Panorama2012: From the Studio to the Streets by PennDesign Panorama

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Table of Contents 04 Can Neighborhood

Organizations Save Neighborhoods? The Importance of Resilient Social Capital in Surviving and Recovering from Systemic Crises Peter Chomko

12 Deliberate Planning Lessons: Washington, DC’s Streetcar Project Natalie Robles

19 Upgrading to Functional: Physical Upgrades to Existing Airports Christopher DiPrima

26 Reclaiming the Ghetto:

The Grassroots Development of a Gay Neighborhood in Paris’s Marais Lizzie Hessmiller

31 No Margin, No Mission:

A Brief Analysis of the Mondragón Workers Cooperative Thomas Choate

36 Public Realms:

The Role of Participation in the Design of Public Space Keyleigh Kern

42 Public Realm Studio:

Thinking Beyond the Car

44 Law & Aesthetics:

The Path to Architectural Control, and Perhaps the Way Back Andy Wang

52 The Place of History in the

City: Planning Philadelphia’s Society Hill Towers and Townhouses Marshall Tidwell

58 Salt Lake City:

From Zion to Envision Utah Dave Munson

63 Municipal Soul-Searching:

Physical and Political Planning Challenges in Contemporary Montréal Barrett Lane

70 Good Intentions:

Returning Microfinance to Its Roots Alan Yu

75 You’ve Got to Go Along with

the Program: Chicago Clout and Metropolitan Planning Aaron Kurtz and Katherine Olson

A Note From the Editors

It is with enormous pride that we invite you into the pages of the 2012 issue of Panorama. Months of work have led to the printing and distribution of this year’s journal of city and regional planning, and we are greatly appreciative of your readership. We hope you find this year’s organizing theme, From the Studio to the Streets, instructive to the current discourse surrounding city planning as both professional discipline and academic pursuit. The editorial staff began discussing this year’s theme with a question posed by the University of Pennsylvania Department of City and Regional Planning’s lecture series: namely, is planning still relevant? As issues of urban and suburban development, economic policy, sustainability, and social justice rapidly continue to grow in importance across the world, does the discipline still have the tools required to tackle issues of sprawl, sustainability, environmental equity, and public process? At Panorama, we feel the answer is a resounding yes. Planners are visionaries. But in order to be effective visionaries, planners must be sure to ask questions of an appropriate scale in order to engage the right partners and inform the most effective strategies of implementation. That is, as professionals, those involved with planning and development must be sure that they can manage a process in a way that produces

Aaron Kurtz (MCP 2012) Senior Editor

results and engages the right partners. It is therefore of great importance to ensure an appropriate scale to the questions we ask: too wide, and the process is diluted; too focused, and the process carries little weight. To bolster this approach, this year’s Panorama also emphasizes the multidisciplinary. Our authors address a varied array of questions, including microfinance, the public realm, community development, rail and airport infrastructure, and many others. It is crucial that the planning discipline embrace partners in a multitude of fields as they formulate potent plans and strategies. Finally, as our department chair, Professor John Landis, explains, planning is entering a new paradigm. In this shift into what he calls “Planning 3.0,” planners do not simply plan and prescribe, but they measure outcomes and develop models of implementation. We at Panorama support this shift as well, encouraging professionals to not simply illustrate the vision, but to also provide specific avenues for the application of that vision. These three elements—a reconsideration of scale, a multidisciplinary approach, and measurable success—are what inform From the Studio to the Streets. As we move forward, planners, developers, activists, and policy makers must be mindful to translate thought into action. To accomplish this, all actors must ask the right questions, engage

Andy Wang (MCP 2012) Associate Editor

Keyleigh Kern (MLA/MCP 2012) Cynthia Dorta-Quinones (MCP 2013) Senior Design Editor Associate Design Editor

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the right partners, and formulate a strategic approach. This dynamic is what we sought to capture here. From the initial formulations of vision in the studio to the implementation of that vision on the streets, planning must ask the right questions and, occasionally, step outside of itself as it works with other disciplines. We would like to thank the faculty and staff of the Department of City and Regional Planning, in particular Roslynne Carter and Kate Daniel for their nearly infinite support of Panorama, the department, and its students. We are also grateful for the support of the Dean’s Office of the School of Design, particularly Megan Schmidgal’s guidance in matters of intellectual property, and Dean Marilyn Jordan Taylor’s unending support for her students and the School of Design. Further, this year’s staff deserves much credit for working diligently with our writers and composing our cover, layout, and urban design spreads. Specific credit to journal’s title belongs to Andy Wang, who, after many hours of deliberation, graced us with its simplicity and scope. A final thank you to this year’s writers. Your scholarship represents some of the best our department has to offer, and it is, in the end, what makes this journal. Thank you again, readers, for taking part in the 2012 issue of Panorama.

Rachel Aland (MCP 2013) Associate Editor

Authors Thomas Choate (MCP 2012) is Originally from Austin and enjoys studying finance, gardening, and dancing tango. In his free time, he directs a housing cooperative in western North Carolina.

Peter Chomko (MCP 2013) is a native of Allentown, Pennsylvania, and now a Philadelphian of nearly six-anda-half years. With a family history closely tied to the rise and fall of Bethlehem Steel (and the United Steelworkers), Peter is studying economic development planning, focusing whenever possible on cities of all sizes in the American “Rust Belt.”

Keyleigh Kern (MCP /MLA 2012) concentrates in urban design and landscape architecture. She is originally from South Florida, and studied architecture at The Cooper Union prior to coming to PennPlanning. She is interested in the role urban landscapes play in revitalizing post-industrial cities.

Aaron Kurtz (MCP 2012) is a native of Miami, Florida, who spent a number of years in Chicago seeking out his Midwestern roots. They have since been found. A former high school teacher, he now aspires to be a forward-thinking property developer, seeking opportunities for growth among America’s postindustrial, urban landscape, particularly in the Midwest. He can usually be found furiously editing his LinkedIn profile.

Christopher DiPrima (MCP 2012) is a second-year Masters student concentrating in transportation planning. Before coming to Penn, he received his BA in Political Science from American University. When he’s not planning the future of worldwide transportation, Chris is usually trying to find an excuse to collect frequent flyer miles on today’s version.

Barrett Lane (MCP 2012) is a 2nd year Master of City Planning candidate concentrating in urban design. He also holds a Bachelor of Science in Urban and Regional Studies from Cornell University. Last summer, Barrett interned with the urban design division of the New York City Department of City Planning. He is from New York, NY.

Lizzie Hessmiller (MCP 2013) Lizzie Hessmiller is a dual-degree student in planning and preservation, but would really like to be a cowboy or professional chanteuse/ accordionist someday. She’s a rooted Pennsylvanian with a penchant for Mountain Laurel and Ruff-tailed Grouses. Her Girl Scout camp name is Veteaux, but her mother calls her Lily Roses.

Dave Munson (MCP 2012) is concentrating in Urban Design. He has lived in California, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Utah, Idaho and Oregon, and is interested in the urban patterns he has seen in these and other places. He enjoys blogging and spending time with his wife, Holly.

Katie Olson (MCP 2012) is pursuing a Master of City Planning in the School of Design and a Certificate in Public Finance from the Fels Institute of Government. She hopes to focus her career on economic development and municipal finance. This past summer, she served as a Mayoral Fellow for Rahm Emanuel at the City of Chicago and hopes to return to the city following graduation.

Natalie Robles (MCP 2012) is a secondyear MCP candidate focusing on Community and Economic Development. She is a native of Washington DC, where she worked in smart growth, transportation, and federal policy prior to coming to Penn.

Marshall Tidwell (MCP/MSHP 2013) is at Penn pursuing dual interests in architectural history and land conservation planning. Marshall grew up in Kansas, and prior to moving to Philadelphia worked for seven years as a designer in London.

Andy Wang (MCP 2012) is an incurable Californian who divides his loyalties between L.A. and San Francisco. When cities get tiresome, he finds he can really get into extinct megafauna.

Alan Yu (MCP 2013) is a first-year city planning candidate concentrating in publicprivate development. He graduated magna cum laude with a B.A. in Urban Studies and a minor in French from UC Berkeley. His research interests include postcolonialism in North Africa and the Middle East, as well as the marginalization of the urban poor in Southeast Asia.

CAN NEIGHBORHOOD ORGANIZATIONS SAVE NEIGHBORHOODS? The Importance of Resilient Social Capital in Surviving and Recovering from Systemic Crises

By Peter Chomko 4

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Editor’s Note: When deciphering why, after the collapse of the steel industry in the 1970s, Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley and Ohio’s Mahoning Valley responded differently, scholar Sean Safford concludes that it was the structure of social networks in each region that determined which would experience recovery and which decline. Author Peter Chomko applies this theory to social networks at a smaller scale with broader reaching implications. Perhaps community organizations can take this lesson, that it is the nature of the alliances made in times of uncertainty, to approach alliance-building differently.

Since the 2008 financial crisis, “resilience” has become something of a buzzword in many academic and policy circles. Individuals should be “resilient,” able to withstand near-existential shock, so should firms, institutions, and governments of all shapes and sizes. New streams of literature have emerged, seeking to define what resilience should mean at just about any scale, with scholars applying the term to political, economic and geographic contexts. Cities, regions, and even neighborhoods are now being asked to assess their resilience in the event of any collective trauma, with promises of shared and sustained economic growth a distant memory. “What matters most is not how successful a metropolitan area is in the present,” writes Swanstrom (2008), “but how resilient it will be facing future challenges” (1-2). In Why the Garden Club Couldn’t Save Youngstown: The Transformation of the Rust Belt (2009), Sean Safford examines the question of regional resilience from the perspective of an economic historian. His thesis, illustrated through the juxtaposition of case studies in industrial decline (Ohio’s Mahoning Valley) and renaissance (Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley), is that social networks and social capital can play a decisive role in a region’s economic resilience. In the Lehigh Valley, where open-ended social networks intersected frequently but overlapped rarely, the “right” kind of social capital was available, and policy-akers and financial elites were able to put together a coherent and cohesive response to the crisis of deindustrialization. In the Mahoning Valley, where dense and overlapping social networks predominated, a crisis affecting economic capital spilled

Easton Metropolitan Statistical Area) and Ohio’s Mahoning Valley (the YoungstownCanton MSA). Historically reliant on steelmaking and associated industries for economic growth, the two regions’ histories were roughly similar through most of the 19th and 20th centuries, before abruptly diverging after the American steel industry’s collapse during the 1970s–80s. In the decades since, writes Safford, “Allentown has found itself on the high road, while Youngstown has emerged as the poster child for postindustrial decline and hollowing out” (2). Wages and wage growth have been higher, and unemployment lower, in So Why Couldn’t the Garden Club Save the Lehigh Valley than in the still-depressed Youngstown, Anyway? Mahoning Valley; on a variety of quality-of Though rooted in an intellectual life issues, the Lehigh Valley comes out on tradition dating back at least to De top as well. As recently as 1975, however, the Tocqueville, the concept of “social capital” two regions were roughly neck-and-neck in owes much of its current popularity to most economic indicators. Why the Garden the work of political scientist Robert Club Couldn’t Save Youngstown is an investigation Putnam (DeFilippis 2001). In Bowling Alone of what caused these two communities, so (2000), Putnam argues that the malaise in similar in history for more than a century, which postindustrial America has found to suddenly and dramatically diverge in the itself mired is attributable to a decline in aftermath of the American steel crisis. social capital, in particular membership in It is Safford’s position that, voluntary organizations (such as bowling outward similarities notwithstanding, social leagues—thus, the title). But as Sean Safford structures in the two Valleys were drastically (2009) writes in Why the Garden Club Couldn’t different, and that these structures shaped Save Youngstown, the depressed cities of the the way in which local actors responded Rust Belt “are places where people not to catalytic events: the emergence of a only belonged to bowling leagues and dominant steel industry in the late 19th garden clubs; they clung century; the period of intense Eastern European to them. And these are immigration in the early also the kind of places Resilient social capital, 20th; the pre-World that have been passed in a neighborhood, a War II labor organizing by globalization” (136). drive targeting the steel While accepting the city, a region, is rooted in industry; and finally, the basic truth of Putnam’s intersecting, open-ended deindustrialization crisis argument, Safford seeks of the 1970s–80s triggered to refine it, contending networks that enable the that the kind of social formation of new alliances by the steel industry’s capital, and the kind of and allegiances in response collapse. Though the two social networks through regions appeared to deal which it is generated, will to crisis. with these crises in such a have a profound effect on way as to leave them rough a given place’s social and “mirror images” before economic resilience. and after the crisis hit, the internal dynamics Safford fleshes out this contention through of these adjustments were decidedly a detailed analysis of two outwardly similar different. Whereas in the Mahoning Valley, regions: Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley segregated and isolated groups stood in (defined as the Allentown-Bethlehem- stark opposition to each other, in the Lehigh over to become a crisis of social capital as well. While the generalizability of Safford’s argument remains somewhat unclear, its implications do not: resilient social capital, in a neighborhood, a city, a region, is rooted in intersecting, open-ended networks that enable the formation of new alliances and allegiances in response to crisis. To the extent that it is possible for them to do so, community and neighborhood organizers should seek to develop weak ties and “bridging” forums that can be used to construct fallback social networks in response to both local and large-scale crises.

Valley people and organizations emerged to “bridge” the gaps between social groups. This meant that the leadership of various economic and civic organizations in and around Youngstown was both more centralized and more balkanized, with one set of institutions controlled by a powerful and unified financial elite governing most civic interaction in the Valley. In Allentown and Bethlehem, on the other hand – where elites tended to engage in a sort of “friendly competition” rather than circling their wagons, and where a tradition of some cross-class and cross-ethnic organizing existed – economic and civic power was more widely dispersed. Board members at one Lehigh Valley civic organization might sit with each other on multiple boards, but they were just as likely not to; in the Mahoning Valley, on the other hand, board memberships tended to overlap constantly, with local steel and banking executives—or occasionally their wives—controlling most of the region’s civic infrastructure from a single, upscale Youngstown neighborhood. This is the core of Safford’s argument: that the way in which social networks are structured matters in a systemic crisis, when open-ended but intersecting networks (the Lehigh Valley model) are more resilient than dense and overlapping networks (the Mahoning Valley model). In the former situation, a system of fallback networks can be quickly constructed in response to a disruption, whereas in the latter the collapse of any one network is likely to cripple all the other,

roughly identical networks that exist within a given area. Safford introduces the concept of “mutliplexity” in his analysis of Lehigh and Mahoning Valley civic and economic networks. “Relations are multiplex,” he writes, “to the degree that a pair of actors has connections along more than one… dimension” (174). Both network systems were multiplex. In the Lehigh Valley, however, it was an intersecting multiplexity: actors might be connected along more than one dimension, but a given pair of actors was unlikely to be connected in more than a few different con-texts. Mahoning Valley networks were typified by an overlapping multiplexity: the same sets of actors and the same sets of connections were likely to exist in multiple contexts, minimizing their exposure to different ideas and perspectives. Safford describes an ideal system of social networks as one in which different “layers” of networking intersect frequently but overlap rarely: A community in which layers of society do not map direct onto each other, but are rather… independent, connecting many of the same actors but in different ways. [This] structure – characterized by intersecting rather than overlapping multiplexity – is more robust in the face of economic change (138).

Safford goes on to suggest another key ingredient for resilient network structures: bridging institutions “that span disparate groups in a community [and] become places where entrepreneurs can emerge

Youngstown’s Carnegie Steel in its early-1900s heyday.

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and drive change processes” (138). The presence of such institutions in an area with a high degree of network intersection means that individuals affected, but not crippled, by a crisis can meet and mix in a forum that exists outside of a system or systems on the verge of collapse. In the Lehigh Valley, hospital and university boards, civic organizations and even the Boy Scouts served as bridging organizations through which local executives and civic leaders were able to form “weak ties” completely unassociated with the steel industry. In the Mahoning Valley, on the other hand, a tight-knit group tied to the local steel and banking industries held a virtual monopoly on local board memberships; members of these closed networks, their fates all tied to that of the steel industry, simply had nobody else to turn to when crisis finally struck. Thus, with the American steel industry in crisis during the late 70s, the differences in network structure in the Lehigh and Mahoning Valleys came into stark relief. Safford writes that, “the responses in Allentown coalesced around a relatively unified set of community-oriented actions, and Youngstown’s balkanized along the narrow interests of powerful elites” (92). While social networks in both regions may have appeared to hold reserves of social capital, in this moment of crisis the Lehigh Valley’s reserve proved to be much more broad-based and resilient than the Mahoning’s. Bridging organizations created forums through which local actors could form new alliances and partnerships,

exploiting the existing network of weak explain divergent socioeconomic histories ties among local leaders to construct by highlighting the ways in which actors regional responses to what was clearly a negotiate emergent social orders and adapt super-regional crisis. Safford notes that, them in the process” (150). at the height of the steel Safford’s central crisis, business, labor argument, then, is that not While social networks and civic organizations all social capital is created operating in the Lehigh in both regions may have equal: in moments of Valley’s three major cities appeared to hold reserves crisis, social capital created (Allentown, Bethlehem through intersecting, and Easton) were pushed of social capital, in this multiplex networks is by local policymakers to moment of crisis the more resilient than social create regional councils Lehigh Valley’s reserve capital created through dedicated to crafting dense, overlapping regional responses to proved to be much more networks. In the former deindustrialization (128– broad-based and resilient case, actors can use 129). In the Mahoning than the Mahoning’s. bridging organization to meet, pool resources and Valley, on the other hand, craft a coherent response self-serving financial elites sought to maximize their own profits (or, to crisis; in the latter case, any systemic more likely, minimize their losses) without crisis is likely to wipe out the existing a thought for their fellow board-members, network structure, leaving no fallback let alone local workers or communities. networks through which remaining actors Local labor and civic groups tried to staunch can operate. Indeed, Safford argues that this the bleeding, but were forced to create their difference in network structure can help own bridging organizations from whole to explain why some municipalities have cloth, rather than drawing on an existing “bounced back” from the industrial crises system. Unfortunately, lacking reserves of of the 70s—80s while others have faced either social or economic capital to draw decades of stagnation and slow collapse. on, these would-be bridging organizations were unable to piece together a coherent, Learning from the Lehigh Valley regional response to the steel crisis in the As Fleming and Ledogar (2008) Mahoning Valley, while those networks suggest, the concept of “resilience” has been that could have done so proved to lack the widely-studied in recent years, its meaning necessary resilience, unraveling once the translated into the jargon of countless crisis hit (131–133). As Safford concludes, academic disciplines. While acknowledging “the interactions of agency and social capital that resilience is an “evolving concept,” they

cite “positive adaption despite adversity” (7) as its most frequent definition. Safford’s Why the Garden Club Couldn’t Save Youngstown addressed the question of regional resilience, specifically as it interacted with the concepts of social capital and social networks in regions confronting economic crises. Municipal governments and chambers of commerce, however, are not the only institutions for which resilience through economic crisis is a concern; communitybased organizations confront crises every day, from the personal to the systemic. Resilience is as much of an issue, if not more of one, at the neighborhood scale as it is at the regional scale. Regardless of the precise importance of open-ended, intersecting networks in regional responses to deindustrialization, there is much for organizations of any size to learn from Safford’s research. Just as regional leaders should seek to build resilient social capital in their jurisdictions, so too should community leaders. Indeed, at the neighborhood scale, intersecting networks may be even more valuable, as leadership positions must be filled from a smaller talent pool than regional ones and may be more vulnerable to the weaknesses of overlapping networks in times of crisis. Where possible, community leaders from different neighborhoods should seek to cooperate, building weak ties and fallback networks to lean on and pull support from when confronted by social or economic crisis.

Writing in 1988, sociologist James S. Coleman posited that social capital “like other forms of capital… is productive, making possible the achievement of certain ends that in its absence would not be possible… [but] unlike other forms of capital, social capital inheres in the structure of relations between actors and among actors” (s98). Coleman’s conceptualization of social capital has been embraced by many community development professionals (DeFilippis 2001), primarily as a tool for economic and workforce development in the neighborhoods they serve. This is something of a short-sighted view, however: even in good times, community development professionals may themselves need to draw on their social capital to achieve otherwise-impossible ends, while in times of crisis social networks may be the only thing standing between their organization and total collapse. Indeed, in their post-mortem analyses of failed CDCs,

Rohe, Bratt and Biswas (2008) frequently point to community development corporations (CDCs) with “little to fall back on” (65) as at-risk for collapse or forceddownsizing when crisis hits. If social capital is just as important a component of community organizations’ resilience as of cities’ and regions’, then it stands to reason that the type of social capital and the type of networks it is embedded in also matter. In other words, the lessons of Why the Garden Club Couldn’t SaveYoungstown apply as much to community- and neighborhoodbased organizations as to larger institutions. Resilient community organizations will be embedded in intersecting, multiplex networks. Within these networks they will be able to take advantage of bridging organizations or institutions to build new alliances in response to crises affecting broad swathes of a given city or region’s community development infrastructure. These suggestions are by no means

Bethlehem Steel dominated not only the economic, but also the physical landscape of Southside Bethlehem.

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new or unprecedented. Coalition-building is widely acknowledged to be essential to community development, and organizations with different target populations or goals often work together when it is in their interests to do so. The Eastern North Philadelphia Coalition (ENPC)—an umbrella group pooling the talents and resources of more than twenty different community and religious organizations to oppose condo development in a historically low-income Philadelphia neighborhood —is one good example of this technique in action. More formally, the Philadelphia Association of Community Development Corporations (PACDC) provides a forum for CDCs from across Philadelphia to meet and discuss priorities for the broader community development movement in the city. PACDC is, almost by definition, a “bridging organization” for Philadelphia CDC leadership. Nationwide, CDCs have been encouraged by affiliates of the Local Initiatives Support Coalition (LISC) to develop strong external relationships as part of LISC’s “Building Durable CDCs” conference series. In periodic local meetings organized since the first “Building Durable CDCs” conference in 1998, participants have conducted public autopsies of failed CDCs, with results echoing many of the recommendations made in this paper (LISC 1998, LISC 2001, LISC 2003). What this paper does contribute to the literature of CDC resilience is a new framework through which these recommendations can be interpreted, drawing on Safford’s work concerning regional resilience. It suggests that community development professionals concerned with resilience and durability through crises should examine the type of social networks in which their CDCs are embedded. Are these networks closed, isolated and inward-looking, or multiplex networks connected along multiple dimensions? To the degree that mutliplexity is present, is it intersecting or overlapping mutliplexity? And do formal bridging institutions—or informal alliances and coalitions—exist and function to build weak ties and new relationships? Explaining the Mahoning Valley’s

descent into socioeconomic malaise, and inability to turn itself around, Safford repeatedly points out that, because the same actors who had been crippled by an economic crisis in the industry also made up the region’s civic core, there were few unaffected civic actors with the power to actually act. Network overlap was so intense that the entire civic and economic core of the Mahoning Valley was paralyzed in one fell swoop. Unfortunate parallels exist between the situation in the Mahoning Valley and that typical of the sort of neighborhoods where community development organizations are likely to work. These tend to be neighborhoods where, according to DeFilippis and Saegert (2008), “the conditions of surviving and thriving…are not being supplied by capital” (5), where access to economic capital is limited, and social capital largely takes the form of strong ties embedded in dense networks. Given the constraints under which neighborhood organizations must labor, they are likely to rely on a relatively small pool of involved individuals: vocal or invested residents, religious figures, or local business-owners and entrepreneurs. While all of these individuals will bring their own sets of weak ties to the table, the local network in which a given neighborhood organization finds itself embedded is likely to be a dense one typified by overlapping multiplexity. A Mahoning Valley network, in other words, rather than a Lehigh Valley network. And like the Mahoning Valley, this hypothetical neighborhood organization would be incredibly vulnerable to the sort of systemic crisis that might paralyze its highly-involved core, leaving it without any fallback networks to cope with adap-tation to a new, post-crisis reality. Now, imagine instead the same neighborhood organization, embedded within a different kind of network. Its leaders and staff hold regular meetings with similar organizations in surrounding neighborhoods, and all community development professionals within this larger area are themselves involved in altogether unrelated groups and organizations; perhaps they attend church regularly, help coach a youth sports team, or otherwise indulge their

Two World Wars boosted steel production and helped position the steel industry atop economic ladders in mid-sized cities like Bethlehem and Youngstown.

personal interests and hobbies in such a way as to bring them into contact with more of the neighborhood they purport to serve. Imagine also that this interaction isn’t limited to community development professionals alone, but is extended, whenever and wherever possible, to neighborhood residents. Perhaps they are invited to the periodic cross-neighborhood meetings as well, or perhaps separate meetings are organized to introduce the members of neighboring business associations to each other. Generally, these events could be fairly informal, simply interacting for the sake of interacting, but building new weak ties for neighborhood residents in the process. Scaling up, this suggests a multiplex network, typified not by strong and overlapping ties but by points of intersection. Furthermore, it suggests a much broader network of weak ties amongst highly involved residents of marginal neighborhoods, businesspeople in lowincome neighborhoods, and community leaders traditionally used to working at much smaller scales. It is a network that can

produce strong and useful social capital, “making possible the achievement of certain ends that in its absence would not be possible” (Coleman 1988). A crisis afflicting one or two neighborhoods in one part of the city might paralyze some members of those neighborhoods’ organizational core; other actors, however, could draw on their weak ties and on forums for bridging between neighborhoods to improvise an effective response to the crisis, and to build new alliances for adapting to a post-crisis reality. Safford wrote of the Mahoning Valley that, “[b]y the time the crisis hit, it was too late to establish effective ties” (95). Relying on ad-hoc coalition building is simply not sufficient in the face of a truly systemic crisis. Weak ties cannot be forged of whole cloth, nor can new alliances. Neighborhood organizations should bear this in mind, and seek to promote cross-neighborhood, cross-organizational ties amongst their target populations, thereby creating social networks that will be resilient in the face of crisis.

Operationalizing Network Formation for Community Development Understanding the role that social networks can, theoretically, play in bolstering the resilience of community organizations is one thing; operationalizing such theory is another entirely. To date, much of the literature examining the role social networks play in community development has been largely theoretical or descriptive (Gilchrist 2009). Despite the “buzz” around the subject in community development circles, however, an insufficient number of explicitly prescriptive works have been published. While academics appear content to continue their contributions to a large body of un-operationalized literature, only an unfortunately small minority seem interested in suggesting practical ways for community development professionals to operationalize this literature. Even this paper has stopped short, proposing a “new framework” for evaluating CDC resilience that may not be useful to community development professionals already more than equipped with new “frameworks” and “analytical lenses.” There are two components to the operationalization of Safford’s analytical framework: one research related, one practice-related. First, in order to make a potentially helpful lens for viewing CDC resilience actually helpful to practitioners, researchers need to compile the sort of data that can be used for running at least somewhat-empirical tests comparing the successes and failures of real CDCs faced with real challenges. Second, if the recommendations of this paper are to be properly evaluated, those recommendations need to be tried out somewhere first—and before being “tried out,” must be put into working order for community development practitioners. Involving fewer risks and lower costs than operational experimentation by CDC administrators, targeted research which seeks to “flesh out” this or other frameworks for understanding CDC resilience could easily become an important operational tool for community development professionals. While “public

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Bethlehem Steel, after the competitiveness crisis of the late-1970s.

autopsies” of failed CDCs are all well and good, it is of course far simpler to pick out what went wrong at a failed CDC than to spot mistakes that could threaten an existing one. Though some efforts to address this deficiency are underway (perhaps most notably including LISC’s series of public CDC “autopsies”), insufficient research has been directed at compiling extensive but unbiased qualitative and quantitative assessments of CDC capacity that can be consulted postcrisis to understand why one CDC might survive a shock that others do not. Such research requires a commitment to longitudinal study that will perhaps have limited “payoff” for the researchers involved—it is difficult to tell exactly what will be learned from such an exercise—but which could have tremendous potential for use in the field by actual community development practitioners. A sufficiently broad-based study which collected enough data to explain CDC failures or successes could go a long way towards building an understanding of best practices based on

more than just theory or anecdotal evidence. Making actual changes to CDC operations, on the other hand, is a far riskier proposition. Even some more resilient CDCs live something of a hand- (or grant-) to-mouth existence, and making administrative changes based on uncertain evidence is a fairly tall order. Working to establish forums such as the Philadelphia Association of Community Development Corporations (PACDC), however, is advisable where such bodies do not exist, while expanding the scope of PACDC-type organizations already in existence is also a course worth pursuing. Such bodies have the potential to be far more than CDC “trade organizations” which communicate with policymakers about the costs and benefits of various community development tools. If reconceived of in light of the recommendations made by Safford and by this paper, such groups could serve as meeting places for administrators, members and representatives of the populations being served by CDCs and other community organizations. In such

a context, “community development” becomes not only a profession but more of a social movement, and potentially benefits from a higher degree of resilience through crisis to boot. Finally, it is important that the researchand practice-related recommendations made by this paper not be pursued in isolation. Traditionally organized CDCs and CDC trade-groups are certainly important to study in terms of their resilience, but CDCs which have made changes to their governance or administration to increase resilience should certainly be targeted for examination. Simply allowing these changes to take place, then looking back following success or failure, will not yield the sort of fine-grained analysis necessary to inform speculation as to whether or not such an approach to building CDC resilience “works.” Researchers and practitioners should attempt to better-coordinate their work, so that more community development theory can be both quickly operationalized and assessed by the larger academic and professional communities.

This paper opened with a question (Can neighborhood organizations save neighborhoods?) which can be definitively answered only with great hubris; I do not propose to do so. What this paper does provide, I hope, is a way of thinking about neighborhood organizations, their target populations, and the networks they are embedded in such a way as to strengthen and make them more resilient in the face of social and economic crises. In considering the implications of his findings in Why the Garden Club Couldn’t Save Youngstown, Safford writes that “actors presented with fundamental crises make do by reaching out to some subset of others around them in order to formulate a response… when one [network] is imperiled, people naturally fall back on alternative layers of their social world… and it is from these actions that new patterns of action emerge” (144). Community development professionals should acknowledge that in the neighborhoods they serve, residents may not have access to many of these “alternative layers,” and an appropriately

modest community development professional should acknowledge that his or her organization may not always be around to provide that access; there is no telling, after all, where such a fundamental crisis may strike. By building native social networks in these communities which are multiplex and intersecting (rather than overlapping), community development professionals and neighborhood organizations can ensure that, even in their absence, forums will exist through which local and extralocal actors can meet, improvise and form alliances to respond to and recover from crises. While neighborhood organizations may be the catalysts behind these new networks, it is neighborhood residents who, through the accumulation of weak ties, will build and benefit from the social capital they produce. Perhaps neighborhood organizations cannot save neighborhoods; but perhaps they can enable neighborhoods, embedded in resilient social networks, to save themselves.

References Coleman JS (1988). Social capital in the creation of human capital. American Journal of Sociology 94(Suppl): s95-s120.

In Gilchrist (ed) The Well-connected community: A Networking approach to community development. Bristol, UK:The Policy Press.

DeFilippis J (2001). The myth of social capital in community development. Housing Policy Debate 12(4): 781-804.

Local Initiatives Support Coalition (1998). Building durable CDCs. Accessed 15 December 2011 at http:// www.lisc.org/content/publications/detail/824

DeFilippis J & Saegert S (2008). Communities develop: The question is how? In DeFilippis & Saegert (eds),The Community Development Reader. New York: Routledge.

Local Initiatives Support Coalition (2001). Building durable CDCs in South Florida. Accessed 15 December 2011 at http://www.lisc.org/content/publications/ detail/821

Fleming J & Ledogar RJ (2008). Resilience, an evolving concept: A review of literature relevant to aboriginal research. Pimatisiwin 6(2): 7-23. Gilchrist, A (2009). “Preface to the Second Edition.”

Local Initiatives Support Coalition (2003). Building durable CDCs in Philadelphia. Accessed 15 December 2011 at http://www.lisc.org/content/publications/ detail/819

Putnam R (2000). Bowling alone: The collapse and revival of American community. New York: Simon & Schuster. Rohe WM, Bratt RG & Biswas P (2008). Learning from adversity:The CDC school of hard knocks. In DeFilippis & Saegert (eds), The Community Development Reader. New York: Routledge. Safford S (2009). Why the Garden Club couldn’t save Youngstown: The transformation of the Rust Belt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Swanstrom R (2008). Regional resilience: A critical examination of the ecological framework. IURD Working Paper. Accessed 14 December 2011 at http:// escholarship.org/uc/item/9g27m5zg

DELIBERATE PLANNING LESSONS Washington, DC’s Streetcar Project

By Natalie Robles 12

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Editor’s Note: Is Washington, DC’s large infrastructure investment project about connecting marginalized neighborhoods or spurring investment? Natalie Robles questions both the intention of the project and the lack of proper public engagement in its early phases, and examines the impact it had on the project’s reception by the current neighborhood residents the system is supposed to serve.

“It’s a question of who has the power to determine what this community is going to look like,” she said. “I want to have a voice in that. I don’t want to be told to ‘sit down and shut up while we cast the vision for the city.’ ” —Reverend Cheryl J. Sanders,Washington, DC “This process was imposed on us, and now it’s driving us out of here,” said Ms. Johnson, sitting in a Jamaican restaurant on H Street, which now has new sidewalks, stylized street lamps and shiny streetcar tracks.“We see this as the city’s way of gentrifying these corridors.” —Pamela Johnson, H Street business owner (Tavernise 2011)

Washington, DC may finally bring streetcars back to its streets by 2013, 50 years after they ceased operation on a system with over 200 miles of tracks that wound through downtown and the city’s suburbs in Maryland and Virginia. The story behind the resurrection of streetcars in Washington is one of agonizing delays, starts and stops, confusion, excitement, drama, expectations, and uncertainty. It has exacerbated fears in historically black, lower-income neighborhoods targeted for service that they are increasingly unwanted or marginalized by a city government more concerned about building amenities to draw in affluent, white newcomers than about supporting existing and distressed neighborhoods. It has served as both a scapegoat and a legacy vehicle for local politics and city administration in Washington, DC. Above all, this is a story that demonstrates the importance of deliberate planning, and the consequences for wellintentioned city projects when it is absent. This story offers crucial lessons about the planning and public-engagement process that planners need to use when making large-scale, transformative investments.

