Agora v7 2013

AGORA 2013

Volume 7

The Urban Planning and Design Journal of the University of Michigan

2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012

Agora Growth Management Change Detroit Endurance and Adaptation Connection

Tim Bevins, MUD 2013 Cover: “Los Angeles after the Rain�. Los Angeles, California Justin Garrison, M. Arch/MUD 2013 8 House by BIG Architects, Copenhagen, Denmark

2013 Public|Private

Editor In Chief

Daniel Feinglos

Articles Editor

Alexandria Stankovich

Layout Editor

Outreach

Layout Staff

Stephen Luongo Terra Reed Erin Royals Aly Andrews Sergio Escudero Eric Huntley Nathan Mattson

Editorial Staff

Aja Bonner Carly Grob Laura Haw Dan Johns Julia Raskin

Staff Adivsors

Scott Campbell Julie Steiff

Letter from the Editor Daniel Feinglos vi AG O RA

Welcome to Agora 7. Six Agora staffs have gone before us; we hope many more will follow. After a long decision process, this year’s publication settled on the theme of Public/Private. Agora is not an island; our theme responds to issues in the wider world. Although it is easy to imagine the private realm as reserved solely for the exclusive and the individual, and the public for the general and the social, the lines between the two are constantly blurring. In cities across the United States, but nowhere more prominently than Detroit, private and quasipublic organizations are taking on functions once seen as the sole preserve of government.

Ubiquitous mobile technology has turned once-private spaces into extensions of the public realm, while blogs and social media have made once-private thoughts the basis of the public intellectual landscape. Moreover, the divisions between private and public have always been fluid: mass transit, once the exclusive domain of private companies, is now almost uniformly a public amenity. The definition and future of these realms is very much in flux.

Accordingly, Agora asked students to consider this topic, and received dozens of fantastic responses to our call for submissions. After some discussion, we managed to whittle it down to the 14 in this year’s print edition:

- “Liquid Gold Gone Bad” investigates the reallocation of public land to private companies in Malaysia.

- “The Possibilities of the In Between” delves into the gender, spatial, and conceptual assumptions underlying the field of landscape architecture.

- “The Park East Partnership” outlines a proposal to leverage private resources to create a new public amenity in Milwaukee.

- “There Grows the Neighborhood” explores the context of new regulations for private and community gardening in Detroit.

- “Building Collections” considers how St. Louis’ City Museum re-organizes and represents fragments of the public realm.

- “Collaborative Leadership” explores how regional and community organizations work with local governments to achieve their mutual goals.

- “Du Bled à la Banlieue” investigates the interplay between the public realm of the French suburbs and the private lives and heritage of their residents.

- “The Pink Bus” evaluates the degree to which public amenities cater to the needs of different genders.

- “Public Land” showcases a Detroit nonprofit’s program to revitalize some of the city’s vacant spaces.

- “Social Justice and Detroit Transit Service Reductions” analyzes the impacts of public transit cuts on residents of the Motor City.

- “Identity, Home, and Community” explores the roles of public and private space in university housing.

- “Tradable Planning Permits” proposes permits to limit the public impacts of private development.

- “Seoul is Not a City” evaluates and condemns the character of public space in the Korean capital.

- “Spatial Analysis of Heat Vulnerability in Detroit” considers the need for and benefits from publicly-provided cooling centers.

These submissions represent the depth and breadth of the Urban and Regional Planning program, Taubman College, and the University. Neither planning nor any other discipline has a monopoly on the built environment; by bringing together such seemingly diverse material from the worlds of real estate, gender theory, transportation, and international economics, we recognize that each field simply sees the same topics from a different angle.

This year’s theme has always been close to Agora’s heart: after all, Agora’s very name refers to ancient Athens’ premiere public space. (Our apologies for this inherent bias towards one side of the public/private discussion.) Who is this public space for? Agora is first and foremost a student publication: student-written and student-produced. We are an urban planning publication, but are proud to present papers from the Architecture program and the School of Natural Resources and Environment. Although by and large these groups study the built environment separately, they inevitably assemble it together. It is all too easy for professions and individuals to create their own private worlds of jargon and shop-talk; it is all too simple and natural for different disciplines to lose each other beyond the smallest differences and the thinnest walls. Agora’s mission – one of several – is to prevent that from happening; to keep these emergent private fiefdoms from siphoning off the life of the public realm. It is in providing that opportunity for people and ideas to step out of their own intellectual neighborhoods and into the commons that Agora can be worthy of its name.

Nevertheless, we found that a printonly academic journal had become insufficiently public in a world of ubiquitous tablets and smartphones. As a result, Agora has stepped into the digital commons, and now boasts accounts on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn alongside its new website at

AGORA vii Lett er f r o m t h e E d it o r

viii AG O RA

Agoraplanningjournal.com. In addition to our print edition, we have released a series of online articles and blog posts. Offline, we have held events intended to blur the realms even further, slipping the private rumblings of academia into a downtown coffee shop, and inviting professors and PhDs to discuss academic writing in a friendly, non-academic context.

Agora is a public space, but like many parks and institutions, it is maintained privately by a dedicated core of mostly volunteers. Thanks to all the authors whose fantastic material made this edition possible, and to the hard work of the layout and editorial staff who brought it all together. Our gratitude also goes out to the tireless work of the editorial board whose members helped keep all the publication’s sprawling parts in order.

This is our private project that is finally now being released to the public. And so, enjoy: birth, after all, is itself a transition between the private and public realms – and we have delayed it long enough. Welcome to Agora 7.

Daniel Feinglos Editor-in-Chief

Michael Harrison, B. Arch 2013 “Tannery”. Fes, Morocco

Contributors Parrish Bergquist

is a third-year dual Master of Urban Planning and Master of Science student, in the Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning and the School of Natural Resources and Environment. Her respective concentrations are environmental and land use planning and economic development, and environmental policy. She earned her undergraduate degree in American Studies and English at the University of Virginia in 2005.

Scott Claassen

is a graduate student studying Architecture at the University of Michigan in the Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning. He holds a Bachelor of Arts in Architectural Studies from the University of Washington and studied at the Bauhaus Kolleg in Dessau.

Benjamin Crumm

is a second-year Master of Urban Planning student at the University of Michigan. His concentration is in economic and community development. He attended Eastern Michigan University and obtained dual degrees in History and Area Studies with a concentration on Africa, focused on gender issues.

Leigh Davis

is currently a Master of Urban Planning candidate at the University of Michigan with a concentration in physical planning and urban design. Previously, she obtained a Bachelor of Arts in Public Policy with an Environmental specialization from Michigan State University. Leigh’s professional experience ranges from internships in both the public and private sector to her most recent experience as a research assistant and project partner for two assistant professors at the University of Michigan. Overall, she is interested in the achievement of sustainable development through physical urban design.

Cole Gehler

is from Colorado Springs and is interested in the physical and design aspects of urban planning.

He pursued urban planning at the University of Colorado and achieved a Bachelor of Arts in Environmental Design. After teaching English in Chile, working as an intern for an architecture firm, and as a landscaper, he moved to Michigan to pursue a Master of Urban Planning. Cole is passionate as an urban planner, a husband, and an outdoorsman.

Cole Grisham

holds a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science from the University of Michigan and is currently a candidate for a Master of Urban Planning with a concentration in regional planning. His research interests and past work are primarily in regionalism and political institutions.

Corinne Kisner

has a Bachelor of Science in Foreign Service from Georgetown University, with a specialization in environment and energy. She is currently a candidate for a Master of Urban Planning through the Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning at the University of Michigan, with a focus on sustainability planning.

Matt Lonnerstater

is a first-year Master of Urban Planning student concentrating in land use planning and transportation planning. His interests relate to land use and development law, alternative zoning practices, and smarter transportation policies. Prior to enrolling in the Urban and Regional Planning Program, Matt received a Bachelor of Arts in Environmental Science from the University of Michigan.

Victoria McGovern

is in the three-year Master of Architecture program at the Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning, set to graduate in May 2015. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Art History from Boston University, where she conducted an independent study on modern Japanese architecture.

She also obtained a minor in business and utilized this study post-graduation by working for two years in digital performance marketing.

Kevin Mulder

has a Bachelor of Arts in Economics from the University of Michigan and is a candidate for a Master of Urban Planning through the Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning with a concentration in transportation. He is currently working as a graduate intern with the City of Ann Arbor on its Non-Motorized Transportation Plan Update.

Katherine O’Gara

has a Bachelor of Arts in Environmental Studies from Villanova University and has been published in its collection “Sustainability: Perspectives on Sustainability at Villanova University.” She is currently a Master of Environmental Science candidate at the School of Natural Resources and Environment with a concentration in conservation ecology and environmental justice.

Young-Tack Oh

has a Bachelor of Architecture from Washington University in St. Louis and has participated in various architectural competitions under the name ‘Archipleasure.’ He is currently a Master of Architecture candidate at Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning. He is in the threeyear program and is expected to receive his degree in May 2015.

Emily Provonsha

holds a Bachelor of Arts in Environmental Studies from Green Mountain College. Her studies focused primarily on food systems and environmental land use planning. She is currently a Master of Urban Planning candidate with a concentration in physical planning. She is originally from northwest Ohio and is passionate about the revitalization of Rust Belt cities.

Terra Reed

is a first-year Master of Urban Planning student at the University of Michigan, concentrating in transportation planning. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Planning, Public Policy, and Management, with a minor in French, from the University of Oregon.

Landry Root

is a thesis student in the two-year Master of Architecture program at the Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning, graduating this coming May. She also completed her undergraduate education at Taubman with a Bachelor of Science in Architecture. During her time at Taubman, she has been an active member of ARC and this past summer participated in curating an exhibition piece with faculty for the Venice Biennale as a part of the project “13178 Moran Street: Grounds for Detroit”.

Kathryn Ryan

is currently in her first year of the Master of Urban Planning program at Taubman College, where she is concentrating in physical planning and design. Prior to attending Taubman, Katy worked at Columbia University School of the Arts in New York as a development assistant and at the Smithsonian Gardens in Washington, D.C. as a horticultural intern. In 2011, Katy graduated from Smith College with a degree in Women & Gender Studies and a minor in Landscape Studies.

Katy’s varied academic and professional experiences have made her especially interested in interdisciplinary questions concerning planning, particularly regarding the intersection of gender, space, and environment.

Kevin Shelton

holds a Bachelor of Arts in Urban and Public Affairs from the University of Illinois at Chicago. He worked for a number of years as a Chicago-based freelance photographer and graphic designer.

He also founded, built, and co-directed a community arts space in the same city. Kevin is currently a Master of Urban Planning candidate at the Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning, where he also plans to pursue a Graduate Certificate in Real Estate Development and a Master of Urban Design.

Catie Truong

is a thesis student in the Master of Architecture program. Over the last several years at Taubman, she has had the opportunity to work with esteemed faculty members as a research assistant on various projects including the most recent development of the conceptual design proposal for the Ypsilanti Recreational Center. She has a Bachelor of Science degree in Architectural Engineering Technology from the University of Cincinnati where she studied and worked in architecture, construction, and development.

Benjamin VanGessel

is a graduate of Aquinas College’s Sustainable Business Program and is completing the Master of Urban Planning program at the University of Michigan in Spring of 2013. Benjamin’s research focuses on national transportation and energy policy issues, including advanced fuel vehicle technology deployment and integration, and transportation related greenhouse gas planning. Benjamin currently works with the EPA conducting an ongoing national assessment of transportation-related state and local greenhouse gas planning efforts.

Mike Westling

is a second-year Master of Urban Planning student at Taubman College concentrating in economic development and real estate development. He holds a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science and Journalism from the University of Wisconsin.

Global

Gender

Land Use

Liquid Gold Gone Bad

The Possibilities of the In Between

The Park East Partnership

Katherine O’Gara

1

Kathryn Ryan

Mike Westling

13

27

Du Bled à La Banlieue

The Pink Bus

Public Land

Terra Reed

Benjamin Crumm

67

81

Leigh Davis Cole Gehler Landry Root Catie Truong

87 Seoul is Not a City Young-Tack Oh

117

Tim Bevins, MUD 2013 “Avenida Atlantica and Copacabana”. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Detroit

Placemaking Institutional

There Grows the Neighborhood

Building Collections

Emily Provonsha

45

Parrish Bergquist

Identity, Home, and Community

Tradable Planning Permits

Victoria McGovern

Matt Lonnerstater

39 Social Justice and Detroit Transit Service Reductions Cole Grisham Terra Reed Kevin Shelton

89 Spatial Analysis of Heat Vulnerability in Detroit Corinne Kisner Kevin Mulder Benjamin VanGessel

125

Scott Claassen

99

Collaborative Leadership

57

109

John Monnat, M. Arch 2015 “Cross the Lines.” Central, Hong Kong

Liquid Gold Gone Bad Palm Oil Development and Neoliberal Economics in Malaysia Katherine O’Gara, M.S. NRE ‘13 1 AG O RA

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Land use change as a result of the global economy is occurring at a rapid rate, altering the landscapes of countries like Cameroon, Indonesia, and Malaysia. The food and biofuel industries in particular have contributed to sweeping land use changes in many tropical regions. Driven by government programs and foreign investors, extensive areas of peat land and rainforests have been decimated to support vegetable oils. A rarely discussed yet frequently consumed product that contributes to such land use change is palm oil. Sourced from the oil palm tree, this cholesterol-free solid fat has been praised for its lack of trans fatty acids and ability to give margarine and shortening their solid, yet creamy texture (Hayes and Pronczuk 2010).

The oil is widely consumed throughout Europe, as well as Asian countries like China and India (Sime Darby 2012). Astonishingly, the average French citizen consumes almost four and a half pounds of palm oil each year (France 24 2012). Yet if asked what foods they ate that contained palm oil, the average French person might not be able to say because of the product’s ubiquity in processed foods and household products (Martin 2012).

The effects of high demand for palm oil are felt globally. Oil palm plantations in Africa, Central America, and especially Southeast Asia are being established at a rapid rate in order to meet this demand (Gilbert 2012). Much has been written on the ecological issues surrounding oil palm plantations, including high greenhouse gas emissions, deforestation, high fertilizer inputs, and loss

of biodiversity (Gilbert 2012, Reijnders and Huijbregts 2008). However, far less has been written about how oil palm plantations have contributed to unequal development in several countries.

This paper seeks to understand the social impacts of neoliberal economic policies within the context of palm oil plantations in developing countries. I will discuss the case of Malaysia, which is currently one of the world leaders in palm oil production and exports.

I argue that the global shift in governance towards neoliberal policies has resulted in greater disparity between the wealthy and rural poor in Malaysia. I focus in particular on structural adjustment plans (SAPs) and the concept of accumulation by dispossession to clarify the influence of private corporations on public policies. Throughout the paper, I highlight the resulting significant land use changes in Malaysia that primarily impact rural and indigenous communities without adequate compensation.

To explore these issues, I first outline the global history of oil palm and consumption patterns of palm oil. In doing so, I illuminate how markets and power structures within the industry came to be. This reveals the influence of consumption on the palm oil industry in Malaysia as well as the driving factors for federal policies within the country. Second, I place Malaysian federal policy, specifically the Federal Land Development Authority (FELDA), in the context of neoliberalism to examine the consequences of its implementation. Consequently, I find that like other neoliberal approaches to production, FELDA results in an unequal distribution of benefits for the Malaysian government

and the rural poor. Finally, I continue to explore Malaysia’s neoliberal political agenda through the Konsep Baru scheme. Even more so than FELDA, Konsep Baru widens the gap between benefits for private corporations and Malaysians. This inequity is compounded by the accumulation of land through the dispossession of native peoples and silent violence incurred by smallholders. This further highlights the tension between private and public benefits from palm oil production.

Ultimately, neoliberal policies promoting the expansion of oil palm plantations through decreased regulation by the government have resulted in increased wealth for private palm oil companies and the Malaysian government at the expense of the country’s rural poor. The next section will explore the history of oil palm as a plant as well as a commodity to explain the formation of power structures within the palm oil industry.

History of the Oil Palm

The earliest documented use of palm oil was as a sacrificial gift in ancient Egyptian tombs dating back to 2700 B.C.E. (Lanagan 1977). Despite this evidence of early use, palm oil has only recently become a large component of the global market for edible oils (Hayes and Pronczuk 2010). The history of palm oil as a commodity is central to an understanding of its current role in the global capitalist economy and Malaysian export markets.

Oil palm is a tree species that is believed to have originated from West Africa (Corley and Tinker 2003). The British first planted oil palm in Malaysia in 1807

as decorative trees (Nair 2010), and Malaysia’s first oil palm plantation was established in 1917 (MPOC 2012). Around this time, margarine was invented from palm oil as an inexpensive fat for cooking, resulting in widespread use as a replacement for butter in the United Kingdom and France (Robinson 2005). From the beginning, Malaysia produced high-quality palm oil that was suitable for margarine and cooking fats in Western markets (Kiple et al. 2000). It was manufactured by further refining the oil before export, creating white, bland cooking fat that was similar to fats used by Europeans at the time (ibid). Malaysian palm oil was introduced to American markets in the 1930s for similar purposes, further increasing demand.

