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As the dust settled after the deadly collapse of Baltimore’s Francis Scott Key Bridge, as the initial shock wore off and the breaking news coverage subsided, residents of this tiny peninsula found themselves facing an uncertain future.
Many had spent decades living in the shadow of the Key Bridge, an iconic landmark that placed the community of Turner Station firmly on the map. For their working-class, historically Black neighborhood, it was a lifeline to the outside world, a source of both pride and convenience.
Within seconds, it was gone. Six construction workers died after a massive container ship lost power and veered off course, striking one of the bridge’s support piers in the overnight darkness of March 26.
Turner Station was already struggling with population loss and economic decline long before the bridge collapse — and its newest chapter promises even more challenges.
Plans are underway to rebuild the Key Bridge by 2028. But in the meantime, its absence will be felt most acutely by people like Loreasa Minor and her neighbors, people who routinely hopped over the bridge to run errands, visit family, attend church and get to work.
Minor has lived in Turner Station nearly all her life. Some of her earliest memories are of the bridge being built, a feat of modern engineering taking shape right in her family’s backyard. When it opened to cars in 1977, the 1.6-mile (2.6-kilometer) span bypassed downtown traffic and provided a direct connection between industrial communities on either side of Baltimore’s harbor.
It also made Turner Station easily accessible, allowing residents to enjoy the neighborhood’s small-town feel without living in the middle of nowhere. As jobs at nearby industrial plants gradually dried up, residents started commuting farther afield and many came to rely heavily on the Key Bridge.
Without it, Minor said, her daily commute has more than doubled.
She doesn’t want to leave Turner Station, where her grandparents put down roots many decades ago. She currently lives across the street from her aging parents and around the corner from her beloved church. But sometimes while she’s sitting in traffic for hours on end, she ruefully watches the gas gauge and contemplates her new routine.
“Do I relocate? Do I get a new job?” said Minor, who works at a state-run veteran’s cemetery south of Baltimore. “I don’t want to do either of those. I love my job. Who wants to start from scratch?”
From the beginning, a home for Black steelworkers
Turner Station was originally built to house Black steelworkers at a time when segregation laws limited where they could settle.
During WWI, military leaders tapped Baltimore’s robust shipbuilding industry, including a sprawling steel mill northeast of the city. The federal government provided nearby housing only for white workers, so Black families started their own community in nearby Turner Station. Federal housing projects came later during WWII.
Bought by Bethlehem Steel in 1918, the mill at Sparrows Point would become the largest steel producer in the world. It provided lucrative jobs to Black people moving north, often to escape unfair sharecropping arrangements and other low-paying jobs in Southern states.
By the 1950s, Turner Station was home to many stores and other amenities, including an air conditioned movie theater, an amusement park, a community beach, doctor’s offices, restaurants and cocktail lounges. It became largely self-sufficient in its heyday, an enclave of Black entrepreneurship and achievement in majority-white Baltimore County.
The population peaked at nearly 9,000 in the 1950s, but started shrinking soon after. Part of the area was rezoned for industry, resulting in the demolition of two large housing complexes. Manufacturing jobs gradually dwindled and businesses shuttered. By 1980, the population was under 4,000, according to local historians.
After decades of downsizing, the Bethlehem Steel plant closed in 2012. Younger generations started leaving Turner Station while their parents and grandparents sought to preserve its legacy.
During a recent tour of the neighborhood, longtime resident Courtney Speed marched up and down its residential streets lined with brick rowhouses and modest single-family homes. She said it shouldn’t be lost on anyone that Turner Station is the product of racist housing policies, that its residents were fighting an uphill battle from day one.
She listed off a number of notable figures with ties to the community, many of them featured in the Turner Station History Center, a tiny museum filled with stories and photos.
“We’ve always been innovative,” said Speed, 84, who owns one of Turner Station’s longest operating businesses, Speed’s Barber and Beauty. “It’s our culture to make something out of nothing.”
Henrietta Lacks, a Black woman whose cervical cells became a cornerstone of modern medicine after Johns Hopkins doctors harvested them without her consent, lived in Turner Station for almost a decade. Her name appears on commemorative street signs throughout the neighborhood and a plaque marks her former home.
Robert Curbeam, a former NASA astronaut and retired Navy captain, spent some of his childhood there.
U.S. Rep. Kweisi Mfume, former president of the NAACP, also grew up in Turner Station where he befriended NFL legend Calvin Hill. He said the community instilled in them certain core values.