Part I: A Promising Setup

projected burden on the existing transit The streetcar project survived system. three different mayoral administrations Consequently, the District chose to in DC and was directed by a series of no locate the streetcar lines along the H Street less than three separate entities. The politics Corridor and in Anacostia for the first phase of local government and the uneasy and of the project. H Street was a distressed complicated relationship between the commercial corridor branching northeast mayor, administration officials, and different from Union Station that had been identified constituencies in the city have all affected as a prime target for substantial commercial the outcome of this story. and residential redevelopment, and until The idea for the streetcar network very recently was riddled with vacant was first proposed in 1997 during then- storefronts and lots. Anacostia was chosen Mayor Marion Barry’s administration but “because it was an easy route to work out was not formally introduced until 2004. inevitable bugs in the system and because Marion Barry is now a City Council member Anacostia was among the last communities representing Ward 8 in the Anacostia to get Metrorail,” according to city officials neighborhood, the community intended to (Sun 2009). The Streetcar System Plan receive the first streetcar line. noted that the Anacostia study area had The first draft of the streetcar “substantial concentrations of low income demonstration line targeting the Anacostia and transit-dependent households” and was Corridor of Southeast DC was released in “economically distressed” (DDOT 2010, 2004 and Marion Barry’s successor, Mayor 27). In April of 2011, the US Census reported Anthony Williams, formally introduced the that DC’s Ward 8 “in the city’s mostly poor project in 2005. It quickly ran into the and black southeast, had the highest jobless first of what would be several setbacks over rate in the country”(Tavernise 2011). right-of-way ownership, costs, and route Despite pronouncements of easing decisions and only really made progress congestion on the Metrorail system, it under the administration of Williams’ seems obvious that the pilot projects were successor, Mayor Adrian Fenty. Fenty was undertaken in distressed neighborhoods subsequently ushered out for several reasons. First, of office after only one at least in the case of story behind the Anacostia, it was a matter term in 2010 after DC The constituents (particularly resurrection of streetcars of politics. As city officials black voters) charged Anacostia had in Washington is one of noted, his administration— been the last to receive fairly or unfairly—with agonizing delays, starts and investments in public forcing through large stops, confusion, excitement, amenities like Metrorail scale changes and major and is somewhat isolated public infrastructure drama, expectations, and by the rest of the city projects without uncertainty. by the Anacostia River. respecting traditional Public officials like avenues for dialogue, Marion Barry that sought review and community input (Steward and to maintain their supporter base had much Schwartzmann 2010). to gain from touting such a large-scale The rationale for the streetcar, project in their wards. from the city government’s point of view, Second, it was “easy” to was to improve internal connections and experiment in those neighborhoods, as the facilitate residents’ movements between city official noted, and less disruptive than neighborhoods; to spur economic starting the system in the most congested development with the streetcar as a catalyst and heavily traveled corridors, like K Street to attract investment in housing, retail and in NW (now slated to get a streetcar line). commercial properties; and to ease the Third, the streetcar project offered the city

an opportunity to makeover these parts of the city. The streetcar project was initiated in a period of rapid growth and development in DC. The city added 20,000 new residents between 2000 and 2010 to reach 601,723, reversing a 60-year trend in population decline (Morello and Keating 2011). Results from the 2010 Census reported this year that for the first time in over 50 years, Washington’s black population lost the majority in a city once famously dubbed “Chocolate City.” The population growth and distribution is due in part to white suburbanites moving back to the city and a young, predominantly white professional crowd attracted to the relatively robust job market in Washington that was quickly priced out of neighborhoods like Dupont Circle in Northwest DC. These new Washingtonians moved to once historically black or Hispanic neighborhoods with middle to low income households and have been credited, for better or for worse, for changing the face of neighborhoods like Mount Pleasant, Columbia Heights, U Street, and now H Street. This trend was coupled with a political climate receptive to transportation investments and a buzz over streetcars as a catalyst for commercial and residential development and increased land values. As the outcome of this process later

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demonstrates, the streetcar became a symbol of the fears of gentrification and repudiation that “older” Washingtonians, particularly the lower income black population in H Street and Anacostia, felt was evident in the city’s policies and projects, which were perceived as not serving their interests, but rather, were meant to attract the new and wealthier white residents moving to the city.

Part II: The Process Once the city had publicly committed to building the streetcar line, Washington’s mayors seemed reluctant to abandon the idea, despite a number of setbacks and occasionally vehement opposition. Not long after the city announced the Anacostia demonstration project, they found that the agreement they had entered with the CSX railroad corporation to buy the right-of-way for the project was untenable. A rather delayed investigation of the property “revealed that CSX does not own all of the right of way – in fact, the District is among the property owners—raising concerns about what the city was paying for and what it was getting”(Ginsburg 2005). Then-Director of Transportation and head of the streetcar project, Dan Tangherlini, admitted that the CSX plan wasn’t what the planners had wanted for the project anyway, but the route appeared to be a “quicker, easier way to get the project done.” He notes, “we just didn’t want to take on the questions of parking and traffic. Now, we might as well, because we have to deal with those questions anyway” (Ginsburg 2005). The city then decided to reroute the line to Martin Luther King Jr. (MLK) Avenue, the main street of the Anacostia neighborhood. In response to DDOT’s seemingly unilateral decision for the proposed reroute, Anacostia advisory neighborhood commissioners bristled: “That seems crazy to take up the streets. We have bus service that serves those streets quite well. I just don’t see disrupting what we currently have that is working to replace it with something we’re not sure about,” said one, and even more receptive residents confessed they didn’t see any room for the

streetcar on the street (Ginsburg 2005; Nelbauer 2008). Residents voiced their concerns about parking and traffic on MLK Avenue to their City Council representatives and neighborhood commissioners. Subsequent Council pressure eventually persuaded DDOT to once again change the route, to the “very wide and low-density Firth Stirling Avenue, and then onto South Capital, which has no buildings on it whatsoever, serving basically as a frontage access road paralleling the freeway alongside a military base,” connecting to the Bolling Air Force Base (Alpert April 2008). This was obviously not the right choice if DDOT’s mission with the streetcar project was to connect neighborhoods and build vibrant corridors. When forced to defend the project to DC’s City Council, DDOT was faced with harsh criticism, with Councilman and Transportation Committee chair Jim Graham proclaiming, “I am absolutely convinced that this route is folly”(Alpert November 2008). Graham goes on to ask, quite reasonably, “What directed us to this particular route? We don’t have a ridership analysis, we don’t have a consumer demand analysis that suggests this is the right place to go, we don’t have a retail analysis. None of that is done, so why was this route selected by the Department of Transportation?” (Alpert November 2008). DDOT decided to once again reroute the segment, eliminating the connection to Bolling Air Force base and linking the line to new maintenance and storage facilities that the city planned to construct in Anacostia. A critical component of the Anacostia line was the possibility that extensions in future phases would run across the 11th Street Bridge, which crosses the Anacostia River and would create a direct link between Anacostia and the new developments in the Southeast Navy Yards, Capitol Hill and the rest of downtown DC. In a major blow to the project, however, the FTA announced this fall that the inclusion of streetcar tracks in the $300 million plan to replace the aging 11th Street Bridge would be prohibited because the city did not satisfy standards for adequate

environmental impact assessments in a rush to include the tracks in the bridge project. The new bridge will be constructed, but without infrastructure for the streetcar (Alpert 2011). City Council has used its control of funding to threaten, direct and otherwise influence the streetcar project, despite the fact that political pressure from the Council was behind much of the blind rush into the demonstration projects to begin with (Alpert 2011). In 2008, Councilman Vincent Gray (now DC’s Mayor) and Councilman Graham filed a disapproval resolution to block a $20 million transfer to DDOT for the rerouted pilot segment in Anacostia until they could get solid ridership projections, cost estimates, budget forecasts and more concrete data justifying the department’s decisions (Alpert October 2008). The most dramatic use of budgetary force came in 2010 when Gray, who was Council Chairman at the time, decided to strip funding for the streetcar project from the City’s budget on the day of approval by the Council. Gray’s staff sent the budget changes to Councilmembers at approximately 2:00 a.m., which was a blatantly underhanded strategy. Residents that supported the streetcar were so outraged by Gray’s maneuver that they flooded his office and other Councilmembers with phone calls and letters, to the effect of forcing Gray to reverse the budget cuts in less than 24 hours and restore funding to the program (Alpert 2010). This should be considered in light of the fact that, by that point, streetcar tracks had already been laid on the H Street corridor and to strip funding would have been tantamount to throwing away the millions of dollars the city had already spent without ever starting the line. Many residents in Washington viewed this incident as an escalation in the antagonistic relationship between Gray and Fenty, and it was seen as more of a political ploy on the part of Gray, who sought to challenge Fenty for the mayoral post and regularly lambasted Fenty’s flagship projects like the streetcar. The H Street line has been plagued by its own particular woes. Similar to the CSX complications in Anacostia, DDOT has been wrangling for some time to reach an

New establishments on H Street have created a new reputation for the corridor as an entertainment district for young Washingtonians.

agreement with Amtrak over a streetcar terminus at Union Station, the city’s multimodal center. Without this connection to Union Station, the H Street line would fall short of a crucial transportation connection and justification for the line. Historic preservationists also united in force against the streetcar project when DDOT proposed overhead wires for powering the cars. The Committee of 100 on the Federal City and the National Capital Planning Commission argued that overhead lines would be prohibited under the special restrictions governing view sheds of monuments and building height restrictions in Washington (Committee of 100 2012). This was ultimately resolved in legislation passed by DC City Council that exempted the H Street Line from a ban on overhead wires, but would likely require future lines to use wireless technology (Marimow 2010). The shifts in DDOT planning and budget clashes with City Council resulted in an agonizingly long construction period for the H Street streetcar line, which has lasted about four years. The H Street business community suffered the

consequences of this process and they watched their customer base evaporate with the nuisance of the construction. Many of the original shops and businesses on the street were forced to either close for part of the construction period or fold completely. Business owners eventually united for relief and compensation from the city for the streetcar project and were exempted by City Council for a few months from paying real estate taxes, but they were not granted the damages and concessions they sought, like a full tax refund and exemption for the duration of the construction of the streetcar. A special “streetscape” relief fund of $723,000 was established for all small businesses hurt by changes in the city. These business hardships were coupled with a jump in property taxes of as much as 200% over the course of the construction period (Douglas 2010). The District tied streetcar investments along the selected corridors with major streetscape improvements and facilities improvements under the Great Streets Initiative, which is a partnership between city agencies including DDOT, the

DDOT ultimately envisions 37 miles of streetcar lines throughout Washington as shown in the city’s final phase concept plan, above

Office of Planning (OP) and the Deputy Mayor’s Office for Planning and Economic Development (DMPED). Strategies to improve the conditions of the corridors under this initiative include public safety programs, public/pedestrian realm upgrades and economic development assistance like the aforementioned streetscape relief fund for H Street businesses. On the H Street corridor, Great Streets investment has translated into about $30 million in improvements to roadway, pedestrian and bicycle infrastructure, transit and vehicle parking facilities, added to the millions of dollars already invested in the streetcar line (DDOT 2010). In Anacostia, the streetcar is one of almost a dozen development projects underway in the area. Greats Streets funding is allocated for upgrading along MLK Avenue; 110 acres on the Anacostia waterfront is being redeveloped in the Poplar Point project; the Barry Farm public housing development is being converted into a mixed-income, mixed-use communit; and St. Elizabeth’s Hospital Campus, a national historic landmark of over 300 acres, will be the new home of the Department of Homeland Security and will include mixed-use developments with housing, retail, office, open space, and cultural amenities (DDOT 2011).

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Significant public expenditure on corridor upgrading and development attracted new private developers seeking to capitalize on the city’s investment in the neighborhood and the appeal of the streetcar line. Entrepreneurs jumped on the cheap land along H Street to buy several properties at a time for development. Joe Englert, a “nightlife impresario,” was widely credited with initiating this trend when he purchased eight properties at once after the city announced the streetcar plan in 2004 and has since opened a series of popular and unique bars and restaurants that have branded the corridor as a nightlife entertainment zone after a number of other entrepreneurs followed suit (De Pillis 2011). At least 55 new businesses have opened along H Street over the course of the last 5 years, which is significant considering the historic building stock, lower-density residential zoning and relatively small parcels that characterize the neighborhood (Tavernise 2011). The rapid increase in property values, and the resulting spike in property taxes, coupled with the evaporation of local clientele during the drawn-out construction process have created a difficult situation for original business owners and residents of H Street. Those businesses that weren’t forced to close with the effects of construction seem to be either waiting to cash out on rising property values, or have tried to adapt to a new face of H Street, which has brought young, mostly white Capital Hill staffers and professionals to what was once a predominantly black, lowerincome community. Some tenants have embraced the changes as a positive sign of community improvement; for example, one proprietor changed his business name from “Hair Rage International” to “Salon on H” to cater to new clientele and plan for the future (Tavernise 2011). Others are relieved that the vacant lots have turned into active businesses and have made the street safer as a result. As part of the commercial redevelopment of the corridor, limitations have been placed on the types of businesses permitted on H Street and eligible for the economic development assistance. These limitations are on fast food establishments

and hair salons, and some residents see these policies as “attempts to erase the traditional character of the neighborhood” from a “majority-white neighborhood council” (Tavernise 2011).

Part III: Outcomes and Lessons The manner in which the streetcar project has unfolded has cost the city in terms of goodwill and actual dollars. Phase 1 construction is already over $55 million and operating expenses still have to be accounted for in the FY 2013 budget. DDOT bought the streetcars for $10 million before the tracks were even completed and lines were finalized. When the construction stalled, the District was forced to renegotiate the warranty and continued to pay storage costs to keep the cars housed at the manufacturer’s site in the Czech Republic (Sun 2009). The entire streetcar system project is estimated to cost $1.5 billion (Khan 2011). DDOT hopes to begin service will begin on the H Street line by 2013, despite the fact that the Anacostia line was supposed to be the first line in service. It bears mentioning that, despite the cost and the heartache over the Anacostia Initial Line Segment, ridership projections are remarkably low. In the opening year, daily ridership on the line is expected to be 50 passengers, and will only reach 150 by 2030. The Anacostia extension in subsequent phases of the project will carry 500 passengers the opening year, and 3,200 by 2030. In comparison, the H Street/Benning Road line is projected to carry 1,500 passengers the opening year, and 13,900 by 2030 (DDOT 2010, 33). DDOT has recognized that communication and public outreach has been insufficient and has left many residents feeling left out of the development process and skeptical about the project in general. To their credit, they have appreciably stepped up their efforts to solicit community feedback on proposals, conduct open houses and happy hours to garner support for the streetcar and designate public liaisons to keep residents abreast of new developments and construction progress (DDOT 2012; Scott 2011). DDOT is also pursuing federal funding for the future

streetcar extensions, including the TIGER 2 grant program, and NEPA requirements for federal funding mandate public engagement and documentation, which may explain part of the shift in approach (DDOT 2010). The heated confrontations between City Council members and the administration also undoubtedly affected the way the streetcar project is being presented to the community now, but underlying social and political tensions have been a critical force in the evolution of the project. Many community members in affected neighborhoods saw the revitalization projects and spending on amenities like streetcars, bike lanes and dog parks as “efforts by affluent whites to re-arrange spending priorities to suit themselves” and “drive out” poorer residents (Tavernise 2011). This took the form of the political backlash that drove Mayor Fenty out of office; Marion Barry flatly stated “Fenty did things that were attractive to white people” and focus groups convened during the mayoral campaign expressed anger and resentment at the perceived snub by the Fenty administration of black voters and residents in poorer neighborhoods (Tavernise 2011). At one of the earlier City Council hearings on the streetcar, a witness noted “the reasons to build this segment have little to do with the segment itself. Instead, this project is about starting, at long last, DC’s streetcar system. [Then-DDOT Director Emeka] Moneme’s testimony made clear that, quite simply, DDOT is building this first segment in this location because it is the path of least resistance” (Alpert 2008). This appears to be a common sentiment among those that didn’t feel integrated into the process for planning the new streetcar route. There are many people in Washington that are staunch supporters of the project and feel it is an important investment to make the city a more livable place for its citizens. While major projects will always have detractors, what’s unique about the Washington streetcar story is the degree to which the project pitted new residents against old, black against white. It became a symbol of something much larger than a trolley system. It is about displacement

and gentrification, about who benefits and who bears the brunt of the negative impacts of this type of project. Deliberative planning with public collaboration and open dialogue could have prevented, or at the very least mitigated, much of the resentment and ill will that surfaced from the project. From a practical standpoint, DDOT should have taken more time to phase the project, plan the routes, identify funding sources and base the system on realistic ridership projections and needs assessments. The community should have been engaged from the very beginning, before routes were established, and the city should have established greater transparency and more open lines of communication. Had the city solicited more buy-in from the public, perhaps more of the residents in H Street and Anacostia would have tried to harness the market forces and embraced such a significant public investment that was meant to improve their quality of life.

They also could have shaped the system to better suit their needs with their input and suggestions to planners. A less technical issue is the way the project was co-opted for political posturing and infighting in the city’s political arena. The bitter mayoral campaign that pitted Gray against Fenty illuminated the power of high-profile projects like the streetcar to be about catering to, or building for, one constituency at the expense of another. Gray used his position as Council Chairman to exploit the process and make a power statement to Fenty by withholding funding and criticizing the project, but he is now overseeing the implementation and expansion of the streetcar plan in his own administration. The rift between city government and the communities created by this complex process may require more than a reversal in leadership to mend.

The city’s investment in streetscape improvements and amenities along H Street yielded new benches, trashcans, bike parking and a station for the city’s new Capital Bikeshare program.

References Alpert, David. “Connecting communities (or not).” Greater Greater Washington (blog). July 14, 2008. http://greatergreaterwashington.org/post/1043/ connecting-communities-or-not/ Alpert, David. “Stretching the streetcar saga.” Greater Greater Washington. October 31, 2008. http:// greatergreaterwashington.org/post/1374/stretchingthe-streetcar-saga/ Alpert, David. “Streetcar will run through Anacostia, not to Bolling.” Greater Greater Washington. November 12, 2008. http://greatergreaterwashington.org/ post/1414/streetcar-will-run-through-anacostianot-to-bolling/ Alpert, David. “Breaking: Gray cuts streetcars (now restored).” Greater Greater Washington. May 26, 2010. http://greatergreaterwashington.org/post/5967/ breaking-gray-cuts-streetcars-now-restored/ Alpert, David. “Streetcar tracks deleted from the 11th Street Bridge.” The Washington Post. October 6, 2011. http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/ all-opinions-are-local/post/streetcar-tracks-deletedfrom-11th-street-bridge-for-now/2011/03/22/ gIQAtncQQL_blog.html De Pillis, Lydia. “The H Street Waiting Game: How a Commercial Corridor’s Bright Future Holds Back Its Present.” Washington City Paper. January 26, 2011. http://www.washingtoncitypaper.com/ blogs/housingcomplex/2011/01/26/the-h-streetwaiting-game-how-a-commercial-corridors-brightfuture-holds-back-its-present/ District of Columbia Department of Transportation (DDOT). DC Streetcar System Plan: H St/ Benning Rd and Future Segments and Extensions. October 2010. http://ddot.dc.gov/DC/DDOT/ On+Your+Street/Mass+Transit+in+DC/ DC+Streetcar/System+Plan+October+2010/ DC+Streetcar+System+Plan+-+October+2010 8. DDOT. Anacostia Extension Analysis and Study Area presentation. January 12, 2011. http://www.dcstreetcar.com/ uploads/6/1/6/2/6162393/anacea-011211exhibits.pdf Douglas, Danielle. “H Street storeowners seek tax relief.” The Washington Post. November 22, 2010. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/

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article/2010/11/19/AR2010111906445.html Ginsburg, Steven. “D.C. Shifts Light-Rail Plan from Waterfront to Streets in SE.” The Washington Post. Thursday, April 28, 2005. http:// www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/ article/2005/04/27/AR2005042702078.html Government of the District of Columbia and Goody Clancy. District of Columbia Streetcar Land Use Study, Phase One. January 2012. http://planning.dc.gov/ DC/Planning/Planning%20Publication%20Files/ OP/Citywide/citywide_pdfs/FINAL%20for%20 Web_Screen%20View.pdf Khan, Sarah.“DC streetcars now on track to be in use by 2013.” The Washington Post. June 29, 2011. http:// www.washingtonpost.com/local/dc-streetcars-nowon-track-to-be-in-use-by-2013/2011/06/26/ AG9dQQrH_story.html Marimow, Ann E. D.C. Wire: “Council clears tracks for trolley cars.” The Washington Post. July 13, 2010. http://voices.washingtonpost.com/dc/2010/07/ council_clears_tracks_for_trol.html Morello, Carol and Keating, Dan. “Number of black DC residents plummets as majority status slips away.” The Washington Post. March 24, 2011. http:// www.washingtonpost.com/local/black-dc-residentsplummet-barely-a-majority/2011/03/24/ ABtIgJQB_story.html Nelbauer, Michael. “Downtown Anacostia added to streetcar line proposal.” The Washington Examiner. October 30, 2008. http://washingtonexaminer. com/local/2008/10/downtown-anacostia-addedstreetcar-line-proposal Scott, Jamie. “DDOT creates 10 Anacostia streetcar alignment options, but many residents still skeptical.” Greater Greater Washington. March 29, 2011. http:// greatergreaterwashington.org/post/9834/ddotcreates-10-anacostia-streetcar-alignment-options-butmany-residents-still-skeptical/ Steward, Nikita and Schwartzmann, Paul. “How Adrian Fenty lost his reelection bid for D.C. mayor.” The Washington Post. September 16, 2010. http:// www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/ article/2010/09/15/AR2010091500834_ pf.html

Sun, Lena H.“D.C.’s Plan for Anacostia Trolley Runs Into Delays.”Thursday, April 2, 2009.The Washington Post. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/ article/2009/04/01/AR2009040103937. html?wprss=rss_metro Tavernise, Sabrina. “A Population Changes, Uneasily.” New York Times. July 17, 2011. http://www.nytimes. com/2011/07/18/us/18dc.html?pagewanted=all The Committee of 100 on the Federal City. “Subcommittee/Issue: DC Streetcars.” 2012. http:// www.committeeof100.net/DC-Streetcars/index.html

UPGRADING TO FUNCTIONAL Physical Upgrades to Existing Airports

By Chris DiPrima Ediorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note: In the United States, there are only a few examples of explicit coordination between different modes of transport. More commonly, transportation and logistics modes have developed incidentally to each other, and they serve specific purposes that are also related by economic incidence. American airports, as one of the latter, typically only have direct connections to roads and, infrequently, public transit. Unfortunately, US airports have begun to suffer poorer performance against more modern airports worldwide, and as land is scarce and renovations expensive, solutions that lead to greater efficiency are limited. However, there is an opportunity

for these airports to coordinate directly with proposed high speed rail infrastructure in order to remain competitive. Greater performance and economic growth can come out of explicit coordination of these systems, each benefitting the existence of the other. Airport design has gone through several dramatic shifts over the course of the 20th century, corresponding to advances in aircraft technology, changing conditions in the airline industry, dramatic increases in the number of air travelers and the

amount of air cargo, and growing public demands for controls on noise and other environmental impacts. As the rest of the world upgrades its facilities, racking up superlative after superlative of the biggest and best, the United States falls behind despite the fact that the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s four largest passenger airlines (and half of the top ten) are based in the United States and carry primarily American passengers. Meanwhile, air traffic continues to grow faster than the overall economy and itself provides direct

Construction at O’Hare International Airport, 1961. Originally a military field, O’Hare was redesigned in the 1960s and became the busiest airport in the world

and indirect national economic growth (Cherry n.d.). To meet future demand for air travel, and for intercity travel at large, the United States’ major airports must upgrade themselves to either handle or divert additional demand. A combination of the two, using high-speed rail to feed into improved terminal facilities, can provide the greatest gains. If designed properly, a modernization plan that improves travel for passengers and business can be built with the support of the airports and the airlines. The Northeast serves as an illustrative example, as it is constrained by a lack of open space for a new airport, aging and inadequate airport facilities, and a complex and busy airspace. It does, however, have existing rail systems which can be upgraded to handle the needs of the next generation. The region should plan for a modern airreplacement rail system or risk losing its airports’ worldwide competitiveness, and is in a position to serve as an example to the rest of the country in either result.

Three Generations of Airport Design The first generation of airports used short, intersecting runways that allowed small piston-engine propeller planes to land easily in crosswinds. If they existed at

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all, passenger terminals were small waiting areas where travelers could check in and sit down before a flight. These airports, like Berlin-Tempelhof and Chicago Municipal— later Chicago Midway Airport—were centrally located within their cities. Many of those first generation airports—and many military airstrips—were expanded in the immediate postwar period to handle larger passenger loads and heavier aircraft. Retrofitting first generation airports allowed them to function as primary airports until the Jet Age dawned in 1957. While the DC-6 could carry 56 passengers and take off on a 3500-foot runway, the 707 carried 140 passengers and needed an 8300-foot runway to take off. In an instant, first generation airports were obsolete. Instead of retrofitting their old airports, which would have been virtually impossible due to space constraints, many cities built brand new airports, sometimes as second airports, often farther away from their city centers. While the Jet Age brought about an entirely new group of airports, the United States has reacted to the new air travel reality through a series of relatively minor airport upgrades. Runways were untangled and extended to handle new large aircraft; new concourses were widened and reconfigured to handle increased passenger volume and

larger aircraft capacity; access roads and terminal curbsides were rebuilt; and mass transit was extended to the airport if not to the terminals themselves. It has not been enough, and in the country that invented the heavier-than-air flying machine, there has been stagnation. Over the last quarter century, only one major airport, Denver International Airport, has opened on US soil (Wells and Young 2004). Elsewhere around the world, cities and countries are building new airports to handle currently unimaginable capacities. Among the standouts are the Asian airports: Singapore’s Changi, Hong Kong’s Chek Lap Kok, Shanghai’s Pudong, Tokyo’s Narita, and Korea’s Inchon. Dubai plans the next leap forward, proposing to build Al-Maktoum International Airport to handle between 120 and 160 million passengers per annum (MPPA) in addition to the 80 MPPA capacity of its current (and relatively new) airport. By comparison, the current world’s busiest airport, Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, handles 90 MPPA and the entire Northeast major airport system handles 226 MPPA (Plave 2011), but upgrades have been piecemeal. Europe, too, has reoriented the role that its airports play. Berlin is consolidating its four urban and suburban airports into a single modern airport at Schönefeld; Frankfurt has just completed its new northwest parallel runway, after years of seemingly unending terminal reconstruction and expansion. These investments have been made in the context of the airport city hypothesis, where the economy of a city is tied inextricably with its airport development (Kasarda 2010). The idea of airports as economic development engines has been borne out in cities around the world from Dubai to Denver, but U.S. cities other than Atlanta and Denver have been slow to embrace the airport reconfiguration and expansion projects required to modernize operations (Kasarda 2010).

Capacity: Good News or Bad? US airline deregulation also created a dramatic change similar in scope to the dawn of the Jet Age. Without price

Three generations of airfield design: the early days, the Jet Age, and post-deregulation

Rank

Airport

Passengers

Rank

Airport

Atlanta

89,331,622

Atlanta

950,119

Movements

Beijing

73,948,113

O'Hare

882,617

O’Hare

66,774,738

LAX

666,938

Heathrow

65,884,143

DFW

652,261

Tokyo

64,211,074

DEN

630,063

LAX

59,070,127

Beijing

517,584

CDG

58,167,062

CDG

499,997

DFW

56,906,610

FRA

464,432

FRA

54,009,221

PHL

460,779

DEN

52,209,377

Heathrow

454,883

Hong Kong

50,348,960

...

Madrid

49,844,596

Madrid

433,683

Dubai

47,180,628

EWR

403,880

JFK

46,514,154

JFK

399,626

...

LGA

362,137

EWR

33,399,207

Tokyo

342,804

PHL

30,775,961

Hong Kong

288,169

>50

LGA

23,983,082

Dubai

281,175

Table 1: Airports ranked by passengers. All bolded airports are in the United States; all red airports are major Northeast airports.

controls or other government monopoly protections, and with low jet fuel prices, the country’s major airlines quickly moved to an operationally efficient hub-and-spoke system. This system, which we are familiar with today, is one in which “banks” of passengers are fed into a handful of major hub airports and redistributed along the spokes to their final destinations (Wells and Young 2004). This allows airlines to serve more origin-and-destination pairs with greater frequency, though it forces passengers to make connections. Instead of operating at dozens of major airports, the airlines have condensed their networks to focus around two or three mega-airport hubs each. This system requires greater coordination

...

Table 2: Airports ranked by movements

than point-to-point systems, as hub-andspoke networks only function when the hub airports are relatively congestion-free. Because they were built before the hub-and-spoke era and therefore were designed for a different kind of operation, most major US commercial airports are not designed to accommodate this new dominant trend. Based on its configuration, an airport can move a certain number of aircraft per hour in various weather conditions. This capacity is defined as the “practical maximum number of operations that a system can serve within a given period of time” (Wells and Young 2004). Airport capacity may be counted in two ways, either by the number of passengers carried or by aircraft movements (Airports Council International 2011). Thus, all things being

equal, the larger and fuller the average aircraft, the higher an airport’s passenger capacity. By the first metric—passengers carried—the major Northeast airports (JFK, EWR, PHL, LGA, IAD, BWI, BOS) rank fairly low; however, by aircraft movements, these airports rank competitively with any others in the world (Tables 1 and 2). From an airspace and operations perspective, American airports in general already handle the same or more aircraft movements as their global peers. All of the major inland and west coast hubs vastly outperform the rest of the world, and the Philadelphia and New York area airports perform competitively. If each aircraft were flying more passengers, the major Northeast airports would all rank among the busiest passenger airports in the world. However, American airports suffer from an efficiency problem. From a capacity perspective, too many small aircraft use up landing and gate slots that would otherwise be better utilized by larger aircraft carrying more passengers. The capacity problem is threefold: First, small aircraft carry fewer people yet often take up nearly the same amount of gate space. Either they use gates designed for larger aircraft or they use gate areas specifically designed for smaller planes that reduce terminal capacity for larger aircraft. A regional jet with few passengers potentially needs less time on the ground; however, in practice their turnaround time is about the same as a normal jet. Since schedulers also must plan gate assignments around on-time performance, a small jet will still need a standard amount of buffer time during which the gate is essentially unavailable (Wells and Young 2004). Second, due to wake turbulence, a small jet needs more space between it and a larger preceding plane (Table 3) (Nolan 1990). All aircraft generate wake turbulence, wind vortices generated when a wing moves through the air at high speed. The bigger the wing, the bigger the turbulence; the smaller the plane, the more it is affected. Third, small aircraft have lower tolerance for crosswinds, meaning that they cannot land in any other direction except that of the prevailing winds. Therefore, if an

Lead/Lag

Small

Large

Heavy

Small

Large

Heavy

Table 3: Required Longitudinal Separations for Aircraft Arriving to a Single Runway When Performing Under IFR (Distances in Nautical Miles) (Wells and Young 2004) Airport

Air and Express Rail—Serendipity?

Pax/Movements

Destination

Cologne

Stuttgart

Span

07:09-22:09

06:54-19:20

Hourly

< Once every two hours

Tokyo

187.3

Hong Kong

174.7

Dubai

167.8

Heathrow

144.8

Distance

95 miles

Beijing

142.9

Time

56 minutes

64 minutes

JFK

116.4

Speed

102 mi/h

89 mi/h

CDG

116.3

FRA

116.3

Madrid

114.9

Atlanta

94.0

LAX

88.6

DFW

87.2

DEN

82.9

EWR

82.7

O’Hare

75.7

PHL

66.8

LGA

66.2

Table 4: Passengers per movement, major worldwide airports

airport must be designed for small aircraft, it will require an operationally inefficient crossing runway layout (Figure 1) (Alaska Department of Transportation 2008). As mentioned above, American airports’ capacity problem stems from the low number of people transported per aircraft movement. To illustrate this point, a new airport performance metric must be generated: the number of passengers per aircraft movement (PPM). Table 4 indicates the PPM efficiency of the world’s busiest airports. Again, the Northeast corridor’s major airports which are ranked in the top 50 of both passengers and movements are highlighted in red. The entire Northeast corridor major airport system carries 225,748,624 passengers and 2,863,150 movements, for a PPM ratio of 78.8. For every additional average passenger served,

the Northeast handles an additional 2.8 million passengers without a single other change; if the Northeast air system were even as PPM-efficient as Atlanta, another American airport with similar operational needs, the region would have carried 269,000,000 passengers in 2010.