Since the mid-1900s, palm oil demand has continued to increase. Solid palm oil takes longer to spoil than other fats and is ideal as frying oil due to its ability to heat to high temperatures without burning (ibid).

As demand for processed and fried foods increased during the 1970s in Europe and the United States, so did the demand for palm oil (ibid, see Figures 1a and 1b). Additionally, Malaysia was able to produce more oil in the 1970s as its plantations matured and produced more fruit (ibid, see Table 1). Due to its increase in production, both the Malaysian government and private palm oil companies promoted their product in Europe and the United States (ibid). After 1970, Malaysia began producing forms of palm oil for use in Asian countries (ibid). Specifically, India, Pakistan, Egypt, and other Middle Eastern

AGORA 2 L iq u id Go ld Go n e Bad

Figure 1a: World production of all oils, 1910-90 (adapted from Kiple et al. 2000).

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countries began importing vanaspati as a substitute for butter ghee, a popular cooking fat in these areas (ibid).

In the last 20 years, palm oil has become so prevalent in foods around the globe that it constitutes over one quarter of the edible oil market (Clay 2004). This is mostly due to the recent phenomenon of ‘trans fatfree’ food. According to the Encyclopedia of Global Health, [T]rans fats are a type of unsaturated fat that can be produced commercially by the process of hydrogenation of plant oils and animal fats… most trans fatty acids in the typical American diet come from hydrogenated foods...

(Zhang, 2008) In the late 1980s, Katan conducted research on trans fats and it became apparent that these fats increased LDL cholesterol (‘bad’ cholesterol) and decreased HDL cholesterol (‘good’ cholesterol) (Korver and Katan 2006). Several health campaigns launched in the early 2000s to eliminate trans fats from food products such as the FDA requirement of including trans fat content on nutrition labels (U.S. FDA 2009), New York City and the state of California banning trans fats in restaurants (Lueck and Severson 2006, Steinhauer 2008), and a proposed campaign to reduce trans fats in school lunches in the United States (Hellmich 2012).

In turn, palm oil became a major substitute for hydrogenated trans fats (Saxon and Roquemore 2011) and was marketed as such by Sime Darby, a Malaysian palm oil producer (Sime Darby 2009). Palm oil does

not contain trans fatty acids and does not require hydrogenation in order to be solid.

Therefore, it was a convenient substitution in food products. Global demand for palm oil increased due to the combination of health campaigns mentioned above and marketing by palm oil companies like Sime Darby (Saxon and Roquemore 2011). Many consumers were unaware of the rise in demand because palm oil is often listed on food products as the ingredient ‘vegetable oil’ (Richard 2012).

Palm oil is found in a number of products beyond the kitchen table. Currently, palm oil serves as a base ingredient in detergents, shampoos, soap, cosmetics, paints, pesticides, fertilizers, biofuels, machinery lubricant, and polishes (Clay 2004, Martin 2012).

The fact that palm oil is a key ingredient in diverse products magnifies its demand.

In summary, palm oil is prevalent around the globe in both edible and nonedible products (Clay 2004). Malaysia has become one of the world’s largest producers and exporters of palm oil (Indexmundi 2012) via several means including tax incentives for refineries (Kiple et al. 2000), funding from the World Bank (The World Bank 1991), and federal programs that involve citizens in producing palm oil. In the following section, I ground Malaysia’s program FELDA in a neoliberal context in order to better understand the reasoning behind the programs. I explore the land use change that made this production possible as well as who benefits from the establishment of oil palm plantations under FELDA.

Figure 1b: World production of palm oil, 1910-90 (adapted from Kiple et al. 2000).

Neoliberalism, Vertical Integration, and the Evolution of FELDA Starting with its first elected legislature in 1955, around the time of Malaysia’s independence, rural communities throughout the country began demanding that the government provide them with equitable options for rural economic development (Courtenay 1988). In response, the Malaysian government made it a priority to diversify the country’s crop exports from rubber and tin to include palm oil, maize, and several other robust cash crops (ibid). Government officials chose to focus on diversifying agriculture as a means to address rural communities’ demands because Malaysia has good conditions for agriculture, it was cost-effective, and it would provide an opportunity for the majority of the population to develop ‘equitably’ (ibid).

Furthermore, the government aimed to avoid a large influx of people into urban centers, instead choosing to focus on rural agriculture, which ultimately resulted in extensive land use change (ibid). These policies fell under the umbrella of the federal Malaysian Diversification of Agriculture Programme (MDAP).

The MDAP increased oil palm plantations throughout the country steadily at first, until the late 1960s when rubber prices dropped and palm oil became Malaysia’s most profitable crop export (ibid). Established in 1956, the Federal Land Development Authority (FELDA), an agricultural diversification initiative under the MDAP, further enabled the rise in palm oil production. As rubber prices fell in the mid-1960s, FELDA focused primarily on establishing oil palm plantations

and increased the area cultivated with oil palm from 57,000 hectares to 311,000 between 1961 and 1971 (Lanagan 1977). FELDA continues to focus on oil palm plantations because Malaysia is ideal for growing oil palm and exporting palm oil is profitable (ibid).

The impact of these programs on land use in rural Malaysia is extensive. By 1961, oil palm and other perennial crops occupied 80 percent of Malaysia’s agricultural land (Lambin and Geist 2006). Additionally, agricultural land as a whole continued to grow from 21 percent of Malaysia’s land cover in 1966 to 39 percent in 1982 (ibid). This resulted in a loss of 22 percent of Malaysia’s forest cover between 1950 and 1982 (ibid). These statistics represent an extensive change in land cover and land use in the country that primarily impacted rural and indigenous communities through MDAP. The FELDA program and neoliberal policies played a particular role in this change in land use by engaging rural citizens.

FELDA plantations are operated by Malaysian citizens who have applied to be “resettled” on oil palm plantations (Vermeulen and Goad 2006). They work as ‘smallholders,’ or in other words, provide labor and management of oil palm trees as well as have the opportunity to farm for subsistence on the same land (Lanagan 1977). In return, the Malaysian government clears the land and constructs living quarters for the smallholder family (Vermeulen and Goad 2006).

Additionally, FELDA provides development incentives such as school buildings, road construction, and hospital infrastructure for the surrounding area (Lanagan 1977).

Once the plantation is mature, the smallholder

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sells his or her palm fruit to FELDA to repay the government for the incentives it has provided (ibid). In general, it takes smallholders 15 years to repay FELDA and gain ownership of the land (Vermeulen and Goad 2006).

Once they do, they can opt to operate privately or sign another 25-year contract with FELDA (ibid).

In FELDA’s first 20 to 25 years of settling Malaysian citizens on the land, smallholders were content with the services provided to them and the income they received (New Straits Times 1988). The government was extremely involved in resettlements to the extent that they ensured each family had a house, access to amenities like roads and hospitals, and an income above the poverty line (ibid). However, during the 1970s and 1980s, there was a global shift from intense government involvement in development programs to a more market-driven approach led by organizations like the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) (Heynen et al. 2007). These development programs, known as structural adjustment plans or SAPs, gained popularity while global governance strategies and economies were shifting towards neoliberalism.

Social scientist David Harvey defines neoliberalism as a movement towards privatization and liberated market regulations with a de-emphasis on government involvement in both market processes like regulations for private companies, as well as determining how its citizens interact with the economy (Harvey 2006). Neoliberalism, according to its supporters, is intended to increase citizens’ freedoms and encourage local decisionmaking (Heynen et al. 2007). Contrastingly,

Harvey argues that neoliberalism is a tactic used by the wealthy to increase their capital and freedoms because they benefit from the lack of regulation (ibid). Below, I explore the case of palm oil plantations in Malaysia in terms of Harvey’s assessment of neoliberalism and conclude that it is more accurate.

Although smallholders were satisfied with the FELDA scheme, the World Bank criticized FELDA for stifling citizens’ freedoms with its intense oversight of the palm oil production process in 1988 (New Straits Times 1988). The World Bank began disbursing funds to FELDA in 1968 to enhance its production methods as well as test different strategies for maximizing oil production from oil palm trees (The World Bank 1991). Since its first disbursement to FELDA, the World Bank has promoted strengthening FELDA’s production and institutional capacity, decreasing federal regulations on Malaysian citizens’ roles in the global market, and reducing in debt for the Malaysian government (ibid).

This neoliberal approach has ultimately resulted in a vertical integration of the process of producing palm oil (Sutton and Buang 1995).

In other words, FELDA has diversified its production methods, assuming responsibility for most of the growing, manufacturing, marketing, and transportation processes associated with palm oil production (ibid).

The World Bank still supports FELDA initiatives today (The World Bank 2012).

All of the programs that the Bank has supported are examples of SAPs. The World Bank and IMF began implementing SAPs in the 1980s in order to reduce developing nations’ debts (Welch 2000). Through SAPs, the World Bank and IMF require governments

Country

1950-1953

1962-1965

1970-1973

1982-1985

1990

Nigeria

180

130

8

-

-

Zaire

140

130

100

8

-

Indonesia

120

120

220

380

1,110

Malaysia

50

120

620

3,000

5,950

Unknown

1

40

60

140

-

-

-

100

130

Ivory Coast Papau New Guinea Thailand World Total

-

-

-

-

30

520

540

1,000

3,700

8,440

Table 1: Palm oil exports from selected countries in thousands of tons per year (adapted from Kiple et al. 2000).

to implement policies that increase exports and decrease government regulation of trade and investments from private companies (ibid), and the FELDA scheme has evolved in this manner.

In the 1970s, FELDA smallholders became more autonomous in the palm oil production process as they were in charge of organizing cooperatives amongst themselves and became responsible for transporting their palm fruit to FELDA processing mills (Vermeulen and Goad 2006). Since 1985, FELDA has shifted from providing development incentives for families resettled on land that eventually becomes their own to promoting financial independence of smallholders and increasing market viability of palm oil (Vermeulen and Goad 2006). FELDA became a private company in 1988 (Cramb 2012) and it no longer settles citizens on land. In the late 1980s, FELDA became concerned with shortages in laborers and land to produce palm oil and instead, the program began hiring wage laborers to produce palm fruit (Fold 2000). FELDA continues to operate in this manner today and through its evolution it has exhibited increasingly neoliberal characteristics.

SAPs do not seek to address the social and environmental issues that may occur as a result of deregulation and can instead magnify structures that contribute to poverty or inequity (Welch 2000). Welch asserts that SAPs emulate and contribute to the structure of class disparity through neoliberal policies that reduce regulatory policies that benefit citizens, ultimately facilitating the production of wealth by elites (ibid).

Furthermore, SAPs and other neoliberal policies contribute to environmental degradation and sweeping land use change.

In general, these approaches decrease environmental regulation as a result of liberalization and increased privatization (Mittleman 1998).

In other words, not only do neoliberal policies increase land use change, but also the likelihood of ecosystem degradation, leaving smallholders’ land at risk for a decline in productivity.

FELDA smallholders continued to experience declines in social benefits and land use changes. The responsibility of land settlement under FELDA is no longer a public program, but has been transferred to the private sector, resulting in inequitable land ownership (Sutton and Buang 1995) and the possibility of land degradation. Finally, since becoming a private company in 1988, FELDA has increasingly used its profits to expand its production capacity, resulting in decreased investment in development incentives for smallholder communities (Khoo 2012).

This trend in distribution has resulted in smallholders demanding an equitable share of the profits from palm oil production.

FELDA runs processing mills that purchase palm fruit from producers and turn into palm oil. FELDA returns 13.8 percent of its profits to smallholders (Razak Chik 2011). In 2010, over 300 smallholders sued FELDA “over payment of oil palm fruits. [Smallholders] claimed there was grading manipulation of the fruit between 1996 to 2002 which caused them to suffer losses� (The Star 2012).

The smallholders won the case, but have yet to be paid their full settlement. Ultimately,

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Management Approach

Hectares

%

3,091,407

61.4

FELDA

711,108

14.1

FELCRA

166,984

3.3

RISDA

78,676

1.6

Government/State Agencies

308,517

6.1

681,267

13.5

5,037,959

100

Private Estates

Independent Smallholders Total

Table 2: Ownership of oil palm planted area as of June 2012 (adapted from Malaysian Palm Oil Board 2012).

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FELDA is contributing to wealth disparity in Malaysia, further proving Welch and Harvey’s theories that SAPs, and neoliberal policies more generally, generate more income for the wealthy while contributing to inequitable distribution of benefits from production.

Despite the negative social impacts of incorporating neoliberal policies into FELDA, the Malaysian government continued to promote the expansion of oil palm plantations through similar policies. Konsep Baru is less regulated than FELDA and dispossesses native Malaysians of their land through non-physical means.

Konsep Baru, a Continuation of Neoliberalism Since the inception of FELDA in 1956, the Malaysian government continued to create neoliberal policies for the establishment of oil palm plantations. Some of them include FELCRA (subsidies and infrastructure for smallholders on land previously used for unsuccessful government initiatives), RISDA (establishment of oil palm plantations on former rubber plantations), miniestates (small-scale joint ventures between farmers and private industry), and private cooperatives (cooperatives set up between farmers with large tracts of land) (Vermeulen and Goad 2006). However, this paper focuses on FELDA and Konsep Baru because they constitute the largest landholdings for oil palm plantations in Malaysia outside of private industry (MPOB 2012, see Table 2 and Figure 2).

Konsep Baru is a program for native Malaysians to become smallholders on ancestral land that they have rights to under Native

Customary Rights (NCR) (Vermeulen and Goad 2006). However, since 1958, native peoples have had to apply for permits in order to extract natural resources from the forest on their land (Cultural Survival 1986). With the introduction of Konsep Baru, the Malaysian government has created a way to profit from land legally belonging to native peoples, a process that occurs in several countries around the world (Aiken and Leigh 2011).

The Konsep Baru scheme involves a breakdown of the palm oil production and sale process between three stakeholders. A private company, selected by the Malaysian government, provides money for native landowners to prepare their land for oil palm production including clearing forest and purchasing seeds and equipment (Vermeulen and Goad 2006). In return, the company holds 60 percent of the joint venture (ibid). There is little information about the selection process of private companies engaged in Konsep Baru.

In the description of the scheme written by the Sarawak Ministry of Land Development, officials note that “investors were assumed to be trustworthy simply because they were selected from among the well-established plantation companies” (Majid Cooke 2002). Sime Darby, the world’s largest producer of palm oil, is often chosen as the private company to participate in Konsep Baru (Sarawak Report 2012). Native landowners hold 30 percent of the joint venture and the government holds the remaining 10 percent. The Malaysian government has advertised Konsep Baru as an opportunity for rural people to engage in globalization and avoid “being left behind” (Majid Cooke 2002).

In other words, private companies take advantage of weak structural arrangements in Malaysia to profit from palm oil plantations under the guise of charitably participating in a federal development initiative.

Konsep Baru is a neoliberal policy intended to reduce government regulation of commodity production in order to stimulate economic growth and provide development through market forces (Cramb 2012).

For the Malaysian government, the program’s primary goal appears to be gaining access to lands that were previously unavailable for commercial production (ibid). Private companies elect to participate in Konsep Baru to avoid public backlash by “leaving themselves open to the accusation of engaging in ‘land grabs’ by taking up direct ownership of land under poor governance arrangements” (McCarthy et al. 2012). In other words, private companies take advantage of weak structural arrangements in Malaysia to profit from palm oil plantations under the guise of charitably participating in a federal development initiative. Though these goals have been achieved, the Konsep Baru scheme is generally considered a failure in terms of development and has resulted in increased disparity in the distributions of benefits of palm oil production (Cramb 2012). This is due to the dissolution of land tenure, stress imposed on smallholders under the scheme, and inequitable payments for palm fruit produced by smallholders.

The division of ownership in the joint venture would indicate that native peoples have more control in Konsep Baru than the government. Yet the native landowners are disadvantaged in this scheme because they sign over their power of attorney for land under NCR to the government for the project’s 60-year lifespan (Vermeulen and Goad 2006). The Institute for Development and Alternative Living (IDEAL) conducted

a survey of smallholders in the KanowitMachan-Nyamah area in 2001 about their involvement in Konsep Baru. Most participants did not believe they signed legal documents to sign over their power of attorney and 97.5 percent of participants did not have a copy of the power of attorney form (IDEAL 2001).

The survey revealed “that many of the scheme participants regret[ed] their previous decision without a clear understanding of the scheme” (ibid). This example illuminates the fact that several Konsep Baru smallholders are coerced into signing over their power of attorney due to a lack of transparency, which is a common occurrence in land negotiations of this type (McCarthy et al. 2012). The Malaysian government uses the tactic of Konsep Baru to acquire the rights to native Malays’ lands, resulting in more land and wealth for the Malaysian government at the Malays’ expense.

