Washington Audio Tour: Echoes of Faith, Legacy, and Hidden Stories

You’re now standing in front of one of the most hidden treasures in Washington, the Oliveira Lima Library-sometimes known as the Ibero American Library. Imagine it’s 1916: the world is changing fast, but inside the beautiful walls of The Catholic University of America, Manoel de Oliveira Lima and his wife Flora are making a very important deal. Picture their excited whispers and the shuffling of crisp old pages as they hand over their private library, on the strict condition that it would stay a separate, special place-unlike any other! When it opened in 1924, Manoel proudly became the first librarian-and you can almost see him here, mustache twitching as he carefully arranges 40,000 books focused on Portuguese Brazil. If you wondered if he ever took a day off, think again; this library was his life’s passion! After his death in 1928, his wife Flora took over and raised the collection to a whopping 58,000 books. Not to be outdone, she also added stacks of letters, rare art, and albums full of newspaper clippings from their travels around the globe-Lisbon, Berlin, even Tokyo! Talk about wanderlust! Among the treasures here: original maps, a bronze bust of Brazil’s Emperor Pedro I, and the only color copy of Gaspar Barleus’s “Rerum per Octenium in Brasilia.” There’s even the first French book about Brazil, written by a friar with perhaps too much time on his hands! Don’t breathe in too hard; these rarities aren’t allowed to leave the library, not even for a little adventure. But thanks to a big digitizing project, you can peek into thousands of Portuguese and Brazilian books online. So, this seemingly quiet underground corner is buzzing with stories almost too wild for fiction. Shall we keep the journey going?

Look ahead for a stately, light-colored mansion with tall windows and a small porch supported by classic columns, standing proudly behind a decorative black fence-this is Brooks Mansion. Alright, story time! Imagine you’re stepping back into the 1840s, where you’d see Colonel Jehiel Brooks, a weathered War of 1812 vet, showing off his brand-new Greek Revival mansion-maybe even bragging a little to the neighbors. He called the place Bellair, and he shared it with his wife, Ann Margaret Queen, who-fun fact-was the daughter of one of the biggest landowners in the city. The house sat on a massive 246-acre plantation, with rolling fields and quiet country roads where the only “traffic jam” was a runaway horse. But times change! After the Brooks family moved on, the land was sold off, split up, and-voilà-the suburb of Brookland was born. Brooks Mansion itself transformed many times: it became a boarding house, then a home for the Marist Brothers, who even stuck on an extra wing (because who doesn’t want more room for activities?). The Benedictine Sisters arrived in 1905, filling the mansion with the excited chatter of young students at St. Anthony’s Academy, and later offering shelter for women in need. By 1928, with women now admitted to Catholic University, the mansion buzzed with the energy of high schoolers at St. Anthony’s. Hidden behind those elegant columns and windows are stories of faith, learning, and a few hard-fought property deals. Today, after more twists and turns-a stopover with the Metro authority, a brush with the endangered places list-Brooks Mansion stands as a guardian of neighborhood tales and a hub for community TV (DCTV). That’s a history worth a peek, don’t you think?

Take a look down Quincy Street, and let your feet rest a moment-this spot in the Brookland neighborhood became the heart of a tough Washington story that rippled across the city and the country. It’s early morning, January 7, 2023. The street is quiet, houses standing stoic under sleepy shadows. Suddenly, the stillness breaks-a car, stolen by a group of teenagers, rolls up for a midnight misadventure. In their world, it might’ve been a daring adventure, but real life doesn’t always work out like the movies. Now, picture Jason Lewis, age 41-a longtime Parks and Recreation employee, a father of four, and someone who probably hoped his wildest night would be chaperoning a dodgeball tournament. Instead, he awakens to odd noises outside, and, living in a city where nerves can get frayed, he grabs his legally-owned firearm and heads outside to investigate. Maybe he’s groggy, maybe his pulse is thumping louder than reasonable. Out in the chilly air, he sees what he calls “youngsters” at the cars. He shouts at them. Karon Blake-just 13, a middle-schooler-runs toward Lewis’ home, possibly startled, possibly looking to get away. Lewis fires. Karon, shot twice, collapses in the shrubbery between the two properties. Lewis’s girlfriend frantically calls 9-1-1. The clock keeps ticking. Moments later, when police arrive, they find Lewis trying CPR, desperate to undo what’s irreversibly done. You might wonder what those frozen minutes felt like. Punching through the darkness comes the memory of Karon’s voice-captured on video-saying “I’m only 12,” apologizing, caught between dread and regret. His friends, faces lost in shadow, jump in the car and vanish down the street. It’s one of those messy moments that leave everyone questioning the choices made. As dawn crept over Quincy Street, the city awoke to the news. Outrage built. Some demanded to know who fired the shots, others demanded reforms. The city’s mayor, Muriel Bowser, and Police Chief Robert Contee-both seasoned in handling D.C. controversies-responded with cautious press statements. They confirmed that Jason Lewis, who had worked for the city for nearly two decades, had been placed on administrative leave. Public anger and misinformation buzzed like summer mosquitos; everyone had an opinion, but the facts were still seeping out. Soon after, Karon’s family launched a fundraiser for funeral expenses. Neighbors grieved. Vigils lined this very block with candles, prayers, and silent pleas for something to change. At his funeral at Israel Baptist Church, hundreds packed the pews, from city council members to classmates-there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. The legal gears started to grind. On January 31, Jason Lewis turned himself in and was charged with second-degree murder. His court hearings made the news, and his case became another chapter in D.C.’s debate about safety, responsibility, and the rights of people to feel secure in their homes. Prosecutors worked hard, but in the jury’s eyes, something about Lewis’s story didn’t fit murder. Instead, they convicted him of voluntary manslaughter and other charges-serious, but not the harshest. This January, he was sentenced to 12 and a half years-less than half what prosecutors wanted. It might make you ponder: in this city, is there any justice that feels whole? As you stand here, let the weight of this street-and its sorrows-sink in. D.C. Council members spoke out: “No car or material possession is worth a life,” they declared. The law is clear-defending property is never an excuse for taking a life, especially of a child. This block, once just another row of houses, became a stage for impossible choices. Personally, I wish Washington’s most famous overnight drama had been a raccoon in a trash can. But this story reminds us all-sometimes, true tales leave the hardest fingerprints.

