Before she'd even finished unpacking, Debra Evans decided she hated Baltimore City. This was in 1991, when the murder rate routinely topped three hundred. It felt like death was circling the neat three-bedroom cottage in Better Waverly, just south of Memorial Stadium, where Evans had moved from her home in rural Spotsylvania County, Virginia. Police helicopters circled the house at night, and the evening news was full of stories about crime and violence on nearby streets.

Better Waverly had a lot to recommend it: historic Victorian homes with handsome peaked roofs and real front yards, die-hard hippies who stayed put during waves of white flight, streets full of kids. And soon Evans got to know her neighbors, joining the Better Waverly Community Organization and meeting "people who were doing their best to keep it together," she says. But as the body count climbed, the community's future seemed uncertain.

In October 1995, a 70-year-old man named John Charles was murdered four doors down from Evans' home. "Mr. Charles," as everyone called him, was killed, it seemed, for his collection of gold coins. This time, it was Evans' husband, Leif, who wanted to move. "He'd lived here for more than thirty years," says Evans, "but he was afraid for our two small children. I said, ‘No, Leif, we're not running. This is our home now. We're staying put.'"

After three years, Evans had seen more than enough silent candlelight vigils honoring the newly dead. "I wanted to talk, stir up juices, let people get angry," she remembers. So she invited police to watch as she and other residents held a rally. They marched through the rain to their slain neighbor's house, sang spirituals, and talked. "I was preaching to the people," Evans says, telling them they couldn't be scared into silence. Shortly afterwards, someone did speak up, and the police arrested Mr. Charles' killer.

Evans' new passion became an occupation in 1996, when Better Waverly and the Waverly Improvement Association won a grant for a full-time community organizer, a position she held for four years. Block by block, she coordinated landscaping projects and community meetings—any excuse to encourage neighbors to interact. Even after the funding ended, she continued organizing to build the 14,000-square-foot playground at Stadium Place, force the city to address neighborhood concerns over commercial development, and establish an arts center that now serves dozens of neighborhood kids. When vandals destroyed the playground in a fire last September, it took less than two hours for the community to decide to rebuild; construction is scheduled to begin this May. "We're going to put it back the way it was," Evans says. "Nobody can stop us." (See Urbanite, September 2008.)

The proud country girl says she found herself in Baltimore. Working with her neighbors to combat violence and create safe havens for the neighborhood's children gave them opportunities to talk about their shared beliefs, aspirations, what they wanted for their families. Today she holds nothing against those who leave the city. But if you stay, Evans insists, don't complain. Get to work.

—Lionel Foster

Each month, Urbanite profiles people and programs that are transforming the city, one block at a time. To nominate a transformer, e-mail editor@urbanitebaltimore.com.