Accumulation by dispossession is a concept built on Marx’s concept of primitive accumulation (Fairhead et al. 2012). Harvey conceptualizes that in our current capitalist society, a powerful few accumulate wealth and resources by dispossessing less powerful groups (the public) of such wealth and resources (ibid). Accumulation by dispossession is more specifically defined as, “the enclosure of public assets by private interests for profit, resulting in greater social inequity” (ibid). Accumulation by dispossession is a specific example of how neoliberalism results in disparate benefits. This process can occur through unfair policies and buyouts or misrepresentation of information, as is the case with Konsep Baru.

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When applied to indigenous groups, neoliberal policies often have negative environmental and social consequences.

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When applied to indigenous groups, neoliberal policies often have negative environmental and social consequences. Primarily, these policies contribute to deforestation and a sharp decrease in natural resources that leads to ecosystem degradation (Aiken and Leigh 2011). This breakdown of environmental services can result in conflict in indigenous communities (ibid). Though this is not always the case, Konsep Baru has led to increased tension between indigenous communities and the federal government in Malaysia.

More subtly, Konsep Baru has created stress for smallholders – an example of silent violence inflicted on native landowners as a result of the loss of rights and choice for participants. Silent violence is not physical or aggressive in nature, yet its impacts on people can be destructive and debilitating. Participants in Konsep Baru have reported a lack of choice in participation because their land would be developed either way, resulting in a loss of control over the process, a loss of cultural identity with their land, potentially inaccurate boundary assessments, a loss of security in terms of their land returning to their control after 60 years, and a suspicion of government leases to private companies (Vermeulen and Goad 2006, IDEAL 2001).

These limitations, negative emotions, and losses are examples of silent violence felt by native landowners on a daily basis.

In addition to the emotional cost of participating in Konsep Baru, smallholders experience financial costs in the form of missing or inequitable payments (Cramb 2012).

Recently, smallholders have filed lawsuits in response to Konsep Baru schemes. According to a news article by Sarawak Report, [M]any native communities were not consulted over the removal of their lands under this scheme.

Nor were they compensated and nor have these ‘joint ventures’ provided them with any noticeable reward or benef it beyond the destruction of their lands, now converted to oil palm by Sime Darby and other such mega-corporations...

(Sarawak Report 2012) Sime Darby and other palm oil producers are benefiting financially from the export of palm oil through Konsep Baru, yet they are not adequately compensating smallholders for the land, labor, energy, and time that went into producing the palm fruit that made this possible (Cramb 2012). Therefore, private companies accumulate wealth through the dispossession of native Malays through the tactic of Konsep Baru.

In summary, Konsep Baru is a continuation of neoliberal policies in Malaysia for the expansion of oil palm plantations. The policy is a manifestation of neoliberal beliefs that the federal government should have minor oversight in the way citizens interact with the market. Though this policy was successful in that sense, it resulted in increased disparity between the rural poor and private companies in Malaysia. Overall, the establishment of oil palm plantations under the federal

Figure 3: Ownership of oil palm planted area in Malaysia as of June 2012 (adapted from Malaysian Palm Oil Board 2012).

government since the 1970s has contributed to sweeping land use change and is can be seen as socially undesirable for Malaysian citizens.

Conclusion It is estimated that agricultural land currently constitutes about a third of land cover globally (Lambin and Geist 2006). The production of palm oil for food products, biofuels, and cosmetics has contributed to the trend of increased land use change from valuable rainforests and peat lands to monoculture agricultural land. Overall, private corporations and consumers mainly in Western Europe, China, and India are benefiting at the expense of rural communities in Malaysia as well as other countries cultivating oil palm.

Oil palm plantations in developing countries, specifically Malaysia, contribute to inequitable benefits for the wealthy and rural poor through different forms and tactics of neoliberalism. In the case of Malaysia, the federal government, in coordination with private palm oil companies and the World Bank, has reduced its regulation of citizen interaction with the palm oil industry. This has resulted in the wealthy accumulating more capital through the dispossession the rural poor. In effect, the Malaysian government has increased the income gap between classes – in direct opposition to its explicit goals.

Though Malaysia is one of the largest producers and exporters of palm oil globally, it is not the only country attempting to profit from the export of palm oil. Oil palm plantations continue to crop up in Central and South America (Ecuador, Guatemala, Colombia, Costa Rica, Honduras, Brazil), Southeast Asia (Indonesia and Borneo) and Africa (Ghana, Kenya, Angola, Cameroon, Nigeria, Tanzania, South Africa, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Algeria) (Indexmundi 2012). It is likely that similar narratives of land use change and inequity exist in these countries as a result of neoliberal policies.

There are several groups monitoring palm oil plantations and attempting to make conclusions about their social and environmental impacts. One popular group is the Roundtable for Sustainable Palm Oil (RSPO) (Martin 2012), whose assessment criteria include sustainable land use and consideration for growers of palm oil (RSPO 2012). Armed with this information, consumers have influenced companies to alter their buying practices for palm oil (Scientific American 2012). KFC, Cadbury, Unilever, and Shiseido have committed to either removing palm oil from their products or using ‘sustainably-sourced palm oil,’ though several activists are skeptical of the effectiveness of these labels (Scientific American 2012, McDougall 2012, Martin 2012).

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In effect, the Malaysian government has increased the income gap between classes – in direct opposition to its explicit goals.

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However, we cannot solely depend on groups like RSPO to effectively monitor oil palm plantations and their impacts (Martin 2012). More importantly, when palm oil is removed from products, the products do not disappear. Consumers may demand that palm oil not be used, but they still expect their favorite products to exist and work as they always have. So, if the demand for palm oil disappears, another oil will take its place – likely recreating the same problems of environmental degradation and disparate benefits. Therefore, it is imperative that countries produce policies that move past neoliberalism to ensure equitable and sustainable benefits for their people.

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The Possibilities of the In Between A Literature Review of a Gendered Discourse on Landscape Architecture Kathryn Ryan, MUP ‘14 13 AG O RA

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In 1986, Joan Scott called for gender to be used as a category of historical analysis.

She argued that employing gender in such a way creates new perspectives and redefines old questions, makes women visible as historical agents, and reveals the instability of seemingly fixed, naturalized language systems that legitimize power for some and oppression for others. Feminist scholars of architecture and design took on this challenge to understand how women’s contributions to those fields had been systematically undervalued.

Feminist projects on landscape architecture range from biographic narratives of forgotten women landscape architects to critiques of the underlying systems that elide women professionally, educationally, and historically from the profession. By applying a gendered lens to landscape architecture, not only does the role of gender become strikingly apparent in the creation and organization of the built environment, but new questions also emerge, particularly pertaining to the field’s future.

Reviewing the literature on feminist interventions in landscape architecture requires an analysis of the oppositional binaries that have contributed to the structure and evolution of the profession and its historic representation. These binaries are feminine/ masculine, natural/cultural, private/public space, and landscape/architecture. The first part of this essay will explore the theoretical and historical positions these binaries play in regard to landscape architecture and expose their social construction, as well as how they inevitably result in a hierarchal value system.

The second section will explore how these

binaries excluded women from landscape architecture professionally, educationally, and historically. The third section will consider the strengths and weaknesses of alternative historiographic methods used by feminist landscape architects to both deconstruct and reinterpret the history of the field. Lastly, I will consider future possibilities for feminist landscape architecture.

This review explores feminist interventions into landscape architecture, while employing literature from architectural, design, philosophic, historic, and feminist fields.

Such an interdisciplinary approach reveals two things: first, that landscape architecture is inherently situated between professions and disciplines; and second, that the field requires a more inclusive theoretical framework. Given its position as an in-between field of study, landscape architecture has the potential to not only exist between binaries but to deconstruct them as well. This literature review will explore the consequences of landscape architecture’s reliance upon gendered, oppositional binaries, feminist attempts to overcome these binaries, and finally, binaries that require further critique for a feminist transformation of landscape architecture.

Binaries as Framework The first, and primary binary that shapes landscape architecture is the feminine/ masculine binary ‒ the dichotomous, culturally specific relationship between genders that positions masculinity over femininity. In her seminal 1986 essay, “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis,” Joan Scott

argues that gender consists of cultural symbols that represent sex differences. Her essay hinges on the understanding that gender is socially constructed and historically contingent. Throughout history, gendered symbols are normalized by dominant regimes into a fixed oppositional binary establishing masculine authority and feminine submission. Thus, gender operates as a legitimization of power differentials in social relationships. Scott is not writing about landscape architecture, but her explanation of gender as “a primary field within which power is articulated” allows the feminist landscape architect to see how binaries are used to deny power and influence to women landscape architects (p. 1069). In other words, studying landscape architecture specifically from a gendered perspective allows us to observe how the profession’s power dynamics arise out of socially constructed and perpetuated gender norms.

Aware of the power differential produced by hierarchal binaries, the feminist scholar Elizabeth Grosz (1994) uses Plato’s Timaeus to demonstrate how the female category originally lost social worth and power.

As Grosz describes, in Timaeus, Plato explains the intermediary category between the fundamental binary of being/becoming with the concept of chora. Plato describes chora as an empty, womb-like entity that brings forms into existence but has no qualities of its own.

Plato compares chora to the feminine, and by doing so establishes the conceptual foundation for the perpetual association of women with their biological function of gestation and nothing else. Thus, conceptualizations

of the feminine as natural and the masculine as cultural, or the feminine as empty space and the masculine as the constructed, lead to Grosz’ argument that architecture is literally the “phallocentric effacement of women and femininity,” through the construction of buildings upon natural, ‘empty’ space (p. 22).

Because landscape architecture was modeled after the masculine profession of architecture, it continued this suppression of women in order to establish itself as a legitimate, professional field. As a philosophical essay on architecture, Grosz provides insight into the psychology of mainstream, male-dominated landscape architecture; however, it lacks the experiential, real-world perspective necessary for a feminist landscape architectural theory.

The next binary, which comes directly from the feminine/masculine, is nature/culture. This binary explains the concept of femininity in terms of natural, biological processes of motherhood while defining masculinity as a cultural, advanced mode of being that transcends the natural. Because women have been defined through history as mothers, everything they do and produce is similarly aligned with natural motherhood.

Conversely, manhood and masculine activities are considered to be manifestations of human culture and refinement. Cheryl Buckley addresses this nature/culture binary by analyzing how women interact with design in a patriarchal context in her article, “Made in Patriarchy.” According to Buckley, women’s design skills are closely tied to their biology, and are often dismissed as inherent, lacking cultural significance. However, when men

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Although feminist landscape historians recognize that the public/private binary exists in landscape architectural history, few acknowledge its centrality in the creation and organization of the built environment.

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employ the same skills, they are considered to be refining craft into high design (Buckley 1986, 5). Here, Buckley writes about design, not landscape architecture, but her description of the natural/cultural binary applies to the profession’s devaluation of horticulture as a central aspect of landscape architecture in order to diminish women’s contributions. At the time, horticulture was largely considered a feminine, domestic pastime. Landscape architecture tried to disassociate itself with the practice, striving to appear more like architecture in terms of being more of a technical and rational profession. Because the profession’s alignment with architectural design was successful, landscape scholars tend to overlook female practitioners whose work tended to be more horticultural than architectural, and in doing so leave out many female contributions to the field. Although landscape historians such as Thaisa Way describe this process of devaluing horticulture, landscape scholars have yet to take on the natural/cultural binary as explained by Buckley.

The next binary to explore is that of public/private space. The modern construct of public, masculine space as opposed to private feminine space is a relatively recent historic phenomenon. Both social and women’s historians have explored the history of these separate spaces, or spheres. Some, such as Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall (1983), attributed separate spheres to the emergence of middle-class ideals in Victorian England.

Others, such as Marion Gray (2000), explain that it developed out of German Enlightenment economic systems. Although feminist landscape historians recognize that the public/private binary exists in landscape

architectural history, few acknowledge its centrality in the creation and organization of the built environment. Even fewer have taken it on as a topic of critique. Some nod to it as a given historical construct, as in Heath Schenker’s (1994) critical essay, “Feminist Interventions in the Histories of Landscape Architecture”. Others fail to mention it at all, as in Elizabeth Meyer’s (2002) theoretically groundbreaking essay, “The Expanded Field of Landscape Architecture,” in which she calls for the creation of alternatives to those binaries inherent in landscape architecture, those being “landscape and architecture, nature and culture, female and male, nature and man,” but never mentions the public/private binary (p. 169).

Conversely, Thaisa Way’s (2009) Unbounded Practice, acknowledges the use of the public/private as a means to exclude women from landscape architecture. Yet, in the introduction of her book, Way explicitly tells the reader that she has “chosen to consider women who practiced as the profession emerged in the public sphere” (emphasis added), and so reinvests the public as a signifier of cultural importance (p. 2). Way fails to challenge the oppositional binary that marginalized the women landscape architects she describes and so leaves that structure of systematic oppression intact. By inadequately critiquing the public/private binary, the work of Way and the other feminist landscape scholars mentioned remains within the disempowering, dominant paradigm, leaving their feminist projects to fall short.

Interestingly, the one article that comes close to deconstructing the public/ private binary is Way’s (2006) article, “Early Social Agendas of Women in Landscape Architecture,” published three years before her book. In the article, Way argues that residential landscape design done by women in the Progressive Era ‒ although now considered relatively unimportant ‒ was actually at the heart of public, social reform efforts (p. 188).

This kind of residential landscape design was intended to create more wholesome living environments that would influence residents to become ‘better’ citizens. Thus, these private residential spaces exuded public influence. By deconstructing the assumption that the residential is inherently private and revealing its public role, Way reveals that the binary is not innate, but historically contingent. Nevertheless, as Way describes private space’s potential to contain public action, she fails to critique the implications of the physical separation of public and private spaces themselves. Thus, the logic of spatially demarcating ‘public’ and ‘private’ remains intact.

The final binary, landscape/architecture, is informed by all three previous oppositional binaries. This binary is most thoroughly addressed by landscape historians, both feminist and otherwise, because it is responsible for the creation of the profession as it exists today. As Way describes in Unbounded Practice, to establish landscape architecture as a profession, practitioners had to align themselves with the masculine realm of architecture while simultaneously disassociating themselves from the feminine pastime of gardening in order to gain legitimacy (p. 20-26).

Ann Komera (2000-2001) argues that it was gardening’s association with domesticity that caused the American Society of Landscape Architects to relegate horticulture to a lesser status while positioning itself as a technologic, scientific (and equal) counterpart to architecture (p. 23-24). To explore this gendered binary further, some landscape scholars have chosen to study either the masculinization of architecture, as in Victoria Rosner’s (2000) article, “Artist, Constructor, and Man of Affairs,” (p. 92-99) or gardens’ association with feminine space, as in Heath Schenker and Suzanne Ouelette’s (2000) article, “The Garden as a Women’s Place” (p. 9-18).

The hierarchal, gendered relationship between landscape and architecture, as well as landscape architecture’s drive to position itself in terms of architecture to gain professional legitimacy also exists in dominant landscape literature. Dating back to the profession’s inception, landscape architects explicitly worked to frame landscape architecture as a professional equal of architecture.

With this goal in mind, Norman Newton published the seminal history of landscape architecture Design on the Land in 1971. On the very first page of his forward, Newton explains that the term ‘landscape architect’ was chosen to convey “the same relation that an architect bears towards a building, with essential emphasis on design” (p. xxi). A few pages later, he explains that comparing landscape architecture with horticulture is “a gross misconception” (p. xxiii). For Newton, maintaining the hierarchal binary between natural/feminine v. cultural/ masculine is as

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However, these articles do not adequately critique the fact that women were allowed to study horticultural aspects of landscape architecture because of their perceived natural ability to work with plants, nor do they challenge that such programs encouraged and even forced women to remain within the marginalized subset of the profession.

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necessary as dissolving the hierarchal binary between landscape architecture and architecture. In this argument, Newton not only solidifies landscape architecture’s professional position as a cultural equal with architecture, but also reinforces the hierarchal binary between the built, cultural, masculine environment, and the unbuilt, natural, feminine environment. His comments not only influenced the professional course that landscape architecture followed, but also fortified the practice’s tendency to overlook female contributions that could be construed as merely horticultural endeavors.

Systematic Exclusion of Women From Landscape Architecture Understanding the theoretical and gendered context of the oppositional binaries discussed in the previous section allows for a deeper analysis of how women have been excluded from landscape architecture.

Such exclusion occurred in educational and professional institutions, but most importantly, through historic representation and analysis of landscape architecture. In each of these systems, the feminine, the natural, and the private were undervalued, leaving women landscape architects in a marginalized position.