Look for a cream-colored Art Deco building with bold red stripes and a big CVS/pharmacy sign above the entrance-the unique old theater shape stands out on your left. Alright, time for a bit of showbiz magic! Imagine you’re standing here in 1937, as the bright lights flicker on and car engines hum, drawing a crowd eager to see the very first film: “I Met Him in Paris.” Back then, this very spot was buzzing with laughter and clinking popcorn buckets, and all eyes were on the beautifully designed Art Deco facade by John Jacob Zink, the same guy who gave the region over 200 movie theaters. Fast-forward to the 1960s and the spotlights dimmed, only for Catholic University to give the place a second act, filling these walls with new kinds of stories until ’71. But wait, the plot thickens! In the late ’70s the silver screen rolled again, only to change to something wildly different-punk rock concerts in the 1980s, with music loud enough to make the seats shake. Some might say the old theater still wants an encore after all these years; now, you can pick up your prescription in the same place where mosh pits once ruled! And guess what? It’s now a historic star, listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Now that’s what I call dramatic flair!

To spot St. Anthony of Padua Church, just look for a big, honey-colored brick building with a huge round stained-glass window and three inviting wooden doors, right at the center of Monroe Street NE-you can’t miss it! Picture yourself back in 1891 right where you’re standing, but instead of cars and playgrounds, there’s the soft clip-clop of horse hooves and the earthy scent of new gardens planted by ambitious settlers. Antoinette Margot, a bold woman who worked with Clara Barton and the Red Cross, packs her bags-hot on the heels of Washington’s latest wave of development-and settles here in Brookland. Alongside her friend Leonide Delarue, Antoinette dreams of a Catholic community, so what does she do? She teams up with a brilliant priest from Catholic University, Fr. Henri Hyvernat (try saying that three times fast), to gather the locals. The very first Mass is held not in a grand church but right at a neighbor’s cozy house, filling the air with hope and the delicious aroma of home-baked bread. Soon, the church blossoms thanks to Cardinal James Gibbons and the first official pastor, Desire C. DeWulf. Today, you’re standing on land where friends, faith, and a little daring spirit turned a patch of Northeast D.C. into “Little Rome,” right next door to a bustling Catholic school. Not bad for a place that started with little more than a prayer and a lot of heart!

Look for a two-and-a-half-story Queen Anne-style house with blue wood siding, a prominent bay window above the wide front porch, and a pointed roof just behind the trees right in front of you. You’ve made it to the Slowe-Burrill House-this blue delight with its big porch and that jigsaw puzzle of shingles up top isn’t just a pretty face. Picture yourself here a hundred years ago: the gentle sound of laughter floating out from the backyard, the clinking of tea cups, the fresh scent of grass and summer air swirling together as brilliant minds gather under the sun. In 1922, Lucy Slowe and Mary Burrill-trailblazing African American educators and courageous partners-moved in, turning this house into a quiet symbol of love and defiance. This was no ordinary home; it became the hub for intellectual gatherings, with the rear yard serving as the lively stage for picnics, debates, and celebrations among African-American women thinkers. There’s a dash of suspense, too! When Howard University tried to force Lucy Slowe to live on campus, she stood her ground, rallying support from friends, colleagues, and even the famous Mary McLeod Bethune. Slowe and Burrill refused to budge, filling their home with warmth, friendship, and, dare I say, the best garden parties in Brookland. Even the university’s top brass couldn’t oust her; Lucy’s determination echoed through these wooden halls until she passed here in 1937, with Mary mourning her loss and saying goodbye to their shared dream house soon after. In 2024, after more than a century of stories, the Slowe-Burrill House finally received its fitting crown as a National Historic Landmark. This place celebrates unsung courage-African American, women’s, and LGBT history all rolled together, wrapped up in the shade of that big bay window. It’s a place where love and learning took center stage, even when the world tried to dim the spotlight. If you listen carefully, you might feel some of their steadfast spirit soaking into the front porch boards beneath your feet. Congratulations-your tour ends at a home where history dared to live out loud.