Sweet spot: Building SugarHouse casino here is a gamble. (photo by michael persico)

Sweet and Sour

The SugarHouse casino debate taxes neighborly relations in Fishtown.

by Tara Murtha

In Fishtown the battle between pro- SugarHouse casino and anti-SugarHouse casino neighbors was ugly from the start. Anti-casino retired trucker Ed Verrall’s black eye and swollen face, allegedly delivered courtesy the knuckles of a few pro-casino guys, established the tone early on in a neighborhood feud that’s tearing the community apart—with each side claiming to represent the majority.

The hotly contested casino is supposed to go up on the site of the old Jack Frost sugar refinery on the Delaware Avenue riverfront. If built, SugarHouse will be a mere 192 feet from residential homes—one of the closest any gambling den in the country has been to residences. Fireworks over SugarHouse prompted a recent editorial in the Wall Street Journal to warn, “Shouldering into Philadelphia may prove to be the American casino industry’s Waterloo.”

The community battle over the casino has ballooned into accusations of secret alliances, online name-hurling, point-by-point chesslike sparring matches and even reports of physical intimidation.

In the last few years, Williamsburg-style gentrification has taken hold of Fishtown and brought with it hipster coffee shops, DIY art galleries, higher housing costs and young residents. Tattooed art kids share the blocks with third-generation retirees. The recent revitalization makes it easy to frame the casino feud as new vs. old.

“There’s a split in Fishtown,” says anti-casino resident Morgan Jones. “Old timers vs. newcomers. We’re the newcomers, if you haven’t figured that out yet,” adds the 34-year-old jeans-wearing, motorcycle-riding IT consultant, who purchased his home 10 years ago.

“In our group, the majority of people are longtime residents, but not 100 percent,” says Maggie O’Brien, leader of the pro-casino movement. “I think people get insulted on both sides of that coin.”

University of the Arts professor Jeremy Beaudry, two years deep into Fishtown living, thinks new-vs.-old is a superficial way to look at the battle over SugarHouse. Beaudry says it’s that Fishtown newcomers tend to be more optimistic about the possibility of change through activism. He admires the so-called old-timers because they’ve held on to their identity through circumstances like white flight and the collapse of urban industry.

“Fishtowners kind of hunkered in and were able to maintain a sense of community,” he says. “But those who have lived here for generations, what they’ve seen repeatedly is a city and city government which ignores their needs … there’s a kind of deep-seated pessimism.”

Jones, along with Chuck Valentine and Scott Seiber, all own homes within blocks of the would-be SugarHouse site. They say that living within yards of a 500-seat slot parlor is not just undesirable—it’s unacceptable.

The trio meets every two weeks or so to discuss SugarHouse developments. Their conversation makes it abundantly clear that fighting SugarHouse isn’t a peacock parade of hipster civics, as some jaded Fishtowners claim. From the vantage point of the three men, they’re running full-throttle defense against an attack orchestrated by greedy casino execs, approved by Gov. Ed Rendell and championed by their shortsighted pro-casino neighbors.

Seiber, a 46-year-old father of four, moved to Fishtown from Northern Liberties five years ago. His steady voice and glasses offset a bouncer’s body, which looks like it can still go a few rounds in a fight. Valentine’s a talkative, stocky, gray-haired 50-year-old dad.

Of the three men, Valentine’s been a Fishtowner the longest, having moved here from South Philly in second grade. But as Seiber points out, many in the community still consider Valentine an outsider because he lacks deep roots here.

A recent evening at the M Room on Girard Avenue, the three men swap casino shop over beers. Asked what they’ll do if they fail to block construction, Valentine gets visibly upset. “I’ll leave if the casino comes here. I don’t want my kids around that,” he says. He pauses. “I’ll watch market trends,” he adds.

If it doesn’t come, Valentine hopes to be buried in historic Palmer Burial Ground down the street (in the far future).

Seiber isn’t sure whether he’d move out of the neighborhood if SugarHouse were built. “But it isn’t out of the question,” he says.

Jones takes a long swig of his pint and says, “I intend to stay and shut them down.”

O’Brien, who negotiated directly with SugarHouse lawyers on the CBA, says the highlights of the agreement include an annual neighborhood allowance of “up to” $1.5 million and an internship program reserved for neighborhood kids. She says cash points earned on a Fishtown resident’s player club card—those loyalty cards you slide into slot machines to earn comps—will be redeemable at neighborhood restaurants and shops.

The latter “benefit” slices right into one of the biggest anti-casino arguments: that neighborhood residents—not tourists—comprise most of the players in this type of casino.

But the anti-casino advocates’ mantra is “hidden costs.” They say the city will have to pony up for services to deal with the social ills that come along with casinos, like increased crime, personal bankruptcy, divorce and addiction. Not to mention the impact on local businesses.

They point to other communities with casinos that have had problems: significant crime spikes in places like Minnesota and the Mississippi Gulf Coast; the shuttering of the majority of Atlantic City’s restaurants; marital murder linked directly to gambling in at least 11 states.