Much of the literature concerning women in landscape architecture would lead one to believe that it has been a historically accessible field for women to study. Thaisa Way’s previously mentioned article, “Early Social Agenda’s of Women in Landscape Architecture,” briefly explains why women could pursue landscape in higher education. Other articles, such as Anne Meredith’s (2003)

“Horticultural Education in England, 190040,” focus entirely on the prevalence of gardening and horticultural schools for women in the early twentieth century (p. 31). However, these articles do not adequately critique the fact that women were allowed to study horticultural aspects of landscape architecture because of their perceived natural ability to work with plants, nor do they challenge that such programs encouraged and even forced women to remain within the marginalized subset of the profession. Feminist landscape historians have been too quick to celebrate women’s access to higher education through horticulture. Doing so leaves the problematic aspects of such education unchallenged.

Thaisa Way’s book, Unbounded Practice, however, includes an effective analysis of the marginalization of women in schools of landscape architecture. University programs deemphasized horticulture and botany, and began focusing on planning, engineering, and design.

This switch reveals the overt actions taken by leaders in the landscape architecture profession to position landscape architecture as a field of study equal to architecture. Unfortunately, to accomplish such a goal, horticulture – a practice historically open to women – had to be excluded to ensure that landscape architecture could not be construed as glorified women’s work.

By explaining how this institutional devaluation of ‘feminine’ fields of study marginalized women who practiced more ecological forms of landscape architecture, Way (2009) challenges the systematic methods landscape programs used to exclude women (p. 262).

Way considers women’s professional marginalization in Unbounded Practice as well, but her analysis relies more on historical narrative as opposed to systematic critique (p.

263-264). Other historic analyses of women in landscape architecture tend to acknowledge the gender constraints imposed upon women in the profession while simultaneously celebrating their ability to work within such an oppressive framework. For example, Karen McNeil’s (2007) article on landscape architect Julia Morgan explains the gendered challenges Morgan faced, but ultimately honors Morgan for her ability to navigate and thrive within the sexist profession (p. 230). Such analysis fails to challenge the underlying, oppressive systems built into landscape architecture.

In regard to architecture, feminists do critique such underlying sexist systems.

Annmarie Adams and Peta Tancred’s book (2000) Designing Women analyzes the definitions, priorities, language, and organization that ignore women’s contributions and prevent them from attaining positions of authority (p. 1). Their research is empirical and theoretical, enabling them to critique the sexist system and understand how it affects women currently in the profession. The field of landscape architecture needs a similarly exhaustive analysis.

The values that exclude women educationally and professionally from landscape architecture are produced through academic formulations of the profession as a historic entity. As the dominant, iconic text for landscape history, Norman Newton’s Design on the Land, is the historic reference for landscape scholars. However, Newton’s history contains

a bias against the feminine, natural, and private aspects of landscape architecture and so reinforces the marginalization and disregard of those aspects of the field. Design on the Land stands as the landscape architectural canon, separating “important” landscape designers from the insignificant. It can be no coincidence that within Newton’s 674 pages, only one woman, Beatrix Farrand, is mentioned (Newton 1971, 387-388). Her inclusion represents the sole exception within an otherwise entirely male field.

Nevertheless, Design on the Land’s greatest offense is not its disregard for female landscape architects or horticulturally-oriented design. Rather it is its focus on individual landscape architects as the sole genius behind designs, ignoring the social context from which they arose. Heath Schenker, in her essay, “Feminist Interventions,” provides an incriminating critique of Newton by demonstrating how his methodology disregards the social barriers female landscape architects face, and so lacks any critical critique of why women have not created the kinds of iconic designs than men have produced. By focusing on designer genius, women are likely to be excluded considering that their skills are framed as natural as opposed to cultural (Schenker 1994, 108). Also, Grosz’s conceptualization of architecture as the physical erasure of feminine, open, natural space with the construction of buildings emerges clearly in Design on the Land. Newton explains that landscape architects fulfill one of the “chief potentials” of empty space, when they construct “vertical planes of masonry” upon it (p. xxiv). Newton employs the sexist, oppressive architectural formulation of

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gender to legitimize landscape architecture as a historically significant profession and in doing so marginalizes women landscape architects and female spaces. As the classical text for teaching landscape history, Newton’s biased canon informs academic programs and professional organizations as to what type of design and what kind of designer should be valued. Granted, Newton was writing in an earlier time, and it is important to temporally contextualize his work; however, it is equally important for the feminine scholar to understand how gendered language persists over time and exerts influence far beyond its author’s temporal context.

Alternative Historiographic Methods Seeing how Newton’s history of landscape architecture perpetuates the exclusion of women within institutional settings makes Scott’s call for gender as a category of historic analysis seem all the more vitally important. Yet rearticulating landscape history through a critical, gender-conscious framework requires more than simply adding women to Newton’s canon or revising its evaluation standards. Heath Schenker’s essay, “Feminist Interventions,” applies art historian Griselda Pollock’s famous question, “Is adding women to art history the same as producing feminist art history?” and applies it to landscape architecture (p. 107). Answering this question with a resounding no, Schenker argues that adding women does nothing to challenge the centrality of the canon as the marker of greatness in landscape architecture, leaving Newton’s sexist evaluation system

intact. Instead, Schenker calls for a feminist intervention that combines feminist methodologies with social history to explore “the complex ways gender and social class definitions influence the production of… public policies that guide landscape design” (p. 111). Doing so has the potential to lead to the formulation of new ways of thinking about landscape architecture that are more interdisciplinary, inclusive, and conscious of landscape design as a social process rather than the result of individual genius.

Schenker’s call for a feminist intervention in landscape architecture is necessary for the profession to transcend the oppositional binaries that have marginalized women throughout landscape architecture’s history and continue to do so. However, my research has not discovered literature that reaches the level of Schenker’s vision.

Thaisa Way’s “constellation” approach, in which multiple people are juxtaposed to reveal overarching cultural patterns, used both in her article, “Early Social Agendas” (p. 5) and book, Unbounded Practice (p. 188), possibly come closest through their discussions of women landscape architects in terms of broader, social trends. However, her inability to reimagine public and private space, as discussed previously, leaves her work short of breaking down one of the most integral oppositional binaries that marginalize women in landscape architecture. Still, the exhaustive research behind Way’s book should make it worthy of consideration as an integral, foundational work in an emerging, gender-conscious landscape architectural history.

In some instances, literature that considers gender in relation to landscape but is not entirely within the field of landscape architecture participates in Schenker’s feminist intervention. Such literature is interdisciplinary by nature because both gender and landscape cannot be considered outside social, historical, political, economic, and even scientific forces. As a result, they are more likely to find spaces between binaries such as public and private, architecture and landscape, challenging the underlying systems that marginalize women in landscape architecture. One example is Dolores Hayden’s book, The Grand Domestic Revolution, which is officially classified as architecture history and women’s studies. Granted, Hayden is an architectural historian, but the book is intimately tied to landscape architecture. Its attention to the organization of the built environment stretches beyond buildings to the spaces between them. She provides a detailed, exhaustive history of material feminists ‒ women in the late 19th century who believed the key to liberation was freeing themselves from domestic responsibilities and instead earing their own wages outside of the home. Hayden’s book poses a tremendous challenge to the notion that women in the 19th century were not public agents in the shaping of urban and residential design and planning. More specifically, she describes how material feminists designed homes and neighborhoods that allowed women to share household duties, develop support networks, and find time to pursue personal interests as opposed to being perpetually tied to domestic responsibilities (Hayden 1982).

Another example is Dorceta Taylor’s book, The Environment and the People, which is categorized as environmental history, urban studies and sociology. Unlike Hayden, who tells the story of material feminists, Taylor provides a sweeping yet in-depth history of the development of American cities through a social injustice lens. Although gender is only one social category Taylor considers, she successfully demonstrates how women, their spaces, and their actions influenced the formation of cities, but also how systematic pressures marginalized women (Taylor 2009).

As literature located just outside of landscape architecture, both Hayden and Taylor are not quite able to disrupt Newton’s canon; nevertheless, they reveal how Newton’s formulation of landscape architecture is limiting and that a feminist critique has the potential to expand it. Landscape architecture requires more interdisciplinary dialogue to create new, radical conceptions of what the field can be in the future.

Future (Feminist) Possibilities for Landscape Architecture Although interdisciplinary study is integral to the transformation of landscape architecture, equally important is the formulation of a theoretical framework unique to landscape architecture and its specific needs as a discrete field of study. If we again consider Scott’s essay, “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis,” we see that one of the reasons women’s studies has fallen short of breaking down dominant ways of thinking is because it lacks theory that is purely its own and so relies on theoretic frameworks such

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as Marxism and psychoanalysis. However, this piecework theory does “not address these concepts [dominant systems that marginalize women] in terms that can shake their power and perhaps transform them” (Scott 1986, 1055).

Thus, feminism requires its own theoretical basis capable of such transformative work.

In a similar way, landscape architecture also needs its own theoretical framework that does not rely on architecture. Doing so will free the field from the oppositional binaries that marginalize women and constrain the field through its elision of horticulture, garden design, and residential space. Aligning landscape architecture with architecture may have legitimized it as a profession, but that alignment limited the field’s ability to define itself. Much of the landscape theory that does exist continues to rely on concepts such as feminine/natural/private versus masculine/ cultural/public; however, a notable exception is Elizabeth Meyer’s essay, “The Expanded Field of Landscape Architecture”. As a selfproclaimed feminist, Meyer outlines her process of theory making for landscape architecture, keeping in mind the importance of lived experience and history as gendered. Meyer argues for and takes the first steps towards constructing a landscape theory that “occup[ies] the space between nature and culture, landscape and architecture, man-made and natural, and that [is] along the spatial continuum that unites… concepts in binary opposites” (p. 169). Landscape architecture is positioned as a field in between, straddling theoretical and practical binaries. As mentioned previously, landscape architect Elizabeth Meyer’s

essay does not mention the public/private binary; however, it does provide a sophisticated analysis of discourses that gender the landscape, as well as systems that silenced the participation of women in the profession.

Thus, her essay not only provides a theoretical framework for landscape architecture, but also a method of historical analysis similar to Schenker’s. Together, Meyer’s theoretical and historiographical methodologies could challenge dominant narratives of landscape architecture and reconceptualize the profession for the future so that it can transcend and challenge oppositional binaries rather than fall prey to them.

As groundbreaking as Meyer’s feminist, theoretical framework may be to academic circles of landscape architecture, this is not necessarily the case outside institutional circles. In Sherry Ahrentzen’s (2003) sweeping review of feminist literature on architecture, “The Space Between the Studs,” we are reminded that theoretical analyses “may not be very empowering or enabling for many women, their approaches may be too far removed from reality and real needs, and their language may be inaccessible and difficult to understand” (p. 195). Thus, in addition to the formulation of feminist landscape architectural theory, real-life, on-the-ground reconfigurations of landscape architecture must also be undertaken to transform the field.

An iconic example of this is Jane Jacobs’ (1961) book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, which reads more like a novel than a sociology text. Jacobs was neither an academic nor a landscape architect, and her

Landscape architecture needs to be acknowledged as the product of designers of all genders, but also of clients, builders, and landscapers, not to mention social pressures and historical context.

book came decades before Scott’s call to use gender as a category of analysis. Her book analyzes and critiques American cities literally from the ground up through the eyes of a woman with no formal training in either architecture or planning. Her observations and suggestions powerfully challenge male authority and dominant beliefs as to how cities should be planned, funded, organized, and policed. Her ability to see the city from ground level, as a woman walking through the streets, watching her children in the park, and observing her neighbors interacting with one another provided her with a perspective that was radically distinct from the male planners and architects who examined and designed the city from a bird’s eye view. By doing so, Jacobs radically called into question the male-dominated, top-down approach to city design and planning by demonstrating the importance of experiencing the city on a personal level.

A more contemporary reconceptualization of landscape architecture that balances the theoretical with the practical is Louise Mozingo’s (1989) development of gender-conscious design, described in her article, “Women and Downtown Open Spaces.”

Combining psychological factors, historic constructions of the built environment, and observational research, Mozingo proposes a process of landscape design that considers the experiences and needs of women users.

Employing an interdisciplinary methodology,

Mozingo pinpoints the institutionalized oppositional binaries that (male) landscape architects employed to create spaces that accommodate men over women (p. 38, 46). Although her essay is academic, her proposal could result in the creation of open spaces in which gender consciousness is central to the design.

Literature in the fields of design and urban studies reveals feminist projects that landscape architects should consider pursuing. For example, Buckley’s article, “Made in Patriarchy,” reminds us that “design is a collective process involving groups of people beside the designer” (p. 7). To move landscape architecture away from Newton’s focus on the (male) designer as sole genius and creator of design, and into a more inclusive formulation, Buckley’s assertion should be kept in mind.

Landscape architecture needs to be acknowledged as the product of designers of all genders, but also of clients, builders, and landscapers ‒ not to mention social pressures and historical context. In regard to urban studies scholarship, Liz Bondi and Damaris Rose’s (2003) article, “Constructing Gender, Constructing the Urban,” urges feminist scholars of the built environment to go beyond studying the marginalization of women in space and place, and to to take into account the marginalization of other groups in regard to race, class, and sexuality as well (p. 231-232).

Landscape architecture begins to emerge as a site of social justice once we recognize that the field has not only the power to marginalize, but also to break away from oppressive systems. As Meyer theorized, landscape architecture has the potential to exist

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in between binaries. Such positioning enables it to challenge oppressive systems, not only through the writing of alternative landscape histories, but also through the creation of new, radical physical spaces that transcend dominant paradigms.

Conclusion A review of feminist landscape architectural literature projects reveals several elements of the field: first, that gendered, oppositional binaries are a constant factor that historically and currently marginalize women in the field; second, that the public/private binary has not been adequately challenged; third, that Schenker’s call for a feminist intervention of landscape architectural history has been taken up by some but not adequately; fourth, that landscape architecture needs to find a balance between interdisciplinary dialogue and forming its own theoretical framework to continue to uncover the many of the underlying systems of oppression that exist in the field while freeing itself from association with architecture’s more sexist elements; and fifth, that landscape architecture has the potential to transgress oppositional binaries that enforce gender-based oppression and by doing so, becomes a conduit and site for social justice.

With this analysis, the next step seems to be an in depth, critical analysis of the gendered private/public binary as a historical ideology, a system of land planning and development, an economic method of valuing work, and a means to separate horticulture and garden design from landscape

architecture. Possible ways of challenging the public/private binary may include deconstructing the binary and telling stories that exist in between or outside the separate spheres. These stories will not only come from women, but others whose stories have also been silenced, such as people of color, working class individuals, and those who do not lead heteronormative lifestyles. Such a project will be theoretical as well as historical, interdisciplinary, and feminist in its attention to lived experience. Ideally, the project will rise to Schenker’s challenge of performing a feminist intervention by critiquing the social context in which landscape architecture is produced. Ultimately, it will demonstrate landscape architecture’s ability to transcend the public/private binary and lead to conceptualizations of spaces outside of such a constrictive binary. Of course, more questions will emerge: What would such spaces look like? How would they be more inclusive of socially oppressed individuals? How would they promote social justice? How could they lead to the recovery of histories lost within landscape architecture’s dominant narrative?

But through such questions, dialogue will emerge, and the field of feminist landscape architecture will expand.

References Adams, A. & Tancred, P. (2000). ‘Designing Women’: Gender and the Architectural Profession. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

Meredith, A. (2003). Horticultural Education in England, 1900-1940: Middle Class Women and Private Gardening Schools. Garden History, 31 67-79.

Ahrentzen, S. (2003). The Space Between the Studs: Feminism and Architecture. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 29 179-206.

Meyer, E. (2002). The Expanded Field of Landscape Architecture. In S. Swaffield (Ed.), Theory of Landscape Architecture: A Reader (167-170). Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

Bondi, L. & Rose, D. (2003). Constructing Gender, Constructing the Urban: a review of Anglo-American Feminist Urban Geography. Gender, Place and Culture, 10, 229-245.

Buckley, C. (1986). Made in Patriarchy: Toward a Feminist Analysis of Women and Design. Design Issues, 3, 3-14.

Davidoff, L., & Hall, C. (1983). The Architecture of Public and Private Life: English Middle-Class Society in a Provincial Town 1780-1850. In D. Fraser & A. Sutcliffe (Eds.), In Pursuit of Urban History (pp. 326-345).

London: Edward Arnold.

Gray, M. W. (2000). Productive Men, Reproductive Women: The Agrarian Household and the Emergence of Separate Spheres during the German Enlightenment. New York: Berghahn Books.

Grosz, E. (1994). Women, Chora, Dwelling. ANY, 4, 22-28.

Hayden, D. (1982). The Grand Domestic Revolution: A History of Feminist Designs for American Homes, Neighborhoods, and Cities. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

Jacobs, J. (1961). The Death and Life of Great American Cities. New York: Vintage Books.

Komera, A. E. (2000-2001). The Glass Wall: Gendering the American Society of Landscape Architects. Studies in the Decorative Arts, 8, 22-30.

Newton, N. T. (1971). Design on the Land: The Development of Landscape Architecture. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.