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Frequency

Table 5: Lufthansa AIRail Services.The equivalent Lufthansa flight between the two cities is 40 minutes, for an average speed of 127.5 miles/hour. (Deutsche Lufthansa AG n.d.) (Wolfram|Alpha Knowledgebase 2011) As air traffic increases and small aircraft continue to diminish Northeast airports’ efficiency, a solution will become vital. Currently, the economics of running large international airports means that airlines are compelled to run small aircraft into and out of their hubs, even at a financial loss, to transfer them to lucrative long-haul flights (Brueckner, Dyer and Spiller 1992). However, this system is very sensitive to fuel prices (Babikian, Lukachko and Waitz n.d.). Regional jets fly at lower altitudes over shorter distances. Flying low means that an aircraft moves through denser air; flying short means that a greater percentage of the aircraft’s operational life is spent either

Illustration of wake turbulence

ascending, descending, or on the ground. As a result, flying via regional jet is one of the single most fuel-inefficient modes of travel (ibid.). When fuel costs increase, regional jets become prohibitively costly to fly, but the airlines need them to feed their mainline service. Fuel prices are expected to increase in the coming years, making it soon clear that the regional jet feeder model is not financially sustainable (Kingsley-Jones 2008). Regional jet manufacturers have already responded by planning to replace their current products with larger, 737-sized aircraft like the Bombardier CSeries [Photo: Bombardier CSeries]. Because it will still be necessary to move relatively small passenger loads to and from hub airports, air carriers must find a new way to get passengers to their hubs. Turboprops are one simple solution, as they are more fuel efficient, but due to perceptions of lower safety on those aircraft their use has historically been low (Babikian, Lukachko and Waitz n.d.). A more palatable solution, and one that would free up valuable capacity for larger aircraft, is to divert regional traffic to a different mode of transport. This ideal alternative mode should be frequent, fast, reliable, and connected directly to airport facilities with minimal walking distance or hassle. Frequent service allows for scheduling flexibility of mainline service; fast service makes air travel more attractive; reliable service means that air carriers can schedule efficient connections; and direct connections make the process seamless. A passenger should be able to buy a single ticket through the airline and

check in for the entire trip at its origin. For passengers, the ideal alternative mode should also be comfortable and minimize hassle, walking distance, walking distance with luggage, and transfers. In Europe, this alternative mode already exists in the form of high-speed intercity rail service. The most notable and cited example is Lufthansa’s AIRail system. Lufthansa AIRail operates between Frankfurt Airport Station and Cologne Central Station via Sieburg/Bonn and between Frankfurt Airport Station and Stuttgart Main Station (Table 5). Passengers can book a single ticket combining a flight and a Lufthansa flight numbered Deutsche Bahn train. At the train station, they can receive boarding passes for the entire trip, including seat reservations in dedicated Lufthansa Business or Economy Class train seating. Lufthansa also advertises easy baggage check-in and collection at Frankfurt Airport and personal service at the train station from a Lufthansa AIRail guard. Although there is limited information on the financial success of Lufthansa’s service, 170,000 passengers per year use it, and the airline no longer operates air service between Frankfurt and Cologne Airport and uses as many trains as planes on its Stuttgart route (Grimme n.d.). The Lufthansa example provides a model of how an American system can work. Frankfurt Airport is one of mainland Europe’s primary air hubs: it ranks 9th in the world and 3rd in Europe in passenger volume, 11th and 2nd in movements, and 8th and 2nd (tied) in PPM. Like the major Northeast airports, it is a transfer point between intra-continental and longdistance flights, is located relatively near its namesake city, and utilizes an old and relatively inefficient finger terminal layout on the side, not the center, of the airfield. Cologne and Stuttgart are both midsized cities separated from Frankfurt by a scant 95 miles in a country where driving is easy and fast. There is no apparent economic or operational reason why a similar system cannot work in the United States. Lufthansa’s service connects passengers directly between their major hub and cities that are about an hour’s train ride or 40

minutes of flight time away. Including half an hour of check-in time, and assuming equal travel time to the train station or the airport, equal on-time performance, and equal layover time at Frankfurt, the train service is actually faster than the plane. Note that though 30 minutes of check-in time is conservative, the scheduled flights times are often padded up to 45 minutes longer than the actual flight time. If a train can offer better on-time performance than its air counterpart, the calculus becomes even more favorable to rail. This calculation, which can be performed for any city pairs, can either show where rail is already competitive with air or indicate at what speed a potential train service should operate if it seeks to replace air service: Rochester to Newark 246.1 miles 120 minutes with check-in (Continental) 123 miles/hour with check-in Connecting train must exceed 123 miles/ hour Rochester to Dulles 291 miles 105 minutes with check-in (United) 166 miles/hour with check-in Competing train must exceed 166 miles/ hour BWI to EWR (both served by Amtrak)

between any two cities separated by less than 200 miles; but the system can be tailored to compete with air between any given city pairs based on travel speed (University of Pennsylvania School of Design Studio 2010). If the airlines are able (or are compelled economically by increased per-aircraft landing fees or statutorily by regulation) to cut air service between rail-served cities, the diversionary potential can be up to 100% of flights. For Rochester to Newark and Rochester to Dulles, eight small aircraft flights each could be eliminated each day; BWI-EWR, six flights (Data and Statistics 2011). By freeing up valuable landing and gate slots at the major Northeast airports, operations will run more smoothly and be more attractive for service growth. If the system is planned properly with the needs of the air system in mind, the airlines can shift from their traditional opposition role to being strong proponents of air/rail service. That assumption cannot be a given: the salient features of the Lufthansa system must be applied. Lufthansa is able to provide a single, relatively seamless experience from ticket purchase to the flight and ride. It offers replacement train service on those routes where there is a speed advantage for rail, and it carries passengers from main city train stations directly to Frankfurt Airport, depositing

169.1 miles 100 minutes with check-in (Continental) 101 miles/hour with check-in Competing train must exceed 101 miles/ hour [Acela operates at approximately 88 miles/hour] Philadelphia to EWR 70.74 miles 90 minutes with check-in (Continental) 47.2 miles/hour with check-in Competing train must exceed 101 miles/ hour [Amtrak service through Continental codeshare: 65 minutes, 65.3 miles/hour] Table 6.

A high-speed rail service between the cities and airports of the Northeast, operating at an average speed of 135 miles/ hour or greater, could replace air service

Terminal Map of Frankfurt International Airport, including the easy connection with AIRail

Rejected Alternative B of the PHL Master Plan, which would have centralized ticketing in a single terminal

passengers on the departure level less than 800 feet from the terminal. By comparison, the distance between the check-in area and the more distant of the B gates is over 1440 feet. Service need not necessarily be frequent, but the more frequent service on the Cologne line made it easier for Lufthansa to discontinue air service altogether (it still must operate several flights on the less frequent Stuttgart line). If service is infrequent, a greater degree of coordination with the airlines would be required. The current Northeast Corridor (NEC) high speed rail proposal only seeks to improve service along the Washingtonto-Boston mainline. This alone cannot divert much traffic from aircraft because it does not mirror the hub-and-spoke networks that the legacy carriers use and that dominate major Northeast airport traffic. In this case, the problem with high-speed rail is not that it is too expensive, but that it is too cheap and its scope too limited. A truly effective air replacement rail system must include not only the creation of a NEC super-line, but the improvement of the full Northeast Amtrak network—which passes through many of the cities currently served by regional aircraft. Though much attention has rightly gone to the NEC mainline, the best way to get an effective high-speed regional train system is to expand it to touch more cities, and importantly more Congressional districts, than NEC improvements alone. In its report on the state of the New York area’s airports, the Regional Plan Association determined that, even with

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the high speed rail service, New York’s major airport facilities must be improved. Improvements at most major Northeast airports contain at least the potential for high-speed train integration. As discussed above, part of Frankfurt’s success is that the relative ease with which one can transfer from air to rail and vice versa. Minimizing walking distance and the need to transfer to an airport people mover requires a single landside terminal design. Based on the current conditions at the major Northeast airports, this may not be possible, though the pending demolition of Terminal 3 at JFK indicates that some consolidation may occur. If check-in could be consolidated to fewer terminals and transfers between concourses could be moved airside, it may be possible to demolish some of the existing landside facilities and use that space for aircraft operations while making connections between air and rail simpler for passengers. Alternative B of the PHL Master Plan utilizes this principle; however, it would be more expensive to build than the preferred alternative.

Conclusion The Northeast’s major airports are almost universally the products of a bygone era. Designed at the dawn of the Jet Age and retrofitted to handle the traffic patterns of a deregulated hub-and-spoke environment, the system is living on borrowed time and needs a true modernization program. Because the region is so land-constrained,

it is unlikely that an entirely new airport could be built. Expanded use of relief airports is infeasible partially due to access problems, but mostly because the hub-andspoke system has no need for distributed airport systems. Indeed, in an ideal world the facilities at Newark, JFK, and LaGuardia would be combined into a more efficient 104 MPPA mega-airport, eliminating the current system’s service duplication. Realistically, the next generation of airports will be the current generation, modernized for the continued growth of commercial aviation. To meet that demand, terminal facilities must be improved to allow for the free circulation of passengers and aircraft. Existing plans for JFK and PHL seek to do just that, making efficient use of a terminal space that was designed for a point-to-point air travel system. Similar plans for Newark, Boston, and BWI can create the same capacity improvements where necessary. From an airport’s perspective, the single cheapest way to expand passenger capacity is simply to fly bigger and fuller planes. By integrating high-speed surface transportation into their facilities, airports and airlines can reserve vital landing and gate slots for larger aircraft. Considering the economics of regional jets, if a system is proposed with easy transfers, competitive travel times, and airline-controlled ticketing, the major legacy carriers should support rail transportation at their hub airports. It will provide drastic passenger capacity improvements at very little direct costs to the carriers. The northeastern United States can improve its economic potential and sustain its economic advantages, by making intercity and international travel easy, efficient, and affordable (Zupan, Barone and Lee 2011). Through a combination of more efficient use of existing facilities and physical capacity improvement, together with optimizing the balance between plane and train, the Northeast region’s major airports and intercity rail will be able to handle the next generation of air traffic. This example can then be exported to the rest of the country, which already faces the same challenges and the same potential solution.

References Airports Council International. “ACI World Traffic Statistics.” Airports Council International. 2011. http://www.aci-na.org/content/aci-world-trafficstatistics (accessed October 14, 2011). Alaska Department of Transportation. Kotzebue Airport Relocation Feasibility Study. Alaska Department of Transportation, 2008. Arnold Thompson Associates, Inc. Philadelphia International Airport Master Plan. Philadelphia: Federal Aviation Administration, 1975. Babikian, Raffi, Stephen P. Lukachko, and Ian A.Waitz. “The Historical Fuel Efficiency Characteristics of Regional Aircraft from Technological, Operational, and Cost Perspectives.” Department of Aeronautics and Astronautics, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, n.d. Brueckner, Jan K., Nichola J. Dyer, and Pablo T. Spiller. “Fare determination in airline hub-and-spoke networks.” RAND Journal of Economics 23, no. 3 (Autumn 1992): 309-333. Cherry, James. The Economic Importance of Airports. Montreal: Aeroports de Montreal, n.d. Data and Statistics. 2011. http://www.bts.gov/data_ and_statistics/ (accessed November 17, 2011). Delta Air Lines. “Delta Air Lines, the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey and JFK International Air Terminal Unveil Plans for Enhancement and Expansion of Terminal 4 at JFK Airport.” August 11, 2010. Deutsche Lufthansa AG. “AIRail - Just Like Flying.” Lufthansa. n.d. http://www.lufthansa.com/de/en/ AIRail-just-like-flying (accessed November 2, 2011). —. “Flughafen Frankfurt FRA.” Lufthansa. 2011. http://www.lufthansa.com/mediapool/pdf/39/ media_1048439.pdf (accessed November 27, 2011). Federal Aviation Administration. Modifications of Standards (MOSs) for A380/B747-8s/New Large Aircraft.Washington: U.S. Department of Transportation, 2011.

Grimme, Wolfgang. “Air/Rail Intermodality - Recent Experience from Germany.” Aerlines Magazien, n.d.: 1-4. International Air Transport Association. Airport Development Reference Manual. 4th. IATA, 2004.

Wells, Alexander T., and Seth B.Young. Airport Planning & Management. 5th. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2004.

Johnsson, Julie. “Chicago In Line for Huge Lift with United-Continental Merger.” Chicago Tribune, May 2, 2010.

Zupan, Jeffrey M., Richard E. Barone, and Matthew H. Lee. Upgrading to World Class: The Future of the New York Region’s Airports. New York: Regional Plan Association, 2011.

Wolfram|Alpha Knowledgebase. 2011. http://www. wolframalpha.com/ (accessed November 27, 2011).

Kasarda, John D. Global Airport Cities. Airports Council International, 2010. Kingsley-Jones, Max. “Boeing rethinks size growth and regional jet demand in latest long-term forecast.” Flight International, November 7, 2008. Leslie, Thomas. “The Pan Am Terminal at Idlewild/ Kennedy Airport and the Transition from Jet Age to Space Age.” Design Issues 21, no. 1 (Winter 2005): 63-80. Nolan, Michael S. Fundamentals of Air Traffic Control. Belmont:Wadsworth, Inc., 1990. Philadelphia International Airport. Capacity Enhancement Program. Federal Aviation Administration, 2011. Plave, Joshua. “World’s Highest Capacity Airport, AlMaktoum International, Opens.” Magellan Jets. March 4, 2011. http://www.magellanjets.com/blog/ bid/54506/World-s-Highest-Capacity-Airport-AlMaktoum-International-Opens (accessed October 15, 2011). University of Pennsylvania School of Design Studio. Making High-Speed Rail Work in the Northeast Megaregion. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2010. Vaillant, Derek. “Midway Airport.” Encyclopedia of Chicago. 2005. http://encyclopedia.chicagohistory. org/pages/828.html (accessed November 27, 2011). Welling, Dominic. “Frankfurt Night Flight Ban Will Cause a “Big Mess.”” October 12, 2011. http://air por t-world.com/news-ar ticles/ item/1068-frankfurt-night-flight-ban-will-causea-%E2%80%9Cbig-mess%E2%80%9D (accessed November 27, 2011).

RECLAIMING THE GHETTO

The Grassroots Development of a Gay Neighborhood in Parisâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Marais

By Lizzie Hessmiller 26

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Editor’s Note: The transformation of Paris’s Marais neighborhood from an overlooked Jewish district into a high-priced gay enclave is just one example of similar dramatic shifts in cities around the world.The “reclaimed ghetto” was part of one group’s conscious effort to turn a major city—or at least a part of it—into a more welcoming place. The fact that planners were left out of this movement is a sobering fact, and hopefully an instructive one. One of the greatest responsibilities of city planners is to create urban space in which all people feel ownership. Historically, planners have not designed cities as multicultural spaces. The physical and social fabric of urban areas have responded primarily to the needs of the dominant culture (Fainstein 1997, 456). This leaves minority groups feeling out of place in the city: they do not have the right to anonymity, they do not have a safe place, and they do not have ownership of the city. Philosopher Charles Taylor (1994, 42) states, “Recognition is not about being polite to people: it is a vital necessity.” Because the dominant culture does not often address this necessity, minority groups organize their environments into spaces that demand recognition by others. The lack of ownership felt by minority groups leads to the organic creation of ethnic enclaves. While these spaces promote segregation and exoticism, it is undeniable that they also promote visibility of certain communities. What happens, however, when the minority group seeking recognition is not a marginalized ethnicity, but a marginalized lifestyle? Gay people have long been forced into marginalized communities. Historically, the dominant culture has not only forced gay people into secret, invisible spaces of cities, it has also persecuted and prosecuted gay people when they have attempted to gain ownership of urban space (Blidon 2011). The reaction to the gay community’s appeal for recognition is often a continued ignorance that the gay community exists. The movement to gain a right to the city has been more difficult, and to some extent more important, for gay people than for more visible minority groups. The history of the Marais neighborhood in Paris, France, is a

significant story of the gay community consciously changing a neighborhood through economic forces to serve its needs. The transformation of the Marais was not without resistance from outside the gay community as well as from within it; nevertheless, the creation of a “gay Marais” was the beginning of the ongoing movement for gay recognition in France. Numerous businesses explicitly and openly serving a gay clientele in the neighborhood were (and are) the foundation of a space in Paris where gay men are normalized and can safely express their sexuality. This normalization, inspired by specialized commercial space, has led to gay ownership of a part of the city. The transformation of the Marais into a gay neighborhood is an example of how commercial development can lead to greater recognition of a marginalized group. The Marais, a centrally located neighborhood on the Right Bank in Paris, has a long and varied history. In the Middle Ages, the ostracized Jewish community of Paris settled in the marshy lands and created an unofficial ghetto. In the 17th century, the neighborhood was home to the most elegant and wealthy of Parisian society. This period is still evident in the architecture of the neighborhood. By the 19th century, the wealthy had moved to the western Parisian neighborhoods and left the declining Marais to waves of immigrants, notably Jews from Eastern Europe. In the early 20th century, Parisians once again recognized the Marais as the Jewish quarter (Mairie de Paris 2005, x). French gay life developed in a similarly nonlinear fashion. Until 1750, “outed” gay people were burned at the stake. The French Revolution of 1789 abandoned the penalization of homosexuality, but this progressive decision did not encourage gay people to openly express their sexuality. In 1800, Napoleon’s Civil Code cited “damaging public decency” as grounds for prosecution. Of course, this term was code for “homosexual practices.” The years in between the two world wars was a time of great freedom and expression for all sexual minorities in Paris, but deportation of gay men by the Nazis (lesbians were given the black triangle for mental disorders) and the

1942 law recriminalizing homosexuality reversed progress toward recognition of the gay community. The Holocaust, of course, not only affected the gay community, but decimated the Jewish population living in the Marais. Between 1942 and 1945, the Ashkenazi community disappeared from the Marais, leaving empty buildings and greater disinvestment in the neighborhood. After the war, survivors attempted to move back into their homes and recreate their Jewish neighborhood, but new inhabitants often impeded their return, and the Marais never regained the energy it had prior to the war. Even as new Sephardic immigrants from North Africa moved into the neighborhood, the disinvestment in the Marais was difficult to reverse (Caron 2009, 46). Around the same time the Sephardic immigrants began moving to the Marais, Paris’s gay community was developing its own spatial identity. Immediately after World War II, the gay community inserted itself among the intellectuals of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. As popular perception of gays became slightly more progressive, the community began searching for its own space. In the 1960s, the gay community moved north of the Seine to the Rue Sainte Anne. Fabrice Émaer opened Le Pimm’s in 1964, which led the way for numerous other gay bars and clubs to open along the same street (Mairie de Paris 2005, 505). French law, however, still criminalized homosexuality, and the semiclandestine gay establishments hid behind doors with peepholes and only opened after 11 p.m. (Caron 2009, 60). The gay enclave of the Rue Sainte Anne was hardly a space that promoted gay visibility. It did, however, increase the “sophistication and power” of the gay movement in Paris and prove that commercial development could factor into the ownership of urban space (Mairie de Paris 2005, 505). In the 1980s, several external factors led Paris’s gay community to move east. First, the influx of North African immigrants to the Marais continued to bring down the cost of living in the Marais. Second, the construction of the Pompidou Center adjacent to the Marais gave the area a modern

Spatial evolution of “gay neighborhoods” in Paris, 1945–1980

feel amid its historic architecture, and third, the momentum of the gay rights movement hit its stride, and in 1982 the 40-yearold law prosecuting homosexuality was poised for repeal (Caron 2009, 61). These factors allowed gay businesses to operate during normal business hours without fear of putting them or their clientele in legal danger. In addition, the neighborhood had a reputation of being a poor, unrefined place. Similar to Philadelphia’s Washington West neighborhood (where the city’s Gayborhood is located), the area’s negative associations prevented the dominant society from investing there even as its populations evolved and cheap real estate went on the market (Galecki 2010, 55). Instead, the Marais became the perfect place for investment from a marginalized part of society. The internal force that pushed the gay community to invest in commercial ventures in the Marais was a desire to come out of secrecy and gain a right to the city (or at least an enclave within). The 1980s campaign for gay people to come out of

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the closet nurtured this desire within the community. Le Village was the first gay bar to open in the Marais in 1978. Though it was not the first establishment to cater to gay men in the neighborhood, it was the first gay business specifically intended to be open and visible during the day. This was a conscious decision by its owner, Joël Leroux, to create a gay space different from the secretive Rue Sainte Anne. Le Village would democratize gay socialization. Leroux wanted his business to receive recognition (Caron 2009, 61). Soon, other businesses followed. Rents were still cheap in the neighborhood, and within a decade, more than 20 gay bars opened in the Marais. In addition to bars, the Marais saw the creation of a gay pharmacy, bakery, several gay restaurants, clothing stores, travel agencies, hair salons, and a gay bookstore, which has become an institution in gay literature (Caron 2009, 61). To represent all of these businesses, their owners created the National Syndicate of Gay Businesses (SNEG). Today, the SNEG continues to provide business owners with

legal assistance and financial advice, as well as pasting rainbow stickers on the windows of all the businesses it represents. Because there was a concentration of commercial establishments that served their needs, gay men were initially very interested in residing in the Marais, despite its rundown character. At the beginning of the transformation of the Marais into a gay neighborhood, rents were still cheap enough for the gay men patronizing the stores to live there. In addition, much of the housing stock was studio and one-bedroom apartments, which proved perfect for the lifestyles of gay men, who tended to be single and without children. As the gay community dominated the commercial and residential markets of the Marais, the neighborhood became known as a gay neighborhood throughout Paris, and eventually throughout France and internationally. Through its development of a rundown historic neighborhood, the gay community received recognition. Within the perceived boundaries of that Marais, the gay community also had ownership of space—they were able to express their sexuality in public without fear of persecution. This privilege only existed within the limits of the spaces claimed by gay businesses. The boundaries of the gay Marais overlapped with the boundaries of the Jewish Marais. The two communities cohabited well. “[The Jews] seldom manifested any hostility toward their new neighbors. The most noteworthy incident turned out to be a slight misreading: members of the Betar, a group of young Jewish activists, mistook the shaved-head leather men meeting at Le Central for neo-Nazi skinheads and proceeded to raid the bar” (Caron 2009, 63). Other residents of the Marais, those of the dominant (white, heterosexual, Christian) society, did protest against the growing visibility of the gay community. In the name of protecting children, they fought against stores displaying the rainbow flag in their windows, and they protested against gay men kissing in the street. In 1997, they were able to elect a conservative mayor (in the 4th arrondissement, where the Marais is located), who attempted

to remove rainbow flags and put greater restrictions on gay businesses. However, the election of openly gay Bertrand Delanoë as mayor of the city of Paris in 2001 effectively ended any neighborhood-based restrictions on businesses serving the gay community (Caron 2009, 63). One can argue that the election of an openly gay man to the most powerful political position in Paris, and, to some extent, in France, was in part due to the Marais’s success in normalizing gay men and giving them a right to the city. The right to the city did not extend to all gay people, despite the success of the Marais in becoming the most identifiably gay neighborhood in Paris. The normalization of the gay lifestyle (and the privilege of anonymity that it entails) only applied to the most heteronormative gay men: lesbians, queens, bears, leather men, and others were not able to claim ownership of space outside or inside the Marais. Not only were these communities ostracized by the dominant society, they also did not find a place within the Marais, where there was an emphasis on assimilation. The success of the Marais also led to prices rising in the gay businesses. In the 1980s, gay businesses chose to locate in the Marais due to its low rents, and their investment raised property values in the neighborhood. By 2000, gay businesses continued to locate in the Marais because it was the established center for gay life, and they passed the higher rents on to their customers. This trend made the Marais a high-end neighborhood that only wealthy people could enjoy. Economically disadvantaged gay men, especially those from the Paris suburbs, were excluded from the gay neighborhood, and a segregation between these two groups developed (Boivin 2011). In addition to rising commercial rents, another result of improved property values in the Marais was increased residential rents. The gay businesses’ neighborhood improvements caused gentrification that made it impossible for many of the former residents, both gay men and Jewish families, to live in the neighborhood. The change in the Marais benefited both groups through reinvestment in a space that was integral to both gay and Jewish identities, but it disadvantaged

those groups by pushing their residences away from the area where they had cultural ownership. Gay commercial investment in the Marais created a “commercial ghetto” that was more of a symbolic destination than true space for the gay community. Though the city of Paris supported reinvestment in the Marais, city planners in Paris had little to do with the changes in the neighborhood. In the early 1980s, no political entities addressed the gay community, besides to abandon the law penalizing homosexuality in 1981. In addition, French planning in the 1970s and 1980s focused mainly on developing social housing in the suburbs; planners generally ignored the working-class neighborhoods of the center. As the gay community started its grassroots effort to create commercial development in the Marais that served its needs, planners and other city officials (especially preservationists) noticed the positive effect the investment had on the neighborhood. Planners were able to coopt some of the reinvestment by declaring the Marais a designated historic site and funneling government money to the

preservation of its historic architecture. Planners improved the touristic value of the neighborhood by marketing the Marais as the Jewish and gay neighborhood, and working with artists to build a memorial to the Jewish deportation. In this way, planners did contribute to neighborhood reinvestment, but they did not work to give the gay community more recognition through commercial development. There is a long history of planners co-opting neighborhood investment started by gay communities around the world—in New York City’s Greenwich Village or Toronto’s Cabbagetown, for example (Bouthillette 1994, 65). It is an interesting story of city planners displacing the means of a bottomup social movement so that they create the desired end without working with the communities that started the movements. Even with an openly gay mayor, actively working to improve the gay community’s right to the city remains a political danger that city officials do only with the utmost timidity. Social planning for the gay community was, and remains, only possible through grassroots movements.

Les Mots à la Bouche, a longstanding gay bookstore and institution in the neighborhood, represents the many specialized gay businesses that have opened in the Marais.

A kosher grocer operates peacefully next to its neighbor, a lesbian bar, on the Rue des Écouffes.

The Marais today is one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Paris. It is also the celebrated center of gay life and Jewish life throughout the country, and it has acquired significant cultural importance. Despite the negative changes that accompany gentrification and cultural segregation, the changes in the Marais have been generally positive. The force driving this positive change is economic power. Indeed, the gay community’s desire to be recognized as a legitimate community is a factor in the neighborhood change, but without the economic power to build and support gay enterprises, the Marais would not have gained its great visibility. It is conceivable that the change in the community could have been negative, and during the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s and 1990s, it nearly was. The first entrepreneurs arrived in the Marais at a strategic time: ideas about gay people were becoming more progressive in France in the late 1970s, and it was a better climate for a gay business to open than ever before. AIDS, however, decimated the gay community living in the Marais and caused members of the dominant society to fear gay men (Mairie de Paris 2005, 506). The fear could have led to a repression of the gay businesses in the Marais; however, the presence of ACT UP Paris and other political forces advocating for gay community’s rights instead reinforced recognition of the community and their ownership of space in the Marais. One urban theory states that cities are attractive because they are a space where relations are anonymous and where encounters with “otherness” are common.

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Despite an urban desire for “otherness,” gay people are still a marginalized community with little visibility and little anonymity. While the concepts of visibility and anonymity seem contrary to each other, in the urban scene they are closely related. Anonymity is the ability to blend into the fabric of the city, to belong in the urban space and be considered part of the norm. Anonymity gives individuals the same right to the city as the rest of the norm. Without sufficient visibility—that is, without the established norm seeing and identifying a group or individual—it is impossible to achieve such anonymity. Visibility is a prerequisite for the anonymity that allows people to establish ownership of urban space. “Work has shown how homosexuals’ ‘right to the city’ has been established by the development of gay neighborhoods’ in a number of large cities, and how this has also led to flourishing commercial activities (restaurants, bars, clubs).The importance of these businesses in providing places of sociability and identity construction cannot be overstated” (Cattan and Clerval).The example of the commercial development of the gay Marais is a lesson in how commercial development can lead to recognition of a marginalized social group, as well as reinvestment in a decaying neighborhood. In this example, planners did not influence the neighborhood— rather, private entrepreneurs responded to market demands for gay space in the city. The question of whether ethnic enclaves, or “gay ghettos,” ultimately benefit or disadvantage minority communities deserves a much longer discussion: On the one hand, these areas promote group recognition. On the other hand, they segregate the minority group from the dominant society and create factions within the minority group. However, instead of planners ignoring gay communities until they can co-opt the gentrification process the communities begin, city planners interested in social and spatial equity should reach out to sexual minorities and actively work with them and their grassroots movements to give gay people a right to the city.

Works Cited Blidon, Marianne. “En quête de reconnaissance. La justice spatiale à l’épreuve de l’hétéronormativité.” Justice Spatiale | Spatial Justice vol. 3 (March 2011): http://www.jssj.org Boivin, Renaud. “Entre agrégation et ségrégation, les gays en région francilienne” in Justice Spatiale | Spatial Justice vol. 3 (March 2011): http://www.jssj.org Bouthillette, A. “Gentrification by Gay Male Communities: A Case Study of Toronto’s Cabbagetown,” In The Margins of the City: Gay Men’s Urban Lives, edited by S. Whittle, 65–83. Brookfield, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company, 1994. Caron, Davis. My Father and I. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2009. Cattan, Nadine and Anne Clerval. “Un droit à la ville? Réseaux virtuels et centralités éphémères des lesbiennes à Paris.” Translated by Claire Hancock. In Justice Spatiale | Spatial Justice vol. 3 (March 2011): http://www. jssj.org. Fainstein, Susan. “Planning in a Different Voice.” In Planning Theory, edited by Susan Fainstein, 456–60. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1997. Galecki, Jacob C. The Construction and Constriction of Gay Commercial Space: Philadelphia, 1970–1999. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, December 2010. Mairie de Paris,Vivre et Survivre dans le Marais. Paris, France: La Manuscrit, 2005. Taylor, Charles. Multiculturalisme : Différence et Démocratie. Paris, France : Flammarion, 1994.

NO MARGIN, NO MISSION A BRIEF ANALYSIS OF THE MONDRAGÓN WORKERS COOPERATIVE

By Thomas Choate

(MCC 2011). However, equally important is the diligence with which the MCC has maintained its original mission. The MCC is a principle-driven, worker-owned-andmanaged conglomeration of cooperatives. Decision-making power and participation are distributed widely throughout the organization and its level of management. The MCC is a unique example of an integrated economic and social system that has thrived in profitability and growth for over 50 years.

Background and History It is easier to imagine the end of the world than an end to capitalism. —Fredric Jameson (New Left Review 2011)

Mondragón is located in the Basque Country of Spain.

Editor’s Note: If the previous piece, “Reclaiming the Ghetto,” demonstrated a marginalized community’s ability to reconceptualize and repurpose space within a city—without the help of planners—then this paper similarly demonstrates an outsider group’s agency in determining its own economic fate. The case of Mondragón has lessons for workers everywhere who find themselves increasingly vulnerable in the shifting tides of global economic currents.

Social movements may lack all the paraphernalia of power: armies, wealth, palaces, temples, and bureaucracies. But by linking from…a common vision and program, and withdrawing their consent from existing institutions, they can impose norms on states, classes, armies, and other power actors. —Excerpt from Globalization From Below:The Power of Solidarity

Introduction The fall of the Berlin Wall and the Soviet Union inspired many political theorists to speculate that democratic capitalism had finally fulfilled the potential of society. This message can be read within both Francis Fukayama’s The End of History and the Last Man in 1992 and Thomas Friedman’s The World is Flat in 2005.

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These political declarations were grossly exaggerated. Ultimately they proved the authors’ ignorance of humanity’s propensity to practice government in nuanced, diverse, and baffling ways (Graeber 2011). A study of economies beyond those of the largest global cities confirms this. This is true even within the countries of Western Europe—no other place in 21st century Europe epitomizes such a unique endemic economy more than Mondragón, a town in the Spanish Basque Country. The Mondragón Cooperative is likely the most successful workers’ cooperative worldwide. It is also one of the most successful conglomerates in Spain. As of 2005, its cooperatives were distributed among 218 companies over 50 cities in the Basque Country and 21 countries worldwide (Williams 2007, 116). The cooperatives are held jointly within the Mondragón Corporación Cooperativa (MCC). Begun when less than 10,000 people resided in the town during the devastated aftermath of the Spanish Civil War, the MCC now includes more than 83,000 employees through a federation of worker cooperatives, with 2010 revenues exceeding 14.7 billion euros

One must understand the basic principles of cooperative corporations to understand the MCC and its successes. Cooperative businesses exist primarily as workers’ cooperatives, consumer cooperatives, and producer cooperatives. Workers’ cooperatives like the MCC excel within labor-dependent enterprises. The business succeeds through pooling capital and administrative resources. Over time, workers accumulate equity in the business and may also accumulate decision-making authority. Workers’ cooperatives are most common within labor-dependent fields, including childcare, hospice care, manufacturing, and trades. Today, Mondragón has industrial, retail, and financial operations throughout Spain, manufacturing facilities in more than 20 countries, three major research and development centers, a multicampus university, and its own bank and health care system (MCC 2011). The first cooperative of what would become the MCC, the FAGOR steel-manufacturing company, was formed in 1956. However, Mondragón traces its roots to 15 years prior, to the arrival of Friar José María Arizmendiarrieta, known as Arizmendi. The young man was given the position of town priest only two years after his escape from imprisonment by the fascists. Ironically, history credits Arizmendi’s lack of charisma for begetting

the cooperatives of Mondragón: Arizmendi felt that he could not provide his parish with the inspiration they deserved from the pulpit. At the same time, Mondragón Steel Works announced the closing of its mill near the center of town, forfeiting hundreds of jobs. Inspired to do something for his parish, Arizmendi organized a school of technology with five local engineers to combat the town’s unemployment in 1943. Despite his lack of charisma—or perhaps due to a worry that he wouldn’t be a suitable leader—Arizmendi convinced the workers themselves to purchase the steel mill it and run it as a cooperative. This entrepreneurialism laid the foundation from which the MCC would grow. However, the ultimate success of the cooperative depended upon Arizmendi’s formation of the Caja Laboral Popular (Working People’s Bank) in 1959 (Williams 2007, 115). The Caja Laboral Popular has since provided seed capital for local companies and subsequent evolutions of the MCC, including the 1969 formation of Spain’s largest supermarket chain, EROSKI, and the reincorporation of the original school of technology as the University of Mondragón.

