value in our culture that makes other white people feel like they, too, can move in.
And that has an impact.
Dooley: Right.
Crispell: People talk about “diversity” all the time, but let’s be real. When developers say they want diversity, they don’t mean they want a 90% Black neighborhood. They mean they want a few Black folks sprinkled in so they can say it’s diverse. And that’s going to shape Hayti’s future.And so, that’s going to have an impact—there’s no two ways about it.
The other large property is being developed primarily for affordable housing. The Durham Housing Authority owns the property—it used to be a housing project, the Fayetteville Street projects, where most of our unhoused neighbors grew up. But it was bulldozed 20 years ago, and now it sits as this honestly beautiful, 22-acre stretch of pristine land with access to the highway, downtown, and all these services. I can’t believe it hasn’t been built on yet—but maybe that’s a blessing.
So, another developer is working on it. And again, they’re a little hamstrung—but almost in the opposite direction.
They’re an affordable housing developer, working on property owned by the Housing Authority, whose sole mission is affordable housing. And again, the community is left a little wanting because the community wants more than that.
The community wants some affordable housing, sure—but they also recognize how economically devastating it was to bulldoze all these Black-owned businesses. That investment has never returned to the people it was taken from.
I think the community would love to see some of that investment come back—to see businesses highlighted and supported alongside new housing.
We do need good housing in this neighborhood. But we also need balance.
And again, I’m not sure that’s going to happen. I think it’s probably going to be mostly affordable housing because that’s the Housing Authority’s mission. That’s their goal, their job—to house as many people as possible.
And they’re feeling pressure.
Durham has a 2,000-person waitlist for Housing Authority services. They need those beds.
So, these two developments are going to have some real impact. And we’ll see what that means.
Does that put up a giant for sale sign in Hayti?
Will low-wealth landlords around here be forced to sell out?
Will property values rise so much they can’t afford the taxes?
We’ll see.
That has been the history of spaces like this.
But now—we know that.
We’ve learned that lesson.
So hopefully, some of our elected officials, some of our governmental offices, can focus more on preservation—on supporting low-wealth landlords so they don’t just get forced out.
How do you empower them to preserve their properties—not just leave them dilapidated, but also not force them to sell and lose their own Black wealth, their own history?
Because selling a home you grew up in—even if it’s in terrible shape—is still selling the home you grew up in.
That’s a breaking of your roots. A cutting of your branches.
We’ll see.
I hope there’s intentionality here.
Market forces are hard to combat.
We live in a capitalist society, and all signs at the state and federal level right now point to unchecked capitalism—
And that’s going to impact our neighborhood.
If the stakeholders and the elders in Hayti aren’t given any tools to fight back, then it could go poorly.
We could gentrify rapidly.
Hayti could become a memory.
White people won’t move here because it’s Hayti—they won’t even know that name.
So, we’ll see.
Jubilee Home is doing what we can.
We have three properties.
And, good news or bad news depending on who you are—we have a bunch of, you know, quote-unquote “felons” in these houses.
We’re bringing down the property values as much as we can.
We’re making community with folks that other people don’t necessarily want to be in community with.
And maybe that will keep some barriers up.
We’ve also bought and sold properties at cost, intentionally.
When people look up housing comps in this neighborhood, they’ll see some low numbers. That way, investors don’t look at this place and think it’s a goldmine.
Instead of seeing a property go for $500,000, they’ll see one that sold for $150,000, then another for $225,000—and they’ll wonder, Is this a risky neighborhood? Am I going to lose my investment?
We’ve tried to do a little market manipulation—but we’re just a small nonprofit with three properties.
That only lasts so long.
It only takes one idiot to overpay for a couple of properties for our numbers to stop holding up.
It’s a game.
It’s a game.
We’re trying to play it.
We’re trying to be good neighbors, to hold the line, and not create gentrification.
But at the same time—we have taken three abandoned properties and restored them. We’ve made them beautiful for our folks.
And that’s… well, that’s part of gentrification, too.
Because if you make a place beautiful, people will want to live there.
And that will increase market stress.
So, I don’t know.
Are we winning or losing, Kendall?
I don’t know.
We’re demanding that this is a beautiful place—that it deserves beauty.
But yeah—I don’t know if we’re right or wrong.
I won’t claim to take the moral high ground.
We’re just doing the best we know how.
Dooley: Yeah, yeah.
Well, I think you have such a beautiful witness.
Aaron and I talk about this all the time—how the folks who are really in the neighborhood, among the neighborhood, are the ones who hold the community’s stories.
They’re the ones who really know the space.
And we definitely see you as one of those people.
So, I just want to say—thank you.
Thank you for being someone who holds all of this knowledge of Hayti.
Because like you said—if other folks move in, Hayti will become just a memory.
People will come in without knowing its history. They’ll settle here with no understanding of its significance.
But folks like you, who know the story—
You make it harder for that history to just be erased.
So, thank you for your witness.
We’re excited to be neighbors, and we hope to join you in this work—trying to preserve the significance of this space.
Crispell: Yeah, yeah. I’m excited for you guys to be here, too. I love this place. I am in deep here. But also—I’m an outsider. A lot of folks here were born and raised in these blocks. I’m from Durham—but I’m from North Durham. I’m not from Hayti. That’s just part of my story. Nothing I do can change that. And that’s okay. But I love this place. I think it’s incredible. I feel blessed to be here. And I just hope I’ve been able to be enough of a blessing to at least mitigate some of the harm that comes from my white body being in this space. Which—you know, we don’t even have time to get into all the ways that white bodies are damaging to sacred spaces. But I recognize that just being here is a threat to some people. I hope I’ve found ways to mitigate that. And I’m always open to hearing that criticism. Because yeah—I am part of the forces at play here. And I’ll have to live with that.
Dooley: Yeah.
Dave, thank you so much for all the work you do—and for joining us on South to America.
Crispell: Thanks, Kendall. I appreciate you having me, man.
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