Editorial published with permissions by John White -long-time Burien resident
For those who check in at DESC determined to stay clean, the first days ought to feel like a turning point — a chance to rebuild. Some arrive sober, carrying little more than hope and resolve. But inside the walls, the trap is already set.
It begins quietly. Dealers live among the residents — not always obvious, often blending in. They watch, wait, and look for weakness. Someone anxious, withdrawn, exhausted — that is the opening. Then comes the offer: free drugs.
At first, it seems innocuous — like a gesture, an act of mercy. “Just take this. You don’t owe anything yet.” But the moment someone accepts, the descent begins. The body remembers. The mind rationalizes. The supply eventually dries up, and now there’s a demand. Soon, the person who arrived clean finds themselves caught again in the grip of addiction.
This is not an accidental failing. It is baked into the system because the system does not require recovery. What it requires is occupancy. As long as rooms are full, revenue flows. Vouchers, subsidies, contracts — they don’t ask whether the tenant is thriving. They only require that the tenant stays.
The trap deepens because once relapse begins, it doesn’t happen in isolation. The dealers are already in place, the habits long practiced, the path back wide open. As people slip, they need more, they pay more, they go deeper. And through it all, the building remains full. The system remains intact.
This is the cruel paradox of DESC: what should be a refuge for the drug-free becomes a marketplace for the weak. The drugs are bait, relapse is the hook, permanence is the profit.
What should be a ladder out of struggle becomes, instead, a cage — one whose bars are invisible, but whose weight is heavy.
Destroying the Neighborhood
DESC does not exist in isolation. Every action inside its walls spills out into the neighborhood surrounding it. For Burien, that impact has been constant, heavy, and often damaging.
Businesses nearby feel it first. Customers hesitate to walk past groups gathered outside. Some shops close earlier; others consider relocating. Employees describe being harassed, watching drug deals in plain sight, or cleaning up needles left behind. For a small business owner trying to survive, DESC becomes less a neighbor and more a drag on the storefront.
Residents feel it next. Families who once walked downtown now take alternate routes. Parents warn their children not to stray too close. Conversations at backyard fences turn again and again to the same question: “What can we do about DESC?” Many ask whether their own tax dollars are being used to destabilize, rather than strengthen, the community they built.
Police and first responders feel it most of all. Calls to the DESC building are relentless — fights, overdoses, thefts, disturbances. Officers describe it as a revolving door: the same people, the same problems, the same address. Each call drains resources that could be spent elsewhere in the city. Fire and EMS crews grow frustrated knowing that, no matter how many lives they stabilize, the cycle often restarts soon after they leave.
What was supposed to be a supportive housing project now functions as a source of burden carried by everyone around it. The promise was reduction of problems. The reality is amplification, leaving neighbors feeling forced into a partnership they never negotiated.
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Stay Tuned for the next installment of the Series: Chapter 4: DESC: Hugo Garcia, Dow’s Bought Agent
To Read the First Installments,
Chapter 1: The Lie
Chapter 2:The Stagnant Holding Cell
Members Discussion