McNeil, K. (2007). Julia Morgan: Gender, Architecture, and Professional Style. The Pacif ic Historical Review, 76, 229-268.

Mozingo, L. (1989). Women and Downtown Open Spaces. Places, 6, 38-47.

Rosner, V. (2000). ‘Artist, Constructor, and Man of Affairs’: Masculinity and Professionalization of Architecture in England. In B. Szczygiel, J. Carubia & L. Dowler (Eds.), Gendered Landscapes: An Interdisciplinary Exploration of Past Place and Space (92-99). University Park, PA: Center for Studies in Landscape History, Pennsylvania State University.

Schenker, H. M. (1994). Feminist Interventions in the Histories of Landscape Architecture. Landscape Journal, 13, 107-112.

Schenker, H. M. & Ouelette S. C. (2000). The Garden as Women’s Place: Celia Thaxer and Marianna Van Rensselaer. In B. Szczygiel, J. Carubia & L. Dowler (Eds.), Gendered Landscapes: An Interdisciplinary Exploration of Past Place and Space (9-18). University Park, PA: Center for Studies in Landscape History, Pennsylvania State University.

Scott, J. (1986). Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis. The American Historical Review, 91, 1053-1075.

Taylor, D. E. (2009). The Environment and the People in American Cities, 1600s-1900s: Disorder, Inequality, and Social Change. Durham: Duke University Press.

Way, T. (2006). Early Social Agendas of Women in Landscape Architecture. Landscape Journal, 25, 187-204.

Way, T. (2009). Unbounded Practice: Women and Landscape Architecture in the Early Twentieth Century.

Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press.

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Elizabeth Nichols, M. Arch 2014 “Outdoor Cafe in Yangon”. Yangon, Myanmar

The Park East Partnership A Plan for Redevelopment and a New Arena in Milwaukee’s Park East Corridor Mike Westling, MUP ‘13 27 AG O RA

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Milwaukee, Wisconsin is currently facing a major decision that many American cities have confronted in recent years: whether to provide public support for a professional sports facility. At the same time, over 25 acres of publicly owned land sit vacant just north of Milwaukee’s downtown. This article investigates how these two challenges, when addressed together, provide a unique opportunity to retain one of the city’s two professional sports teams, create a new neighborhood that serves all Milwaukeeans, and drive economic development in the city center. It goes on to explain why the leading model for f inancing a new arena – a sales tax – is f iscally and politically untenable and explores how a publicprivate partnership – the Park East Partnership – could increase the value of the Milwaukee Bucks, generate f inancial returns for corporate partners, and provide tax revenues for the public sector while avoiding major public subsidies.

History and Context Vacant Land in the Park East In the 1960s, the State of Wisconsin began construction of a freeway spur in the City of Milwaukee that would have run from I-94 to the lakefront, circling downtown and connecting the existing vhighway to I-794 at the Hoan Bridge. In the 1970s, public opposition to the plan halted construction. A short spur of elevated freeway was already built and remained in place until it was finally demolished in 2001, creating over 25 acres of newly developable land in the Park East corridor, just north of downtown. Milwaukee County currently owns approximately 16 acres in the Park East corridor, and the Bradley Center Sports and Entertainment Corporation (BCSEC) controls an additional 11 acres. When several obsolete privately owned parcels and parking lots are added, the total amount of developable land in the Park East comes to 32 acres.

An Aging Arena Opened in 1988, the Bradley Center (Figure 1) currently hosts home games for the NBA’s Milwaukee Bucks, the AHL’s Milwaukee Admirals, and the Marquette University Golden Eagles NCAA men’s basketball team. The facility can hold 18,600 for basketball games, and 20,000 for concerts and other special events. Built with a $90 million gift from Jane Bradley Pettit in memory of her father, Harry Lynde Bradley, the Bradley Center is the only arena in North America to be funded entirely by a philanthropic gift (Bradley Center Sports & Entertainment Corporation). The Bradley Center Sports and Entertainment Corporation (BCSEC), a non-profit entity created by the Wisconsin State Legislature in 1985, owns and operates the arena (Wisconsin State Statute 1985).

The arena was renamed as the BMO Harris Bradley Center in 2010 as part of a six-year, $18 million sponsorship agreement that included support from BMO Harris Bank and a number of local companies. That same year, the BCSEC received a $5 million

Figure 1: The Bradley Center, Milwaukee WI (© Royalbroil, Wikimedia Commons, CC-BYSA-3.0).

grant from the State of Wisconsin and the Milwaukee Bucks signed a new six-year lease for the facility.

These sponsorships and grants have secured the BMO Harris Bradley Center’s short-term future, but long-term plans for the arena are still unclear. Public and private leaders in Milwaukee largely agree that the Bradley Center is coming to the end of its useful life and a new arena is needed to provide a revenue-generating home for the Milwaukee Bucks and other entertainment events in Milwaukee.

Milwaukee Bucks owner and former U.S. Senator Herb Kohl stated publicly that a new arena is necessary for the team to have a successful future in Milwaukee. In May 2012, Kohl said, “We think it’s important for our community, for our state, for Milwaukee to be represented in the NBA… Now in order for that to continue, we have to have a new facility” (Kass 2012). Kohl has indicated he is willing to make a financial contribution toward a new facility, but he has not specified a dollar amount. The BCSEC has also advocated for a new facility. In a 2011 conversation with the Milwaukee Business Journal, BCSEC Chairman Marc Marotta stated that, “Eventually, there will have to be a new arena” (Kass 2011).

In his 2013 State of the City address, Milwaukee Mayor Tom Barrett highlighted a new downtown arena as a major priority for the city. In that speech, Barrett also made

clear that he would not support a sales tax as a mechanism for funding the new arena if the tax is levied only on City of Milwaukee.

(Barrett 2013).

Other Milwaukee leaders have begun the push for a new arena. Metropolitan Milwaukee Association of Commerce (MMAC) President Tim Sheehy is forming a task force to study development models for a new arena. That task force is scheduled to begin meeting in May 2013. In May 2012, Sheehy told the Milwaukee Business Journal, “If we want to remain a professional city, we need to figure out a way to get this done” (Kirchen 2012a). As part of a visioning process for the Park East area, Milwaukee Developer Gary Grunau has said “We’ve got to keep the Bucks in our city and we’ve got to keep them downtown.” (Weiland 2012).

The only strategies currently under public discussion in Milwaukee depend on a sales tax to fund a new arena. An alternative strategy is the Park East Partnership, a public-private partnership to promote development in the Park East Corridor while supporting a new arena built entirely with private funding. This paper will detail the two options and explain how the Park East Partnership is more politically feasible and provides greater benefits to both the public and private sectors.

Arena Financing Option 1: A Sales Tax The arena financing option that has received the most attention is the use of revenue from a sales tax to cover the cost

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Figure 2: Developable land in the Park East Corridor.

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of construction. Located three miles west of downtown, Miller Park, home to the Milwaukee Brewers Baseball Club, was paid for with a 0.1 percent sales tax in Milwaukee, Racine, Kenosha, Waukesha, and Ozaukee Counties.

The Miller Park sales tax raises approximately $25.8 million annually and is projected to expire in 2017. Although extending the sales tax could provide the funding needed for a new arena, recent responses from elected officials have ranged from lukewarm to hostile (Sandler 2011). Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker and State Senator Van Wanggaard have publicly opposed an extension of the current sales tax.

A variation on this revenue-generating tool is a new 1 percent sales tax that would help fund a variety of public projects, including a new arena. The idea comes from Oklahoma City, where voters approved a 1 percent sales tax increase in 1993 and extended it in 2001 and 2009. The Oklahoma City program earmarks funds for specific projects and raises money for capital projects before they are built to avoid financing costs. The current sales tax in the City of Milwaukee is 5.6 percent; a 1 percent sales tax would bring it up to 6.6 percent. When Oklahoma City added a 1 percent sales tax, its sales tax increased to 8.375 percent (Kirchen 2012b).

Milwaukee’s business leaders have suggested this 1 percent sales tax increase as a means to pay for upgrades to cultural institutions and recreational infrastructure in addition to the new arena. Although no one has specified which municipalities might fall under such a tax, few public officials are offering

enthusiastic support. Milwaukee officials including Mayor Tom Barrett and City Councilman Michael Murphy have already balked at the idea of a sales tax that only impacts the city (Kirchen 2012b).

One reason behind officials’ hesitation is that higher sales tax in Milwaukee County could also discourage residents of neighboring counties from shopping in the city. If Southeast Wisconsin residents avoid the sales tax by shopping in the suburbs, a Milwaukee-only tax would run counter to the overall goal of encouraging economic activity in the city. Even if voters approved a Milwaukee-only sales tax, its reach would be limited by its inability to capture revenue from purchases in wealthier suburban areas.

In the Oklahoma City example, many of the area’s suburban neighborhoods are actually within the city’s 600-square-mile boundary.

Oklahoma City’s larger physical size allows for greater political unity on taxes and capital spending as well as a larger catchment area for sales tax revenue. The Milwaukee metropolitan area is much more fragmented. Milwaukee County alone contains 19 municipalities (including the 99-square mile City of Milwaukee) spread throughout the county’s 241-square mile area. A regional sales tax is an attractive option for raising the funds needed for major public projects, but it is unrealistic in Southeast Wisconsin’s fragmented and polarized political system.

Figure 3: Potential massing for new development in the Park East Corridor. Created by Ellen Manasse.

Arena Financing Option 2: The Park East Partnership Built on its own, a new arena in downtown Milwaukee is not financially feasible unless it is paid for with a significant public subsidy. Likewise, the vacant land in the Park East is unlikely to be developed soon and the city will continue to lose out on property tax revenue unless there is a catalytic project in the area. To avoid reliance on public subsidy, local leaders could pursue redevelopment of the Park East Corridor jointly with construction of a new arena. The following is a proposal for a public-private partnership to accomplish these goals.

This proposal is intended to be a framework for a public-private partnership, not an exact projection of financial outcomes.

Costs, payments, agreements, and returns can all be negotiated and changed. What is important is the concept that construction of a new arena be combined with real estate development in the Park East to avoid public subsidy, provide public revenue, generate financial and social returns, and improve the Milwaukee Bucks’ franchise value. Because the focus is on the framework, the proposal does not include sensitivity analysis or economic impact estimates. All assumptions are derived from publicly available documents and all financial projections are based on a 10-year timeframe. All values in this proposal are intended to demonstrate the proposal’s financial feasibility and are not intended to be definitive.

Step 1: Land Acquisition & Transfer The proposed Park East Partnership utilizes the existing Wisconsin Center District (WCD) as a mechanism for acquiring and holding land, collecting development fees, and administering the partnership itself.

The WCD is a semi-autonomous government entity that owns and operates the Milwaukee Theater, the U.S. Cellular Arena, and Milwaukee’s convention center, the Delta Center. While the WCD receives no property tax money or Federal, State or local subsidy, it can issue bonds and collect taxes within strict limits (Wisconsin Center District).

The Milwaukee County Real Estate Services Section and the Milwaukee Department of City Development, in cooperation with the BCSEC, would acquire a total of 32 acres of land for development. These 32 acres include 15.1 acres of vacant Park East land from Milwaukee County, 6.1 acres from private property owners, and 10.8 acres (including the BMO Harris Bradley Center) from the BCSEC. The city and county would transfer the 32 acres to the WCD in exchange for $32 million that the city will use to pay down the outstanding debt owed for the demolition of the Park East Freeway. The Milwaukee Bucks would then pay the WCD $32 million for the 30-year development rights to the land.

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Assumptions Average development density

Six stories with 30% open space

Arena user fee

$1 on all tickets to arena events

Arena property tax

None

Phasing

Three phases over 10 years

Average attendance at Bucks home games

16,000, up from ~15,000 in 2009, 2010, and 2011

Arena construction costs

$400 million for an 18,000 seat facility

Total development costs (excluding arena)

$763 million

Total new residential units

~3,000 units

Total new square feet of office

~1,000,000

Total new square feet of retail

630,000

Total new parking spaces

~1,400 spaces

Loan to cost ratio

0.65

Milwaukee Bucks equity

$32 million

Private partner equity

$352 million

Table 1: Assumptions for financial projections.

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Step 2: Development Team Structure The Milwaukee Bucks would join with a private development partner, or set of private partners, to form a private limited liability corporation – Park East Development LLC – that will manage development of the new arena as well as the rest of the Park East Corridor. The Milwaukee Bucks will contribute equity equal to the $32 million value of the land and the private partner will contribute the remainder of the equity needed for construction of the project, estimated to be a total of $350 million.

National equity partners could be brought into the project, but companies with real estate experience and Milwaukee connections would be preferred for this massive community project. Potential local partners are profiled later in this paper.

Step 3: Phased Development & Community Investment Park East Development LLC would build and operate the new arena at an estimated cost of $400 million. The new arena will be exempt from property taxes.

Financing for the new $400 million arena would come from several sources: - $54 million construction bond backed by 70 percent of the revenue from a 10-year Split TIF District - $11 million construction bond backed by revenue from an Arena User Fee

- $5.4 million in land equity from the Milwaukee Bucks - $111.8 million in equity from the development partner - $217 million private loan Park East Development LLC would complete the development in phases and follow an urban design and master plan written in partnership with the City of Milwaukee.

In order to diversify risk and keep project returns in the community, local institutional investors such as charities, foundations, and state pension funds should be brought into the project. Park East Development LLC should partner with smaller developers for individual parcels in order to attract unique tenants, encourage diversity in the built environment, and build a stronger community.

In addition to social and economic benefits for Southeast Wisconsin residents, the Park East Partnership will generate significant financial returns for the City of Milwaukee, the Wisconsin Center District, the Milwaukee Bucks, and private development partners.

Park East Partnership: Revenue Mechanisms & Returns The Park East Partnership includes several important mechanisms that provide financing for the arena and returns to both the public and private sectors.

10-year Split TIF District The Park East TIF District is a Split TIF District, meaning that the revenue from the tax increment is split – 70 percent of the revenue would be used to back the bonds used to pay for the arena and the remaining 30 percent would go to the general fund. This split is especially important for the Park East because the bulk of the land is currently publicly owned and not generating any tax revenue. If a traditional TIF were used, the public sector would not see any property tax revenue for the duration of the TIF district.

The Park East TIF District would encompass the project’s entire 32 acres and would not extend to currently developed land.

The maximum legal life for TIF districts in Wisconsin is 27 years and the average TIF district length in the City of Milwaukee is 18 years (City of Milwaukee 2010). The Park East Proposal calls for a much shorter duration – 10 years – in order to allow full property tax revenues to flow to the general fund as soon as possible. Beginning in Year 11, all property tax revenue from the project will go to the general fund.

One-time Development Rights Fee The Milwaukee Bucks would pay the WCD a one-time $32 million development rights fee in exchange for exclusive rights to develop the 32 acres of Park East land over the next 30 years. The Wisconsin Center District would then use that $32 million to pay off the $34 million in debt still owed for the demolition of the Park East Freeway.

The remaining $2 million in demolition debt would be covered by the first annual development fee payment.

Annual Development Fee Park East Development LLC would pay the WCD an annual development fee that amounts to $3 million in Year 1 and increases by 3 percent in each subsequent year.

This fee acts like a lease payment, providing Park East Development LLC with the continued right to develop the land. The WCD will retain ownership of the land over the next 30 years. If Park East Development LLC meets all development conditions over that 30-year period (including keeping upto-date on development fee payments, paying property taxes, and fulfilling the community benefits agreement), the LLC will receive full title to the land at the end of this period. The revenue generated from the development fee will be used to fund other projects in the City of Milwaukee such as streetscaping, streetcar expansion, school renovation, and upgrades to parks and cultural facilities. $1 Ticket User Fee Ticketholders to all events at the new arena will be charged a $1 ticket user fee.

The revenue generated from this fee (an estimated $1.6 million annually) will be used to back $11 million in construction bonds for the new arena.

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Development Partner Acquires Future Buyout Rights to Milwaukee Bucks There are two major motivations for the Milwaukee Bucks to secure a financial stake in the real estate development accompanying the new arena. The first is for current owner Herb Kohl to establish a legacy investment that will benefit the people of Milwaukee for decades to come. The second is for the team ownership to diversify revenue sources. According to Forbes, the Milwaukee Bucks have the lowest team value in the NBA (Forbes 2013). Investment in the real estate development of the Park East would help the team ownership supplement returns from ticket sales and media contracts while taking advantage of the ancillary benefits from construction of a new arena.

The Milwaukee Bucks’ partner in Park East Development LLC will have future buyout rights to the team. Because the partner will be a Milwaukee business and have real estate interests tied to the team, transfer of ownership will secure the team’s future in the city. The partner would acquire the Bucks’ equity share in the real estate development along with the team.

Community Benef its Agreement In exchange for development rights to the Park East land, Park East Development LLC would need to agree to fulfill requirements for workforce housing, energy-efficient building standards, public transportation infrastructure, and other community benefits.