Influences The co-ops derived a surprising double benefit from [Spanish dictator Francisco] Franco’s regime: first, they were allowed to and in some ways even encouraged to exist through beneficial tax laws (that continue today); second, they could use Franco as a target of criticism and hatred so as to fortify their own internal sense of mission. —Union representative outside of the cooperatives (Cheney 1999, 55)

Why are there not more cooperatives as successful as the MCC? First and foremost, many countries’ antimonopolistic mandates preclude the conglomeration that has allowed the Mondragón Cooperative the control and advantage to succeed. The Sherman Antitrust Act of 1890 in the United States is a notable example. Equally important were the social and historical movements in Spain in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Four especially informed the creation of the MCC: (1) the anarchist National

Confederation of Labor movement, (2) the movement for Basque cultural and political autonomy, (3) Catholic social thought, and (4) the asymmetries in European industry due to the destruction caused by the Spanish Civil War and World War II. Each of these influences will be briefly explored in order to illuminate the context in which the MCC developed. (1) The National Confederation of Labor, or CNT, one of the largest labor unions in Spain, played an important part in the Spanish Civil War, as depicted in George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. The CNT consolidated in 1910 from a diverse group of radical labor unions. By 1934 the CNT claimed more than 1.5 million members (Beevor 2006, 24). However, a scant five years later, Franco strictly outlawed labor unions. They remained outlawed until 1958. During those years the enormous number of surviving sympathizers were forced to channel their political expression into other activities. Arizmendi was familiar with the cooperatives of the CNT, similar initiatives in Catalonia, as well as with the Rochdale cooperatives begun a century earlier in England. In a time of limited possibility, Mondragón provided a safe outlet to work collaboratively and productively during the harshest years of Franco’s repression. (2) The Basque people have held onto their cultural and political autonomy more successfully than almost any other group in Europe through two millennia of conquests of the Iberian Peninsula. Most Basques also possessed social institutions distinct from those of feudal Europe. Aspects of this include the elizate tradition where local house owners met in front of the church to elect a representative to send to administrative gatherings. Another example was the fact that, during the medieval period, most land was owned by the farmers—not the church or a king (Collins 1986; Trask 1996). Although most rural populations in Europe could likely trace their antecedents back a few hundred years at the time, very few could trace a continuous history of more than a millennium as could the Basques. This provided a unifying force along cultural grounds that only grew with

Franco’s assault on non-Castilian culture in Spain (Williams 2007, 114). (3) The MCC began its most important period of growth concurrent with arguably the most progressive period in the Catholic Church. Catholic social thought began to be popularized by Pope Leo XIII in 1891 and reached its pinnacle with the opening of the Vatican Council II by Pope John XXIII on October 11, 1962. David Herrera (2004, 1) writes that “Mondragón responds to a calling to holiness as an organization that competes successfully in a global market economy while maintaining its congruence with Catholic social thought.” Arizmendi himself said, “Work is the attribute that gives a person the highest honor of being a cooperator of God in the transformation and fertilization of nature and in the resulting promotion of human well-being” (Azurmendi 1984, 116). During a time when their overt political and cultural allegiances were under attack, Catholic social thought provided a way for the Mondragón workers to openly live their principles within the confines allowable under Franco. (4) Lastly, in the wake of the Spanish Civil War, Mondragón’s isolation became its boon. Although located less than 40 miles from the town of Guernica, tragically memorialized by Picasso, Mondragón itself suffered little damage. This gave the town a strong relative advantage over the rest of Spanish industry

The Fagor plant in Mondragon.

Father Arizmendi founded the MCC 1956.

and, after World War II, the rest of Europe. Although industrialization was a central focus of Franco’s economic initiatives, a UN embargo against Franco ensured the Spanish economy a slow path to economic recovery. Rationing cards continued to be used until 1952 (Time 1952). Data from 1958 indicate that companies were so small that 82 percent of industrial enterprises employed only one to five workers (Thomas and Logan 1982, 29). However, in 1953 the United States found commonality with Franco’s anticommunism. The two governments signed the Pact of Madrid, which began the wane of Spain’s economic isolation. This would complete only with Franco’s death in 1975. The years of isolation provided a unique incubator for the Mondragón cooperatives. When the Spanish economy and consumer spending began to grow in the 1960s, Mondragón advanced beyond its competition. George Cheney (1999, 56) emphasizes: “…the ‘second-order’ cooperatives such as the Caja Laboral Popular, a social security system, and an educational system, have allowed

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the cooperatives to achieve longevity and success in large part by ‘buffering’ them from the ebbs and flows of the larger market and society.” The business structure and its integration with its source of capital, Caja Laboral Popular, gave the MCC the liquidity and flexibility to outcompete Spain’s otherwise fragmented economy (ibid., 29– 30). Mondragón developed within a unique context. Each of the influences above should not be considered in isolation. In fact, George Cheney argues that a final factor has been overlooked in analyses of Mondragón’s success: that the dynamism and adaptability within the organization created the mechanisms of direct and representative democracy, as much as vice versa (ibid., 57). Cheney’s is an important point. The organizational culture of the MCC fundamentally informs its success in a way that a purely historical and deterministic analysis foregoes. In summation, given the profound range of forces and influences surrounding the MCC’s formation, it is important not to simplify each for the sake of clarity.

The Cooperative in Context Cooperation is an authentic integration of the person in the economic and social process, and it is central to a new social order; employees working cooperatively ought to unite around this ultimate objective, along with all who hunger and thirst for justice in the world of work —Arizmendi

Mondragón, of course, is not alone: workers’ cooperatives hold a particular power over the imagination, even those not born out of an ethno-linguistic tradition as mysterious as that of the Basques. This may derive from cooperatives’ ability to enact what is impossible in other contexts. Cooperation in business is often equated to a lack of competition and vivacity. It follows that a “noncompetitive society would represent … a bland experience … a waveless sea of nonachievers … the psychological retreat of a person … into a cocoon of false security and self-satisfied mediocrity” (Johnson and Johnson 1989,

52). But compete they do. Despite the “impossibility” of their imagining, workers cooperatives persist within a variety of cultural contexts. Worker’s cooperatives primary distinction, again, is that they excel in labor-intensive industries rather than capital intensive industries (Lawless and Reynolds 2004, 7). Organization-wide familiarity with their businesses’ financial health allows for a level of flexibility uncommon to other business models. This is a primary reason that cooperatives have proven to be extremely robust within typical business cycles as well as within more traumatic events such as the recent financial crisis. Studies suggest that cooperatives’ robustness derives from their internal feedback loops. Traditional corporations are structured managerially to flourish within periods of growth but have difficulty adapting to economic downturns. The combination of (1) worker-members’ financial incentive to see the business flourish, (2) authority to enact change, and (3) familiarity with the financial state of the business sustains the feedback loops within the organization. For example, workers’ cooperatives may approve wage cuts or other measures difficult to approve in workplaces organized by traditional labor unions (Economist 2007). Records in the United States suggest that corporations fail at a rate 50–70 percent higher than cooperatives in the short term, and after five years corporations fail at a rate 80 percent higher (Williams 2007, 9-10). Consulting by worker cooperatives’ is also increasingly called upon to provide managerial and economic expertise in fast paced decentralized workplaces. There remain many industries in which the traditional corporate model out competes cooperatives. These are foremost technology, intellectual property, and research industries reliant on high infusions of capital. Corporations are able to raise capital with a facility all but inaccessible to cooperatives because investors are more comfortable and knowledgeable about corporations, and more easily able to reap rewards through private or public stock options. With access to higher financial rewards, corporations are consistently

able to attract more capital and a more competitive workforce. Nevertheless, the worker cooperatives’ model of resilience through organizational flexibility is an important lesson in today’s economy.

Lasting Effects There’s more than one “Mondragón,” and they’re changing in various ways. —Jose Maria Ormaechea

Arizmendi’s intention in forming the initial cooperatives can be narrowed down to two goals. He intended to combat unemployment in his parish while creating solidarity among the citizenry. He succeeded in accomplishing these goals many times over. The current mission includes 10 guiding principles. These are (1) open admission, (2) democratic organization, (3) sovereignty of employees’ work over capital, (4) subordinate character of capital, (5) participatory management, (6) payment solidarity, (7) intercooperation, (8) social transformation, (9) universal nature, and (10) education (Ormaechea 1993). The MCC’s commitment to payment solidarity speaks succinctly to the how each of these principles are honored: the CEO, by choice, earns only nine times that of the lowest full-time worker in the entire corporation; CEOs in the United States commonly earn 600 times that of their lowest paid full-time employee (Williams 2007, 199). These modest ratios are consistent across the cooperatives. Mondragón may also have additional effects beyond its employee base once its performance in the recessionary context is fully digested by the business community. In addition, similarly minded initiatives within Spain more often join the MCC in order to take advantage of its vertical integration and capital flows rather than go out on their own. As noted previously, Mondragón was able to minimize layoffs to almost nothing during the economic crisis of 2008–2009 by shuffling employment among its departments. However, beyond effects internal to the organization, it is difficult to quantify the influence of the Mondragón cooperatives as a social

movement. In fact, Cheney (2011) noted during a visit in 1994 that Mondragón scarcely mentioned its cooperative model. Nonetheless, it was a high accomplishment that the MCC created an employment vehicle for its hometown and went on to provide a workplace for tens of thousands workers in which social capital had equal standing with monetary capital. Williams suggests that the MCC should bring its mission to a global scale now that it has met the challenge at a local scale. However, the organization was created as a social movement with specific goals for a modest town. Theorists such as Williams either mistake their own agenda or those movements that inspired Arizmendi for the agenda of the MCC. Given the fundamental changes in context since the MCC’s incorporation, it is unfair to judge the MCC by the demands of today’s social theorists within a globalized economy. Arizmendi would have conceived of another entity altogether to achieve a globalized cooperative. Still, the Mondragón Cooperative Corporation has achieved success on both a local and a global scale. This is exemplified by its accomplishments in industry, resilience through recessions, and development of the University of Mondragón and other training centers. These were accomplished by drawing from the successes and inspirations of the social movements within Spain and the Catholic social thought philosophical movement. Today, the globalized marketplace is a source of constant challenges to the core values of the cooperative business model. Globalization has also brought opportunities to the MCC. To remain competitive within its various sectors, Mondragón has evolved through global competition while at the same time maintaining commitments to the local economy based on its original core. The MCC continues to lead by pursuing its commitment to cooperative ownership, the Basque local economy, and meaningful participation of its cooperative members.

References Azurmendi, Jose. (1990) El Hombre Cooperativo. Litografía DANONA, S. Coop. http://www. euskomedia.org/PDFAnlt/mono/arizmendiarrieta/ elhombre.pdf Accessed 11/1/2011 Barker, J. A. (1997). “The Mondragón Model. A New Pathway For The Twenty-First Century” In The Organization Of The Future. In Hesselbein, F., Goldsmith, M. & Beckhard, R. (Eds.). The Peter F. Drucker Foundation for Non-Profit Management. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers. Basterretxea, I. (2008) “La Política De Formación Como Fuente De Ventaja Competitiva En La Experiencia Mondragón. Un Análisis Desde La Visión Basada En Los Recursos.” Tesis Doctoral UPV/EHU http://eid. sagepub.com/content/32/2/199.full.pdf+html as “Management training as a source of perceived competitive advantage.” Accessed 11/1/2011 Beevor, Antony (2006). The Battle for Spain: The Spanish Civil War 1936–1939. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Brecher, J., T. Costello, and B. Smith (2000). Globalization from Below: The Power of Solidarity. South End Press, Cambridge, MA. Cheney, G. (1999). Values At Work: Employee Participation Meets Market Pressure At Mondragón. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

PUBLIC REALMS THE ROLE OF PARTICIPATION IN THE DESIGN OF PUBLIC SPACE

By Keyleigh Kern 36

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Editor’s Note: Public spaces are created for public use, but public involvement is notably missing from the design development process of many. Two projects in particular, New York City’s Jacob Javits Plaza and Philadelphia’s Race Street Pier, are examined in this piece calling for a more thorough consideration of user needs through public meetings and public input.

What makes the public realm a memorable place? Is it design? Or is it the people who inhabit the space? Urban public spaces are complex assemblages of different people and built for uses that often outlast their original audiences. They are sometimes highly contentious and subject to many debates about how they are designed, and for whom. Local residents are in a constant feedback loop with designers, policy makers, and other urban actors about which features public spaces should provide for the community. Often, a client and design team will believe they understand the interests of potential users, but discover a completely different set of needs through civic engagement. This is especially important in the design of the public realm where potential user groups for the space are often incredibly diverse and have conflicting goals themselves. This essay will examine the intersection of the physical “public realm” and the social “public realm” through the use of public participation in the design process.

The Public Realm as Both a Physical and Social Idea There is no single definition of the public realm. For designers and physical planners, the public realm is a physical concept. The term encompasses a variety of types, contexts, forms, scales, and uses. The Urban Design Reader defines the public realm, as “street rights-of-way, public parks, urban plazas, public buildings, and public holdings”(Larice and MacDonald 2006, 347). This definition demonstrates the variety of different types of urban spaces that make up the public realm, but says nothing about the uses that actually make these sites significant. In addition to being characterized by its physical properties,

public space is often defined as a social idea. It is the arena in which people interact. It not only has a geography, but also a history, and a culture (which can include behavioral norms, esthetic values, or social practices) (Lofland 1998, Xv). No place is defined by a single social group, so public spaces always have to negotiate between different interpretations of this history and culture. These definitions of the public realm as physical and social are not mutually exclusive; urban public space is constantly in dialectical tension between these physical and social characteristics. Designers often preoccupy themselves with the physical elements of the public realm, without a clear understanding of the interests and desires of future users. However, there are many techniques available to help bridge this gap between physically oriented expert knowledge and community-based social knowledge. This essay seeks to understand how communities can use these techniques to influence the design of the public realm.

A Brief history of the Public Process During the first half of the 20th century, planners were considered “technical experts” who primarily worked within the physical planning fields, namely land use, transportation, and civic design (the precursor to urban design). Processes for incorporating “the public” into designmaking were only developed in earnest during the 1960s (Checkoway 1994, 139). This was due to many factors, including an increasing dissatisfaction with expert-driven and hierarchical decision-making and federally mandated community interaction for urban renewal. In 1961, Jane Jacobs published The Death and Life of Great American Cities, one of the most influential critiques of top-down planning. Jacobs recognized her community’s frustration with being ignored by planning professionals and organized local citizens in protest of the proposed Lower Manhattan Expressway plan (Birch et al 2008, 265). Her organizing ultimately led to the abandonment of the entire Expressway project. At the same time, Paul Davidoff began to examine how planners could shift the work they do to better support these kinds of grassroots

movements. In 1965, he published “Advocacy and Pluralism in Planning” in the Journal of the American Institute of Planners. In this essay, Davidoff proposed the idea of the planner as “advocate.” The planning professional was intended to be a facilitator for groups to put forward their own plans for public consideration (Brooks 2002, 111). Both Jacobs’s and Davidoff’s theories required new techniques for starting the conversation between professionals and lay people. These methods take many forms, from charrettes to educational presentations, break-out brainstorming sessions, or community design workshops (Carmona et al 2006, 486). Design professionals have historically approached the public process with apprehension. Few designers took community participation seriously enough to make it a foundation for their work. Lawrence Halprin was an exception. He sought to involve local residents in his design process in a fairly radical way through an art “happening”/planning charrette hybrid called the “Taking Part workshop.” These workshops were heavily influenced by contemporary art practices as well as countercultural social movements. According to Alison Hirsch, Halprin’s Take Part process as a “framework meant to enable a community to determine their own future. The scored Taking Part workshop activities were meant to be a series of cumulative experiences that were deliberately organized in a sequential and progressive manner to build up a mutual foundation for the diversity of participants” (Hirsch 2009, 2005). Usually, Lawrence Halprin would “choreograph” a series of walks through the city, designed to help participants understand a study area on an entirely new experiential level. Everyone would do these walks, either alone or in groups, and then reconvene to discuss a set of questions given to them by Halprin prior to the walk. Despite the fact that Halprin’s works heavily engage a segment of the public into his design process, it still relies on a hierarchical relationship between the “expert” and the “community.” This creates a series of problems with his work. First,

Lawrence Halprin’s remaining parks still draw in many visitors, despite changing tastes and norms.

Halprin’s Take Part workshops could be seen as a means of manipulating the audience into advocating for a design Halprin had already envisioned. Halprin constructed a very rigid set of rules which could be interpreted as a means of manipulating the outcome of the process. In fact, the Taking Part “scores” could have over a dozen specific sites participants were supposed to visit, in a predetermined order, over the course of one day. Halprin also asked the participants specific questions like “Did you like the views,” or “Did you feel comfortable in this place?” further structuring the thoughts people had while engaged in the Taking Part process. Also, Hirsch states that the number of Halprin parks that have been substantially re-developed in the last decade call into question both his ability to tap into a universal (and timeless) public interest (Hirsch 2009, 55). Denver’s Skyline Park is the most prescient example. Skyline Park was deemed a failure, due in no small part to decisions made by parties outside of the designer’s control. The park was substantially renovated 10 years ago, and is still considered unsuccessful, despite new furnishings and seating. This failure brings up an important question about the relationship between public space and reception: can a public space that was

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designed in response to specific cultural needs withstand changes in taste and social norms over time? The public process can only tell designers about a specific snapshot of a community. Public spaces often outlast the populations that use them. Users 20 years in the future may have very different preferences which have the potential to make or break the success of the public realm. Contemporary public participation techniques are not quite as involved as the Halprin process, but have the potential to reach greater numbers of stakeholders. This is the result of new communication methods. Barbara Faga asserts that emerging technologies, like the Internet, are one of the major concepts that will have the greatest impact on participatory processes in the future (Faga 2006, 181). Many current projects reach out to public through Internet polls and social media. Urban parks like the Highline, Freshkills Park, and Race Street Pier have extensive social media campaigns. Recently, the Highline has been publishing information about the public charrettes for the third segment (HL3) via YouTube and Facebook, exponentially increasing the number of people able to submit public comment. This is significant because the park has nearly 40,000

“followers” on Facebook, many of whom voice concerns about the space publicly on the site. However, Internet and social media campaigns also have the potential to manipulate audiences. Facebook and Twitter profiles still have administrators who play a central role in regulating the image that these campaigns project. In addition to the obvious link between Internet-based technology and participation, emerging technologies have also affected the way designers persuade and educate the community. Renderings and perspectives have become increasingly more real-looking without becoming more realistic. Carmona et al discuss the blurred boundaries that exist between communication, manipulation, and persuasion, specifically noting the difficulties in distinguishing between a projection of a future reality and an advertisement (Carmona et al 2006, 480). Three-dimensional modeling and imaging software like Photoshop have gotten so sophisticated in the last decade that it has even become difficult for professionals to distinguish between photographs and digitally constructed images. Additionally, renderings rarely ever show trash, power lines, infrastructure, and any other socially “undesirable” elements that often play a significant role in the reception of the public realm. The public realm is incredibly difficult to understand, and even more difficult to design successfully. Designers need to acknowledge this complexity as well as the need for interaction with the community to ensure success. The next section will focus on an extended case study of two public spaces, Jacob Javits Plaza and Race Street Pier, which demonstrate the potential value of participatory planning in the design process.

Jacob Javits Plaza Jacob Javits Plaza has been a contested site for most of its history, involving constant negotiations between different user groups, administrators, and designers. The plaza was originally the product of a 1961 incentive zoning law that gave developers additional building

square footage in exchange for providing and maintaining ground level public space. The plaza and adjacent buildings were immediately considered to be inhospitable and incredibly unattractive, mainly due to a lack of any kind of use or amenity. In the first move to program the space, the client, the General Services Administration (GSA), commissioned Richard Serra to construct an outdoor abstract sculpture for the space, without any public vetting, in 1979 (Hill, 2). Essentially, Richard Serra’s proposal converted the plaza into a platform for his installation. His intention was to charge the space through a certain level of alienation and discomfort, which was his prerogative as an artist (Hill 2). Jacob Javitz Plaza was too pivotal an urban space to be defined by a single use, even one as admirable as public art. This was demonstrated by the reaction local residents and nearby employees had to the sculpture. Within months of its installation, employees of the adjacent office buildings began protesting for the piece’s removal, but the GSA largely ignored the criticism. Over the next 3 years, employees continued to grumble, until a new crusade was founded based on the fact that the piece “made it impossible for the Federal and public community to use the plaza.” Supposedly, people could not assemble in the plaza due to the location of Tilted Arc (Hill 3). The piece also created security concerns since it made visibility between one side of the plaza to the other nearly impossible. This new interest in Tilted Arc was due in part to more conservative leadership within the federal complex overlooking the sculpture. A series of public hearings were then held, which actually advocated two to one for retaining the piece. However, the panel which had the authority to decide whether or not Tilted Arc should stay decided to relocate the work anyways. The piece was removed in 1989 and an extensive legal battle ensued, but the work was never re-installed. The public hearings in this case are an example of the misuse of participation to justify top-down, hierarchical decisions. The participatory process in this first stage of the plaza was used more as means of manipulation than as a way of genuinely addressing the needs and

desires of the community. In 1992, Martha Schwartz was solicited to redesign Jacob Javits Plaza. Her scheme provided new seating and lighting elements arranged around the space in a swirling pattern. The project was presented to the public through an exhibition of the preliminary working drawings within the adjacent Federal Building. The landscape architecture team took comments and made minimal changes to the design according to public input. Unfortunately, presenting working drawings in the Federal building clearly factored the participation of federal employees over all other segments of the public. Local residents and community members were allowed view the drawings, but it is likely that the drawings were unknown to anyone not affiliated with the Federal Building. The predominance of employee needs over those of the rest of the community is further supported by the fact that the plaza was primarily designed to maximize its use for lunch and work breaks. In a later interview about the project, Schwartz described her design as the antithesis of Tilted Arc. She states, “It’s simpler in its ambitions: it’s just an accommodating place to sit down and have lunch” (Landecker 1997, 109). In narrowing her focus down to one segment of use, Schwartz actually committed the same error that the GSA did when they decided to only furnish the plaza with Tilted Arc. Schwartz’s plan was based only on what nearby users said they wanted. Contemporary users lament the lack of any amenities, other than seating. These ‘simple ambitions’ turned out to be too simple for a public space with the prominence of Jacob Javits Plaza. Interviews conducted in 2007 showed dissatisfaction with the lack of shade and difficulty navigating the maze of chairs that make up the plaza. Ultimately, Schwartz’s design was also removed, but not because of public outcry against it. Instead, it met the same fate as Serra’s deign and was demolished to allow for a renovation of the underground parking structure. Thus, in 2010, the GSA unveiled a new scheme for the site, designed by Michael Van Valkenburgh. To Van Valkenburgh’s credit, the plan addresses the major issues

users had with the Schwartz design. These include shading, seating, additional amenities and sustainability elements. However, public charrettes or meetings were not part of the new plaza’s design process. Jacob Javits Plaza demonstrates one of the biggest failures of privately owned public space: the lack of oversight by the city to require public participation as part of the design process. Just because a space is privately owned does not mean the client is cleared of the responsibility to provide public uses and amenities. Although the actual design process for the plaza has been fairly closed, different public interests have made themselves known over the course of the plaza’s life. Unfortunately, the owners and designers have, as of yet, privileged the needs of one group at a time. This has ultimately led to the inflexibility, and poor reception of the space.

Above. Jacob Javitz Plaza in 1985 after the installation of Tilted Arc. Below. Configuration of the plaza with Martha Schwartz’s scheme.

Race Street Pier The Race Street Pier (originally named Pier 11) has a very different history of public participation. The park opened in early 2011 as one of the first pieces within the larger network of urban space along the Delaware. The area along the central Delaware Waterfront has been the focus of many redevelopment schemes over the last thirty years, which has taken different positions on the role the community should play in site design and programming (Faga 2006, 145). In 2007, WRT and PennPraxis presented a series of design and development guidelines for the area called, The Civic Vision for the Central Delaware Waterfront. The Civic Vision was based on information gathered during months of public meetings and charrettes (WRT and PennPraxis 2007, 59â&#x20AC;&#x201C;65). After the presentation of the Civic Vision, the Delaware Waterfront Redevelopment Corporation was tasked with implementing this vision and a subsequent master plan. The Race Street Pier was a small piece of the overall plan, but was one of the first, and most visible, projects finished in conjunction with redevelopment along the Delaware River. Thus, the project owes its existence to a community-focused process that advocated for increased public space along the river. The plan for the Central Delaware Waterfront demonstrates how community stakeholders can generate interest for a new urban space. Public participation continued to play an important role in the race street pier through design development. After James Corner Field Operations, a landscape architecture firm based in New York, was selected to design Race Street Pier, they were asked to convene another round of public meetings to discuss their proposals. They opened up the design process to the public by presenting three alternatives, which were ranked and assessed to determine which scheme would be the final design. In addition to having meeting attendees pick their favorite scheme, meeting members also ranked the park elements they found most important. Field operations collected information from over 300 respondents in public meetings. In addition to simply

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giving a voice to local residents, the form of civic engagement also demonstrated to the public that the process for design selection was open and transparent. However, the winning scheme only went through minor adjustments between the initial public meetings and construction. For some, this could be looked at as a failure of the process: the greatest role the community could play was to choose between three predesigned alternatives. However, it could also be seen as a sophisticated balance between expert and local knowledge. Large public projects like these are highly visible and filled with layers of complexity a layperson may not be interested in or able to delve into. Thus, from this perspective, the public participation methodology used to design Race Street Pier acknowledges the areas in which community members can give assistance to programming and conceptual development, but still relies on professionals their specialized understanding of complex urban sites. Additionally, the Race Street Pier also demonstrates how public feedback mechanisms, especially those that involve social media, can continue to ensure the long-term success of the park. The Friends

of the Race Street Pier were formed prior to the selection of Field Operations and are still active. The group meets on a regular basis, discussing continued programming, maintenance, and accessibility issues. They also operate Facebook and Twitter profiles. Though these social media platforms may be seen as forums for discussing urban places, the campaigns are not entirely innocent; they are intended to provide positive publicity for the organizations that manage them. Questions of manipulation notwithstanding, social media campaigns have played a significant and positive role in the Race Street Pier. Friends groups, social media, and other new forms of group communication will play an increasingly central role in advocacy for public space.

Conclusions Both of these projects present complex interactions between the community, the public realm, and designers. These processes are admittedly â&#x20AC;&#x153;top-down,â&#x20AC;? but still negotiate between top-down and bottom-up participatory logics. They also show that the public realm is constantly in flux, and that projects that worked at a particular time or for a particular group

The Race Street Pier, designed by James Corner Field Operations, opened in 2011.

may be unacceptable in the future. What the clients of Javits Plaza could have learned from Race Street Pier is to involve more than just nearby employees and administrators into the dialogue about what the space should be. It is also important to highlight the role that representational techniques have played in conveying information to the public in the most recent proposal for Javits Plaza as well as the Race Street Pier. Many members of the public cannot read plans, and moreover, probably do not fully understand how to look at a perspective rendering as a design document and not a projection of a literal future reality. At times, designers take advantage of this by showing images that are more seductive than any real project will ever look. When the public is choosing between three alternatives based primarily on a brief program statement and highly refined graphics, urban designers have a responsibility to not use those images as a means of manipulating their constituencies. The graphics that Field Operations presented were sophisticated and professional, but still highly manipulative. The perspectives show more people than are usually present in the park, and also obscure issues with connectivity and the poor view sheds around the pier. What do these findings mean for future public realm projects? Many cities are grappling with urban spaces

that have failed for a number of different reasons and are currently being redesigned. Philadelphia is in the process of completely renovating Dilworth Plaza. The Center City District, which is overseeing the project, has conducted a number of community meetings over the last two years in order to better understand the programming and design needs of the space. Hopefully, this is a sign that many cities are beginning to understand better the role that the public needs to play in the civic design. Over the last fifty years, professionals have begun to recognize the importance of community involvement in the design process. This has made urban public spaces more dynamic, more diverse, and more flexible to change. However, landscape architects and planners also need to take an ethical position on whether or not to use emerging technologies and representational techniques for education or manipulation. If used appropriately, these tools have the potential to positively change the way in which professionals work with the public to create memorable and resilient places. Successful urban design involves both function and aesthetics. Only by working with local residents to understand what they want, on the functional and aesthetic level, can designs within the public realm provide spaces that fulfill the needs and desires of the community.

References

Delaware Waterfront Redevelopment Corporation. Field Operations Presentations forwarded via email.

Birch, Eugenie, ed. The Urban and Regional Planning Reader. New York: Routledge, 2008. Print. Brooks, Michael. Planning Theory for Practitioners. Washington DC: Planners Press, 2002. P 111. Carmona, Mathew. “The Communication Process.”The Urban Design Reader. Ed Michael Larice and Elizabeth MacDonald. New York: Routledge, 2006. Print. Checkoway, Barry. “Paul Davidoff and Advocacy Planning in Retrospect.” Journal of the American Planning Association, 60:2 (Spring, 1994): 139-161. P 139.

Hill, John. Jacob Javits Plaza: Reconsidering Intentions. www.archidose.org. Archidose. Web. Accessed 11-1811. Hill, John. Plaza Redo, Again. www.archpaper.com. The Architect’s Newspaper.Web. Accessed 11-18-11. Hirsch, Alison. “Lawrence Halprin: Choreographing Urban Experience.” PhD. Dissertation. University of Pennsylvania. 2009. Faga, Barbara. Designing Public Consensus: The Civic Theater of Community Participation for Architects, Landscape Architects, Planners, and Urban Designers. Sussex:Wiley, 2006. Print.

Dilworth Plaza prior to the renovation. The space is currently being re-designed by the Olin Partnership.

Landecker, Heidi, ed. Martha Schwartz: Transfiguration of the Commonplace.Washington DC: Spacemaker Press, 1997. Print. Lofland, Lyn. The Public Realm. New York: Grutyer, 1998. Print. Sennett, Richard. Flesh and Stone. New York: Norton, 1994. Print. Thomson, Karen. Email Correspondence. WRT and Penn Praxis. A Civic Vision for the Central Delaware Waterfront. 2007. Print.

PUBLIC REALM STUDIO :

Thinking Beyond the Car

Philadelphia

New York

Philadelphia is focused on using existing resources to make transit faster and more affordable than driving. Through the ideas of connect, intercept, and renew, the city can better serve local and regional needs. The Sports Complex interceptor capitalizes on existing parking lots to create a more pedestrian-friendly transit hub for commuters and local residents.

New Yorkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s distinct neighborhoods require distinct approaches: in Manhattan, we proposed new bike lanes and tram lines, and in Brooklyn, we reimagined streets for increased pedestrian activity. A new bridge would include separated pedestrian, bicycle, and tram connections between the two, creating a new kind of public space with several recreational opportunities.

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The automobile was arguably the transformative force in city design in the 20th century, the single most determinative element in city design, both conscious and not. And it still is. What might our cities be like if we adapt them and design them for new technologies, as we have done heretofore for the automobile? Thinking beyond the car does not merely imply only

imagining a utopian, car-less future. Rather, what might cities be like if we imagine a more balanced future, one in which the private automobile is not the dominant force, but one among many? This studio explores what the urban spatial implications are of such rebalancing, and how we could design (and retrofit) cities in ways that facilitate other modes and opportunities, both known and to be discovered.

Baltimore

Boston

Baltimore sacrificed itself to accommodate the car. To bring the city back, we have to put it in its place. The Baltimore Web, a new network of express and local routes for transit, bikes and pedestrians is formed to tie city and suburbs together. The Web transforms existing streets, urban detritus and natural paths into new corridors that facilitate movement and growth.

Bike Boston is a response to three psychological geographies of Boston—downtown, the university “egg,” and the more dispersed suburban belt. Pervasive, parallel networks for metro and bikes give every resident access to the city’s cultural and commercial nodes, while providing opportunity for a dramatic, transportation-centered square in City Hall Plaza.

LAW & AESTHETICS

THE PATH TO ARCHITECTURAL CONTROL, AND PERHAPS THE

WAY BACK

By Andy Wang 44

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Editor’s Note: Questions of public welfare versus property rights permeate the juncture between judicial fiat and planning, and issues of nuisance and public health have been more or less been given their full treatment. There is, however, one realm that has suffered a legacy of poor treatment by judges, planners, and property owners alike: the question of visual appearance. Associate Editor Andy Wang addresses the issue, noting that not only are design review processes poorly justified, but judiciary tendency to address these questions within the realm of the 5th and 14th amendments (both addressing eminent domain and takings) has resulted in a dangerous precedent that enables municipal bodies to impinge on rights of expression in the name of public welfare. When it comes to a discussion of the scope of planning and its relationship to the law, Wang’s position is clear: while a balance must be struck between public welfare and property rights, preserving avenues for architectural expression—as protected by the Free Speech clause of the 1st Amendment—is of paramount importance.

In 1970, the Missouri Supreme Court tried a case involving a dispute between a property owner and the architecture review board of his neighborhood, the affluent St. Louis suburb of Ladue. The board denied the owner, Dimiter Stoyanoff, a building permit for what would otherwise have been a code-compliant house, charging that it was a “monstrosity of grotesque design,” saying furthermore that the “effect that the proposed residence would have upon the property values in the area” would be adverse (Stoyanoff v. Berkeley, 458 S.W.2d 305 (1970)). Grotesque or not, it was, as proposed, a design of “significant form,” a term used in art criticism that describes a particular combination of “lines and colours ... certain forms and relations of forms” that “stir our aesthetic emotions” (Bell 1992). Had it been built, the building would have been shaped like a pyramid, with a flat top, triangular windows, and at least one door at one of its corners (Williams 2003). Its neighbors were homes of a more conservative architectural strain: Colonial, French Provincial, and English Tudor, all styles referential both of historic architectural styles and with unmistakable aspirations of noblesse.