“Work hard, play by the rules, love your country, cherish your faith, respect the elderly and always believe that you can succeed,” he recited. “It’s a fiercely proud community. We were told to be proud of who you were.”
He said most of the families were relatively poor, but they took care of each other. It was a simpler life, somewhat protected from the crime and violence that plagued nearby parts of Baltimore.
Now, a new set of struggles
Mfume, a Democrat, now represents Turner Station as part of his district in Congress. Since the bridge collapse, he’s been working with other members of Maryland’s congressional delegation to secure 100% federal funding for the cleanup and rebuilding process.
He said Turner Station residents have expressed concern about potential damage to buildings from the seismic impact of the collapse. And they’re already tired of 18-wheelers getting diverted through their neighborhood, spewing diesel fumes and wearing down the roads.
Residents are also frustrated by rising home prices, partly a function of their desirable water views. Some worry about outside investors buying up properties, jacking up rents and pricing them out. They want to guard against the negative effects of gentrification by helping longtime renters become homeowners.
“This is some of the most valuable property in Baltimore County,” Mfume said. “We don’t want real estate speculation taking place.”
Residents have spent years pushing government officials to adequately address flooding in Turner Station, a longstanding problem that has only gotten worse in recent years as county officials have studied the issue but failed to take significant action.
That’s coupled with decades of industrial pollution making the surrounding water dangerous for swimming and fishing.
“They need to start treating this place as beautiful as it is,” said Marquis Neal, whose backyard often floods during heavy rainstorms.
His neighbor Linwood Jackson, a Vietnam veteran who worked at Bethlehem Steel for over 30 years, called on elected officials to finally give Turner Station the attention and resources it deserves. That could mean bringing a grocery store back to the neighborhood, which has become a food desert in recent years. Or removing brush from the drainage ditches and replacing a rickety old fishing pier in the public park behind his house. Not to mention flood mitigation measures and continued pollution monitoring.
Jackson said he hopes Turner Station will become less of an afterthought since tragedy struck so close by.
“Now we’re at a crossroads again,” he said.
But one thing he’s learned, in war and in life, is that no one’s coming to save you.
Could the new bridge bring new opportunities?
Having watched construction of the original Key Bridge “from the ground up,” Vernon Banks said he looks forward to seeing its replacement take shape over the next four years. But it won’t hold the same memories.
Last month, state transportation leaders awarded a contract for the massive project, which is expected to cost around $1.7 billion.
Turner Station residents hope some of that money will make its way into their neighborhood and help spur revitalization.
State officials have pledged to include surrounding communities in the planning process and make jobs available for local workers during construction, though they haven’t provided many details about the arrangements.
Turner Station has already benefited from environmental cleanup and recent redevelopment of the old Bethlehem Steel site, which now houses an Amazon warehouse and a maritime shipping terminal. Tradepoint Atlantic, the site’s owner, plans to continue growing the business into a major transportation and logistics hub. That also bodes well for job creation, although the glory days of steelworkers’ wages are likely long gone.
Meanwhile, Turner Station residents will be doing what they’ve done for generations: coming together and fighting for their community.
There’s Gloria Nelson, president of the Turner Station Conservation Teams, who has spent decades working with government agencies to bring resources into the community, including for housing redevelopment and a recent federal Superfund designation to support environmental cleanup in historically polluted Bear Creek. She wants to help Turner Station “move into the future while still respecting its history.”
There’s Antuan “Sleep” McQuaige, who’s selling home-cooked meals around town and raising money to bring back a neighborhood youth football team.
There’s Quanny Avondale, 30, who mentors younger men in the community, focusing on conflict resolution and financial planning. He encourages them to take advantage of Turner Station’s real estate market and invest in property.
And on Sunday mornings, there’s Pastor Rashad Singletary inspiring dozens of parishioners at Mount Olive Baptist Church, about 500 feet away from where the Key Bridge once stood. In the hours after the bridge fell, he opened up the church for first responders to use the bathroom or take a nap and hosted a prayer vigil later that evening.
“Sometimes it’s hard to go through and trust God when you don’t see nothing working,” Singletary told congregants during a recent Sunday sermon about persevering through challenges.
“I just believe that if God brought me from all the things I’ve been through before. He’s not gonna leave me now.”
His booming voice filled the sanctuary as church members nodded and clapped in affirmation, thinking back on the obstacles they’ve already faced and looking ahead to future possibilities.