To mitigate the public sector’s risk from TIF bonds, Park East Development LLC would also need to agree to cover bond payments in case the district does not generate sufficient TIF revenues. If Park East Development LLC fails to develop all parcels within 30 years, ownership of any undeveloped land would revert back to the WCD. Park East Partnership: Potential Private Partners Development in the Park East district and a new arena would provide Milwaukee-based private partners with a unique opportunity to generate tremendous goodwill in the community and significant return on investment. Because the partnership requires over $350 million in private equity, major corporate investors would play a key role in the process.

Northwestern Mutual Headquartered in downtown Milwaukee, Northwestern Mutual would be well-suited to partner with the public sector to build a new arena in Milwaukee and drive development in the Park East. Northwestern Mutual reported $5.8 billion in real estate investments as of year-end 2011, making up 4 percent of total managed assets. The life insurance and investment giant recently announced plans for a 30-story, $300 million office tower in downtown Milwaukee – the company’s largest investment ever in its hometown. The major investment decision projects the confidence Northwestern Mutual has in the Milwaukee market. Northwestern

Public return on investment 30% split TIF revenue (City of Milwaukee)

$1.5 million in year 1, increasing to $6 million by year 10

Development fee (WCD)

$3 million in year 1, increasing by 3% each year

Development rightsf fee in year 1

$32 million in year 1

Public return on investment Annual arena revenue for Milwaukee Bucks

$58.9 million in year 1, increasing to $76.9 million in year 10

Annual development return for Bucks

$1.2 million in year 1, increasing to $4.1 million in year 10

Development partner

$13.8 million in year 1, increasing to $45.2 million in year 10

Table 2: Projected financial returns.

Mutual has a goal of allocating 1.2 percent of invested assets (about $2 billion) to a socially responsive investment portfolio. These investments are intended to improve housing, education, and job opportunities for economically disadvantaged groups (Northwestern Mutual 2011).

Johnson Controls A worldwide leader in building energy and operational efficiency, Johnson Controls has the potential to position development in the Park East Corridor as the vanguard for ecological urban redevelopment.

Johnson Controls was founded in 1885 in Milwaukee by Warren Johnson, the inventor of the first electric room thermostat. In addition to providing energy efficiency products and power solutions, Johnson Controls currently manages over 1.5 billion square feet of real estate for Fortune 1000 companies in more than 75 countries. The company’s Global Workplace Solutions division provides onsite staff for complete real estate services, facility operation, and building management.

Global sales in 2012 were $42 billion ( Johnson Controls).

The Marcus Corporation The Marcus Corporation has extensive experience in entertainment-driven real estate projects throughout the Midwest. The company owns or manages over 650 movie screens at 55 theaters in Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa, Minnesota, Nebraska, North Dakota, and Ohio as well as 20 hotels, resorts, and

other properties in 11 states. The Marcus Corporation has recently expanded their real estate efforts as the primary developer of a $125 million retail development in the Milwaukee suburb of Brookfield. A redevelopment that replaces a former theater and a big box store, the project will add 370,000 square feet on 19 acres (Sink 2011). The Marcus Corporation saw earnings of $22.7 million in 2012 (Marcus Corporation 2012).

Rockwell Automation Rockwell Automation has a long history of philanthropy and community investment in Milwaukee. As previously noted, the Bradley Center was built in 1988 as a gift from Jane Bradley Pettit in memory of her father, Harry Lynde Bradley, co-founder and chairman of the Allen-Bradley Company – which is now Rockwell Automation. In 2012, the company’s sales reached nearly $6.3 billion and charitable giving totaled $7.5 million in worldwide cash and in-kind product donations (Rockwell Automation 2012).

Park East Partnership: Securing a Lasting Legacy The City of Milwaukee has an economic development opportunity that is unique among American cities: a large, publicly owned development site adjacent to the city center and a prospective private-sector catalyst to drive demand. Time and resources spent pursuing public subsidy for a new arena through tax increases or other means fail to

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benefit residents of Southeastern Wisconsin and are unlikely to produce results. In contrast, the Park East Partnership allows the city, the Milwaukee Bucks, and private partners to secure a lasting legacy while generating tangible financial returns for years to come. The plan also has the potential to produce lesstangible benefits such as driving economic development, building a new sustainable and diverse neighborhood, and preserving Milwaukee’s status as a major-league city. If the Milwaukee Bucks’ ownership provides a large financial contribution to the construction of a new arena, they should secure a stake in the ownership of the arena and the surrounding real estate. If not, they do little to bolster the franchise’s long-term value. There is no doubt that the Park East Partnership requires major participation from private development partners. Nevertheless, if the city’s corporate leaders are willing to step up to the table, partner with public sector, and invest in their community, they have the potential to profoundly and positively alter Milwaukee’s landscape for generations to come.

References City of Milwaukee. (2010, May). 2009 Annual Report, Milwaukee TIF Districts,. Retrieved March 2, 2013, from http://www.mkedcd.org/business/TIF/ pdfs/2009AnnualTIDReport.PDF Barrett, M. T. (2013, February 25). State of the City Address.

Bradley Center Sports & Entertainment Corporation. (n.d.). Arena Highlights. Retrieved March 14, 2013, from BMO Harris Bradley Center: http://www.bmoharrisbradleycenter.com/arena-info/arena-highlights Forbes. (2013, January).

NBA Team Values. Retrieved February 20, 2013, from http://www.forbes.com/nba-valuations/list/ Johnson Controls. (n.d.). Global Workforce Solutions.

Retrieved February 20, 2013, from http://www.johnsoncontrols.com/content/us/en/products/building_efficiency/gws.html Kass, M. (2011, December 30). Marotta seeks support for Bradley Center. Milwaukee Business Journal .

Kass, M. (2012, May 5). Money commitment from Kohl big step for new basketball arena. Milwaukee Business Journal.

Kirchen, R. (a) (2012, May 9). Big assist from execs on Bradley Center deal . Milwaukee Business Journal .

Kirchen, R. (b) (2012, December 4). Blueprint for the future? Quest for funding of new arena contrasts Oklahoma City, Milwaukee. Milwaukee Business Journal .

Marcus Corporation. (2012). 2012 Annual Report and Form 10-K. Northwestern Mutual. (2011). 2011 Investment Report. Retrieved from http://media.nmfn.com/ pdf/19_1205_2011.pdf

Rockwell Automation. (2012). 2012 Annual Report and Form 10-K. Sandler, D. W. (2011, May 19). Funding idea for new Bucks arena shot down. Milwaukee Journal Sentinel .

Sink, L. (2011, November 2). Tax District for The Corners / Von Maur Project Could Be $30M. Retrieved from Brookfield Patch: http://brookfield-wi.patch.com/ articles/update-tax-district-for-the-corners-von-maurproject-could-be-30m Weiland, A. (2012, November 12). Grunau: Build a new arena for the Bucks in the Park East. BizTimes .

Wisconsin Center District. (n.d.). About Us. Retrieved March 2, 2013, from http://wcd.org/ categories/12-wcdinformation/documents/1-about-us Wisconsin State Statute. (1985). Chapter 232 - Bradley Center Sports and Entertainment Corporation.

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John Monnat, M. Arch 2015 “Rosy”. Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam

There Grows the Neighborhood Community-Based Food System Planning in the City of Detroit Emily Provonsha, MUP ‘13 39 AG O RA

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Food systems are fundamentally linked to urban planning issues. In the 21st century, economically troubled cities with an abundance of vacant land like Detroit are taking advantage of this connection to address their mounting issues with health, equity, environmental sustainability, and achieving economic development. Detroit, Michigan’s largest city, has a long tradition of urban gardening, but in recent years community gardening and urban agriculture have dramatically expanded in many neighborhoods.

Led by city planner Kathryn Underwood, Detroit’s government has responded to these changes by developing an urban agriculture ordinance which legalizes and facilitates agriculture in the city, allowing it to support and strengthen the local food system. Her success in putting the urban agriculture ordinance on the City’s policy agenda reflects many dedicated residents’ visions of how to achieve food security, build community, and bring vacant land into productive use. It also shows how city planners in Detroit can make a difference when challenged by obstacles such as lack of funding, lack of political will, opposition from state government, and local public resistance.

In response to issues including a widespread lack of access to quality food, and increasing numbers of obese citizens and vacant lots, cities across the United States are adopting new zoning ordinances that establish urban agriculture as a primary use of land or designate specific areas where it can be located (Hatfield 2012, 1). Zoning can be a powerful tool for strengthening local food systems because it legally codifies community

members’ visions for land use and the built environment. Zoning can help to legitimize all aspects of the food system – from production to consumption – as primary uses of land. Because of its nature as a fundamentally place-based tool that encourages local control over land use, it is essential to employ a democratic process to recognize and respond to local needs when crafting zoning.

A Brief History of Zoning and Its Importance for Urban Agriculture From its earliest implementation in New York’s 19th-century Tenement Laws, zoning has been designed to support public health, safety, welfare, and quality of life in American cities (Elliott 2008, 10). Zoning became widespread through campaigns to reform urban living and improve residents’ quality of life. When the Supreme Court upheld zoning’s legality in 1926, in the case of Village of Euclid v. Ambler Realty Co., it signaled to the nation that cities had the authority to organize their physical form. This decision gave cities the ability to craft unique zoning based on local conditions and respond to local needs.

Some land uses may clash within a city if not carefully regulated. Using urban agriculture as an example, if an urban farm produces smells or sounds which spill onto adjacent properties, neighbors could file a nuisance claim against the farm. The challenge in devising an urban agriculture ordinance is to balance facilitation of new agricultural uses against the interests of more

traditional urban ones. Thus, it is important for cities to use caution when integrating urban agriculture into their zoning codes.

In Detroit, the success and effectiveness of the city’s urban agriculture ordinance are derived from a series of factors that existed before it was written, including an abundance of vacant land, a long history of gardening, and heightened public interest in urban food production. The new zoning codified practices already supported by a burgeoning social movement based around urban food systems, non-profit organizations devoted to strengthening them, a city-organized food policy council, and general political will. The ordinance grew, and will continue to be refined, from a community-based planning effort that includes public input and took shape from the ground up.

A Brief History of Gardening in Detroit Gardening has deep roots in Detroit.

Founded by French colonists as a series of ribbon farms along the banks of the Detroit River, the city would see farming take on a new kind of importance in Mayor Hazen Pingree’s famous Potato Patch Plan, which encouraged Detroiters to weather a 19thcentury economic crisis through the appropriation of vacant city land for small-scale farming (Historic Detroit 2013). In the early 1900s, migrants from the American South brought their agricultural traditions with them when they moved to Detroit to work in the auto industry. As abandonment began to take hold in the later 20th century, residents recreated Mayor Pingree’s plan on their own

initiative, taking advantage of newly vacant space by starting community gardens and farms. Underwood refers to it as “one of the unique traditions that bring residents of all ages and backgrounds together” (Underwood 2013). Urban agriculture in Detroit is part of the city’s cultural history and helps define the city’s modern identity.

Detroit’s formal return to urban agriculture began in the late 1970s, when the City’s Farm-a-Lot program established a process for residents to get permission to use vacant lots for urban gardening (DFPC 2013). Detroit urban agriculture pioneer Gerald Hairston, who started and worked with a group of elders called the Gardening Angels, was one of the many residents who took advantage of the program (Underwood 2013). Although the city provided seeds and help with tilling, it eventually became apparent that the program could not support the growing interest in urban agriculture on its own. The City came to realize that urban agriculture was not a land use that residents considered temporary, but rather a long-term means of cultivating food, bringing people together, and strengthening communities.

In addition to her role as a planner, as a community activist Underwood was involved in the formation of the Detroit Agriculture Network (DAN), which promoted urban gardens and farms in the city. In order to more effectively support community gardens throughout Detroit, DAN worked with Greening of Detroit, Earthworks, and Michigan State University Extension to create a collaborative called the Garden Resource

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Program in 2003 (Underwood 2013). For a minimal fee, the program provided growers with seeds, cold- and warm-weather crops, tilling, soil testing, access to variety of skillbuilding workshops and other support (Underwood 2013). Today, the Garden Resource Program is facilitated by Keep Growing Detroit, an organization dedicated to providing resources and support for community-based urban agriculture in the city.

Implementing an Urban Agriculture Ordinance Urban agriculture as a land use classification first came to the City’s attention when the Capuchin Soup Kitchen’s Father Richard Dalton called Underwood to ask what kind of permit the organization needed to establish what would become Earthworks Urban Farm.1 Although she searched for answers in the zoning code, she found that urban agriculture was never expressly permitted as a primary land use. In order to protect community investment in gardens and potentially support a larger network of farms that could strengthen the local food system, Underwood felt that this needed to change.

Underwood initially introduced the idea of an urban agriculture ordinance to a zoning code review board, a group of City departments that reviewed the zoning code and made recommendations to amend it (Underwood 2013). At first, the board did not support urban agriculture zoning despite growing public support. Although more and more residents were calling the City Planning Commission to inquire about buying

city land and getting permits for urban farms, the City was lagging behind them. As Underwood explained, “the City [had] to catch up with the community” (2013).

The City’s position on urban agriculture started to change in a big way when the Hantz Farms project was presented in 2009. John Hantz, a Detroit-area businessman, advertised a farm of several hundred acres in a high-vacancy area on the city’s east side. According to Underwood, this was what caused city officials to finally recognize urban agriculture’s significance: “John Hantz stated that he had millions of dollars and wanted to create the largest urban farm in America, and it was then that the City realized that urban agriculture was a land use to be taken seriously” (2013). Hantz felt that this urban farm – promoted as not only the largest in America, but in the world – would transform the city into a globally recognized hub for agricultural innovation. He used online and traditional media to illustrate how Hantz Farms could lead innovation through vertical farming, hydroponics, and even aquaponics on a large scale. In response to the new publicity, the City began to receive calls from individuals and groups in the region and across the country who had become interested in urban farming in Detroit, proposing farms in empty industrial buildings, skyscrapers, and across more of the city’s vacant land. Even Majora Carter, a famous urban revitalization strategist from New York’s South Bronx, expressed interest in working on urban agriculture in Detroit (Underwood 2013).

Started in 1997 by the Capuchins’ Brother Rick Samyn, Earthworks Urban Farm “seeks to build a just, beautiful food system through education, inspiration, and community development” (Capuchin Soup Kitchen 2008).

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Underwood quickly understood that planners “need[ed] to guide what agriculture [would] accomplish in our neighborhoods,” but that they “[didn’t] have the codes and policies that allow this to be legal” (2013).

When she brought up the issue with the City Council, she was tasked with devising a formal policy for the development of urban agriculture in the city. Underwood’s first step was to establish a stakeholder group to review and provide input on proposed codes and policies, recruiting from among the individuals who were directly involved in Detroit’s urban agriculture movement. Underwood’s top priority was to be intentional about the process, ensuring an ordinance that worked for both existing and future urban farms and gardens.

To that end, in 2009 she formed the Urban Agriculture Workgroup, which included representatives from D-Town Farm; Earthworks; Greening of Detroit; the City’s Planning and Development Department, Recreation Department, and Buildings, Safety Engineering, and Environmental Department; as well as representatives from Wayne State and Michigan State Universities (Underwood 2013).

Despite its early momentum, the workgroup’s efforts stalled from 2010 to 2011 while Underwood determined how to address the Michigan Right to Farm Act. Once agriculture was permitted within the city, this state-level legislation would pre-empt any local ordinance on the matter. Because the Right to Farm Act contradicts Detroit’s vision for agriculture – notably in that it protects farmers from neighbors’ nuisance complaints – the City of Detroit was not willing

to cede control to the state, requiring the workgroup to determine how to address the legislation. The eventual solution was to seek an exemption from the Act, justified by the fact that Detroit is completely urbanized and an exemption would not impact any existing rural farms. Unfortunately, there was not political support on the state level to subject the existing law to any changes.

After a yearlong hiatus, the workgroup reconvened in 2011. Along with its original community, university, and municipal government participants, the group had broadened its membership to include representatives from existing small-scale producers, proposed large-scale farms like the Hantz project, community development and environmental justice organizations, and the Michigan Department of Agriculture and Rural Development. This larger group would continue devising an urban agriculture ordinance so that it would be ready for implementation once Right to Farm Act issues were addressed. The transparency and inclusiveness that went into this workgroup is what Underwood is most proud of in her work on the ordinance. Although including the many different stakeholders meant that the process took significantly longer to accomplish, Underwood felt that the quality of the resulting product made it time well spent.

In January 2012, the Right to Farm Act issue was resolved when the state revised the Act to give cities with a population over 100,000 the authority to write their own urban agriculture ordinances (MDARD 2012).

By fall of the same year, the now-empowered

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workgroup made its draft ordinance available for public comment. Public responses were incorporated into the ordinance and a second draft was completed in February 2013.

Within a month, the ordinance went to the City Council.