The Missouri Supreme Court necessity” (Passaic v. Paterson Bill Posting Co., 62 A ended up siding with Ladue, in effect 267 (N.J. 1905)). In the court’s opinion, the granting the city and its residents the right legality of the regulation did not depend on to disallow construction of a private home the “possibility of danger” as the city ascribed on the grounds of its appearance—while to billboards, but rather on “whether such a trial court had previously found that the a regulation is reasonably necessary for ordinance establishing the architectural the public safety” (62 A 267 (N.J. 1905)). review board was unconstitutional, the There was more inherent danger, the court believed, from snow state’s highest court or ice falling from disagreed. This was only There was more inherent a building top than 44 years after Village of Euclid, from a poorly secured Ohio v. Ambler Realty Co. (272 danger, the court believed, billboard, which left U.S. 365), the Supreme from snow or ice falling aesthetics the only Court case that legitimated from a building top remaining justification the regulation of land use for the ordinance—a in the eyes of the judicial than from a poorly justification that the system. As demonstrated secured billboard, which court dismissed for lack by the Stoyanoff case, the left aesthetics the only of necessity. regulation of land use went Only six years from covering use and remaining justification later, a Missouri court intensity to encompassing for the ordinance—a decided a case that even the strictly aesthetic would be instrumental in only four and a half justification that the court in shifting judicial decades. The evolution dismissed for lack of opinion on billboard of case law in aesthetics necessity. regulations—toward regulation has, in those what would be deemed decades, promoted a dampening of architectural diversity. Worse, the second stage in aesthetics regulation it has allowed neighbors to tread on one (Mandelker 2005). In St. Louis Gunning Adv. Co. another’s rights of property and freedom of v. City of St. Louis (137 S.W. 929 (Mo. 1911)), the court saw billboards as conducive to a expression. whole host of societal ills that collectively constituted a different kind of danger— The Arc of Aesthetic Regulation Daniel Mandelker’s Planning and hiding and encouraging even “the lowest Control of Land Development defines three stages form of prostitution and other acts of of the judicial recognition of aesthetic immorality” (137 S.W. 929 (Mo. 1911)). regulation: starting with the belief that The court noted additionally that they are “aesthetics was not a proper basis for land also “inartistic and unsightly,” introducing use control,” moving on to an intermediate a novel, aesthetic consideration into stage in which “aesthetics alone was not judicial rulings on land use regulations. enough to justify a land use regulation but Still, the opinion maintained that aesthetic that it was sufficient if supported by other considerations alone would not justify factors,” and culminating in a third stage, “a radical restriction of the right of an where the courts reached the point of owner of property to use his property in an viewing “aesthetics alone” as a reasonable ordinary and beneficial way” (137 S.W. 929 (Mo. 1911)). basis of regulation (Mandelker 2005). The first two cases could be tracked using billboards as test cases. A 1905 case The Big Bang of Berman v. Parker The third stage of aesthetics on billboard regulations, for example, was emblematic of the first stage. In it, the New regulation, where an ordinance could Jersey appeals court wrote emphatically stand on aesthetics considerations alone, that “aesthetic considerations are a matter was heralded by a case that ironically did of luxury and indulgence rather than of not deal directly with aesthetics. At issue in

Ladue, an affluent suburb of St. Louis, has a history of conservatism—architectural and otherwise. In 2005, a well-regarded modernist house designed by Samuel Marx was demolished and eventually replaced by the French chateau-style house above, seen under construction in 2009.

Berman v. Parker was the determination of the constitutionality of a key piece of legislation, the District of Columbia Redevelopment Act of 1945, and the resulting empowerment of the DC government to use eminent domain for “the redevelopment of blighted territory in the District of Columbia and the prevention, reduction, or elimination of blighting factors or causes of blight” (348 U.S. 26 (1954)). While the focus of the legislation and redevelopment was on the transformation of residential slum areas, it nevertheless allowed the compelled disposition of any kind of real estate property. A department store owner argued that his property was being taken not for public use, but “merely to develop a better balanced, more attractive community” (348 U.S. 26 (1954)). In response to the latter contention, specifically the charge of building “merely” a “more attractive community,” the Supreme Court famously

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found that: The concept of the public welfare is broad and inclusive. The values it represents are spiritual as well as physical, aesthetic as well as monetary. It is within the power of the legislature to determine that the community should be beautiful as well as healthy, spacious as well as clean, wellbalanced as well as carefully patrolled.

The passage had a profound effect on judicial attitudes toward aesthetics in regulation—it was a “ringing endorsement of beauty as a valid public purpose,” one that often “stretch[ed] the decision to apply to police-power enforcement of aesthetic objectives” (Lai 1988).

A First Amendment Issue and the Language of Aesthetics Laws Still, it took a while for the effect that Berman v. Parker had on aesthetics laws to settle in. About a decade after the decision, the New York Court of Appeals called aesthetics regulation in People v. Stover an

“open and ‘unsettled’” question (12 N.Y.2d 462 (1963)). In People, a couple residing in the New York City suburb of Rye was sued by the city for stringing up clotheslines festooned with “tattered clothing, old uniforms, underwear, rags and scarecrows” as a “peaceful protest” against what they perceived as the city’s high taxes (12 N.Y.2d 462). When the city of Rye enacted an ordinance banning clotheslines in front or side yards that abutted the street, the Stovers took the city to court, challenging the constitutionality of the ordinance “both as an interference with free speech and as a deprivation of property without due process” (12 N.Y.2d 462). While aesthetic expressions, and in particular architectural expression, are arguably a form of expression worthy of constitutional protection, People v. Stover presents a unique case in that the clotheslines in dispute were not only a matter of a visible construct that “offends sensibilities and tends to debase the community,” but one in which the expression itself is a form of political protest—traditionally a form of expression afforded a wide berth by courts (12 N.Y.2d 462). However, while recognizing the political nature of the Stovers’ clothesline protest, the Court of Appeals had little sympathy for its particular manifestation. The court cited a Supreme Court case that found that the First Amendment does not keep cities from enacting regulations on throwing fliers in the streets, for example, and furthermore that “[p]rohibition of such conduct would not abridge the constitutional liberty since such activity bears no necessary relationship to the freedom to speak, write, print or distribute information or opinion” (Schneider v. State of New Jersey, 308 U.S. 147, 160-161 (1939)). In the Rye case, the Court of Appeals found similarly that there was “no necessary relationship” between Rye’s ordinance and the “dissemination of ideas or opinions” (12 N.Y.2d 462). Furthermore, it was clear to the court “that the value of [the Stovers’] ‘protest’ lay not in its message but in its offensiveness” (12 N.Y.2d 462). Besides the Stovers’ “principal contention” of the right of political

expression, of course, the court faced the question of the validity of an ordinance that regulated an aesthetic matter (12 N.Y.2d 462). In fact, while the ordinance stated no explicit reason why clotheslines should be prohibited in front and side yards, the city explained to the court that the restriction was “intended to provide clear visibility ... and thus avoid and reduce accidents … and to provide greater opportunity for access in the event of fires” (12 N.Y.2d 462). The court, wisely, saw through what was perhaps a sincere effort to keep the ordinance from getting struck down by couching its language in more solid legal theory. At heart, however, the court recognized what was most likely “an attempt to preserve the residential appearance of the city and its property values by banning, insofar as practicable, unsightly clotheslines from yards abutting a public street” (12 N.Y.2d 462). The disparity between what Rye was actually attempting to regulate (the appearance of the street), and what it said it was regulating (the safety of its neighborhoods) is one that has long dogged aesthetics-based regulation. Frank

Michelman (1969) addressed a similar gap in the use of property values as a proxy for aesthetic issues: What appears to be an aesthetically aimed regulation is often upheld because it “protects property values,” and therefore need not depend for its validity on its curbing a “merely aesthetic” nuisance. It should be clearly understood that this is escapist reasoning that evades the real issues. The effect on market value, after all, is derivative or symptomatic—not primary or of the essence.

While fire hazards and decreased motorist visibility are not exactly derivative of aesthetic nuisances, they played the same role in Rye’s regulation: “escapist reasoning” that kept the municipality from explicitly regulating the real matter at hand. Given that the court moved directly to the assumption that Rye was regulating the aesthetics of the street, the question, then, was whether it was a legal exercise of the police power to do so. The court concluded that it was, by finding that if regulations could be legally imposed on conduct that offends the smell and hearing, there should be “no basis for a different

result merely because the sense of sight is involved.” The ordinance was “regulatory rather than prohibitory,” the court wrote, “impos[ing] no arbitrary or capricious standard of beauty or conformity upon the community. It simply proscribes conduct which is unnecessarily offensive to the visual sensibilities of the average person” (12 N.Y.2d 462). The lone dissenter in the Court of Appeals’ opinion, Judge John Van Voorhis, found serious flaws with the majority opinion. His dissent, which has been widely cited, saw the upholding of the ordinance as an affirmation of an unwarranted governmental intrusion into matters of taste: To direct by ordinance that all buildings erected in a certain area should be onestory ranch houses would scarcely go beyond the present ruling as a question of power, or to lay down the law that they should be all of the same color, or of different colors, or that each should be of one or two or more color tones as might suit the aesthetic predilections of the city councillors or zoning boards of appeal. (12 N.Y.2d 462)

Judge Van Voorhis’s prediction was uncanny. His words accurately outlined the contours of what became commonplace architectural regulations, known as “lookalike” or “look-different” ordinances, in residential areas.

Fitting Aesthetics into a Legal Framework

The Stephen Kanner-designed Harvard Apartments, in Los Angeles’s Koreatown, is disliked by residents of the French chateau-style building next door. Others disagree about the early ’90s “California Pop” building. One tenant says, “I love watching school kids … walk past the building. They look at, they touch it, and they’re just amazed. It’s almost like a toy to them.”

The case of Stoyanoff v. Berkeley discussed in the introduction focused on a just such a look-alike ordinance, which was “frankly and directly aimed at modern architecture” (Williams 2003). In affirming Ladue’s ordinance establishing an architectural review board, the Missouri Supreme Court drew on an expanded notion of the “general welfare” clause in zoning enabling acts that has enabled municipalities a fair amount of judgment in crafting land-use regulations. The court found that such “general welfare” included, besides the “inherent factor” of aesthetics, “the effect that the proposed residence would have upon the property values in the area” (Williams 2003).

But, as an Ohio Supreme Court justice has pointed out, reliance on property values in aesthetics law can set a problematic precedence: If a zoning code regulation or restriction devoted solely to aesthetic considerations ... can be bootstrapped to the status of lawfulness by merely adding a provision somewhere in the zoning code that the purpose of the zoning regulation is to protect real estate “from impairment or destruction of value,” then any zoning code provision, no matter how absurd, unreasonable or confiscatory can be given the aura of lawful ness. (Village of Hudson v. Albrecht, Inc., 9 Ohio St. 3d 69 (1984))

Perhaps it is partly because of the specious connection that regulations often draw between aesthetics and property values that has historically made courts so wary of aesthetic adjudication—John Costonis has charged that aesthetic policy too often resembles the farcical more than the serious (Costonis 1982). By bringing the courts across the threshold of “aesthetics only” regulation into the so-called third stage of aesthetics law, Berman v. Parker also created a new danger: that courts would be put in the difficult position of not only serving as superlegislatures on aesthetic regulations, but of arbitrating aesthetic, and thus often subjective, disagreements. In 1969, that is what happened in Eustice v. Binford, a case in which an architect in Arlington County, Virginia, had almost finished building a modern house for himself consisting of two cubes connected by a passageway when his neighbor filed for an injunction to prevent the house’s completion (Lai 1988). As in Stoyanoff v. Berkeley, an architectural review body was empowered to vet the project, though the committee had long since disbanded, having never exercised its power of review. The complaints in the suit also echoed those in Stoyanoff: “It just doesn’t look like a house at all,” the neighbor, John Binford, complained, also comparing the house to “two orange crates.” His wife said that “it just ruins the neighborhood” (Lai 1988). Without an architectural review committee whose comments could be parsed in court, the presiding judge took on the task of adjudicating whether the

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Eustice house indeed featured “quality of workmanship and material, exterior decoration, harmony of exterior design with existing structures,” as required by the deed to Eustice’s lot. Judge Charles Russell visited the site and made an aesthetic call, finding the house “not harmonious” and violating a “mutual compact, binding on all lots, for good or ill, to a scheme of relative uniformity” (Lai 1988). The court issued a permanent injunction. Leaving aside the troublesome fact that the novel standard of “relative uniformity,” crafted by Judge Russell, never seemed to “have been contemplated by the covenant at all,” Eustice v. Binford made clear the steep challenges inherent in marrying law with subjective values like aesthetics (Turnbull 1972). In 1903, Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes warned of the pitfalls in the court choosing to vest in itself the power of aesthetic mediator: At the one extreme some works of genius would be sure to miss appreciation. Their very novelty would make them repulsive until the public had learned the new language in which their author spoke. It may be more than doubted, for instance, whether the etchings of Goya or the paintings of Manet would have been sure of protection when seen for the first time. At the other end, copyright would be denied to pictures which appealed to a public less educated than the judge. (Bleistein v. Donaldson Lithographing Co., 188 U.S. 239 (1903))

The danger, then, lies in the imposition of judicial taste, which may vary significantly from judge to judge, on a public whose tastes will also vary substantially from person to person. Such a problem is illustrative of the reason courts generally hew to the rule of deference to legislative bodies in determinations of fact and degree. However, if the lower court in Eustice, in an aberrant decision, stepped out of the judicial tradition by acting superlegislatively, it still exposed a problem with aesthetic regulation in general. That is, in the subjective realm of aesthetics, who has the authority to make such determinations of fact and degree? The question can easily get out of hand: as Jesse Dukeminier (1955) noted,

“aestheticians” can get trapped forever looking for the “true meaning of beauty.” The context of land-use regulation does provide somewhat surer footing—in Berman v. Parker, the case that opened the floodgates for stronger aesthetic regulations, the aesthetic goals at hand were deeply related to broad economic and social conditions, two realms well within the purview of police-power regulation. But, again, in residential neighborhoods, purported questions of property value have often only served as rhetorical stand-ins for aesthetic valuations. In those cases, the intrusion of government regulation continues to rest upon a much weaker foundation. John Costonis has articulated for courts and legislatures a way through this problem by differentiating legal aesthetics from what he calls “museum aesthetics.” Where the latter is concerned with “the true meaning of beauty,” the former is “neither as abstruse nor as resistant to analysis as the aesthetics of the museum” (Costonis 1989). If the built environment can be conceived of as a “stage rich in icons invested with and broadcasting our deepest religious, artistic, social, and personal commitments,” and if radical changes to those icons cause deep discomfort to the citizenry, then legal aesthetics is a collective “effort to prevent or minimize such associational dissonance”; it is a “regulator of change in the symbolic environment” (Costonis 1989). Under this framework, regulators and courts could proceed not with the attainment of some elusive standard of “beauty” in mind, but with the maintenance and care of a social framework, as manifested through the built environment.

Revisiting the First Amendment Costonis’s conception of legal aesthetics may explain to some degree how case law has allowed aesthetics room to become a singularly valid basis for land use regulations. It still, however, does not wholly justify such regulations. As reviewed above, aesthetic regulations are often tied to concerns with property value and a normative sense of beauty—in many of the cases discussed, the regulations have been expressions of a desire to enforce a sense of

common values. In considering the validity of such an approach, it is useful to consider a question posed by Frank Michelman (1969) as an analogy to the Stoyanoff pyramid-house case: What A does is to build a deck house in B’s neighborhood, which so far is populated only by Tudor-style, Georgian-style, and New England Colonial-style homes. Can it really be said that by buying into such a neighborhood, B somehow staked out a claim not to be exposed to contemporary architecture?

The question exposes the basic tension between the general welfare and the right of the individual. Judiciaries that have ruled in favor of the former have often supported aesthetics-based regulations, to the detriment of both due process and freedom of expression. Because the body of law stemming from Euclid v. Ambler has so well established the police power in regulating various aspects of land use, and because Berman v. Parker brought aesthetics into the domain of police-power regulation, it is the latter right—the right to freedom of expression specifically through architecture—that is most troublesome legally. This is a freedom as distinct from the one in contention in People v. Stover, where a series of dirty clotheslines was meant as a visual proxy for a political protest. It is a freedom where the form itself, and not the content it may or may not purport to represent, inextricable from the expression. It has been suggested that because the “medium and message” of architectural expression are so tightly bound together, it has been difficult for even conscientious cities to craft regulations that are contentneutral (Haws 2005). This difficulty, however, does not imply that the principle of freedom of expression can be abridged, nor does it suggest that architecture is not worthy of protection under the First Amendment. Justice Holmes, as noted above, contended that the “novelty” of “some works of genius ... would make them repulsive until the public had learned the new language in which their author spoke” (Bleistein, 188 U.S. 239). It is a “language” of architecture, then, that must be fully recognized by the legal system before

In 1969, the battle between architect Brockhurst Eustice and his neighbors hit the national stage in a LIFE magazine story called, “A Cube House vs. the Squares.”

regulations on it would be subject to the strict scrutiny to which regulations on the First Amendment are generally subject. If architecture indeed is a language, it is capable of saying many great things. The hierarchical arrangements of a courtroom invoke the authority of the law. The casual, business-like atmosphere of the White House and the Oval Office, particularly compared to the throne rooms of Europe, reinforce the American belief in civilian rule. ... Gothic cathedrals encompass tall, slender volumes filled with light, symbolizing the closeness of God and the illumination of man. Zen temples, conversely, are generally lowslung and focus outward onto manicured landscapes, which allows one to forget oneself and contemplate nature. (Gill 2003, 408–417)

The Stoyanoff and Eustice cases find the most compelling story of architectural language in the modernist movement. Precipitated by the rapid and momentous technological and social changes of the 20th

century, modernism—across art, literature, and architecture—was an idealistic thrust meant to break society “from the chains of the past.” As a new way of considering architecture evolved, “[a]rchitects came to view the continued attempts to force classical language on new building forms as a moral problem” (Gill 2003). When modernism, as a solution to that moral problem, reached its full height, its “[e] lementary forms and strict principles were a protest against the devaluing falseness of historicism” (Gill 2003). Viewed in this context, the Stoyanoff and Eustice houses were not merely grotesque forms that were out of place and that plainly did not resemble houses. To their respective architects, that was precisely the point. The houses themselves, their “significant forms,” were both protests against the falseness of historical pretension, and attempts to develop a more individualistic frame of expression for their owners. That their respective communities were not

An excerpt from the second page of “A Cube House vs. the Squares.”

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receptive to such protest was perhaps as much a function of what Costonis called “associational dissonance” as it was of the simple discomfort of being protested against. On this problem of discomfort, the law is clear. In 1949, Justice William Douglas said that a function of free speech under our system of government is to invite dispute. It may indeed best serve its high purpose when it induces a condition of unrest, creates dissatisfaction with conditions as they are, or even stirs people to anger. Speech is often provocative and challenging. It may strike at prejudices and preconceptions and have profound unsettling effects as it presses for acceptance of an idea. ... There is no room under our Constitution for a more restrictive view. For the alternative would lead to standardization of ideas either by legislatures, courts, or dominant political or community groups. (Terminiello v. Chicago, 337 U.S. 1 (1949))

If anger, dispute, and a condition of unrest are all consequences that

American jurisprudence is willing to accept as a result of protecting the freedom of expression, then such conditions of unrest should be accepted whether they occur on a street corner as verbal expressions, or in residential neighborhoods as architectural ones.

Conclusion The broad, ill-defined, and often contentious realm of aesthetics has continually pushed land use regulation into new territory, allowing lawmakers and courts to shape a new jurisprudence based on the sense of sight alone. Indeed, the ascendancy of legal aesthetics has had implications for the supporting foundation of all zoning. The public health and welfare have taken on larger definitions; ignoring the dubious claim that property values may be tied to the aesthetic, legal aesthetics can be understood as a unique field that has evolved, even in the face of jurisprudential nervousness, to protect a citizenry that

has also, over time, become increasingly interested in utilizing the police power to protect the visual stability of the built environment in which they live. These goals are not necessarily superficial or only rooted in elusive standards of beauty, but in cultural norms and values: a “sense of self in a place” (Costonis 1989). Nevertheless, a deeper understanding of the values that have driven the ascendancy and validity of architectural regulations does not negate the profound importance of the First Amendment and its protection of the freedom of expression. While courts and legislative bodies must walk a fine line between protecting and maintaining a “sense of self in a place,” they also have a primary duty to protect and maintain the delicate freedom of individual expression. Justice Harry Blackmun has contended as much, arguing that “the presumption of validity that traditionally attends a local government’s exercise of its zoning powers carries little, if any, weight

where the zoning regulation trenches on rights of expression protected under the First Amendment” (Schad v. Borough of Mount Ephraim, 452 U.S. 61 (1981)). With that in mind, communities face the stark and uncomfortable choice between legally enforced conformity and a society in which discordance and disharmony are permitted states. A planning attorney, Richard Babcock, said it best in 1966: “I for one would accept the consequences of individual choice—with all its risks—rather than permit a consensus to have the force of law. If it follows that I must defend the most tasteless developer as well as a Frank Lloyd Wright, I accept that burden.”

Gilbert, Frank B.,“Landmarks & City Hall: How Historic Preservation Contributes to Municipal Government,” 11 J. Nat. Resources & Envtl. L. (1994/1995).

Michelman, Frank, “Toward a Practical Standard for Aesthetic Regulation,” Prac. Lawyer 15 (Feb 1969). Pak, Thomas, “Free Exercise, Free Expression, and Landmarks Preservation,” 91 Colum L. Rev. (1991).

References Babcock, Richard F., “Billboards, Glass Houses, and the Law,” 232 Harper’s 1391 (1966). Bell, Clive, “The Aesthetic Hypothesis,” in Art in Theory, 1900-1990: An Anthology of Changing Ideas, ed. Charles Harrison and Paul Wood (Oxford, U.K.: Blackwell Publishing, 1992). Costonis, John J., Icons and Aliens (University of Illinois, 1989).

Gill, Kevin G., “Freedom of Speech and the Language of Architecture,” 30 Hastings Const. L.Q. 395 (2003). Haws, Janet Elizabeth, “Architecture as Art? Not in My Neocolonial Neighborhood: A Case for Providing First Amendment Protection to Expressive Residential Architecture,” B.Y.U. L. Rev. (2005).

Costonis, John, “Law and Aesthetics: A Critique and a Reformulation of the Dilemmas,” 80 Michigan Law Review 3 (1982).

Lai, Richard Tseng-yu, Law in Urban Design and Planning: The Invisible Web (New York, NY: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1988).

Williams, Norman, Jr., American Land Planning Law: Land Use and the Police Power § 76:3 (2003).

Dukeminier, Jr., “Zoning for Aesthetic Objectives: A Reappraisal,” 20 Law & Contemp. Prob. (1955).

Mandelker, Daniel R., Planning and Control of Land Development: Cases and Materials (6th ed. 2005).

“Zoning, Aesthetics, and the First Amendment,” 64 Columbia L. Rev. (1964).

Regan, Kenneth, “You Can’t Build That Here: The Constitutionality of Aesthetic Zoning and Architectural Review,” 58 Fordham L. Rev. 1013 (1989-1990). Turnbull, H. Rutherford, III, “Aesthetic Zoning,” 7 Wake Forest L. Rev. 2 (1971).

THE PLACE OF HISTORY IN THE CITY Planning Philadelphia’s Society Hill Towers and Townhouses

By Marshall Tidwell Editor’s Note: The bounds of what can be considered a historical preservation project are reconsidered in this essay about the place of I.M. Pei’s Society Hill Towers and Townhouses in the renewal of Philadelphia’s Society Hill. Another innovation spurred by the project was its approach to urban renewal, by encouraging existing residents to restore their historic properties and fostering a sense of community, slum clearance could be avoided

Society Hill Towers and Townhouses are an icon of Philadelphia’s postwar urban renewal, marking their importance in the skyline to the city and its residents in a way that transcend site and structure. Dating from the early 1960s, they are today one of city’s premier residential addresses, part of a vibrant, livable urban neighborhood that links the low-rise, 18th century character of Society Hill to the south with the landmarks of Independence

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National Historical Park and the city’s dense, modern commercial center to the north. As works of high modernist architecture, Society Hill Towers and Townhouses are unlikely to be considered, at first glance, to be a historic preservation project. If considered within the larger context of Philadelphia’s postwar urban renewal effort, however, the project in fact played a critical role in supporting the preservation efforts both in Society Hill and Independence National Historical Park. Society Hill Towers and Townhouses were the product of a highly innovative city planning approach that fused the old with the new, which resulted not only in high quality design in the construction of contemporary buildings, but was crafted to be able to respond, as a discreet element within a coordinated whole, with particular sensitivity to Philadelphia’s original city

plan and the historic fabric that grew within it. Because of Philadelphia’s unique position as custodian of America’s colonial and revolutionary past, a path had to be negotiated that would bring Philadelphia in the modern age, while ensuring its historical monuments were not lost in the process. Infusing the rhetoric of Philadelphia’s redevelopment in the 1940s and ’50s was the idea of renewal as a way of reclaiming the city in terms of its colonial past. Philadelphia City Planning Commission Executive Director Edmund Bacon, from the beginning of his tenure in 1942, talked about how the growth of Philadelphia west from its original settlements along the Delaware had permanently shifted the city’s center of gravity, leaving the city’s oldest and most historic quarter to lose its prominence in

the city’s civic, political, and cultural life (Bacon 1972, interview). The neglect of the waterfront was, in Bacon’s opinion, disrespectful to the clarity William Penn and Thomas Holme’s original city plan of 1682, still relevant in the contemporary city, organized as it was by a clear vision of an urban grind bound by the Schuylkill to the west and the Delaware to the east (Cohen 1991, 356-57). Through a coordinated effort of public engagement, centered around the Better Philadelphia Exhibit of 1947, city planners began to frame the argument for the renewal of the city center by shifting its center back east towards its historic core. Through these public efforts the planning process itself was portrayed as an extension of democratic way of life, a unique response to the curing the city’s contemporary ills by drawings upon the county’s ideals that are indelibly associated with Philadelphia as the cradle of America’s independence (Levin 1957). According to Citizen’s Council on City Planning Chairman Aaron Levin: “Philadelphia’s way, we believe, is the democratic way. It is exemplified in the largest permanent city-planning exhibition in the country…. The theme of the exhibition, addressed to every citizen, is ‘A Better Philadelphia within your grasp’.”

Covering over one acre of floor space in a downtown department store, the Better Philadelphia Exhibit was wildly successful, bringing in 385,000 visitors in just the short six weeks it was open (the exhibit later went on permanent display in the 1950s as the Philadelphia Panorama). A futuristic mix of interactive models, maps, dioramas, and wall panels, the exhibit was designed to explain the city planning process to the lay person, and to generate public enthusiasm for Philadelphia’s nascent plans for postwar urban renewal (Cohen 1991, 309-310). The exhibit’s two principal designers, Edmund Bacon and Oscar Stonorov, emphasized the educational and participatory potential of the exhibit, putting on display the individual community visions of several hundred Philadelphia schoolchildren (Cohen 1991, 307-308). The open human hand was

a recurring visual motif of the exhibit, reinforcing the theme that the democratic participation of individual citizens was key to the Philadelphia city planning process. Although redevelopment plans for the city’s oldest quarter had not, in 1947, yet been formalized, the Better Philadelphia exhibition called out this area for renewal. The area known today as Society Hill contained, in the 18th century, the residences of Philadelphia’s prominent and founding families, as well as the landmarks of the Colonial and Revolutionary periods that are today part of INHP. As Philadelphia industrialized in the 19th century, however, this area evolved to become a dense center of industry and commerce. By the 1930s the area’s 18th century residencies were marked physical decline, with its commercial activities centered around the antiquated but still bustling Dock Street wholesale produce market. Thus, when plans started being formalized for the creation of INHP in 1944, this area as a whole, while rich in historical association, had interspersed within it structures and uses which did not conform to vision of colonial residences, in harmony with the monuments of American Independence, that Philadelphia’s politicians, businesses, and planners had come to idealize. As a planning directive, this idealization was translated into a vision to create a residential middle to upper class neighborhood rechristened “Society Hill,” named after the Society of Free Traders, the area’s original 17–18th century landowners. This renaming made explicit the desire of planners to reassociate the area with its colonial past, a selling point in the larger aim on the part of the mayor and others to make Philadelphia more desirable, and thus staunch the postwar flow people and money to the suburbs. According to Mayor Dilworth “Our large cities can, and should attract these people back. They have the charm and vitality to make our one-class suburbs dreary by comparison” (Tunley 1959, 76-77). The desire to reframe and renew Society Hill as a residential neighborhood was part of a larger, postwar comprehensive planning effort to bring Philadelphia into

the modern age. While historic fabric in Philadelphia would, in some instances, be protected, more often than not contemporary demands were prioritized. In many ways this program was typical urban renewal in the pejorative sense, with that era’s obsession with highway construction and slum clearance leading to the unnecessary destruction of Philadelphia’s historic Delaware riverfront for the construction of I-95, for example. The era’s penchant for demolition, combined with modern planning ideas about land-use segregation, led the Dock Street market and the area’s mixed-use character to the south and west to be viewed as an aberration, bearing a physical urban fabric that did not conform to the explicit desire to reclaim Philadelphia’s history, and this area in particular, to be reclaimed as part of William Penn’s original vision of Philadelphia as a “greene countrie towne” (Winks 1976, 141). In order to create this image of a “colonial” Society Hill, the remaining residential structures that dated before 1830 were by and large preserved, while later residences and other nonresidential structures that were constructed after 1830 were largely demolished, to later be replaced by modern houses or Colonial-style facsimiles. This approach fulfilled the desire of planners to create the appearance of an intact, historic residential neighborhood, but this process also led to the wasteful destruction of hundreds of structures, many of which were significant either architecturally or historically, but were not spared solely because they did not date from the colonial period. The Dock Street site contained a wholesale food market with buildings dating principally from the mid-19th century, and as it was considered at the time to be “one of the worst commercial slums in the country” (Plans, 1957) (Dock, 1951) (Society, 2003). The market operated at night, with thousands of trucks traveling back and forth along the area’s narrow streets. The smell from the market would extend into the surrounding areas from time to time, and the area was rife with vagrants, drunks, and prostitutes (Police 1953). The city’s planners and real estate

interests viewed the market as a slum that needed to be cleared, and this perspective was reinforced in the public realm by efforts like the Better Philadelphia Exhibit. While market workers and the press lamented the loss of the market’s gritty urban vitality, Dock Street was not at all compatible with a tourist-friendly Independence National Historical Park and a middle to upper class residential Society Hill, and its destruction therefore seen a necessary prerequisite for the success of these projects (Farewell 1959). City government had been trying unsuccessfully for over a decade to remove the market, but it was finally demolished in August of 1959. Its relocation to a new facility in South Philadelphia was masterminded by Harry Batten and the Old Philadelphia Development Corporation, an incorporated non-profit acting on behalf of many of the city’s established business and real estate interests (Cohen 1991, 299) (Tunley 1959, 38). Edmund Bacon has spoken admiringly of Batten’s “strongarmed tactics” to get this project completed, succeeding where he and his predecessors at the Planning Commission had failed (Bacon 1970, interview). The destruction

Dock Street Market and vicinity.

