It began with smoke that no one could locate right away, as these things frequently do. On Tuesday, June 30, just before three in the morning, people living close to South 17th Street awoke to an unpleasant-smelling darkness. When Guadalupe Ramírez went outside, neighbors were already gathered on the sidewalk, looking up at the sky as the black plume rose. The fire had already decided its own course by the time Milwaukee Fire Department units reached 1817 West Lincoln Avenue.
Since 1917, Milwaukee’s south side has been home to Lincoln Avenue School. That equates to 109 years of parents sitting in those same hallways, children learning to read in those rooms, and first school days. Designed in the Collegiate Gothic style of the early 20th century, the building was the kind of solid, recognizable, and long-lasting structure that communities quietly take for granted. Until it isn’t.
In an effort to combat the fire from within, firefighters first pushed inside. Then the floor beneath them began to burn. Then, there were several places on the roof where a strong fire broke out. Aaron Lipski, the fire chief, issued the order to leave. What transpired was a five-alarm conflict that was fought almost entirely from the outside, with tower ladders dumping water onto a structure that was already collapsing. Later, drone footage revealed that several floors had collapsed inward. It was deemed a complete loss by the Milwaukee Fire Department.
It’s difficult to overlook the fact that the school lacked fire sprinklers. A building that serves more than 400 young children and is over a century old without an automated suppression system is the kind of thing that, in retrospect, seems almost unbelievable. It was verified by Milwaukee Public Schools. Although a security service alerted authorities when the fire alarm went off, there is only so much that alarm notifications can do when a fire breaks out on the roof at three in the morning.
Cecelia Stib and her son Cory, a current student at the school, were observing from the perimeter. When she was younger, she went to Lincoln Avenue herself. Her mother also did. Her sister. the majority of her cousins. A specific type of grief arises not only from losing a building but also from losing a location that your family has lived in for many generations. “My sister went here, most of my cousins went here, my mom went here,” she replied. It’s difficult to imagine what it was like to stand there and watch the smoke.
“Is that going to be rebuilt?” her son Cory asked, posing a question that most children have. Michael Harris, the interim deputy superintendent of Milwaukee Public Schools, was unable to provide a definitive response as of Tuesday afternoon. It was still necessary to evaluate the damage. More than 400 students—some estimates place the figure closer to 480—are currently awaiting word on where they will be attending when the school year starts. The district has some time, but not much, because the fire occurred about two weeks after the last day of classes.
Given the size and speed of the fire, it is truly fortunate that no injuries were reported. The cause is still being looked into. Early in the morning, a few neighbors reported hearing fireworks. It remains to be seen if investigators care about that particular detail.
It is evident that Lincoln Avenue School was more than just a municipal structure listed in the inventory of a school district. It was a local institution, the kind that cannot be replaced by merely moving students to a different address. Over many years, communities develop their identities around these locations. Programs can be moved, and the district did relocate a community learning center to a nearby school, but the significance of a century of shared history to those who experienced it cannot be simply moved. On Tuesday morning, Milwaukee’s south side lost something that cannot be replaced by square footage alone.