The Detroit City Council approved the Urban Agriculture Ordinance on March 13th, 2013 after years of stakeholder and community meetings, research, and planning.

Amending the Detroit Zoning Ordinance, Chapter 61 of the 1984 City Code (City of Detroit 2013), the new ordinance sets requirements, procedures, and standards for urban agricultural operations in the City of Detroit. Highlights of the ordinance include the specification of permissible agricultural uses in several zoning districts, site plan review requirements for farms and orchards, and specific use standards for primary agricultural uses, accessory uses, and accessory structures.

This ordinance represents a great success for the City, its residents, and the urban agriculture movement. With an abundance of vacancy, Detroit has been challenged as to how to put its land and buildings back into productive use. The urban agriculture ordinance provides the city’s stakeholders with an easy means to do so. With urban agriculture recognized as a legitimate primary land use, Detroit could potentially convert its challenging vacancy into an asset and become a leader in urban agriculture. Finally, it is an affirmation to its residents that the city supports efforts to improve quality of life and public health.

Conclusion and Next Steps Underwood’s biggest challenge throughout the process of writing the urban agriculture ordinance was simultaneously protecting growers’ needs and those of their non-farming neighbors. As the ordinance’s second phase – regulations keeping animals – comes under consideration, this challenge will appear once more. Underwood considers the changes the ordinance brings to the city to be part of her legacy as a planner. Her hope is that ordinance will help Detroit become a model for how cities around the world feed themselves and reuse vacant land and infrastructure. “[I]f we do this the right way,” she says, “we can redefine what urbanism is here and how our residents can make a living. “That,” she emphasizes, “is my dream for Detroit.”

Underwood believes that urban farming will benefit the city’s residents and Detroit as a whole. She has already started thinking about the city’s agricultural capacity beyond food production to include food processing, distribution, and waste management – all sectors of a food system. This has already become a reality in the city, as Eastern Market makes strides in food processing and distribution. Detroit has been a distribution point for goods throughout its history: its rail, river, roads, and vacant infrastructure that can be easily adapted for the evolving food system. Underwood believes that building a sustainable food system could be realized in the short rather than the long term, and could be a major industry for Detroit.

The form will follow after the City figures out a coherent vision and a plan, and government finally catches up with the community.

References City of Detroit. (2013). “Urban Agriculture Ordinance, Abridged”. Revision to City Code of 1984, Chapter 61, Sections 61-3-113- 61-15-24.

DFPC (Detroit Food Policy Council). (2013). City of Detroit Policy on Food Security. http://www.detroitfoodpolicycouncil.net/Page_2.html Capuchin Soup Kitchen. (2008). Earthworks Urban Farm. http://www.cskdetroit.org/EWG/ Elliott, Donald L. (2008). A Better Way to Zone: Ten Principles to Create More Livable Cities. Island Press, pp.

1-38.

Hatfield, Molly M. (2012) “City Food Policy and Programs: Lessons Harvested from an Emerging Field.”

City of Portland, Oregon Bureau of Planning and Sustainability.

Historic Detroit. (2013). “Hazen S. Pingree Monument.” http://historicdetroit.org/building/ hazen-s-pingree-monument MDARD (Michigan Department of Agriculture and Rural Development) (2012, January) “Generally Accepted Agricultural and Management Practices for Site Selection and Odor Control for New and Expanding Livestock Production Facilities.”

Underwood, Kathryn. (2013) Personal Interview.

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Building Collections Constructing Collective Memory in St. Louis’ City Museum Scott Claassen, M. Arch ‘13 45 AG O RA

St. Louis’ City Museum is a collection of the demolished fragments of the city, reconstituted and presented back to the public as a kind of massive and edgy playground. Celebrated today as one of the highlights of the city, the approach taken by its creator Bob Cassilly is highly unusual, but f its into an odd local legacy of building collectors. This piece examines how this unique site came into being, and what it can reveal about the role of the city in its residents’ collective memory. Rather than focusing on traditional ideas of preservation or the semiotic city of Aldo Rossi, the City Museum provokes ways of considering how we as architects and planners intervene in the creation of new concepts of the city.

Collection On the third floor of St. Louis’ City Museum, a particularly well-lit room is filled with initially unidentifiable objects. As visitors get closer, it becomes clear that those objects are a variety of animals dismantled, preserved, and displayed in various manners. Shelves are filled with insect collections, taxidermy, and the always-unnerving specimen jars to the extent that every usable inch of space in the room is saturated. The assorted animal remains share shelf space with fossils and rocks, as well as microscopes and other topical equipment.

This place is referred to as the Natural History Room, although there is visibly nothing natural about it or its assembly. Pulling specimens from the physical world, this room reconfigures them according to its own particular order. This order has nothing to do with the original habitats or situations of the pieces inside: both similar and radically different animals and rocks are placed next to one another on shelf after shelf, creating a visually overwhelming spectacle.

The Natural History Room is not alone in its practices of re-organization: its brand of re-presenting artifacts is what originally gave order to most of science and history, and through its displays inherently privileges certain artifacts

as worthy of consideration. In essence, this room is a miniature version of the building that houses it. It is a collection of fragments, each communicating with and provoking associations with the collective public, while the underlying order remains uniquely tied to the individual who assembled them as a collection.

The Origins of the City Museum At the edge of downtown St. Louis stands a three-story mass of tangled steel, enclosed by two 80-foot long concrete serpents.

The institution contained within is not a conventional museum: rather than constructing a coherent exhibit, the City Museum collages its collection together into an eccentric assembly whose underlying order will only ever be known to the collector who created it. The collection consists of fragments of buildings taken, often without permission, from demolition sites across the city. The City Museum is a particular response to a city facing rapid demolition, organized by a trained sculptor named Bob Cassilly. His sprawling and distinctive project can provide an interesting case in dealing with the relationship between physical objects and sites of memory, and their own connection to the collective.

Part of the City Museum’s collection of salvaged terra cotta. Photo by author.

Over the past half century, St. Louis has been faced with a dilemma similar to that of many other Rust Belt cities. Between 1950 and 1990, the city lost 54 percent of its residents; as in any city with a declining population, demolition quickly followed (Rose 1997). The city began to be disassembled piece by piece and fragments of the architectural past were lost to landfills. Downtown deteriorated to the extent that by the early 1990s even local banks would not invest in it ( John 1997).

It was under these conditions that Bob Cassilly bought the former International Shoe Factory warehouse downtown in 1983.

A St. Louis native, Cassilly combined experience in the practical realm of construction with work in creative fields. Seeing the city’s vacant spaces as an artistic opportunity, the sculptor paid over half a million dollars for the 10-story factory building, and then set about making an even larger investment of time and effort in transforming the space into a unique playground built out of the remains of the city’s demolished structures. In October 1997, the City Museum opened to an underwhelming crowd. Yet word quickly spread about the eclectic and quirky site, resulting in the museum bringing in an astonishing 70,000 visitors, 1,400 paid memberships and 300 volunteers in its first four months (Peterson 1998). This moment was no mere blip, as attendance continued to gradually climb.

The museum offers no illusion of dealing comprehensively or objectively with the pieces of the city’s history. Cassilly represented the city in a way compatible with how he experienced it: as something engaging, something to play with, and something active.

As an institution, the City Museum would

house a few permanent collections of oddities, and also leave room for rotating exhibits.

Yet beyond that, it was meant as something to be interactive and climbed all over. Every surface is punctured with tunnels and elevated passageways supported by rebar, often taking their users several stories above the ground, while the shiny, painted, or textured surfaces invite further wear and tear. This is much more funhouse than gallery.

The City Museum is most simply described as a collection of fragments. This collection can be broken down into two parts. The first is the act of collecting – a fundamentally individual pursuit, given that every collection is overseen by a curator’s idea of what is worth collecting and what is not. The second is the presentation of the re-ordered collection back to the collective. When discussing the first category, it is useful to consider two other individuals who have had a stake in the preservation and presentation of St. Louis’ built heritage. The role their collections play in anchoring the collective memory of the city’s inhabitants is a useful entry point to better understand the importance of visual transmission of information in the City Museum. Consideration of these other collectors makes it clear that there is nothing inevitable about the design of the City Museum, and that it is rather a highly idiosyncratic and individual creation.

Projectors, Collectors and Hoarders: St. Louis’ Other Curiosities St. Louis has a peculiar tradition of men who become deeply enamored with the built fabric of the city. Although the lineage of St. Louis citizens with strong and distinct positions on preservation is quite long, this

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Three stories up, visitors climb over firefighting equipment and metal beams. Photo by author.

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paper will focus on Bob Cassilly’s predecessors Charles E. Peterson and Larry Giles. While the City Museum is not directly connected to this lineage, it parallels it closely. Giles started his collection not long before Cassilly began his, although the two were never close, even if they were scavenging through the same piles.

Similarly, despite Peterson’s influence on his own project, Cassilly never explicitly cited him due to his role as a historian and advocate for the city, rather than an artist. It is worth noting that none of the three men discussed here were powerful individuals in their fields, particularly when they started their projects.

These are individuals reacting to similar circumstances such that each contributes something to the complex layering of the city.

Peterson Around the base of the Gateway Arch and extending both north and south along the Mississippi, as well as east into Downtown is the massive park known as the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial. Between 1936 and 1941, the National Park Service constructed the memorial on a site which at the time was home to the oldest part of the city, featuring a range of structures built by the French prior to the Louisiana Purchase (Peterson 1998). The Park Service commissioned Charles E. Peterson to produce drawings and photographs to document the areas about to be demolished. Peterson was an early advocate for preservation, which for him was a matter of aesthetics and architectural history. Peterson’s cause would be taken up by the architectural historian Sigfried Giedeon both

through his activism and in his 1941 book, Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition (Giedion 1941), which would later become classic in its field. Although Peterson had only been charged with documenting the memorial site’s condemned buildings, his ultimate recommendation to the National Park entailed removing and re-erecting them on the other side of the river as a sort of openair museum. Although many fragments of the demolished buildings may have been saved for a time, all vestiges of the former neighborhood have since been discarded. Ironically, a portion of the buildings are still on the site, as much of the rubble was used as landfill during the construction of the new park (Sandweiss 2007).

Beyond this early plan for a collection of architectural fragments, Peterson also pursued less physical projects, including a 1949 book on the history of St. Louis’ built environment.

Colonial St. Louis: Building a Creole Capital depicts the city as it would have looked in the 18th and 19th centuries, using Peterson’s own drawings and models of period structures ranging from houses to military fortifications to the city plan itself. As Peterson himself explains, the content he produced for the book could only have been created by analyzing historical documents: “In the nineteenth century a modern city completely grew over the old town of St. Louis and its plowlands. Except for the pattern of the streets we must look in vain for a single landmark of the early period. Even the Mississippi itself has been so changed that the f irst settlers would no longer know it. It is the literary task of this essay to provide an eighteenth century view of the

Essentially, Giles is engaged in hoarding at an architectural scale.

Creole settlement which was the capital of Upper Louisiana. To learn of its nature we must go to the surviving documents. Fortunately, there are many of them.”

(Peterson 1949) This St. Louis was a conjectural city, reconstructed in text and renders. Effectively, Peterson had used his extensive collection of documents to re-organize the fragments of the city in book form.

Giles

“What we call memory is in fact the gigantic and breathtaking storehouse of a material stock of what it would be impossible for us to remember, an unlimited repertoire of what might need to be recalled.”

(Nora 1989) Although many of Peterson’s ideas went unrealized in their own time, they were not forgotten. For the past 35 years, Larry Giles has been promoting preservation in St. Louis. Giles is devoted to collecting pieces of the city’s demolished buildings, going so far as to dismantle buildings himself. Every piece he gains goes into his archive. The last recorded estimate sets his haul at over 250,000 unique artifacts, significantly larger than any similar collection in the country (Greene 2006). Essentially, Giles is engaged in hoarding at an architectural scale.

His collection ranges from doorknobs, to bridge trusses, to the entire façade of five-story buildings. He has reconstructed an entire blacksmith shop – along with its equipment – and has acquired machinery from old

power plants and steel mills. One author described the site as comparable to the endless warehouse1 at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark (Sandweiss 2007). The extensive collection is located in and around a former steel foundry in Illinois, just across the river from St. Louis.

Although the site spreads over 15 acres, Giles stated in a 2008 interview that he expected to fill it soon and would need to expand elsewhere (KETC 2008).

A St. Louis native like Cassilly, Giles started his life’s work upon returning to the city after a tour with the Marines and finding the built environment he grew up in rapidly disappearing under the wrecking ball (Greene 2006). He leveraged his skills as a contractor and began dismantling and preserving parts of buildings that were about to be demolished, as well as establishing a substantial preservation effort for his local neighborhood of Soulard.

Concurrently, he established various nonprofits linked to the restoration, preservation, and reuse of buildings in St. Louis. Today, these are represented by the St. Louis Building Arts Foundation, which will oversee the National Architecture Arts Center, currently being developed on Giles’ 15-acre site. Along with its preservation efforts, the foundation has also amassed an archive of rare American architectural manuscripts, and provides information about many of the buildings in the collection on its website (St. Louis Building Arts Foundation 2013). Unfortunately, the website is where the public access currently ends, with visits to the site extremely limited and tightly controlled. Nevertheless, Giles’ end goal is to take up Peterson’s mantle and establish a museum across the river from the Gateway

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Arch. Despite Giles’ ambitions, it is difficult to gauge the project’s actual progress: his first published comments about the site occurred midway through the last decade, and little new information has emerged since. In one interview, Peterson suggested that he would not be able to even set a timeline (KETC 2008).

Ultimately, like so many other archives, Giles’ material remains largely out of sight.

It is difficult to imagine how Cassilly and Giles could operate at the same time. Whereas Giles worked out contracts and agreements with building owners and government officials, Cassilly would typically take what he wanted. Despite the dramatic differences between the two men, there is at least one documented example of collaboration between them. Built in 1897, a two-story office building belonging to the St. Louis Title Company stood blocks away from what would become the City Museum ( John 1997).

Demolished to make way for the downtown Gateway Mall, the structure was acquired by Giles, who subsequently donated it to Cassilly for use in the museum. It now serves as the striking box office that guests encounter immediately after entering the building.

Cassilly

Returning to the City Museum, at least one part of its collection does seem to directly pick up on the spirit of Peterson and Giles. Known as the Architecture Museum, the exhibit is tucked away on the third floor,

in the corner farthest from the main staircase.

Bringing together the drawings and original terra cotta detailing from several buildings by the renowned Louis Sullivan and his chief draftsman Grant Elmslie, the exhibit’s pieces range from sculptural details no larger than a human hand to a pediment approximately 20 feet long and 7 feet high. The visitor can approach within inches of these intricate details, many of which could never have been observed up close prior to their reuse in this totally new context. The exhibit is remarkably sober, and much more like a conventional museum than the rest of the institution: it is quiet, and one of the only spots in the museum that does not typically smell of carnival food. Visitors entering the exhibit are presented with a large, monolithic placard, with samples of terra cotta arranged symmetrically behind it. The general impression is that there is something distinctly serious about this space and what is housed within.

When interviewed, Bob Cassilly always claimed that his motivations in creating the museum were first and foremost playful and possibly self-indulgent, rather than polemical or public-oriented. When asked specifically about activism, he largely played dumb, as if he had never considered the matter (Rose 1997). Those who have visited the carefullycomposed Architecture Museum may find it difficult to take these statements seriously.

Originally known as Salvaging Sullivan, the exhibit was initially conceived as a temporary

1. A description of walking though the current warehouse: “Intricately carved building facades line the wide aisles as ornamental brickwork sits on display like tapestries at a bazaar. Stone sculptures lay in sleepy contemplation while glass tubing, robbed of its neon glow, waits patiently on shelves and cast iron storefronts hibernate in storage. Rows of stacked crates extend into the distance packed with balustrades, cornice friezes and spandrels – building blocks of the banks, cathedrals, offices, schools and courthouses that defined an era of everyday life for a generation of Americans” (Material Mix).

An iconic tower marks the entry to the museum, and when viewers glance upwards the iconic yellow shape of a school bus hovers 10 stories above.

addition to the City Museum. The first visitors entered by passing a television showing footage of Sullivan buildings being demolished to the melodramatic tune of Ave Maria (McKee 1999). Despite the initial theatrics, the simple fact that the exhibit was assembled and subsequently made permanent suggests that this contrast to the rest of the museum – the one place focused on sight, rather than touch – is sincere in its seriousness. In an early review of Salvaging Sullivan, one local author stated that “The significance of this show lies not in its erudition – there is no great emphasis on Sullivan’s architectural lineage, his contemporaries, or his disciples, and there is not supposed to be. It is aimed at a clientele of largely suburban families rediscovering the city for the first time” (McKee 1999). Shortly before the museum opened, one suburban resident was quoted in the local press as saying she would not visit the new attraction because she was concerned about safety in the city center (Rose 1997). When confronted with her reaction, Cassilly simply responded that “We’ll get the people who aren’t afraid” (Rose 1997a). At that time, images of a decaying and dangerous St. Louis were already deeply embedded in the minds of the community at large. Any intervention in that collective understanding of the site would have had to create an equally powerful representation of the city.