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of the market was celebrated with an air of pageantry through a public ceremony and in the press, with the focus not on the past but what was to come, reinforcing historian Neil Harris’s (1999, 119) assertion that during the modern period, “In untold numbers of county and municipal histories, outgrowing public facilities has been a source of pride, not shame.” However undesirable Dock Street market and the surrounding commercial district was perceived to be, its businesses still brought in over $10 million per year in tax receipts to the city’s treasury, and this source of revenue would need to be replaced if a redevelopment project was going to be financially viable (Wright, Andrade, Amenta, 1958). In its place the vision of Penn’s ‘greene countrie towne’ was to convert the market area to residential use, and attract a middle-class population that could pay its taxes, replace lost revenue, and participate in the rejuvenation and recreation of an economically and socially self-sustainable community to aid the overall health of the city. While Bacon had since the 1940s argued for the sensitive rehabilitation of the area’s 18th century residences, in order for the overall project to be financially viable, the Dock Street site would need to be developed at a far higher density than the adjacent low-rise rowhouses of Society Hill. The Dock Street market was at the eastern edge of the Washington Square East Urban Renewal Area, as defined in a 1958 technical report produced by Wright, Andrade & Amenta Architects , on behalf of the Philadelphia Redevelopment Authority (PRA), to steer the redevelopment. The guiding principle of the area’s rehabilitation was for it “to remain a living and working fabric of the center city,” and towards this end, one of the plan’s most distinctive features was its call for a willful mix of modern and rehabilitated historic residential structures in the new residential neighborhood to be called Society Hill (Wright, Andrade, Amenta, 1958). Dense, modern residential towers and 6-story slabs were to be built on the Dock Street site, while the neighborhood to the west and south was to be rehabilitated as a mixture

of restored 18th Century and modern architecture at the scale of the low-rise, 2-3 story Philadelphia rowhouse. Existing local residents, if they could afford it, would be encouraged to rehabilitate their homes, otherwise their properties would be compulsory purchased and sold to newcomers willing, and who could afford, to do the restoration work. The Society Hill redevelopment was thus a fusion of both a top-down and bottom-up approach, with the city actively encouraging individuals to participate in neighborhood restoration, both to foster an organic sense of community, but also because the city could not afford financially to do it on its own (Bacon 1970, interview). One of the development plan’s most innovative features was the establishment of a design review board, which would ensure continuity of the plan’s goals throughout all the phases of what was a particularly complicated, largely original, and definitively innovative urban renewal plan. With the technical report as the basis for project proposals, four development groups submitted designs, and the Webb & Knapp / I.M. Pei & Associates plan was announced as the winner on November 21, 1958 (Developers 1958). Pei, educated at MIT and later at Harvard under two titans of Modernism, Marcel Breuer and Walter Gropius, at this early stage of his already highly regarded career balanced his rigorously theoretical and academic background with his work as the exclusive architect for the unashamedly commercial development firm Webb & Knapp (Weisman 1990, 42). William Zeckendorf, the flamboyant owner of Webb & Knapp, referred to the flood of federal money released for urban renewal by the passage of the Federal Housing Acts in 1949 and 1954 as “an enormous pot of gold,” and the Towers and Townhouses proposals was just one of many urban renewal projects the firm planned and built during the 1950s and early 1960s (Weisman 1990, 42). In place of the six-story apartment slabs specified in the Technical Report, Pei & Associates instead recommended 3-story blocks of townhouses, which was immediately seen as being a much more

sensitive solution than the slabs (Thompson 1958, 94-99). The townhouses were to match the rehabilitated historic residential area in scale and materials, while helping increase the rate of home ownership in the neighborhood, one of the project’s principle strategic goals. While Pei as architect typically gets the credit for this design, many of the design elements, including the idea of slender towers set within green space linked to the larger greenways system, was already specified for in the technical report, while the idea of linking the towers to create vistas to existing city landmarks was ultimately Edmund Bacon’s (it was, at least, according to Bacon)(Bacon 1970, interview). As a whole this plan would thus complement, rather than work against, the aesthetic of an 18th century residential neighborhood. Bacon, for one, was effusive in his praise for the design, and basically admits in a 1972 interview that he rigged the design competition to ensure Pei’s selection. The popular reception to the development upon completion (townhouses in 1962, towers in 1964) was generally positive, although some did suggest a clash between modernity and the area’s historical associations. One local press columnist took exception to a newly installed sculpture as a “lumpy bronze glamor girl….and has become a symbol for Society Hill which would have scandalized members of the Free Society of Traders when they ran things on the hill over 200 years ago” (Smart 1964). Before it opened, Pei & Associates won a Progressive Architecture design award for the Towers in 1961, and the popular press overall was enthusiastic about the architectural design (Architect 1961). Interestingly, one review published less than a year after the development was completed already refers to the Towers as a “landmark,” and notes how Bacon considered them part of a “system of high buildings dynamically stretching the city to its edges” (Osborn 1965). This linking of the area’s history to the new development was consistent in both the press and marketing ephemera, with the “greene countrie towne” frequently invoked. Alcoa Properties, which succeeded Webb & Knapp as owners after the latter

ran into financial difficulties, sold historic character as an amenity, asserting that “this is where history is being made...modern convenience in an historic atmosphere…. close to the heart of a modern downtown while enjoying a pleasant neighborhood living on quiet streets that echo with the traditions of Colonial times” (Alcoa 1964). The names of famous first families like the Powels, Girards, and Shippens were invoked as well, which appears to be a play, perhaps, at establishing a historical link between the past and notions of aristocratic prestige and pretense. Edmund Bacon acknowledged this sensibility as well, noting “at every dinner party…every time I sat next to a lady at dinner who name was the same as a street, I would make a double effort [to convince them to move to Society Hill]” (Bacon 1970, interview). For the townhouses, Pei & Associates characterized the development in values and features that would appeal to suburbanites, noting its “open square is one way to secure a suburban amenity for families with children in a central urban setting where land values are high” (I.M. Pei & Associates 196–). The towers and townhouses were completed before long before the restoration of Society Hill finally got going in the latter half of the 1960s, and given the vacant and decayed look of the area, together with a distinct lack of everyday amenities like a grocery store, the townhouses in particular were a tough sell (Improvements 1964). It took nearly two years for the first townhouse to sell, while it wasn’t until 1971 that towers had reached full occupancy (Schmertz 1965, 28) (Cowen 2003, 39, 53). It did, thus, in the early years rely on a sort of an insular luxury before the surrounding neighborhood matured, offering a maid service, underground parking, even an innovative aluminum swimming pool, courtesy of Alcoa (Teller 1964) (Grocery 1964) (Society 1965). With the Dock Street market gone and new development in place, as the area matured it did indeed became much more amenable place than before, although the consistent failure of Penn’s Landing seemingly mooted the rationale for the towers to act as a visual link for tourists

The top-down approach in action at Society Hill: PCPC Executive Director Edmund N. Bacon.

traveling between INHP and the Delaware waterfront (I.M. Pei & Associates 196–). Instead the eventual success made the cleared Dock Street the quiet, leafy setting for the “posh” towers, which by the end of the 1970s were already being called things like the “landmark to Philadelphia’s urban rebirth” (Forman 1979). From a planning standpoint the towers and townhouses were an unquestionable success; by 1971 the population within the Washington Square East had increased 39 percent, while the redevelopment of Washington Square East as a whole had produced a net return of $14 million in tax receipts (Binzen 1971). Many of Philadelphia’s prominent and wealthy citizens had indeed been persuaded to move back along with nearly 2,000 others, although there is some debate as to how many of these people actually came from the suburbs, as Mayor Dilworth had originally hoped for (Binzen 1971). The planning approach used in the redevelopment of Society Hill was immediately influential throughout the nation, and the methods tested and developed in Philadelphia were disseminated to other urban renewal projects. I.M. Pei’s masterplan for Erieview in Cleveland, OH (1961), was in comparison to Society Hill a more typical urban renewal response, however Pei instituted an architectural review procedure within the masterplan framework, to ensure the integrity of design throughout the building phase of the project (Cohen 1991, 21-22). The design review process was one of the Washington Square East plans

The Better Philadelphia Exhibit and its theme “A Better Philadelphia Within Your Grasp.”

most innovative accomplishments, and Pei implemented this at Erieview due to his positive experience with it at Society Hill (Cohen 1991, 21-22) (I.M. Pei & Associates 1961). Philadelphia’s planning approach at Society Hill was ultimately successful because it integrated top-down and bottomup approaches, however the idealism of its publically proclaimed democratic planning process was often tempered by political and logistical expediency, as well as the social prejudices of the period. The top-down component relied to a great degree on the sheer force of will of Edmund Bacon, as the PCPC, then as now, is a purely advisory body to the Mayor with no legally binding power (City 1944). While good public relations like the “Better Philadelphia Exhibition” was certainly important in gaining public support for Philadelphia’s urban renewal program, as the Dock Street Market and Towers design competition cases illustrate, the city’s planners, businessmen, and politicians wouldn’t hesitate when necessary to pull strings to enforce their will behind the scenes. While the bottom-up component of Society Hill relied, quite innovatively, on the individual participation of the citizenry to buy the area’s new or decaying historic houses, it cannot go without saying that the process was not sensitive to many of the existing neighborhood residents. Bacon personally was rather dubious about citizen participation in planning, no matter what the rhetoric of the period may have

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indicated publicly (Cohen 1991, 5278). The city used eminent domain when necessary to, in Bacon’s words, “replace the people who were there” (largely poor, first-generation immigrants or AfricanAmericans) with new residents who, whether they were descended, like Bacon was, from one of Philadelphia’s first families or not, with “people who had the money… and were willing to restore the buildings and make it work (Cohen 1991, 533).” While this approach did ultimately realize the planners’ vision of a middle to upper class neighborhood with direct associations with the Colonial period, its success today is somewhat sullied by the unfortunate experience of those community members that did not belong in this vision and were, in effect, forced out. One of the most vocal critics of Bacon’s approach to Society Hill was the National Park Service’s Charlie Peterson, and Bacon’s (1972, interview) typically irascible response to his criticisms lays bare the fundamental philosophy of his approach: “That little bastard Charlie Peterson was an unbelievable impediment to the entire thing. Peterson pretends to be for historical preservation but he doesn’t know a God damned thing about preservation. He’s only interested in individual buildings…. he totally opposed the idea of creating environmental circumstances which inspired people themselves to preserve it.”

Bacon clearly felt that such a holistic approach, rather than a focus on individual monuments divorced from their contemporary urban and social context, was the best preservation strategy. As a case study, the success of the Society Hill redevelopment, setting aside for the moment the accusation of forced gentrification, illustrates the effectiveness of this radical approach, which harnessed the power of private individuals to restore historically significant urban fabric, a project which Bacon knew was far too expensive to accomplish with government funds alone. Bacon viewed history as a continuum, not something that could be willfully frozen at a particular date and

time. This is why he and many of the other planners, preservationists, architects, and citizens involved in Society Hill’s redevelopment felt modern architecture amongst the existing historical fabric was appropriate, because in a sense, everything in the present day is contemporary, and Society Hill today, no matter how it may look in terms of aesthetics and style, is without any doubt a creation of the modern period. In this context modernism was shown not to be a break with the past, but rather the reformulation of ancient, perhaps even universal, ideas about architecture and the city. As Society Hill Towers and Townhouses are now themselves considered historic, perhaps this is means to elucidate the contemporary discussion about how to preserve other works of architecture from the Modern period. According to Bacon the “design idea that can weld a coherent whole” (Bacon 1967, 364). For Bacon, the Philadelphia design idea was Penn’s urban grid; the idea stays the same, while buildings themselves may change. Today, planners need to allow cities to express this change in the build environment. Bacon himself drew no distinction between city planning and historic preservation, arguing vehemently for the incorporation of Philadelphia’s historic fabric into the modern city, while enabling the social and economic factors that ultimately made this viable. By fostering a deeper understanding of history, a long-term view of society itself, the significance of a city’s historic fabric can become part of the collective social consciousness, rather than something that has to be communicated in a tour or on a historical marker. This can be achieved, in part, by working for continuity in the city fabric. In the case of Philadelphia, a large part of this continuity was lost at the expense of other priorities, but it is still the modern response to keep the city relevant, rather than a response that freezes the built environment in time, that is the more responsible choice.

References Alcoa Residences Inc. 1964. “Alcoa in Society Hill.”

Teaford, Jon. 1990. The Rough Road to Reinassance: Urban Revitalization in America, 1940-1985. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. The Erieview plan called for the retention of ten locally significant buildings, while the remaining structures (200+) within the redevelopment area, which was a mix of houses, warehouses, and workshops, was to be razed and replaced by a coordinated 163acre complex of office and public buildings, apartments and hotels. Only one element of the Erieview plan was executed, while the area was cleared but instead used for parking.

1957. “Plans Progress for Society Hill Redevelopment,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, October 29.

Teller, Oscar B. 1964. “Alcoa, City Launch Towers,” Philadelphia Inquirer, October 22.

1964. “Improvements Underway Near Society Hill Towers.”The Sunday Bulletin, April 4.

Thompson, Stephen G. 1958. “Philadelphia’s Design Sweepstakes,” Architectural Forum, 109.

1964. “Grocery is Okd For Society Hill Site, Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, August 4.;

Cowen, Barbara et al. 2003. I.M Pei and Society Hill: A 40th Anniversary Celebration. Collingdale, PA: Diane Publishing.

Tunley, Roul. 1959. “Comeback of a Shabby City.” Saturday Evening Post, December 5.

1965. ”Society Hill Towers to Open Aluminum Pool,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, May 28.

Forman, Nessa. 1979. “Repair on posh Towers gets on vocal ‘no’,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, April 6.

Weisman, Carter. 1990. I.M Pei: A Profile in American Architecture. New York City: Harry N Abrams.

2003. Society Hill Civic Association, Society Hill Reporter, July/August.

Harris, Neil. 1999. Building Lives: Constructing Rites and Passages. New Haven, CT:Yale University Press.

Winks, Robin. 1976.“Conservation in America: national character as revealed by preservation.” The Future of the Past, Attitudes to Conservation 1147-1974, edited by J. Fawcett. NewYork:Watson-Guptill. A phenomenon linked to what Robin Winks characterizes as America’s “constant(ly) appealing to…history as justification as plans for their future.”

Bacon, Edmund. 1967. Design of Cities. New York: Penguin. Bacon, Edmund interview by Eleanor Prescott, January 30, 1970, Independence Park Oral History Project, Oral History Research Office, Columbia University Binzen, Peter. “Housing Values Boom in Society Hill As Restoration Nears Completion,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, July 15. Cohen, Madeline. 1991 “Postwar city planning in Philadelphia: Edmund N Bacon and the design of Washington Square East.” PhD Diss., University of Pennsylvania.

I.M Pei & Associates. 196X. “Philadelphia: A Plan for Redevelopment.” I.M. Pei & Associates. 1961. Erieview, Cleveland Ohio: An Urban Renewal Plan for Downtown Cleveland. Levin, Aaron. 1957. “Philadelphia Story: A New Look,” New York Times Magazine, July 14. Osborn, Michelle. 1965. “A Lesson in Simplicity,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, September 3.

1958 “Developers Set in Philadelphia: Webb & Knapp & Realty Syndicate to Rebuilt Blighted Sector, New York Times, November 22. 1959. “Farewell to Dock Street,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, June 17th. 1961. “Architect Wins Award for Society Hill Towers,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, January 22.

Wright, Andrade & Amenta. 1959. Washington Square East Urban Renewal Area: Unit 1, Society Hill. Philadelphia, PA: Philadelphia Redevelopment Authority. 1944. Citizens Council on City Planning, “City Planning in Philadelphia.”

Schmertz, Mildred. 1965. “A Long Wait for the Renaissance,” Architectural Record, July.

1951. “Dock Street Market Bustles with Activity When Most of City Asleep,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, April 24.

Smart, James. 1964. “In Our Town,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, March 17.

1953. “Police Pick Up Vagrants Before the Big Wash,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, August 22.

SALT LAKE CITY From Zion to Envision Utah

By Dave Munson Editor’s Note: The Mormon story is at once a special case in American history, and one almost unexceptional as a case study in the American mythos. Persecuted for its beliefs, the Mormon community had to carve out a space for itself in the Utah landscape. But if the story of religious exile and self-rule is also a common American theme, so are the patterns of postwar growth and decentralization. Eventually, the cultural capital of the Mormon community, Salt Lake City, changed and expanded, moving far beyond Joseph Smith’s Plat of Zion to more far-flung cities, and finally to a regional vision of walkable communities.

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Settling in the Salt Lake Valley On July 24, 1847, Wilford Woodruff drove a horse-drawn carriage west over Little Mountain and down Emigration Canyon. As the valley on the other side opened up to view, he stopped his carriage, and one of his passengers, Brigham Young, the prophet and president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or Mormons, got out to survey the sight. He saw a valley hemmed in on three

sides with mountains, with an enormous saltwater lake to the northwest. Young had seen the place before in a vision, and knew that this would be the new home for the Mormons. “This is the right place,” he said. “Drive on” (Hamilton 2006). Four days later, Young, along with other leaders in the church known as the Twelve Apostles, created a plan for the future development of Salt Lake City. By the next month, they had surveyed and platted

the city. This quick, simple plan regulated the development of the city for over 50 years, as well as the growth of surrounding cities (Galli 2005, 115). With growth and greater population diversity came change, and eventually the original framework gave way to new models. Today the secular, public-private partnership Envision Utah continues to set an example in local and regional planning for the rest of the country, using public participation to create tools for local communities to grow sustainably.

Salt Lake City and the Plat of Zion The context of planning in Salt Lake City is a unique one—the Mormon Church was the final authority on land-use planning and urban design, and had an extensive role in shaping almost all elements of the city. The foundational element of planning in the Salt Lake Valley was Joseph Smith’s Plat of Zion, which was adapted to local needs. Virtually all Mormon settlements are based on the Plat of Zion, a vision received by Joseph Smith, the first president, prophet and founder of the Mormon Church, in 1833. The plat was one mile square, with most blocks 10 acres and divided into halfacre lots. All roads would be 132 feet wide. The three blocks at the center of the plat would be set aside for public and religious buildings. These buildings were meant to serve a population between 15,000 and 20,000. If the population grew above this line, a new, identical city would be built a small distance away, with what we would now call a green belt between. All agricultural uses were to be set off to the outside of the plat, so that residents would have access both to agricultural land as well as urban amenities (Smith 1833). This plat was meant as a blueprint, and adaptations were made in later settlements by Smith and his successors. Young made such adaptations to the Plat of Zion when laying out Salt Lake City, including adding sidewalks and reducing the number of lots per block from 20 to eight 1.25-acre lots. Although this sounds like it would be decreasing density, a significant change in the Mormon household had taken place between 1833 and 1847: the institution of polygamy.

While only one household could live on a that of the church would have any influence lot, a single household may have multiple on planning. The church was responsible wives and scores of children, not including for platting out streets and blocks, assigning extended family members, making it larger land uses, and then allotting parcels to than households both before and after church members. Members were given land the widespread practice of polygamy. This for free after a $1.50 recording fee, and were explains both the fairly high population per able to arrange their houses and gardens as square mile required in the Plat of Zion and they saw fit, as long as they met the 20foot setback and, later, built their homes its allowance for fairly large city lots. The most important lot of the of adobe brick. However, they were not plat would be the temple lot. However, allowed to subdivide their large lots, and real instead of being at the center of the plat, estate speculation was strongly discouraged it would be at the base of the mountains (Galli 2005, 120). The reason for this was, that bordered the valley on the north. The essentially, to preserve affordable housing for four streets that bordered the temple lot newcomers. According to Heber C. Kimball, were named, and from these further streets counselor to Brigham Young, “the design of President Young was were numbered in hundreds, that no speculation followed by direction from the temple—100 South, The context of planning in in lands by the 300 East, and so on (Galli Salt Lake City is a unique brethren should be whereby the 2005, 115). Other public one—the Mormon Church allowed first comers should squares were interspersed throughout the plan was the final authority on enrich themselves at (Bancroft 1889, 580). land-use planning and urban the expense of their brethren who should The city would be ringed by farms of 20 acres design, and had an extensive follow. ... In other wherever topography and role in shaping almost all words, the interest of the whole was to access to water made them elements of the city. be uppermost in the possible (Galli 2005, 115). mind of each man” As the Mormon community (Handley et al 2006). continued to grow, families were sent to settle other parts of the As long as the church had total control of valley. Early settlements were either widely development, this system worked; however, dispersed (Sandy was platted at the far that total control would be short-lived. southern end of the valley and Midvale was built between the two) or located at areas Social and Physical Changes Affect of strategic importance (Murray was located Planning in Salt Lake City The fast rate of growth was a major at the mouth of the Cottonwood Canyons where the granite for the Salt Lake Temple early factor of change in Salt Lake City. was mined). Each settlement was designed Within three years of the initial settlement, to be self-sufficient and not grow up against the population had surpassed 6,000, and other settlements. Settlers were also sent then grew over 50 percent each decade from further afield, with Mormons founding 1850 to 1890 (Galli 2005, 115). With this cities from Mexico to Alberta (Hatch 2005). fast rate of growth, the church was unable When the Mormons first entered to establish new cities and allot properties the Salt Lake Valley in 1847, it was technically fast enough, and it became necessary to Mexican territory, but with no prior allow people to subdivide and transfer land settlements there was no real administrative without the supervision of the church. authority other than the church. Even after In 1850 the Utah territorial legislature the area became part of the United States after (virtually all Mormon but not an official the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ended the arm of the church) authorized the surveyor Mexican–American War in 1848, it would general to issue certificates that would be years before any legal system other than demonstrate legal possession and transfer

The original plat of Salt Lake City showed large, regular lots, centered around the temple block.

of land. This was a temporary fix, and in 1859 the legislature petitioned Congress to include Utah in the National Land System for greater protection of legal title to property. In 1865 the federal surveyor for Utah lent his support to the proposition, and by March of 1869 a federal land office opened in the territory. Although the initial point for the land survey in Utah was the southeast corner of the temple block, the Mormon Church had ceded some power to the federal government. This was only the beginning of the changes that would impact planning in Salt Lake City. While internal forces did lead to change, a single external force had a much larger impact. The transcontinental railroad was completed in May of 1869, and a branch brought freight and passenger rail service to the Salt Lake Valley. This added to the growth issue within the church, but concurrent discoveries of copper and other minerals brought “gentiles,” or non-Mormons, to Salt Lake City for the first time in large numbers. Salt Lake City’s function as a stop on the road to California during the gold rush had previously brought money and some non-Mormons, but the new mines brought permanent residents who were not

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members of the faith. These new residents were not subject to the restrictions of the Mormon faith, including those related to planning. As their numbers grew and they gained greater representation in the state legislature, and as the church became distracted from planning issues due to the persecution of church leaders over polygamy, the Mormon hegemony over planning began to fall apart. This social and political change led to the creation of a real estate market, which fueled land development and speculation in areas previously set aside as green belts or otherwise undeveloped by Mormons. The grid structure of these new areas did not follow the previous pattern. The Marmalade District, just to the north of the temple block, was built according to the city’s topography, and The Avenues to the northeast were developed on a much denser street grid with smaller blocks. South of 900 South Street, blocks became rectangular and irregular, while blocks on the east edge of the city, as well as some in the very center of the city, began to get subdivided. The areas east and west of the city were largely undeveloped until after World War II, at which point they began following the

suburban dendritic road pattern. As the city became denser, the urban industrial problems of dirt, disease, and crime began to drive residents to other cities or to homestead new lands. In an effort to get to land before the gentiles did, some members of the church began to homestead in areas beyond those designated by church leaders. In the power vacuum left behind by the church in planning matters, secular civic groups composed of both Mormons and non-Mormons took control of development in the city. The Chamber of Commerce, the Improvement League, and the women’s clubs all developed between the 1890s and 1920s, and lobbied for improvements in drinking water, sewers, street lighting, mosquito abatement, parks, playgrounds, and other systems. They were inspired by the City Beautiful movement, as can be seen in the Hotel Utah (now the Joseph Smith Memorial Building), Liberty Park, and other developments of the era. As in much of the rest of the country, the Salt Lake Valley experienced major growth after World War II. Unfortunately, much of this development happened outside of Salt Lake City on cheap land in the suburbs. With the increased car traffic of 6,000 new households outside of the city and virtually no mass transit (Salt Lake City’s exemplary streetcar network had closed in 1941), new highways were thought to be the answer, and the construction of interstates 15 and 80 began in 1956. As in many other cities, this led to further flight from the city center. Salt Lake City’s population growth peaked in 1960 at 190,000, and has yet to recover. Before the freeways, 70 percent of the population of the Salt Lake Valley lived in Salt Lake City. By 1970, only 30 percent did (Galli 2005, 122–26). Plans were made to address the decline of Salt Lake City, but to little effect. The most notable was the Second Century Plan of 1962, which focused mainly on large-scale improvements in downtown Salt Lake City. Few of the improvements developed in the plan were ever implemented (Downtown Planning Association, Inc 1962). Although Salt Lake City itself stagnated in the postwar era, it remained the center of a growing

metropolitan area known as the Wasatch Front. While new suburbs such as West Valley City, South Jordan, and Draper popped up around the Salt Lake Valley, the new freeways allowed people to live beyond the valley and still work in Salt Lake City. Previously autonomous cities, such as Ogden in the north, Provo in the south, Park City in the east, and Tooele in the west began seeing a number of new residents who spent their working hours in Salt Lake City. By the end of the century, Salt Lake City had a population of 180,000, but the Wasatch Front had a population of roughly 2.4 million. This growth led to a greater strain on the natural and man-made resources of the region. Air quality in the area became extremely poor, and smog was common. Water and agricultural resources were being stretched to their limits. Traffic congestion on the few highways was time-consuming and dangerous. It became apparent that for Salt Lake City to grow, it needed to stop working only locally and begin planning on a regional scale (Galli 2005, 126).

Enter Envision Utah In 1997, Envision Utah, a nonprofit, public-private partnership, was created to begin evaluating the needs of the region. As opposed to the early Mormon Church’s top-down, prescriptive method of planning, Envision Utah began its planning process by gathering committees and sending out surveys to figure out what the citizens of the Wasatch Front were interested in accomplishing. Based on the responses received, they decided to focus on seven criteria for their plans: air quality, transportation, critical lands, water conservation, housing options, efficient infrastructure, and economic development. They then hired Calthorpe Associates to help them create different scenarios for the future of the Wasatch Front. Calthorpe worked to gain even more public input, and with it created four different development scenarios. Scenario A was the base scenario of continued urban sprawl. Scenario B was what would happen if cities successfully implemented their 1997 municipal plans, and would lead to continued sprawl as well,

but not to the degree that Scenario A would have. Scenario C focused on walkable, mixeduse communities. Scenario D also focused on walkability and mixed use, but also required that half of all new development be within existing urban areas. Calthorpe analyzed what effect each scenario would have on housing, land consumption, transportation, cost, and air and water quality. After a very thorough public outreach campaign and many public meetings, it was determined that Scenario C was the preferred alternative. With that in mind, Envision Utah released the Quality Growth Strategy in 1999. This document had nine chapters— “Protecting Sensitive Lands,” “Meeting Housing Needs,” “Making Our Community a Good Place to Walk,” “Reuse and Infill,” “Water Conservation,” “Urban Forestry,” “Energy Conservation,” “Strategies for Walkable Commercial Development,” and “Public Safety and Residential Street Design”—that showed how to achieve the goals from Scenario C of the plan. Each chapter explained the concept, why it mattered, and how it applied to Utah specifically, as well as best practices and tips for implementation. Envision Utah visited 89 city councils and county commissions to personally introduce the plan. Cities had the option to implement the plans or not, but the organization made it as easy as possible, later even creating model ordinances for cities to use. The foundation has also worked with smaller municipalities to create local comprehensive plans and other planning documents. In 2002 and again in 2008, Envision Utah worked with the Governor’s Office of Planning and Budget to evaluate the progress of the plan, and has published supplements accordingly. Envision Utah has been instrumental in regional land-use coordination, agricultural land preservation, and most notably the introduction of regional public transportation through the Salt Lake Valley’s TRAX light rail system and FrontRunner commuter rail system (Envision Utah 2011). The plan format of the Quality Growth Strategy differed significantly from that of the early Mormon plans for Salt Lake City and its

environs. The early plans were prescriptive blueprints that laid out almost all the details of streets, blocks, parcels, and lot coverage. The Mormon system could be called quite restrictive, with strict controls on design as well as subdivision, and public participation was completely unheard of. That being said, it could be called somewhat of an opt-in system, since in many ways it only applied to Mormons, and non-Mormons were not held to the same restrictions. The Quality Growth Strategy was also an opt-in system, in that it required nothing of the municipalities it was designed for. However, because Envision Utah did such thorough outreach and participation, many municipalities and even citizens felt very invested in the plan, and over 12 years have been able to see positive results in its implementation. It was a true comprehensive plan, covering all aspects deemed important by the public who participated, and covering them exhaustively so as to make implementation, should it be desired, as easy as possible. Political issues have arisen that have impeded implementation in certain areas. Much of Utah is very politically conservative, and was mistrustful of Envision Utah and its designs. For instance, a small tax increase was proposed to fund FrontRunner, the commuter rail system that

Scenario A Auto-Oriented

Scenario D Transit-Oriented

Scenarios A and D from Envision Utah, showing how different growth patterns could reduce land consumption.

connects Weber, Davis and Utah counties to Salt Lake City. Salt Lake, Weber, and Davis counties, being more progressive, each voted in favor of the tax increase, while conservative Utah County voted against it. This is why FrontRunner was first built in Weber and Davis counties. After seeing the opportunities for commuting and for economic development around stations in Weber and Davis counties, Utah County reversed its decision—FrontRunner is now being built there. There is still some mistrust of Envision Utah in more rural, conservative communities, but the success in the communities that have implemented their strategies is undeniable.

Lessons Some planners wish that they had the sort of prescriptive power that was exercised in the early Mormon settlements of Utah. For instance, some New Urbanists recommend the use of regulating plans and very strict form-based codes to reach a perfect vision of a community (Katz 1994, xxxix). However, this is unlikely to happen without significantly stronger government (unlikely in the United States), homogenous communities, or strong levels of buy-in. There are a number of ways to create this sort of buy-in, be they religious or simply

consumer preference, but they do not lead to particularly diverse communities. The lessons learned from Envision Utah are quite different. From them we learn that you can get significant buy-in if those who are responsible for implementation feel some sort of investment in the plan. These may be your first-generation implementers, and hopefully those who were initially reluctant will see the success of these groups and then choose to implement themselves. On the other hand, a regional strategy implemented by a nongovernmental entity really has no teeth, and to have it only implemented by Salt Lake City would do little to address the larger, regional issues that the plan was designed to address. To give the plan more teeth, it would have to be implemented by a sort of regional government that has the power to mandate local implementation. Though this is unlikely in the current political environment, especially in conservative states such as Utah, it is a strong argument for the creation of this level of government.

References Hamilton, Calvin. Science Views, “This is the Place Monument.” Last modified 2006. Accessed December 13, 2011. http://www.scienceviews.com/parks/ thisistheplace.html. Galli, Craig D. “Building Zion: The Latter-day Saint Legacy of Urban Planning.” BYU Studies. no. 44 (2005). Smith, Joseph.“An Explanation of the Plat of the City of Zion.” June 25, 1833. Bancroft, Hubert Howe. History of Utah, 1540–1886. San Francisco: History Co., 1889.

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Hatch, Jeff. Salt Lake County, “History of Salt Lake County.” Last modified December 2005. Accessed December 14, 2011. http://archives.slco.org/pdf/ SLCoHistory.pdf. Handley, George B., Terry B. Ball, and Steven L. Peck. Stewardship and the Creation: LDS Perspectives on the Environment. Provo, UT: Religious Studies Center, 2006. http://rsc.byu.edu/archived/stewardship-andcreation-lds-perspectives-environment/4-stewardshipsustainability-and-citi (accessed December 14, 2011).

Downtown Planning Association, Inc. “Downtown Salt Lake City’s Second Century Plan.” 1962. Envision Utah, First. Envision Utah, “About EU.” Last modified 2011. Accessed December 13, 2011. http:// envisionutah.org/eu_about_eumission.html. Katz, Peter. The New Urbanism: Toward an Architecture of Community. New York: McGraw-Hill, Inc, 1994.

MUNICIPAL SOUL-SEARCHING Physical and Political Planning Challenges in Contemporary MontrĂŠal

By Barrett Lane 63

Editor’s Note: Montréal has faced a multitude of challenges as one of Canada’s economic powerhouses. Consistently falling behind Toronto and Vancouver in GMP, modern Montréal is a product of years’ worth of sprawling development, cultural and political conflict, and discord between it and surrounding suburban municipalities. If it wishes to grow beyond its role as a regional driver and rediscover its own economic Renaissance, author Barrett Lane suggests that Montréal and its suburbs must coordinate together to reconstitute their development and economic policies. In this manner, Montréal can escape a past littered with inefficiencies and embrace its just growth. Montréal, Canada’s most populous city behind Toronto, faces challenges that are characteristic of many North American cities: reigning in suburban sprawl, mitigating the effects of urban renewal and revitalization, and multiple waves of immigration. The world’s secondlargest French-speaking metropolis has its strengths, home base to a collection of major financial institutions, premier seats of education, and an unmatched cultural and artistic scene. However, Montréal also faces additional political obstacles that have altered the city’s social construct and recently reshaped the city’s boundaries. As a result, Montréal is growing more slowly compared to nearby cities as the region continues to develop a planning culture that defines its political, social, and economic contexts within Canada and North America. Within the region, the suburbs are growing faster in comparison to the city, gaining more residents, businesses, and newcomers in generic sprawl-like developments. Part of this is attributed to the region’s lack of an urban growth boundary, which creates a scenario that entices developers by giving them an abundant supply of land and a lower cost basis. As a result, suburban Montréal is composed of people and businesses scattered along a lattice-like network of autoroutes that encircle the city. In addition, the city’s political and social climate encourages residents to speak and conduct business in French, a tradition that holds onto a deeply venerated social culture and way of life but is also seen as a detriment to global business interests. Foreign (that is, non-native to

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Québec) companies see the city and the Montréal market, for example, as an entrance into the Québécois sector as opposed to reaching Canada’s national economy. As a result, contemporary Montréal is a city that is trying to balance its provincial and non-provincial characteristics in order to attract more people and business to keep it economically competitive. In the 1950s and 1960s, Montréal had dreams of expansion and maintaining its role as a premier economic seat, growing outward to provide better regional connections, moving new residents and businesses to the periphery, and using international events such as Expo ’67 and the 1976 Olympics to sell the city’s image and power to the world. Yet, all of these moves and planning goals have been in some way affected by the uprising of separatists that railed against the city’s secularization, fearing that such moves would permanently damage the region’s unique history and heritage. As a result, the city lost its economic cachet and has since been replaced by Toronto as Canada’s chief commercial hub. The region has continued to expand in the way that the planners had imagined, but new settlements have grown as a function of a lower living costs rather than particular economic interests and regional pulls. Therefore, if Montréal is to compete with peer cities in North America for commerce, capital, and a greater population, it should consider three important planning strategies that can ensure its longevity and relevance going forward: (1) Create a modified urban growth boundary that considers important commercial routes. The city should encourage future suburban development to occur along autoroutes connecting to other cities (e.g. Toronto, Québec, Ottawa) while curbing sprawling, radial development that pulls potential residents and businesses from the city itself. Curbing available land may raise housing costs, but will create denser, more service-rich centers in the long run and promote sustainable edge city development. (2) Continue to invest in “urban village” revitalization. Instead of building arbitrary housing in the city to gain

residents, the city should invest more in improving street character and creating alternative programs (farmers markets and street festivals) for public spaces to promote the city’s cultural institutions and create cultural capital. As the city improves the urban quality of life, residents will find a way to be close to these amenities. (3) Implement a social policy that celebrates francophone culture without alienating non-francophone residents and businesses. Promotion of French culture and way of life while allowing families the freedom to send their children to the schools of their choice is of great importance. French should remain the official language, but commerce should be conducted in English as a means to encourage national and international prospects. Historically, Montréal rose to power as a key commercial center in British North America under mercantilism in the years following American independence. Its position on the St. Lawrence River near the mouth of the Ottawa River put it within easy reach of Ottawa and Québec, attracting both new immigrants to North America from Europe and the establishment of powerful trading companies. As technology and infrastructure improved in the 1800s, Montréal created a financial network through the founding of the Bank of Montréal in 1817 and invested in new infrastructure to better move goods up and down the rivers. In the nineteenth century, Montréal became an industrial and manufacturing center and became one of Canada’s “command centers” in the early twentieth century, hosting many of the nation’s financial and insurance institutions. By the end of the twentieth century, a majority of those institutions moved to nearby Anglophone Toronto or relocated to the growing suburbs, downgrading Montréal’s role from national command center to regional hub. Nonetheless, the city restructured its economic role, becoming a regional center for businesses wishing to seek entry into French Canada, and investing more into service, manufacturing, and hightech and research jobs (Germain and Rose 2000).

