Out of Grief, a New Search for Hope in D.C.

Death of 'Lil Cindy' Leads Homicide-Weary Benning Terrace to Fight for Life -- Again

The handwritten message, "RIP Lil Cindy. We love you always," vanished from the wall with a squirt of household cleaner and a scouring pad.

The hand doing the scrubbing belonged to Cynthia "Big Cindy" Gray, who cries often since her daughter and namesake was shot to death more than two months ago. She had gotten fresh angel wings tattooed on her neck, ordered T-shirts bearing Lil Cindy's image and turned her apartment into a shrine. But the message on the wall outside her door had to go.

Graffiti, profane or benign, symbolized the neglect and disorder that Big Cindy and her neighbors in Benning Terrace say they want to leave behind. So there she was, on one of her brighter days since her child was killed, wiping away a condolence note that had touched her heart.

"You have to use the Brillo pad," Big Cindy told a helper matter-of-factly.

It's difficult to find anyone in Benning Terrace, the public housing complex in Southeast Washington where mother and daughter lived, who is untouched by homicide. A baby's father. A cousin. A husband. A son. In 17-year-old Lil Cindy, a daughter and a friend.

Nearly a decade ago, the District's resources were trained on the complex after a 12-year-old boy was kidnapped, shot and left dead in a frozen ravine. Crime was so bad then that the D.C. Housing Authority considered tearing down the 274-unit complex. Now, another jarring crime -- a teenager gunned down as she held a baby -- has Benning Terrace asking again: How can we save our children?

A small cadre of residents has begun searching for answers. They want to curb the senseless violence, instill hope in those who have grown up with none and convince their neighbors that at least part of the answer lies within.

Teenagers and adults have begun assembling action plans and dreaming of a new community center, a neighborhood go-cart track, a job training center. But their first step toward a new tomorrow started in the same place that residents began a decade ago: A neighborhood cleanup. Pick up the trash. Scrape away the rust. Put on a fresh coat of paint. Show the naysayers that something, anything, can happen.

For Big Cindy, a part of her healing was wiping down a wall.

A Recurring Message

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In early September, nervous energy rippled through First Rock Baptist Church in Southeast as D.C. Council member Marion Barry (D-Ward 8), trailed by colleague Adrian M. Fenty (D-Ward 4), walked up the center aisle. Young girls with puffy eyes and boys with hardened stares filled the balcony and many floor-level pews. Up front, Big Cindy shook hands with dignitaries and friends but stared ahead at her daughter, lying in a coffin.

Politicians and preachers lectured: Stop the violence. Don't retaliate. Change your wicked ways -- words that have echoed through many funerals for the young.

In 1997, the neighborhood gathered at First Rock to remember Darryl D. Hall, a scrawny 12-year-old who had fired a gun at some older rivals. He paid for it with his life. In the aftermath, young men in warring neighborhood crews were hired to clean up their community. Homicides declined dramatically. For a while, residents marveled at the welcome sound of shrieking children playing in the courtyards.