Much like a day at the slots, what really counts is net win or loss. SugarHouse estimates net revenue of $1.2 billion in gaming taxes to Pennsylvania and Philadelphia in the first five years of operation. By incorporating hidden costs—like the police department’s estimated additional $14.3 million a year—Casino-Free calcuates a net annual loss of $52 million.

Meanwhile, a once close-knit neighborhood has learned how to shove thy neighbor.

Some pro-casino members including FNA founding board members Maggie O’Brien and Donna Tomlinson were so angry at FNA’s stance that they seceded from FNA and formed the pro-casino Fishtown Action (FACT).

Soon, anti-casino members of FNA (including Valentine, Seiber and Jones) formed Fishtown Against SugarHouse Takeover (FAST), which they consider a special-interest arm of the FNA.

In an email, O’Brien dismissed FAST: “What exactly is FAST? They do not hold meetings that I am aware of. My take on these people are that they are a loosely formed group who oppose SugarHouse casino,” she wrote.

FACT doesn’t even have a website.

Both insist that they represent the majority of their neighbors.

Seiber describes how some FAST members walked door-to-door polling neighbors for two days in February 2008 and says that their survey revealed the majority of the residents closest to the site were anti-casino.

O’Brien says FACT proved that most Fishtowners are pro-casino through their “Seeing Red” campaign last winter, in which pro-casino residents hung a red bow on their houses to signify casino support. O’Brien says she gave out 800 bows, which means at least 800 homes in the area are pro-casino. FAST counters that bows were found hung on abandoned houses.

FACT claims 600 members. FAST counters that FACT manufactures membership rolls by forcing curious people into signing a registration form before letting them into meetings, and that most “members” don’t even live near the site.

Members of FAST say FACT has kept large men standing post at their meetings to try to intimidate anti-casino residents. Valentine claims to have a received a phone call from a newbie resident frightened by what looked like bouncers. He says between the bouncer-like dudes and people hearing about Verrall getting jumped, it’s no wonder some Fishtowners insist on staying mum on the issue.

But as usual, people aren’t scared to spout off anonymously online.

“People who don’t even know me say things about me like, ‘They’re shills for SugarHouse,’” says O’Brien. “How can you say that about someone you don’t even know?” she asks. “Or like when we had protesters and I got yelled at.”

O’Brien’s been frequently accused of forming FACT as a front for the casino. Over the phone she denies the charges and says that she’s been so distraught about personal attacks in comments on blogs and online articles that she’s stopped reading them.

“We’re all volunteers and we’re not shills for SugarHouse and no one is paying us. Guess what? They couldn’t have paid me enough to go through 14 months of these negotiations with lawyers,” she adds, referring to the Community Benefits Agreement, which was signed by members of FACT and New Kensington Community Development Corporation but not members of either Fishtown nor Northern Liberties’ official representative organizations.

Commenters also speculated that O’Brien was promised a plush job when the casino opens. O’Brien, who toils in the sales department at the Philadelphia Inquirer, laughs it off, saying if she doesn’t make it to retirement at the Inky she’d like to work somewhere stress-free, like a Hallmark gift shop.

Meanwhile, Chuck Valentine says he can’t even seek refuge from the neighborhood drama during Sunday mass. Holy Name of Jesus church on East Gaul Street, within walking distance from the proposed casino site, reportedly accepted $10,000 from SugarHouse to offset tuition at St. Laurentius Catholic School, where parish kids go since Holy Name’s school closed in 2006.

SugarHouse has drizzled an undisclosed amount of money on the community to win hearts. SugarHouse president Bob Sheldon has been quoted saying the casino doesn’t want to “broadcast” the total amount and recipient list.

Father Francis Groarke, pastor of Holy Name, told PennPraxis, “They’ve given us $10,000—free money, no questions asked—to help keep tuition reasonable. I think their commitment to the community is going to be a strong one.”

Just down the street at the M-Room, Valentine is pissed that his church is in bed with a corporation he finds immoral.

“I’m very angry and upset with my pastor,” says Valentine. “The FACT meetings are held in Holy Name. It’s frustrating to me because some studies show that casinos hurt church revenue too. … The pastor is somewhat naive. I tried to confront him,” says Valentine. “He sort of blew me off.”

The first call into the Holy Name rectory to request comment from Father Groarke on the casino and the neighborhood went unreturned. On the second call, Father Groarke yelled, “No comment!” in the background.

A “CasiNO!” sign hangs in a window a block away from the 102-year-old church.

Despite the drama over SugarHouse, O’Brien insists the community’s still close-knit, pointing to the way the neighborhood came together to fight the library and fire house closings.

“That’s more propaganda. ‘Ooh, the neighborhood’s split. People who have been friends for 30 years no longer talk to one another.’ Nonsense,” she says. “If anyone has lost a friend of it, then that person wasn’t a good friend to begin with.”