During the mid-20th century, the city and region were fueled by dreams of growth, but nearly half a century later, fast growth had slowed down considerably. Recently, more growth has occurred in metropolitan area than in the city itself. As of 2011, over 3.8 million people lived in the Montréal Census Metropolitan Area, with roughly 43 percent living in the city proper (about 1.6 million residents) (Statistics Canada 2012). While metropolitan growth has been slow, the suburbs have grown nearly three times as fast as the city in the past five years. The discrepancy between urban and suburban growth can largely be credited to the city’s laissez-faire approach to urban growth and land development and its transportation hierarchy with regards to inter- and intra-city movement. During the 1960s, in anticipation of Expo ’67, Montréal created two distinct transportation systems: a metro-anchored mass transit system to support movements through the urban core and downtown, and a vast, sprawling highway (autoroute) network to connect far-flung areas to the city (Lortie 2004, 89-90). Ultimately, both systems were partly responsible for changing the city’s physical design and layout, but in vastly different ways. Urban development consolidated along highway routes and in downtown where the lines converged, thus creating a development-rich center and outlying corridors flanked by a sparsely utilized city (ibid., 95). The autoroutes, on the other hand, spurred much of the

Ile de Montreal 2001 Pre- Merger

region’s future growth and expansion. The arrival of highways into the hinterlands north and west of the city, as well as into the “South Shore” across the St. Lawrence, brought with them bedroom communities (Candiac, Nuns’ Island), shopping centers (Carrefour Laval, Galeries d’Anjou), and other signs of suburban sprawl (Lortie 2004, 91). Over time, the autoroutes have also been responsible for Montréal’s faster suburban growth, which continues to move outward and around the city, and stretching the city’s sphere of influence within Eastern Canada and the Northeastern United States. While the agents of change are nothing new (more roads, followed by more vacant land), the region’s scale and ease of construction has been most accountable for quickening the pace of suburban sprawl. Furthermore, the absence of an urban growth boundary, combined with the continued funding and construction of autoroutes, gives the suburbs a competitive advantage that Montréal proper lacks. Without a growth boundary, land is cheap, easy to obtain, and easy to develop, which keeps housing prices down and development costs low. Compared to cities with urban growth boundaries, housing in the Montréal region is cheaper and more abundant (Cox 2006). Constructing new autoroutes not only helps connect these new settlements to the city center, but also provides interregional freight a new means of bypassing the region. As journalist Wendell Cox noted

Ile de Montreal 2002-2005 “Une Ile, Une Ville”

in the National Post in 2006, although Montréal has “one of the world’s best freeway systems,” capital improvements are necessary: new autoroutes that circumvent the city allow trucks to bypass the city as they travel beyond Montréal. As an added benefit, air quality in the city proper will improve as freight traffic shifts outside the city’s boundaries. The junction of these autoroutes also creates opportunities for edge cities and outlying centers, which over time have allowed Montréal and its periphery to develop in a way that industries and businesses with similar land use and financial requirements locate near each other and influence their immediate neighborhood. In this way, modern Montréal is often compared to Atlanta and Houston: a sprawling network of highways serving easy-to-develop, low-density suburban land. Unsurprisingly, the outward development took its toll on the urban center. Large-scale urban development projects in downtown Montréal under thenmayor Jean Drapeau in the 1970s “wiped out large sections of old downtown,” displacing former residents outward into the growing periphery (Fowler 1992, 154). As a compromise and an incentive to keep residents in the city, Montréal invested heavily in social housing and coop programs during the 1980s, offering affordable housing to the elderly and lower-support (ibid., 181). Furthermore, the majority of low-income Montréalers

Ile de Montreal 2006-Present Post - Merger

Montreal before (left), during (middle), and after (right) the municipal merger of the early 00s that attempted to consolidated the Island of Montreal’s 28 individual municipalities.

Sprawl continues to dominate and define the Montreal region, with autoroutes and low-density development surrounding the city on all sides.

targeted by social housing lacked sufficient access to said properties. As an alternative, many chose to move to the suburbs where they could live cheaply in private rental housing (ibid., 182). When simply adding more housing failed to improve the city’s neighborhoods, Montréal went in a different direction in the late 1990s and early 2000s by investing more in neighborhood improvements and creating “urban villages.” By revitalizing the streets, emphasizing cultural anchors, and creating alternative programs for the streets themselves, Montréal greatly improved its urban quality of life and has successfully rebranded and revived inner city districts (e.g. Mile End, Le Plateau, Upper Main) (ibid., 189). The recent revival of these neighborhoods and emphasis on cultural anchors has, in recent years, transformed Montréal into a creative hub, attracting artists, musicians, and performers from all over North America. Combined with world-class institutions including McGill University and The Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montréal has also recently started to embrace and market its pervasive youth culture, providing Canada with a premier exchange ground for music, art, and design. This creation of cultural capital has

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helped current development and settlement of older Montréal survive despite the glut of inexpensive housing that surrounds the city itself; yet it is clear through examining the city’s history that development and capital construction has influenced contemporary growth, not the other way around. Still, peripheral growth has not worked as well for creating edge cities and suburban downtowns, as the growth rate is not high enough to support those functions (Gad and Matthew 2000, 268). For example, most edge cities in the Montréal region function solely as bedroom communities, while edge cities in peer regional metropolitan areas such as Toronto, New York, and Boston have become distinct centers of commerce, industry, and urban life. The challenge moving forward will be how the region can support its traditional urban center and the more active suburbs despite modest growth rates and a regional economy better suited to servicing Québec rather than all of Canada (ibid., 268). However, in order to create a friendlier, pan-Canadian (and international) business climate, Montreal, as well as the province of Québec, needs to address the political and social issues that have come about in the latter half of the 20th century. Still lingering in the city and the province

are conflicting feelings of social identity and political direction. Within Québec, the question as to how to reconcile the dichotomy associated with language, identity, and social order is persistent. While most Montréalers are bilingual (French and English), there remains an air of Québécois culture and socio-politics that reflects Québec’s colonial roots. In its simplest form, the divide is between those who staunchly advocate for the separation of Québec from Canada (the Parti Québécois) and those who do not. Three times in recent history, separatist movements nearly realized this vision, but each motion was defeated (Maclure 2003, 6). The closest the Parti Québécois has come to sovereignty is gaining the recognition of its cultural nationhood by Canadian Parliament (CTV 2006). The underlying political unrest and clash of ideology has not only affected the city’s social fabric, but is partially responsible for the loss of commercial interest and downgrade of the city’s role within the national economy. In Montréal, these issues of language and identity are particularly delicate due to the city’s “mosaic” composition and myriad ethnic groups. Since its settlement, Montréal has always been an immigrant city at heart with a seemingly homogenous façade. From the late 19th century until the 1960s, waves of immigrants arrived in Montréal seeking new work and opportunity, carving out neighborhoods within the existing francophone fabric to create their own communities and preserve their own cultures (Germain and Rose 2000, 219). Jewish immigrants from Central and Eastern Europe formed a community in Mile End, Italians settled in Jean Talon near the rail yards , Greeks settled in the St. Louis district and Portuguese settled either on the South Shore or to the west in Laval (ibid., 223-228). Because these communities often chose to remain insular, the network of immigrant groups has been referred to as a “mosaic,” where many different groups coexist without directly mingling (“integration by segmentation”) (ibid., 224). Some of the groups were open to assimilating (the Portuguese, for example),

but many chose not to, particularly Jews— who have the strongest legacy of the original immigration waves—who were not welcome into existing neighborhoods or public institutions (ibid., 224). Post-1960s, immigration patterns changed, both with respect to existing and incoming immigrant groups. As the original immigrant groups moved up in wealth and class, they abandoned their original settlements to move west and south into the suburbs—most notably demonstrated by the shift of the middle class Jewish community from Mile End to Mount Royal, Brossard, and Laval (ibid., 227). New immigrant groups were arriving from Asia, the Caribbean, and Central and South America, spurred by changes in national and provincial policy that not only encouraged foreign immigration, but also eliminated previous restrictions on eligibility (ibid., 231). Québec saw immigration as a means to both increase its provincial population and remain economically competitive with peer provinces like Ontario and British Columbia (ibid., 230). By the mid-1990s, Hong Kong, China, Haiti, and Lebanon were among the top feeders to Montréal’s growing immigrant community, and by 1997, nearly 43 percent of new immigrants to Québec listed neither French nor English as their mother tongue (ibid., 234). While the Québec government encouraged immigration, they had

also been taking steps to “curtail the Anglicization of immigrants” arriving to the province. It was in their interest to use immigration as a means to promote and spread French culture and language, and bring newcomers into the fold instead of excluding them from society (ibid., 230). In 1977, the provincial government passed “Bill 101,” which required “all children living in Québec…to attend French primary and secondary schools,” along with other provisions declaring French the official language of the province and thus the language of commerce and the courts (ibid., 230 and d’Anglejan 1984, 40). Residents new and old were encouraged to learn and use French, but the policies further segmented the Francophone and Anglophone communities, as the bill made exceptions for those educated “well enough” in English (with exceptions in place for children who were already enrolled in Anglophone schools, whose parents were educated well enough in English, or whom had siblings already enrolled in Anglophone schools). By the end of the 20th century, Montréal had become linguistically separated: Francophone largely in the North, Anglophone in the south and west, and a mix of languages in the central areas (Germain and Rose 2000, 240). Such legislation, combined with the rise of nationalist sentiment in the 1960s and 1970s, is arguably responsible

Political tension between the Parti Quebecois and non-separatists maintain a presence in contemporary Montreal, albeit more reduced in recent years.

for the reorganization of Montréal within Canada’s national economic structure. As mentioned prior in this paper, Montréal was one of Canada’s core economic centers, with the entire nation as its hinterland. However, the rise of the Parti Québécois in the 1970s created an unstable environment for Anglophone businesses, forcing many of them to reconsider their Montréal outposts (ibid., 120). Anglophone banks that had offices in Montréal relocated to Toronto or other Anglophone Canadian cities, and US companies that wished to enter the Canadian market now looked to Toronto for commercial enterprise (ibid., 123). Even the worldwide attention gained from Expo ’67 and the 1976 Olympics couldn’t save the city: the former briefly sparked international enterprise until the more politically turbulent 1970s, and the latter event nearly bankrupted the city, causing businesses to lose faith in Montréal. Nonetheless, the city did not completely lose its economic power as major institutions such as Bank of Montréal and Desjardins continued to hold up the city’s financial sector (ibid, 121). Moreover, the city invested in creating outlying research and industrial parks catering to high-tech and research and development facilities that would attract wealth-rich biotech and pharmaceutical firms (ibid, 138). Still, language barriers and preference for Francophone commercial interests has hampered the city and region’s ability to acquire a mass of national and globalscale firms. As a result, this continues to render Montréal a regional—as opposed to national—city. Montréal’s true test of whether it could balance its civic and cultural interests came in 2002, when the city briefly merged with neighboring municipalities on the Island—only to find itself de-merging three years later. Objectively, the Montréal merger was a logical next step in the city’s evolution. By the late 1990s, most of the city’s major infrastructural networks were now owned by the province (e.g. highways, power, and income residents (Germain and Rose 2000, 179). Despite its success, the program was cut in 1992 due to economic strain and lack of provincial water, to name a few), giving

the city little control over the governance and scope of these systems. In addition, the Island of Montréal had become split up into 28 independent boroughs, including the City of Montréal, each with its own mayor and civic departments. Where Montréal was afforded control and jurisdiction of the city, responsibly for land use, zoning and the delegation of municipal services, the administrative structure of the island proved to be a hindrance in executing order or policy designed to benefit residents living on the same geography. Such disjointedness couldn’t be solved or planned for by the local MPO (the Montréal Urban Community, MUC) (Lortie 2004, 87). Therefore, the city and the MUC needed to consider a planning strategy that not only addressed Montréal’s regional and national role, but also could be better administered across the island without as many political boundaries. The city of Montréal merged with its neighboring 27 townships on the Island of Montréal, consolidating all of the Island’s residents into the city in 2002 (Ville de Montréal, 2011). Doing so increased the city’s population to a size where it could once again compete with regional peers like New York and Boston for commercial supremacy in Northeastern North America. Moreover, the dissolution of political boundaries now made it easier for the city to enact policy and services that could serve all island residents without the approval of one or more independent townships—a cornerstone of Jean Drapeau’s political ideas titled “Une Île, Une Ville” (“One Island, One City”). Such a merger now made Montréal the truly strong urban core of a region on rebound. However, organizers failed to consider the political and social problems that would result in the merger’s aftermath. Residents who lived in primarily Anglophone boroughs, such as Westmount and Mount Royal, now feared that they would lose their personal autonomy. Before the merger, the borough provided these residents a safe haven from anti-Anglophone sentiment and separatism (Anglophones very much wanted Québec to remain part of Canada), mainly because the borough acted as an independently operated system

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and could administer policy and services that best suited to the island’s residents. Now that services were relegated to the city, Anglophones feared that future planning decisions would no longer be able to reflect their needs and serve their best interest. They feared that they would no longer be able to speak English in commercial and civic arenas, and would not be able to send their children to Anglophone schools. In fact, these sentiments were not only felt by the Anglophone community, but by many communities throughout the island. The merger may have eased administrative woes, but islanders valued their personal autonomy and community more than becoming Montréal’s newest residents. In 2004, the Island of Montréal held a referendum to reconsider the merger. Of the 27 boroughs that had become annexed by the city two years prior, 15 of them (including all of the traditionally Anglophone boroughs) voted to physically separate themselves from the city and revert back to independent communities. On January 1, 2006, Montréal de-merged. The failure of the merger signified that above all, residents truly cared about their cultural roots and political beliefs more than creating a system that could administer policy and services without boundaries.

More importantly, it solidified Montréal as a provincial city, as evidenced by residents’ actions to hold fast to their distinct social patterns and preferences above urban modernization and efficiency. There is ample opportunity for both Montréal and the region to move forward, grow more, and reclaim its rightful spot as a city within the “Canadian chain of command,” but steps need to be taken in order to secure that spot. First and foremost, Montréal needs to control its development on the periphery to create suburbs and edge cities that work in concert instead of competition. The lack of an urban growth boundary has led to a development free-for-all, with more satellite cities, bedroom communities, and retail centers popping up around Montréal’s periphery without serving much purpose except as a cheap place to live. As mentioned earlier, Montréal’s extensive yet well-planned autoroute network is among the world’s best, and needs to be used to its fullest advantage. Creating an urban growth boundary would not only curtail rampant, unsustainable development, but also produce denser suburbs and create pockets of commerce and agglomeration at the intersections of transportation corridors. By containing the area of growth, it is possible to achieve the

Investment in the Urban Villages program has led to a rebirth in street life and regained interest in urban living, particularly among the younger generations.

levels of traffic required to create suburban downtowns and functioning edge cities. Land prices may spike initially, but it’s a small price to pay for longer lasting, more productive suburbs. Second, the city needs to continue investing in its “urban village” revitalization program that improves the quality of life by redeveloping and reprogramming its streets and public spaces in city’s older neighborhoods. There are plenty of neighborhoods and corridors within the city that have rebounded from this program: Avenue Mont Royal in Le Plateau District, the Mile End neighborhood as a whole, and Rue Prince-Arthur in St-Louis are all prime examples of neighborhoods and streets that have seen considerable reinvestment and renewed interest by incoming residents to Montréal; all within the city center and all in historic neighborhoods. In recent years, the city has closed Rue Ste. Catherine in the gay village to cars every summer to promote sidewalk dining, public art, festivals, and pedestrian activities. The program has not only been popular among residents and tourists, but has encouraged more people to move closer to the city center. These programs, which are cheaper and more effective than building superblocks, establishing co-ops, or creating more social housing, have helped to encourage more people to move into Montréal and increase

the city’s cultural capital. Lastly, Montréal should embrace a social policy that celebrates its francophone heritage and culture without alienating foreign immigrants and business interests. The current set of laws and legislation helps to preserve its French roots and founding, but does so at the expense of potentially scaring off new residents and business interests who may find the pro-French laws too provincial. For the sake of preserving the culture and keeping its heritage unique, Montréal should in no way shape or form alter the official language to anything other than French, but it should take a more tolerant approach to those who speak a different tongue (Canada recognizes both English and French as official languages). Families, no matter their background, mother tongue, or ethnic origin, should be allowed to choose whether or not to send their children to French or English schools, and business should be conducted in English as a way to be more compatible with national and global enterprises. Such policies and leniency towards English could have the potential to not only attract more businesses, but higher levels of general growth that could bring Montréal up to speed with its economic competitors. The city should also be cognizant of the many cultures, and the residents’ desire to maintain and hold onto their personal and

cultural autonomy, even if it means creating political patchwork in the region’s largest population center. The future of Montréal is very much in the hands of its people, its culture, and the enterprises that continue to put the city on the map. While it is unlikely that Montréal will recapture the role it once played in Canada’s national economy, the city should not overlook its many advantages. Despite sprawl over time and a surrounding infrastructure that supports outward development, Montréal has continued to retain its vibrant and cosmopolitan urban core through pedestrian-focused public policy and its energetic youth and design culture. Major stakeholders continue to conduct business in the city, ensuring Montréal as Québec’s primary commercial center. Research and higher education institutions, alongside a growing technology sector, are helping the city modernize and retain its relevancy. But most of all, it is the city’s immigrant culture and mosaic of multiple ethnic groups and tongues that continues to draw interest across Canada and beyond. Its people, their stories, and their ways of life contribute the most to Montréal’s ever-evolving context and planning culture. Future plans should reflect such unparalleled urban diversity.

Wendell Cox, ”Suburban Thrall: Montréal’s Expansion Strategy Will Keep Its Economy Competitive,” National Post, June 22, 2006 (Montréal Economic Institute).

CTV, House of Commons passes Quebec nation motion, http://www.ctv.ca/CTVNews/ QPeriod/20061127/quebec_motion_061127/ (Oct. 3, 2011)

References Annick Germain, Damaris Rose, Montréal:The Quest for a Metropolis (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons, 2000) Statistics Canada, 2011 Community Profiles: Montréal, http://www12.statcan.gc.ca/censusrecensement/2006/dp-pd/prof/92-591/details/ page.cfm?Lang=E&Geo1=CSD&Code1=2466023 &Geo2=PR&Code2=24&Data=Count&SearchText =Montreal&SearchType=Begins&SearchPR=01&B1 =All&GeoLevel=PR&GeoCode=2466023 (Oct. 3, 2011). André Lortie, “Montréal 1960: The Singularities of a Metropolitan Archetype” in André Lortie, ed., The 60s: Montréal Thinks Big (Montréal, The Canadian Centre for Architecture, 2004), 89-90

Edmund P. Fowler, Building Cities that Work (Montréal & Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992) Gunter Gad and Malcolm Matthew, “Central and Suburban Downtowns” in Trudi Bunting and Pierre Filion, eds., Canadian Cities in Transition: The TwentyFirst Century (Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2000)

Alison d’Anglejan, “Language Planning in Quebec: An Historical Overview and Future Trends” in Richard Y. Bourhis, ed., Conflict and Language Planning in Quebec (Avon: Multilingual Matters LTD, 1984)

Jocelyn Maclure, Quebec Identity: The Challenge of Pluralism, (Montréal & Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2003)

GOOD INTENTIONS

RETURNING MICROFINANCE TO ITS ROOTS

By Alan Yu Editor’s Note: As a way to bridge the seemingly disparate worlds of grass-roots social change and worlddriving financial institutions, microfinance has been implemented in many parts of the world to give the impoverished greater access to capital and a means to pursue the entrepreneurial dream. However, microfinance programs have not always been implemented smoothly; and the cultural differences between those living in the world of financial institutions and those living in poverty frequently prove to be difficult obstacles in the efficient allocation, implementation, and collection

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of funding. As microfinance matures, it must remain true to the original dream while being sensitive to the cultural mores of its borrowers, else it is reckoned to fail as another well-meaning yet poorly-implemented tool. Given the rise of the Global South and the prevalence of urban settlements in the twenty-first century, understanding programmatic approaches to addressing urban poverty has never been more relevant. The optimism surrounding this

intervention in part stems from empirical evidence that suggests its efficacy in breaking the cycle of poverty while empowering the poor. However, the distinction should be made between the theory of such an intervention and its actual implementation; hence the body of one such program— microfinance—merits closer examination and analysis. This paper seeks to investigate the problem space of microfinance and critique

its impacts through a three-part process. First, the birth the Grameen Bank will be explored as a case study for evaluating and describing generally accepted microfinance practices. Next, the conceptual framework of microfinance will be analyzed within the broader theoretical and historical context of developmental discourse to understand its effect in producing social change. Lastly, lessons will be drawn from the Grameen Bank, including other possibilities for poverty alleviation and alternative ways to think about the role of microfinance.

The Birth of the Grameen Bank The Grameen Bank is a successful microcredit organization founded in 1983 based in Bangladesh. The name is derived from the Bengali word “gram,” which means “village” or “countryside.” Muhammad Yunus, an economics professor at the University of Chittagong, founded the bank as part of a research project to develop a credit delivery system of banking services for the rural poor. He was moved by the dire conditions of the countryside after the Bangladesh famine of 1974, witnessing loan-sharks preying upon the villagers in the aftermath (Giridharadas 2006). He encountered a woman in Jobra—a village 20 kilometers outside the city of Chittagong, Bangladesh—who relied on weaving bamboo stools for her livelihood. She did not have enough money to buy the necessary materials, and conventional banks would not lend to her because she was poor and had no collateral. She was thus forced to borrow money from local lenders who charged such high interest rates that the debt service absorbed her profits. Professor Yunus decided to launch a small-scale experiment by lending the total equivalent of US $27 to the woman and 41 other families in the village (Wahid 1993). He hoped that they would be able to create small items for sale to generate small amounts of revenue. To his surprise, all the families repaid him on time. Based on this positive experience, he began to take the concept to other villages, lending small amounts of money to the entrepreneurial poor. The project grew as it became more and more successful, and by 1979 it was

expanded to other cities with support from the Central Bangladesh Bank. Professor Yunus’s goal was to provide non-exploitative loans to the poor on the guiding principle that credit is a human right, not a financial equation—that the “risk” of loaning to the poor should not translate into higher interest rates and unreasonable conditions. The framework of the bank defies the traditional economic structuring of commercial banking. Whereas traditional banks calculate the loans they make based on minimum standards for an individual’s income and the appraised value of assets they can offer as collateral, the Grameen bank primarily lends to poor women with minimal income and no assets of significant value. Further, while traditional banking models focus on maximizing profitability, the Grameen Bank pursues a human development agenda. It has a social goal of empowering the poor through the encouragement of entrepreneurial selfemployment opportunities rather than low wage employment. As Yunus explains, “I say this to the children of Grameen borrowers: Your mother owns a bank. You are different. You must be self-reliant. You must create a job. You must never ask for a job” (qtd. in Roy 2010, 24). As a result, the majority of the recipients of the loans are small business owners and farmers who need a small amount of money to enhance their production. The Grameen Bank is also unique in that the borrowers own about ninety percent of the bank’s shares (with the remaining ten percent owned by the government); thus each borrower has a stake in their own financial institution and annual dividends are returned to the borrower. This sense of ownership is meant to further expand the benefits of the lending itself. It also deepens the bonds between the borrowers, which is important because from its onset the Grameen Bank has been run in a collectivist manner where groups played a vital role. Loans were initially administered on the basis of joint liability, where a small group of approximately five borrowers would meet weekly and keep each other in check with making payments on time. Each member was responsible to everyone else: if one

member defaulted on their loan, the rest of the group was responsible for covering that member’s debt (Harper 2007). Though this practice has changed over time where joint liability has been reduced and members may be allowed to meet fortnightly instead of weekly, regular mandatory savings are still required—serving as another from of collateral in the event of default. In furthering human development goals, Yunus developed a sort of manifesto for the bank to enforce member discipline called the “sixteen decisions” (Roy 2010). Each “decision” embodies a goal towards community health and prosperity, and heavily relies on collective action and peer pressure (e.g. decision 14: “We shall always be ready to help each other. If anyone is in difficulty, we shall all help him or her”). However, some of the “decisions” take on a very personal nature. For an example, decision 11 states “We shall not take any dowry at our sons’ weddings, neither shall we give any dowry at our daughters wedding. We shall keep our centre free from the curse of dowry. We shall not practice child marriage.” Critics make the case that these decisions attempt to change societal norms and institute cultural changes through lending stipulations. They argue that these sorts of “decisions” are themselves a form of exploitative practice, that they reflect the imposition of Western values pioneered by large international institutions such as the IMF and the World Bank. The Grameen Bank has also been critiqued in recent decades for being patriarchal and paternalistic. This critique stems from traditional power hierarchy in Bengali families, whereby women are coerced by patriarchal discipline into upholding their end of the loan agreement for fear of losing “honor” in their community. There is also the concern that once women receive the loans that they often times lose managerial control of those assets, that is to say that males in the family (i.e. husbands, fathers, uncles, and brothers) reappropriate the funds for other uses as they see fit. These issues of gender asymmetry in the microcredit process call into question its effectiveness in empowering poor rural women. In some

as educational attainment and literacy as opposed to cultural values. Although Grameen II demonstrates an improvement over its predecessor, there are still key problems with the execution of loans. In particular, as the Grameen Bank has expanded over time, the scale of lending has also increased, making it antithetical to the original intent of localized capital for small groups of the poor.

Microfinance in the Context of Development Discourse

Muhammad Yunus, founder of the Grameen Bank, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2006 for his work in developing micro-credit to fight poverty.

sense, women become pawns for men to gain access to capital, while also becoming hostages to the additional social burden of financial responsibility. A tragic example of this is the case of Hasna Begum. She borrowed money from the Grameen Bank so her son could start up a tailoring shop, but the income from the business was not enough to cover the loan. On February 17, 2012, she committed suicide by jumping in front of a moving train after mounting discord between her and her son over the financial trouble (“Woman Commits Suicide […]” 2012). Based on these criticisms, Professor Yunus began to rethink his banking approach in the late 1990s. He launched Grameen II in April 2002 to address some of the concerns about joint liability and community stipulations (Counts 2008). The new program was better tailored to individual borrowers, giving them more flexibility in rescheduling loans due to uncontrollable circumstances such as illness. Groups are also no longer financially accountable for a fellow member’s default (Harper 2007). It also revised some of the personal stipulations of the “sixteen decisions” to reflect specific goals such

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Microfinance as an intervention can be framed within the discourse of development theory as a homegrown market-based approach. It is an approach that has long been hailed as an innovative market-based poverty alleviation strategy by a wide range of development theorists, such as Jeffrey Sachs and William Easterly, who otherwise disagree about most other economic development strategies. Jeffrey Sachs is noted for the publication of The End of Poverty, in which he suggests economic development is a ladder. He theorizes that if enough aid can be given to poor countries to get up to the “bottom rung,” they can begin to operate in the global market and help themselves. In direct response to Sachs, William Easterly’s book entitled The White Man’s Burden: Why the West’s Efforts to Aid the Rest Have Done So Much Ill and So Little Good criticizes top-down foreign aid to developing countries and instead advocates for bottomup local “piecemeal” interventions. Seen in this light, microfinance ties in closely with William Easterly’s ideas about “planners” versus “searchers” when it comes to foreign aid. “Planners” are those who draft broadbased ideas to impose upon a particular problem elsewhere, whereas “searchers” are those who look for smaller interventions to implement locally. Using his terminology, Muhammad Yunus and the Grameen Bank are seen as excellent examples of “searchers.” Yunus initially began by targeting a local problem (rural poverty) in the village of Jobra using a piecemeal solution (small-scale experiments in credit delivery and banking services). Easterly views the bottom-up approach of microfinance as a

success because it focuses on one specific aspect of poverty (lack of access to credit) based on the local conditions in one place. The latter part of local conditions is crucial in Easterly’s argument that what works well as an intervention in one place does not work well universally in others. Using the Grameen Bank as an example, it is possible to see Easterly’s critique of “big plans.” For example, the collectivist framework of banking utilized by the Grameen Bank stresses joint liability and was initially set up by lending to small groups of women. On another ideological level, as a fundamentally market-based approach, the Grameen Bank aligns with Easterly’s belief that free markets work. In promoting self-reliance through microcredit, Yunus rejects dependency on aid (like Easterly). Easterly famously stated that “the rich have markets and the poor have bureaucrats.” Microfinance can be seen in many ways as a response to that statement, allowing the poor to access the market and gain a small foothold in the global economy. Another important sphere for framing the dialogue about this form of development is human rights. When the Grameen Bank is seen as a way of democratizing capital it changes the tone and principle of development. “The idea of ‘credit as a human right’ suggests that microfinance is not simply a developmental tool but rather an ‘ethical economics’ [which remakes capitalism]” (Roy 2010). Using Amartya Sen’s seminal work, “Human Rights and Capabilities,” which addresses how rights entitle people with potential, microfinance can be understood as a catalyst. Sen makes the crucial distinction between capability and opportunity in discussing human rights and stresses the need to understand capability in order to consider the opportunity aspect of human rights and freedom. He states that “seeing opportunity in terms of capability allows us to distinguish appropriately between (i) whether a person is actually able to do things she would value doing, and (ii) whether she possesses the means or instruments or instruments or permissions to pursue what she would like to do.” (Sen 2005). Thus it is possible to see microfinance as a tool for

empowering the poor by giving them the capability to pursue the same opportunities as those who already have access to credit.

Shortcomings The discussion here thus far has largely praised the effects of microfinance. However, it is useful to understand its shortcomings and consider hybrid possibilities. Aneel Karnani, a distinguished professor of business at the University of Michigan warns against romanticizing the poor and perceiving them as savvy entrepreneurs. He argues that this view is harmful because it enables governments, nonprofits, and corporations to walk out of their responsibilities of protection. He further argues that market-based approaches are dangerous because the poor are not rational consumers, and that advocates of these approaches “do not acknowledge that the poor lack the education, information, and other economic, cultural, and social capital that would allow them to take advantage of—and shield themselves against—the vagaries of the free market” (Karnani 2009). Thus, there must be more governmental intervention through infrastructural policies that provide basic social welfare and promote the creation of employment opportunities with stable, reasonable wages. Karnani sums up this observation with the idea of the irreplaceability of governmental responsibility. He states that “by emphatically focusing on the private sector, marketbased poverty alleviation programs distract people from correcting the frequent failures of governments to fulfill their traditional and accepted functions of ensuring safety, providing education, protecting health, and building infrastructure” (ibid.). While the intentions of the Grameen Bank are noble, it is possible to see the ways in which the free market can distort them for capitalist purposes. Banco Compartamos, a private Mexican microfinance corporation, has similar operating practices as the Grameen Bank but very different intentions. Seeing the potential for profit, Banco Compartamos is a for-profit corporation that seeks to exploit the poor by charging the maximum interest rates they can afford—not the manageable

rates they should be charged. As Ananya Roy notes, Banco Compartamos makes an annual profit of $80 million “by serving about 1 million women at 90 percent interest rates.” Moreover, the poor clients of Banco Compartamos were generating profits for the company but were disenfranchised from its benefits. The Consultative Group to Assist the Poor (CGAP)—a consortium of 33 international private and public development organizations—conducted a study which found that “higher charges to borrowers correlate directly with higher profits captured by private investors…there is a direct and obvious conflict between the welfare of clients and the welfare of investors” (Rosenberg 2007: 10). Thus not only does the market not adequately protect the poor, it is even capable of further exploiting them for capital gains.

by opening up market opportunities for the poor, it is important to correct their shortcomings as well. Because the microfinance movement is ill-suited to protect the poor from the vagaries of the economy, these market-based strategies must work together with governments, NGOs, and private corporations to produce the structural change necessary to ending cyclical poverty. Cyclical poverty is not merely an economic condition, but also a social and cultural condition. While the poor are unified by their condition of poverty, they differ in their aspirations and goals. Not all poor people are, or want to be, entrepreneurs; some may simply want a steady job with healthy working conditions and reasonable wage. Thus, microfinance programs such as the Grameen Bank can be used to establish capabilities for the

Beyond Microfinance to Alternative Possibilities On the most basic level, the Grameen Bank was effective in producing social change by challenging conventional banking practices and demonstrating to the world that the poor were creditworthy (and that there was an entire population full of entrepreneurial potential that was being overlooked). From a numbers perspective, the Grameen Bank has been incredibly successful, lending $7.6 billion by the end of 2007 with over 7.34 million borrowers in 80,257 villages (Begum 2007). The ideas pioneered by the Grameen Bank have even penetrated mainstream culture and consciousness. This is demonstrated by the success of Kiva, a nonprofit organization founded in 2005 that operates a website allowing ordinary people to lend small amounts of money to specific individuals and businesses in developing countries. Each borrower has a profile with a description of their background and their purpose for requesting a loan. Thus, information technology and globalization have greatly accelerated the microfinance movement by facilitating quicker flows of more perfect information through vast networks. While it is clear that microfinance institutions, such as the Grameen Bank, have made advances in alleviating poverty

July 2010 advertisement campaign for SHARE, one of the largest microfinance institutions in India founded in 1989. It uses the rhetoric of empowerment to showcase the success story of an ordinary poor woman who used a microfinance loan to purchase a pestle to grind chili for her prepackaged chili powder business.

poor to gain a foothold in the free market if they wish, but they must also work with governmental institutions to provide the safety nets that protect the basic human rights of health, education, and fair job opportunities. Further complicating the pitfalls of microfinance is the issue of scale and commercialization. The latest figures show that there are 20,000 Grameen Bank employees servicing 6.6 million borrowers in over 45,000 Bangladeshi villages (Bond 2010). This is a far cry from the modest origins of the bank, when Professor Yunus lent money to 41 families. The expansion of the bank to greatly reduces human interaction during transactions. This was exemplified during the recent global economic crisis, when a number of microfinance institutions scrambled to collect back loans they had made after spreading themselves too thin in the transition from a non-profit to a for-profit institution. SKS Microfinance based in India was one such example that started out as

a non-profit organization in 1997, but went public in 2010 with an initial public offering in order to attract private capital to scale their operations bigger. The company resorted to aggressive collecting practices as reported by the global edition of The NewYork Times on February 27, 2012, which stated that 200 borrowers from the South Indian state of Andhra Pradesh committed suicide in 2010 because they were unable to pay back their loans to SKS. The same article also stated that “SKS was aware that its own debt collectors were using coercive methods that played a role in some borrowers’ suicides. […] An ‘SKS debt collector told a delinquent borrower to drown herself in a pond if she wanted her loan waived. The next day, she did’” (Thirani 2012). As Yunus said himself in 2011, “I never imagined that one day microcredit would give rise to its own breed of loan sharks.” As a fundamentally market-based approach, microfinance on a large scale inevitably comes under the pressure of the free market to turn a profit at the expense

of the borrower. It only works on a small scale at a local level when institution-sized private investors do not have a stake. Even then it fails to deliver to the long-term sustainable poverty alleviation it promises, in large part because it fails to take into account the causes and roots of poverty. It frames the poverty equation solely in terms of capital and access to credit. Microfinance fails to address the social issues of poverty and the fact that it touches upon all aspects of life, such as health, equity, education, and the right to basic material needs. Thus at a time when the global economy is in such tremendous turmoil, it is the responsibility of governments to intervene and coordinate with microfinance institutions and NGOs to develop a comprehensive strategy to protect the poor, and arm them with the necessary tools to maintain a decent standard of living.

Harper, Malcolm. “What’s Wrong with Groups?” What’s Wrong with Microfinance? Ed. Thomas Dichter. Warwickshire: Practical Action Publishing, 2007. 35-48. Print.

Sen, Amartya.“Human Rights and Capabilities.” Journal of Human Development. 2005. Print.

References Begum, Asma. Village Women and Grameen Bank in Bangladesh. New Delhi: Gyan Publishing House, 2007. Print. Bond, Patrick. “Grameen Bank and ‘Microcredit’: the ‘Wonderful Story’ that Never Happened.” Himal. 21 Oct. 2010. Print. Counts, Alex. Small Loans, Big Dreams: How Nobel Prize Winner Muhammad Yunus and Microfinance are Changing the World. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons, 2008. Print. Easterly, William. “Planners versus Searchers.” The White Man’s Burden: Why the West’s Efforts to Aid the Rest Have Done So Much Ill and So Little Good. London: Penguin Press, 2006. Print. Giridharadas, Anand, and Keith Bradsher. “Microloan Pioneer and His Bank Win Nobel Peace Price.”The New York Times. 13 Oct. 2006.Web. 12 Feb. 2012.

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Karnani, Aneel. “Employment, not Micro-credit, is the Solution.”The Journal of Corporate Citizenship. Print. —.“Romanticizing the Poor.” Stanford Social Innovation Review.Winter 2009. Print. Rosenberg, Richard. “CGAP Reflections of the Compartamos Initial Public Offering: A Case Study on Microfinance Interest Rates and Profits.” CGAP Focus Note 42. Washington DC: CGAP,The World Bank, 2007. Print. Roy, Ananya. Poverty Capital: Microfinance and the Making of Development. New York: Routledge, 2010. Print.

Sixteen Decisions. Dir. Gayle Ferraro. Perf. Muhammad Yunus. 2000. Film. Thirani, Neha. “‘Yunus Was Right,’ SKS Microfinance Founder Says.” The New York Times (Global Edition, India). 27 Feb. 2012.Web. 28 Feb. 2012. Wahid, Abu N. M., ed. The Grameen Bank: Poverty Relief in Bangladesh. Boulder: Westview Press, 1993. Print “Woman Commits Suicide Failing to Repay Loan.”The Independent. 18 Feb 2012.Web. 28 Feb 2012. Yunus, Muhammad. “Sacrificing Microcredit for Megaprofits.” The New York Times. 14 Jan. 2011. Web. 27 Feb. 2012.

YOU’VE GOT TO GO ALONG WITH THE PROGRAM CHICAGO CLOUT AND METROPOLITAN PLANNING

By Aaron Kurtz and Katherine Olson 75

1909 Plan of Chicago, showing the general system of boulevards and parks existing and proposed.

Editor’s Note: Like many major cities, Chicago has a strained—or at least marginal—relationship with regional planning. But the city was also home to Daniel Burnham’s prototypical modern city plan, the 1909 Plan of Chicago. Its 21st century successor, GO TO 2040, faces challenges today that Burnham’s plan never did, including the decline of a shared civic vision. To remain relevant, both GO TO 2040’s authors and Chicago itself face the hard task of political retooling for deeper and more sincere collaboration.

Introduction Each successive iteration of a plan for the city of Chicago begs a comparison with Daniel Burnham’s 1909 Plan of Chicago. Known as “the Bible” of planning for decades (Spielman 2002), in Chicago and elsewhere, the 1909 plan offered a vision for both the city and the surrounding region. The Plan of Chicago defined the ideals and values still incorporated by the city’s planners today, including the preservation of the lakefront and natural green space. The plan was responsible for connecting a 60-mile radius of the downtown area,

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the suburbs, and surroundings, creating a metropolitan blueprint. The plan began a tradition of using public investment to leverage private resources, and spurred regional economic growth by calling for the central location of management, production, and transportation in the city. The latest iteration of a regional plan for Chicago, released by the Chicago Metropolitan Agency for Planning (CMAP) in 2009, aspires to the same importance. GO TO 2040, as the plan is called, is driven by the most focused set of goals in a Chicagoland regional plan to date. While the Burnham plan sought to marry urban design, planning, and monumentalism, GO TO 2040 goes further and addresses the social, economic, and institutional forms the region is to assume. It is aimed at mitigating the effects of post–World War II sprawl, both inside the city and throughout the seven constituent counties, by linking communities together with transit and green infrastructure. GO TO 2040 offers recommendations for

workforce development and government efficiency, and offers a prioritized list of capital improvement projects within the metropolitan area. Unlike the 1909 plan, which relies on the artistic elegance of its authors, GO TO 2040 incorporates community input and is the product of robust citizen participation and a rigorous quantitative approach. But in contrast to the days of the Burnham plan, the Chicago region today is not in a position to capitalize on this well-articulated plan, and CMAP is not in a position to implement its goals. Over the hundred years between the plans, the region has not developed as a result of an impactful, singular vision; rather, contemporary development across northeastern Illinois stems from a century of autonomous and fragmentary municipal governance, competitive economicdevelopment policies, and an emphasis on local—rather than regional—planning and politics. Penetrating this dynamic has been difficult for CMAP, and thus far the organization’s major accomplishments have been limited to acting as project manager for resource-strapped municipalities or bestower of federal grants that focus on transportation—roles fairly typical of any metropolitan planning organization. That is to say, CMAP’s plan may not yield the same resounding effect of the Plan of Chicago. Chicago’s relationship to the greater Chicagoland area, coupled with changes in the city’s political and planning cultures over the years, has decreased the efficacy of regional planning from the heady days of the City Beautiful movement. Further, Chicago’s traditional and powerful “clout” politics have produced an environment in which local planning and policy take precedence over regional concerns. The result has been a reduced role for CMAP as the dedicated metropolitan planning organization. Yet if Chicago is to benefit from the positive growth and development advocated by GO TO 2040 and drive the region’s competitive advantage in the nation, both CMAP and Chicago must adjust their approaches to policy, planning, and governance, each taking the other into greater consideration.

The Decline of Regional Planning GO TO 2040 stands in direct contrast to the methodology of the Plan of Chicago, relying not simply on the visions of the architect-planner, but on the driving force of an expansive institutional entity advocating on behalf of the desires of its populace. Yet CMAP may not see the same returns to the agency’s plan as did Burnham and the Commercial Club: despite its want of widespread community involvement and quantitative rigor, the Plan of Chicago was, in fact, more immediately successful at implementing a number of its major capital recommendations than CMAP seems to be capable of so far. While it has only been three years since the publication of GO TO 2040, the dialogs around property development, transportation, community and economic development, land use, and design do not indicate that the same regional conversation is taking place. This presents a significant obstacle to CMAP, and it is crucial to come an understanding of how this shift came about. The 1909 plan was able to take advantage of what historian Carl Abbott calls a “civic moment” in which a group of highly motivated individuals with financial resources were able to promulgate an ambitious regional plan with relentless publicity. Between 1909 and 1939, Chicagoans approved 86 related bond issues covering 17 projects for a total of $234 million in investment. But by 1939,

zeal for the plan had begun to ebb. More critically, notes Abbott, the civic moment had passed, “eroded in the face of racial conflict, suburban self-sufficiency, industrial transition and the daunting complexity of a huge metropolitan region” (Abbott 2005). Comprehensive planning efforts faded with Chicago’s fragmentation by race and class. The federal housing acts of 1949 and 1954 reinforced these chasms with funding for slum removal and construction of low-income public housing, which often dislocated minorities. “A central postwar imperative was how to keep white Chicagoans on the South Side at a time of heavy black migration and ghetto expansion, writes Abbott. “The city in the 1950s used urban renewal to clear lowrent real estate, attract new investment in middle-class housing and buffer large institutions,” such as public hospitals and universities (ibid.). Comprehensive planning had also begun to decline as the field of urban planning started splintering. As the Housing Act exacerbated segregation by race, New Deal relief programs helped devolve comprehensive planning into separate, disjointed public works programs. Even the Chicago Planning Commission, as Burnham’s key advisors had collectively come to call themselves, shifted its focus to tangentially related efforts. In particular, the commissioners put their professional efforts toward the work of the city’s new Zoning Commission.

In 1939, the Chicago Planning Commission was absorbed by the city government, ceasing to be an external, semipublic advocacy group. “With the redefinition and reconfiguration of the original Chicago Planning Commission, there was no longer any organization, committee or agency whose central purpose was to implement the recommendations of the Plan of Chicago” (Smith 2006), and in its new iteration as an internal, entirely public organization, the Chicago Planning Commission ceded its power. Even today, as part of the Chicago Department of Housing and Economic Development, the Chicago Planning Commission is limited to the approval of property acquisition and landuse proposals and its decisions are also not backed by statutory power. With a shift away from comprehensive planning and a lack of agency under the city, the Chicago Planning Commission initially authored a series of reports on Chicago neighborhoods. The clear agenda after World War II was preventing white flight. With the population of African-Americans rising from 8.2 percent in 1940 to 13.6 percent in 1950, the Chicago Planning Commission concerned itself with keeping whites in the city. In 1942, the Chicago Planning Commission’s Forty-Four Cities in the City of Chicago sought to glamorize each neighborhood in comparison to the suburbs. Building New Neighborhoods in 1943 offered to build suburban-style residences right in the

Chicago circa 1901. “The lakefront from Illinois Central Station.” Panorama of two 8x10 glass negatives.

CMAP’s stylized bird’s-eye view of the Chicago metropolitan region from the GO TO 2040 plan, as found on the cover of the plan.

city. Studies in 1946, 1951, and 1956 dealt with revitalizing aging homes, repurposing land uses in blighted areas, reconstructing physical facilities, clearing slums and improving public services. In 1958, planning in Chicago had begun to evolve toward what it is today, re-embraced by the first Mayor Daley, but adopting a strictly local purview. A new Department of City Planning produced the Development Plan for the Central Area of Chicago, which marked a step away from mere reports, including such recommendations as have since been implemented: the Civic Center, the S-curve along Lake Shore Drive, the relocation of the University of Illinois at Chicago from Navy Pier to the current location, residential development south of the Loop and construction along the Chicago River. The Development Plan for the Central Area of Chicago also embraced neighborhoodspecific planning, updated as conditions evolved. The plan was the first focusing solely on the downtown, outside a section in the Plan of Chicago’s “Heart of Chicago” chapter. In 1973, the Chicago 21 plan followed and updated the Development Plan for the Central

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Area of Chicago. The latest iteration of a plan for the downtown is the Central Area Plan of 2003, prepared by the division of Planning and Development within the Department of Housing and Economic Development, in conjunction with the departments of Transportation and Environment. With planning adopting a local approach and public-sector practitioners absorbed into a splintered and fragmented municipal system, the shift was complete. This transition from regional outlook to local immediacy is what has characterized Chicago and Chicagoland planning to this day, and represents a significant challenge to CMAP’s nature as a regional body.

Chicago’s Political Culture Another factor arresting CMAP’s ability to facilitate growth is Chicago’s political culture. Historically, its political system has had a tendency to squelch the participation and involvement of outsiders to the system, whether these outsiders are local community members and politicians who do not participate in the machine, or suburban, state, and national players with little immediate stake in the city’s system.

And while Chicago is known for the power of its political machine, what truly characterizes the city’s political system is something Chicagoans call “clout.” CMAP, as a metropolitan organization focused broadly on the seven counties and consisting of representatives from each, is unfortunately an outsider; thus if it hopes to make inroads with GO TO 2040, it is crucial that CMAP understand what clout is, how it works, and how it has shaped both Chicago’s internal affairs and the city’s relationship with suburban municipalities. The heyday of clout was over the course of Richard J. Daley’s six-term administration from 1955–1976. Clout ran the gamut from preferential treatment to connected contractors to strategic coordination of local and state elections. Mike Royko in Boss and Milton Rakove in Don’t Make No Waves Don’t Back No Losers both explain how contracts—economic and political—would be coordinated amongst participating parties. Favored contractors, for example, would each receive an equal share of city contracts by the end of the year (Royko 1971); and even Republican politicians knew how to play their role as both winners and losers to both their career advantage and the advantage of the political fabric afforded by clout (Rakove 1975). Clout emphasizes one’s role as an efficient cog in a large machine. In his 1979 book of interviews of Chicago politicians, We Don’t Want Nobody Nobody Sent, Rakove describes the system as it functioned in that era: [Richard J. Daley] alone did not represent the political processes and political history of his era in Chicago. The Chicago machine was a complex structure, encompassing many elements of the community, and layered through the county, city, ward, and precinct levels. It was highly decentralized, feudalistically structured, and loosely tied together by a network of relationships among its constituent parts. There was authority at the top, but highly decentralized responsibility at the various levels of the system. (Rakove 1979)

Clout in Chicago is a product of a political culture that favors the local environment over the regional, state or national levels. It rewards “big fish in small

ponds,” with the immediacy of local issues requiring a pragmatism that is awarded by intensified, local power and political efficacy. This heavily localized nature is illustrated in The Development Plan for the Central Area of Chicago and further by the second Mayor Daley’s 2003 Central Area Plan. Both plans focus on the strength of downtown as a driver of Chicago’s economic health, but the impacts of both are contained within the city limits. In this manner, clout not only created economic and political arrangements between those who were willing to participate, but it also had profound effects on Chicago’s relationship with suburban communities. Because the strength of the system was born of its practitioners’ focus on the local, the immediate, and the necessary, the clout system resulted in a pronounced level of insularity, starkly demonstrated in the city’s planning activities detailed above. Political preference for local over state or national politics meant focusing all energies into the local system, and investment in the local system translated directly to a disregard for interests that diverged from the local narrative. Rakove, in Don’t Make No Waves Don’t Back No Losers, explains how this dynamic functions on even the intra-country level:

Since meaningful relationships between groups at any level in the body politic must be based on mutual interests, the lack of collaboration between suburban and city community leaders and governmental officials is a tacit recognition of the divergent interests of the two parts of Cook County. Despite a great deal of the well-meaning cant about the need for cooperation, there is little of common interest between the populations and governments of Chicago and the suburbs. (Rakove 1975)

In recent years, there has been some amount of outreach into the suburbs, but these interactions are born out of Chicago needing the cooperation of neighboring municipalities to achieve its own goals. Neighboring Bensenville, for example, fought for many years against the ongoing O’Hare International Airport Modernization Program, which includes the expansion of runways into the municipality. Eventually, Bensenville was offered $16 million to allow the expansion to continue—at which point Chicago employed eminent domain to secure needed property even though this property was outside of the city limits. Unless there has been a net gain to the city, these sorts of cross-collaborations have been rare.

April 1943. South Water Street Illinois Central Railroad freight terminal, Chicago.

Why Does It Matter That CMAP Succeed? With this shift to and emphasis on the local, what role can CMAP and other metropolitan planning organizations play in today’s world? And should they play any role at all? Without direct taxing authority, their options are limited; and with such a large purview addressing such local questions—especially in environments that so heavily favor the local—their efforts and influence are diluted. However, there are few entities among the broad spectrum of policy-making bodies in a position to take a regional approach to development strategy. As described above, today’s development strategy has become a local concern and offers little opportunity in the way of coordination; and states, as governing bodies, are in the awkward position of administering oftentimes disparate populations. CMAP is in a unique position to address urban and suburban issues in a way that focuses on the specific needs of the agglomeration of its seven counties. It must be stated here that local approaches to development and taxation should still play the role they do now. There is no need for CMAP to assume the role of a local taxing body or to recommend that local economic development initiatives be lessened in their impact or that tax revenues should be shared. Economist Charles Tiebout is noted for the concept “voting with your feet,” which famously states that individuals choose to live or operate in areas where they perceive local services to be more beneficial given a dollar amount of taxes “spent.” Both firms and individuals vote with their feet, choosing to locate in or move from one area to another if there is a marginal benefit of such an establishment or relocation (Tiebout 1956). In order for this form of economic freedom to be viable, it is necessary that government power be sufficiently dispersed. If all powers of locally government were located centrally—federally—then disapproval with, say, sewage disposal or zoning would be met with the extraordinarily high cost of moving from one country to another. However, since these realms of governance are typically

local matters—under the purview of counties and municipalities—the ease with which businesses and individuals can locate “next door” is more manageable and realistic (Friedman 2002). Therefore, it is important that municipal entrepreneurship and competition still exist, for they optimize the allocation of individuals and firms within a particular region. It is the regional level, then, that CMAP must continue to focus on. Questions of regional attraction, access to labor, developable land, strength of market agglomerations, and provisions of transportation networks all fall under CMAP’s scope. CMAP need not whitewash over the diversity of municipalities in Northeastern Illinois, which in fact could prove to be more detrimental to its economic growth for the reasons above. In fact, it is critical that the past three decades of economic decline in the Midwest are approached on this regional level. These metro areas are the economic drivers for the Midwest, and traditional local approaches to economic development have only been so successful because there

are broader trends at work. For many years, Chicago benefitted from the natural ebb and flow of transnational commerce, which enabled it—and other Midwestern cities— to become the seats of economic power for their immediate areas. The Commercial Club and other advocates for the Plan of Chicago embraced that momentum and put it toward the implementation of elements of the plan in order to maximize economic potential while mitigating the negative externalities of this growth. But not only is the city in an age where regional planning does not have the same local advocacy it once did, the driving forces of industry and economic development have shifted as well. Chicago is no longer the boomtown it once was, and even its role as a 24-hour financial center has been somewhat strained as of late. Its recent postrecession recovery has been slow, unemployment has risen even with less participation in the labor market, and much—if any—regional growth that has been measured “largely reflects rapidly falling incomes and economic activity in Michigan” (Testa 2010). There has also

Chicago Steel and Wire. 103rd and Torrence Ave. March 29, 2010.

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been a graduated “squeezing” of the middle class in the city that has stalled population and economic growth: Urban Institute’s MetroTrends grades Chicago as “C” for “economic security,” defined by the equal weighting of home price erosion (-29.4 percent), unemployment (9.6 percent), housing unaffordability (the average lowwage worker would have to work 1.63 jobs in order to afford the averagely priced 2-bedroom home), and serious mortgage delinquency (11.7 percent) (Urban Institute 2011). Midwestern cities need to rethink what they do best and how they can best capture economic growth as it occurs. There is no shortage of investment by the region’s major cities, and there is similarly no shortage of attempts by its smaller municipalities to forestall complete disinvestment. CMAP has, in fact, done an excellent job of asking and addressing the right questions in GO TO 2040. The plan sufficiently addresses questions of regional importance without eliminating options for businesses and individuals within the region. But what it has not yet accomplished

is successful outreach, particularly with Chicago. It is a regional organization without local clout, and as such is in no position to effect regional change to the extent the plan has laid out. It is crucial that CMAP achieve this penetration in its unique position as regional advocate, and it is equally crucial that Chicago open more doors to such efforts.

Transforming CMAP The economic declines in Chicago cannot be reversed until it allows CMAP to gain traction with its plans for the region, and CMAP cannot make inroads in the political environment without adjustment. A comparison in this instance to Burnham’s plan is perhaps usefully instructive. Because the Plan of Chicago was so visionary in nature, the members of the Commercial Club needed to undertake a marketing campaign to ensure implementation. They also recognized the need to get the support of Chicagoans, who would ultimately vote on referendums to authorize bonds to fund the plan’s projects. Through a tireless campaign, the Chicago Planning Commission was successful in getting the public to vote in favor of Burnham’s proposals. In 1912 alone, the Chicago Planning Commission and advocates published 575 newspaper and magazine stories on the Plan of Chicago. Advocates also provided illustrated lectures, a motion picture, and Wacker’s Manual of the Plan of Chicago, a pamphlet designed to educate Chicago’s schoolchildren on the merits of the plan. Though the Chicago Planning Commission was external, it had the ear of every mayor between 1909 and 1931. Between the plan’s release in 1909 and 1939, the commission followed Burnham’s broad appeals and the public approved 86 related bond issues. The city acquired land to create Grant Park as well as the Cook County Forest Preserve System; it extended Roosevelt Road, improved railroad terminals, and widened North Michigan Avenue. In contrast, it is not clear if CMAP has effectively marketed GO TO 2040 either to Chicago’s public or its mayor—even

with the opportunity presented by a new administration in 2011. This perhaps explains why CMAP’s accomplishments under GO TO 2040 have so far been limited to a smaller, piecemeal scale. Examples include installing a pedestrian bridge in Orland Park, acting as a project manager for a “green corridor” for Antioch, and assisting the Village of Riverside with a central business district development plan. In instances where CMAP has worked with Chicago, it is unclear the extent to which these efforts were successful: for example, the two were awarded $25 million in stimulus funding in 2010 to finance building retrofits, but there is no clear indication that the program had been successful or widely implemented (the White House’s “Retrofit Ramp-Up” program has received a bevy of criticism nationwide for failing to create green jobs or to be embraced by property owners at all). Regionally, CMAP’s most prominent role has been to disseminate $411 million of federal funding to various projects that address bicycle and transit infrastructure, intersection and signal improvements, and diesel emissions reduction (roles suitable to any metropolitan planning organization). According to the plan itself, implementation of GO TO 2040 relies on the structured dissemination of tax revenue, exercised through specifically delineated levels of government and masterfully constructed to an appropriate and logical scale. It also relies on revenue sharing between municipalities. Unfortunately, these idealized systems only exist within the narrative of the plan. Its neglect of the dynamics of insular approaches to planning, development, and politics over the last decades precludes its effectiveness; and attempts to convince municipalities to share revenue have been met with resistance (Feldheim 2012). Moving forward, CMAP must become better and more effectively oriented to the intraregional dynamics that it means to address. It must assume the role of unifier, and, even if the mechanisms are not in place due to its legal nature as an MPO and due to the importance of municipal competition, it needs to assess and exploit the relative economic strengths

An illustration from GO TO 2040’s ambitious and visionary proposal for a regionwide intermodal transportation system.

and political mechanisms of its constituent local governments. CMAP needs to position itself as the expert delegator and advocate, and work to the advantage of the greater whole. The success of GO TO 2040 is heavily dependent on an explicit treatment of individual municipalities and units of government.

Transforming Chicago There is an important lesson here for Chicago as well. Chicago and its surrounding municipalities have some of the most potent economic development tools and business attractors in the country. But the city and the region are losing comparative economic strength. Even if rhetoric speaks to national competitiveness, the region’s most potent tools are its local ones. Chicago needs to make greater efforts at coordinating through CMAP with other municipalities to address questions of regional, macroeconomic investment if the city hopes to regain its footing. Clout, especially, does not serve the city in the way it once did. Even without the question of a regional plan, the fabric stifles innovation and dissuades investment. Chicago Federal Bank economist William Testa suggests that “the city’s economy remains largely tied, to its traditional Midwestern business partners … [And] given the poor performance of this decade, we need to rethink the challenges for Chicago” (Bergen 2010). Further, in its 2012 Emerging Trends in Real Estate annual report, the Urban Land Institute notes that interviewees characterize Chicago as a fairly underwhelming place for investors, noting

Illustrated bird’s-eye view of Chicago metropolitan region from the Plan of Chicago, painted for the Commercial Club by Jules Guerin.

that “its heyday may be over” and citing slowing growth in the Midwest overall— and a growing preference for coastal cities (Urban Land Institute 2012). Add to this an insular political system wrought from clout, and the risk premium for Chicago is high. There are few opportunities for those without connections, and given market conditions, the required investment into the clout network may not be worth it. These barriers to entry may prove favorable for a select few, but overall this type of activity will continue to underwhelm. Aaron Renn, a planner and Chicagoan, summed up the issue on his blog The Urbanophile: If Joe Investor shoots you down, you know the odds were probably long in the first place. While you might not come away feeling good about him, you probably don’t feel any worse about Chicago. But if you approach an official or quasi-official organization chartered with promoting “innovation,” “entrepreneurship,” “clusters,” “technology” … and they shoot you down, it’s not just them but your city you feel has rejected you. … If an official or quasi-official organization can’t say Yes, or at least make sure that well over 50 percent of the people it says No to feel good about the experience, it should be shut down, because it’s doing more harm than good. (Renn 2011)

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That is, in Chicago, a major limiting factor for anything new and expansive is clout; and at the greater market level, for the capital to truly flow, for the innovation to happen, and for a regional authority to make any sort of inroads, the barriers need to be lowered. Unfortunately, however, there is little about the CMAP plan in and of itself that will drive the city to adjust the fabric; such changes will have to occur from within. GO TO 2040 provides a solid framework for Chicago to reorient itself in a way that promotes more open exchanges between residents, investors, and government, and to do so in a way that occurs in concert with the larger surrounding region. With such a realignment, and an inclination toward the goals of GO TO 2040, Chicago could orient itself with open arms to those that are looking for new opportunities, innovation, and a city government that supports such activities. This is not to say there has been no innovation, as a bevy of start-up organizations have been born in recent years to support what entrepreneurial spirit is there. But in terms of scale, these efforts exist independent of the establishment and cannot be expected to grow in a way that allows Chicago to boast a tech sector like those of New York and San Francisco. Much like the shift in Chicago planning culture over the years, the city’s realm of innovation is occurring on an increasingly local, grass-roots level. But if the city changes its focus to openness, experimentation, and cooperation, Chicago will once again be a hub of innovation and a global economic attractor, driving the growth of northeastern Illinois—and arguably much of the Midwest.

Conclusion CMAP’s plan demonstrates the evolution of regional planning over the course of a century. The Plan of Chicago provided a vision and urged confidence in a maturing region; GO TO 2040 aspires to the same but with deeper comprehensiveness and rigor. Whereas Burnham’s plan was comparatively vague and artistic, CMAP’s plan offers specific recommendations for

the social and economic climate, outlines prioritized improvement projects, and incorporates citizen input. Yet the Plan of Chicago benefitted from an alignment of interests between the plan’s authors, implementers and stakeholders. GO TO 2040 cannot boast the critical support needed for implementation due to a decline in regional planning efforts in Chicago and the inwardly focused political climate of the city. Chicago and CMAP each must now be convinced of the other’s importance. CMAP must account for and incorporate Chicago’s particular scale. CMAP’s attempts to maintain an evenhanded regional focus necessarily means that it spreads its strategic focus across the seven counties equally. However, to not treat explicitly the differences in scale, political culture, and impact its constituent municipalities have is to miss an enormous opportunity to utilize its cities—and in particular, Chicago—as regional drivers for growth. Chicago requires an adjusted focus as well. It must recognize the utility of the surrounding region in becoming nationally and globally competitive, forming more explicit partnerships with the other municipalities to embrace the opportunities and address the challenges outlined by CMAP. The city can accomplish this through coordination within the region, making available in combination more land, capital, and skilled workers. To offer entrepreneurs and investors a possible new hub where innovation can flourish, and to become a global attractor once again, Chicago must provide an environment conducive to those activities by playing a larger regional role. By recognizing each other as partners, CMAP and Chicago can drive growth once again. Harnessing the power of the city and the region in tandem offers both new opportunities. Over a hundred years later, another regional plan could potentially set a fresh tone for Chicagoland.

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Photo Credits Can Neighborhood Organizations Save Neighborhoods?

Williams, Jay. Interior of engine room, 1988. Reprinted from Library of Congress: Historic American Buildings Survey. Unknown. Ohio Works of the Carnegie Steel Co., 1910. Reprinted from Library of Congress: Panoramic Photographs. Evans,Walker. Bethlehem houses and steel mill. Pennsylvania, 1935. < http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/ fsa1998018000/PP/>. Reprinted from Library of Congress: Farm Security Administration - Office of War Information Photograph Collection. Palmer, Alfred T. Steel activity in war time, 1941. Reprinted from Library of Congress: Farm Security Administration Office of War Information Photograph Collection. Lowe, Jet. Interior of rolling mill looking southwest, 1988. < http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/pa3388. photos.359748p>. Reprinted from Library of Congress: Historic American Buildings Survey.

Deliberate Planning lessons H Street Corridor, westward view towards Union Station, 2012. Photograph by author. New H Street businesses, nutcracker façade, 2012. Photograph by author. District Department of Transportation. Proposed System Plan – Phase 3, 2012. <http://www.dcstreetcar.com/systemconcept-phase-3.html>. Image courtesy District Department of Transportation. Amenity Infrastructure, 2012. Photograph by author.

72157622508030365/>. Reprinted by permission under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0). MONDRAGON-Corporation. “José María Arizmendiarreta,” November 4, 2009. <http://www.flickr.com/ photos/mondragoncorporation/4074697039/in/set72157622508030365>. Reprinted by permission under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0).

Public Realms VSAI. Race Street Pier. http://www.flickr.com/photos/ vsai/6144669570/ 2012. Halprin’s Embarcadero Fountain. Courtesy of the Author. US GSA.Tilted Arc. http://www.gsa.gov/graphics/pbs/7_ Introductory_essay.pdf. 1981. Jphilipg. Jacob Javitz plaza. http://www.flickr.com/ photos/15708236@N07/4087438247/in/set72157622125142310. Race Street Pier 2. Courtesy of Dan Reed. Ben Mason. Dilworth Plaza. http://www.flickr.com/photos/ su1droot/42500929/

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Upgrading to Functional Illinois Historical Aerial Photographs. Cook County Aerial Photo, Midway Airport, 1937. Photo courtesy of the Illinois State Geological Society. O’Hare International Airport, 1961. Photo courtesy of O’Hare International Airport Press Materials. Chris DiPrima. Airport Layouts, 2012. Image by author. Federal Aviation Administration.Wake Turblence, n.d. From FAA Pilot and Air Traffic Controller Guide to Wake Turbulence, Federal Aviation Administration. < www.faa.gov/training_ testing/training/media/wake/04SEC2.PD>. Image courtesy Federal Aviation Administration. Lufthansa. Frankfurt Terminal Map Lufthansa. <http://www. lufthansa.com>. Image courtesy Lufthansa A.G. Philadelphia International Airport Capacity Enhancement Project. PHL Master Plan, n.d. Image courtesy Philadelphia International Airport.

Reclaiming the Ghetto All photographs by author. Lizzie Hessmiller. October 2009. Map credit: Google. 2011. No Margin, No Mission MONDRAGON-Corporation. “Lagun Aro ESPV ,” Month x, 200x. <http://www.flickr.com/photos/ mondragoncorporation/4053158274/in/set72157622508030365>. Reprinted by permission under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0). Google. 2012. MONDRAGON-Corporation. “ Fagor Electrodomesticos,” Month x, 200x. <http://www.flickr.com/photos/ mondragoncorporation/4116944907/in/set-

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The Place of History in the City McCullough,W A. Untitled, 1966. Photo courtesy National Park Service. PH. Untitled, 1957. Photo courtesy National Park Service. Unknown. Untitled, n.d. Reprinted with permission of the University of Pennsylvania Architectural Archives, all rights reserved. Wasson-Tucker, Susanne. A Better Philadelphia Within Your Grasp, 1947. Photo courtesy Architectural Forum.

Salt Lake City Bryan Hughes. “Temple Square From Conference Center Roof,” August 13, 2007. <http://www.flickr.com/photos/ bryanh/1144745670/in/photostream/>. Reprinted by permission under Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0). B.A.M. Froiseth. J.Willard Marriott Library, University of Utah, “Salt Lake City Plat Map (Froiseth) P.1.” <http:// content.lib.utah.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/ USHS_Class&CISOPTR=21469>. Scenarios A and D. Envision Utah. Envision Utah.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Montreal2001.png>, Political Map of Montreal 2002 < http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ File:Montreal2002.png>, and Haroudin, Montreal 2006 < http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Montreal2006. png>. Derivative work printed with permission under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 3.0 license. Checkpoint 79. Montreal - Echangeur Anjou, 2009. <http://www.flickr.com/photos/ checkpoint79/3336373700/>. Reprinted with permission under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercialNoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) license. Anyalecta. Campaign Signage, 2007. <http://www.flickr. com/photos/miss-allise/423287602/>. Reprinted with permission under Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0) license. daryl_mitchell. Le Village, 2010. <http://www.flickr.com/ photos/daryl_mitchell/5121778347/in/photostream/>. Reprinted with permission under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.0) license.

Good Intentions Oxfam Australia. Sari Microfinance, 2008. <http://www. flickr.com/photos/lecercle/2873995521/>. Reprinted with permission under Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0) license. Zörner, Patrick-Emil. Speech of Muhammad Yunus 200911-05 in Wiesbaden, 2009. <http://commons.wikimedia. org/wiki/File:Muhammad_Yunus_2009-11-05_ (Wiesbaden)_11.JPG>. Reprinted with permission under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license. JWT Mindset, Hyderabad, India. “In the right hands, a four foot pestle can crush a twelve year spell of poverty,” n.d.

You’ve Got to Go Along with the Program NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center. Greater Chicago Metropolitan Area, 2012. <http://www.flickr.com/ photos/28634332@N05/6852803799/>. Reprinted by permission under Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercial 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC 2.0) license. Daniel Burnham. Plan of Chicago. Detroit Publishing Company. “The lakefront from Illinois Central Station,” circa 1901. <http://www.shorpy.com/ files/images/SHORPY_Chicago_Panorama.jpg>. Vallen Graham. Photo courtesy of Vallen Graham. Jack Delano for the Office of War Information. <http:// www.shorpy.com/files/images/1a34782u.jpg>. Darius Norvilas. “Chicago Industry RIP,” 2010. <http:// www.flickr.com/photos/istorija/4571605533/>. Reprinted by permission under Creative Commons AttributionNonCommercial 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC 2.0) license. GO TO 2040. Daniel Burnham. Plan of Chicago. tlozs. “Clayton, St. Louis,” 2010. <http://www.panoramio. com/photo/38094278>. Reprinted by permission.

Municipal Soul-Searching rgcastro. Montréal: Skyline, 2008. <http://www.flickr. com/photos/jrgcastro/2934789109/in/photostream/>. Reprinted with permission under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0) license. Pre-merger, Post-merger. Map. Image by author. Derivative work of Gene.arboit, Political Map of Montreal 2001 < http://

Thomas Choate and Barret Lane author photos courtesy of Barrett Doherty.

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