Cassilly and Giles shared a common passion in collecting the fragments of the city, yet were deeply divided over the representation of their respective collections. Along with Peterson, both men were heavily invested in the transmission of their memories of the city.

In a discussion of Cassilly and Giles (which could just as easily apply to Peterson) Sandweiss argued that “Each man, in his utterly distinctive way, proposes to recontextualize the fragments of his city within a new whole, to re-present a vanished world upon the site of its own disappearance” (Sandweiss 2007).

Between them there are three examples of mediating the memory of the city through its built form: the book, the closed archive, and the open collection. While these collections do have spatial consequences, they are

A school bus cantilevers 10 levels above the ground.

Photo by author.

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Seeing the propellers at a dock, the statue at a restaurant, or the archway fronting a street would do little to elicit a reaction. But reconfiguring them into direct and otherwise impossible adjacency gives them new relevance as sites of memory.

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primarily matters of visual transmission. By and large, these three men built their collections from a single body of material – the built history of St. Louis, which like the City Museum’s insects was once singular and whole.

Yet the medium matters: the city’s assembled parts mean something very different when put into this context of a massive playground than when depicted in a book. This is not to say that either the book or the 300,000-item artifact collection are inferior in any way. Rather, it is to suggest that individuals’ expression of collective memory can take many forms, and that these expressions can provide a platform for new ways of preserving community memories.

One advantage that the City Museum holds over other collections is a particularly visceral and dramatic quality which visitors encounter the moment they arrive. An iconic tower marks the entry to the museum, and when viewers glance upwards the iconic yellow shape of a school bus hovers 10 stories above. The fragments of the City Museum are often visually recognizable features of buildings from the city’s history. Entire facades are reproduced. Less-distinctive pieces of the collection carry labels indicating their original use or location. Visitors observing a fullyextended boom arm can note that the painted “FIRE DEPARTMENT” is still legible. Many if not most of the City Museum’s visitors never knew the buildings that these artifacts came from. They never interacted with these fragments, and only understand them visually.

Yet the fragments’ language is familiar enough: while observing one of the museum’s facades, visitors will understand it as both a facade and

an artifact with a prior use, even though many of the fragments used in the City Museum were previously only touched or interacted with by the workers who built, maintained, and dismantled them. To everyone else, they were out of reach, and only visual. This is one of the City Museum’s signature attractions: it provides personal, tactile access to previously unreachable parts of the built environment.

The traditional museum experience is almost sterile by comparison: while the same materials may be presented, in the constraints of a gallery dismantled buildings would be visually presented strictly as dead fragments of the past. The City Museum offers that same visual experience, while simultaneously providing another which is visceral, physical, and certainly spatial.

Walking past the Natural History room, viewers can turn and face a reassembled terra cotta archway, two five-foot-wide steel ship propellers with the two of them flanking a sculpture of the iconic Big Boy mascot. The juxtaposition recalls memory theorist Maurice Halbwach’s description of dreams’ relation to memory: (Halbwachs 1941) removed from their original framework, these assembled fragments don’t make any particular sense. The coherence of their original situation is gone; seeing the propellers at a dock, the statue at a restaurant, or the archway along a street would do little to elicit a reaction. But reconfiguring them into direct and otherwise impossible adjacency gives them new relevance as sites of memory.2 As Aldo Rossi explains,

A Big Boy figure occupies an otherwise sparse floor in the City Museum. Photo by author.

One can say that the city itself is the collective memory of its people, and like memory it is associated with objects and places. The city is the locus of the collective memory. This relationship between the locus and the citizenry then becomes the city’s predominant image, both of architecture and of landscape, and as certain artifacts become part of its memory, new ones emerge. In this entirely positive sense great ideas flow through the history of the city and give shape to it.

(Rossi 1982) If for Rossi the city is the locus of collective memory, then the City Museum is the result of compressing that locus to an extreme.

Like an archive, the museum coalesces pieces that may have never been near one another into a single compressed space. But unlike in an archive or a conventional museum, there is no attempt at coherence. Through their rearrangement in space, the City Museum’s pieces break from the original significance of their histories in favor of expanding them with new experiences.

An illuminating example of this is the Monstro-City section of the museum.

Monstro-City is a four-story behemoth of tangled steel, capable of holding clock towers and fighter jets alike. Steel and cast iron from across St. Louis are welded and bolted into a massive outdoor sculpture and playground, every inch of which can be climbed on, crawled over, or swung from. These pieces of the city may have once played a supporting or passive role, but their re-arrangement highlights their more active possibilities. As children crawl

across its framework suspended three stories in the air, Monstro-City demonstrates what the city makes possible by stepping around the typical building conventions that make it difficult to notice.

Conclusion: The Multimedia Collage Modestly speaking, the City Museum is a medium for transmitting the memory of the city. It is a loose collection of urban fragments that previously had no reason to be near one another, until an individual took it upon himself to rearrange them. The result is playful rather than didactic, and creates a new experience for engaging with the city. There is no attempt to tell the single story of St. Louis through its artifacts. It rearranges them, and presents them back to the city as something new to share in understanding it. The City Museum is a vibrant example of a medium of memory that both engages history and adds a layer to the palimpsest for the creation of new memories.

The last stop for the City Museum visitor is the roof. Ten stories above the ground, the building is topped with an additional two levels of scaffolding housing slides and rope swings. The view spreads out over the city, the river, and the landscape beyond it. Across the street a visitor can see ornate terra cotta detailing on the neighboring buildings that would be impossible to make out from the ground.

Slightly beyond that is the 10-story Wainwright Building, once the tallest in St. Louis.

Beyond Downtown’s towers is the Gateway

2. “In treating a variety of objects, places, and concepts as “sites,” Nora argued that these sites have become the fixed, externalized locations of what was once an internalized, social collective memory.” (Crane 1997) “[C]ollective memory’s “sites” are heuristic devices designed to supplement the lack of a central remembering organ in the social body.” (Ibid.)

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View from the roof of the City Museum. Photo by author.

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Arch, the national rather than local memorial that brought the first large-scale demolitions to the city. Turning slightly there is the headquarters of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the newspaper that fiercely advocated for Cassilly’s projects. A little to the left and further out is an industrial zone of both old smokestacks and mid-century factories; further still but out of sight is the steel mill where 300,000 of Giles’ architectural artifacts sit in anticipation of the day that they will be displayed.

From this vantage point, the city itself becomes a collection. Each viewer brings their own curated understanding and interpretation with them like a lunch pail, giving each piece significance not by its own merit, but through its relationships with the others. Although the view is arguably shared with every downtown tower, only those who arrive at it from the City Museum are in the right mindset to truly experience it as a collection.

References Crane, S. A. (1997). Writing the Individual Back into Collective Memory. American Historical Review 102:5, 1372-85.

Giedion, S. (1941). Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

Greene, L. (2006, June ). A Conversation with Larry Giles: Keeper of the Treasures. St. Louis Magazine.

Halbwachs, M. (1941, Edited and Translated by Lewis A. Coser 1992). On Collective Memory. Chicago: Unversity of Chicago Press.

Huyssen, A. (2003). Present Pasts: Urban Palimpsests And the Politics of Memory. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

John, S. B. (1997, October 19). Cassilly’s city with a gleam in his eye and no fear in his heart, our town’s resident quixotic artist opens a museum of art and whimsy. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, pp. 0-C. KETC. (2008). “Building Collector Larry Giles”. Living St. Louis. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uwwsy5qDBU4 Material Mix. (n.d.). Featured Company: National Building Arts Center. Retrieved from Material Mix: Waste No More: http://www.materialmix.com/main.php?cmd=featured_ company&id=2

McKee, B. (1999, April). Salvaging Sullivan. Architecture, 43.

Nora, P. (1989). Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire. Representations 26, 7-24.

Peterson, C. E. (1949). Colonial St. Louis. St. Louis: Missouri Historical Society.

Peterson, D. (1998, February 26). Offerings Impress Visiting Experts. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, p. B1.

Prost, C. (1998, June 29). Banks give downtown a boost new attitude brings in cash. St. Louis Post-Dispatch, pp. 1-1.

Rose, R. L. (1997, June 17). A Renovator Offers One Possible Remedy for St. Louis Blues. Wall Street Journal.

Rose, R.L. (1997a, June 17). Visitors Are Lured to the Arch, But Downtown Offers Little Else. Wall Street Journal.

Rossi, A. (1982). The Architecture of the City. Cambridge: MIT Press.

Sandweiss, E. (2007). Cities, Museums and City Museums.

In A. K. Levin, Defining Memory: Local Museums And the Construction of History In America’s Changing Communities (pp. 217-230). Lanham: AltaMira Press.

St. Louis Building Arts Foundation. (2013). “Vision”. http://www.buildingmuseum.org/Vision.asp

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Aly Andrews, MUP 2014 “Swiss Road”. Interlaken, Switzerland

Collaborative Leadership Partnerships Between Regional Development Organizations and Community Foundations Parrish Bergquist, MUP/M.S. NRE ‘13 57 AG O RA

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In an era of tightening government budgets, local governments need to think creatively about developing and funding initiatives that improve communities’ quality of life. One way that communities have diversified their strategies is by working with community foundations, sometimes in dynamic partnerships organized through regional development organizations (RDOs). Through these partnerships, both RDOs and foundations have leveraged community and external funds, accessed knowledge and skills beyond their own areas of expertise, broadened their networks, and aligned work programs to best meet community needs.

This report explores the strategies and rewards behind six partnerships between RDOs and community foundations from around the United States. The East Central Iowa Council of Governments (ECICOG) worked with a community foundation to recapitalize a small business assistance revolving loan fund, and the organizations have continued to collaborate on regional initiatives. Similarly, the East Alabama Regional Planning and Development Commission (EARPDC) began an active partnership with the Community Foundation of Northeast Alabama through a successful public health program. Central Minnesota’s Region Five Development Commission (R5DC) has worked with several community foundations, after establishing a strong partnership with the Initiative Foundation. Virginia’s New River Valley Planning District Commission (NRVPDC) has helped the Community Foundation of the New River Valley discover

community needs. Meanwhile, the foundation has helped NRVPDC engage community members. In Texas and North Carolina, RDOs and foundations worked together on projects to provide wildfire relief and equip a business incubator, respectively. These stories demonstrate how RDOs and foundations can help each other leverage resources, expand their toolkits, broaden their networks, and align their work programs.

What are RDOs? Multi-jurisdictional regional development organizations (RDOs) are publicbased entities focused on fostering regional strategies, partnerships, and solutions. These organizations work to solve area-wide issues including addressing the fundamental building blocks needed to sustain resilient and competitive communities and economies.

Regional development organizations pursue their missions and goals by fostering intergovernmental collaboration among federal, state, and local partners. They deliver and manage various federal and state programs with an increased focus on leveraging resources, engaging the private and non-profit sectors, and ensuring public accountability, transparency and results. Based on state and local needs, these entities often play a key role in community and economic development strategies, housing, emergency management and homeland security preparedness, Geographic Information System (GIS) data analysis and information management, business development finance, technology and

telecommunications, transportation planning and public transportation services, and workforce development.

As organizations typically formed under state law or gubernatorial executive order, RDOs are often known locally by many different names such as councils of governments, economic development districts, local development districts, planning and development districts, regional councils, regional development commissions, regional planning commissions and other types of multi-jurisdictional development entities around the country.

What are community foundations?

Community foundations serve defined geographic areas by providing grants to a variety of local initiatives and providing leadership in their communities. They receive donations from many different donors, who often have the opportunity to choose their gifts’ focus areas. Community foundations are governed by a board that represents the community (Molinaro, March 13, 2012). According to the Community Foundations National Standards Board: A community foundation is a tax-exempt, nonprof it, autonomous, publicly supported, nonsectarian philanthropic institution with a long-term goal of building permanent, named component funds established by many separate

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donors to carry out their charitable interests and for the broad-based charitable interest of and for the benefit of residents of a defined geographic area.

(List of Standards) Dialogue: How to engage community foundations?

RDOs and foundations have used diverse strategies to engage each other, from building on personal relationships to establishing institutional structures that promote collaboration. Doug Elliott, the East Central Iowa Council of Governments’ (ECICOG) Executive Director, encourages RDOs to develop collaborative relationships with foundations: Not many of us [RDOs] count foundations within our immediate constituency, and not many foundations know what we do and what resources we bring. Establishing enough of a relationship that they’re aware of who we are and what we do is helpful. Seeking money doesn’t have to be the reason to approach them – we’re working on shared efforts to leverage money for the benef it of our shared constituency.1 Greater Cedar Rapids Community Foundation’s Tracy Tritle adds that in the current funding environment, “Calls for proposals require a quick turnaround, and communities need to have projects ready when a funding opportunity comes out.” Ongoing discussions between local and county governments, foundations, RDOs, and other regional players can help communities stay ahead of the funding process.

Unless otherwise noted, all quotes come from personal interviews with the author.

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Whether informal or institutionalized, partnerships between RDOs, local governments, and foundations rely on open dialogue. To begin this dialogue, central Minnesota’s R5DC invited the Initiative Foundation’s leadership to discuss the two organizations’ work programs. According to R5DC’s Executive Director Cheryal Lee Hills, this initial conversation helped the foundation understand R5DC’s goals, culture, and skills.

She recalls: That initial meeting of our leadership teams set the tone of collaboration. We tried to explain what we were hoping to do, and how it complements what they do. Once they understood our strengths and where we f it, they were more likely to call, and when I called them they understood how their projects aligned with work we were trying to do.

Continuous dialogue prevents both organizations from replicating work or stepping on each other’s toes.

Often, partnerships grow from personal relationships, as was the case when wildfires blazed across west Texas in 2011. At a Junior League reception, the Lubbock Area Foundation’s Executive Director chatted with the South Plains Association of Governments’ (SPAG) Director of Regional Services. The two discussed whether the region’s fire departments might need foundation support to fight the fires ravaging the state.

In fact, SPAG had received approximately twenty phone calls from fire departments – many of them volunteer-run – requesting funds through the SPAG Homeland Security Unit. Unfortunately, the State of Texas did

not receive a disaster declaration as a result of the wildfires and drought situation in 2011; in the absence of state or federal assistance, SPAG began coordinating a fundraising drive with the foundation (further details are included later in this report). By diversifying their networks and thinking creatively, RDOs can make unexpected connections to support regional needs.

Through a more formal partnership, eastern Iowa’s Greater Cedar Rapids Community Foundation established a community development staff position jointly funded by the City of Cedar Rapids, Linn County, and the Foundation. The county supervisor, the city administrator’s staff, and the foundation’s president meet regularly to determine program priorities to benefit a broad group of regional stakeholders. The foundation often consults with ECICOG before applying for grants, and relies on its relationship with ECICOG and other partners to reduce redundancies between organizations’ programs and grant applications.

When the time comes to pursue specific projects, Greg Godard, Executive Director of North Carolina’s Upper Coastal Plain Council of Governments (UCPCOG), often submits short concept papers to the foundations with whom he maintains a dialogue.

Concept papers precede the lengthy “due diligence” process; they summarize program goals and invite feedback from the foundation. This allows RDOs to tweak their proposals, sharpen programs to align with foundations’ missions, or seek alternative funding sources. UCPCOG worked closely with the Golden LEAF Foundation to refine plans for a business incubator that opened in 2007 in

Wilson, NC. The foundation provided continuous feedback on a funding proposal the project planners intended to submit and awarded a $200,000 grant to purchase technology, furniture and equipment for the incubator.

added signif icant value to our Sustainable Communities Initiative. That happened as a result of nurturing relationships and the Initiative, Blandin, and Otto Bremer Foundations saying “these people are going to use your money well.

Accountability: The key to enduring partnerships?

A strong track record with foundations’ dollars helps foster productive partnerships, For instance, a long-standing relationship between the Community Foundation of Northeast Alabama and the East Alabama Regional Planning and Development Commission (EARPDC) began with a successful community health project. Soon after its inception, in 2000 the Foundation approached EARPDC with a prescription drug assistance program for seniors. EARPDC suggested changes that would produce more sustainable outcomes, the partners adapted the plan accordingly, and EARPDC implemented the program at a lower cost than initially anticipated. Not only did this success build EARPDC’s credibility with the foundation, but the program – along with similar initiatives in other communities – became the model for a statewide, state-funded program called Alabama Senior RX. Minnesota’s R5DC’s experience also demonstrates the value of building a strong reputation. According to Hills, R5DC’s strong track record with the Initiative Foundation opened doors with other regional foundations. She remembers: Foundations talk to each other. After doing good work and proving ourselves, the Bush Foundation called and asked if R5DC would be interested in completion of a $40,000 project that

EARPDC’s Randy Frost adds another angle to the idea that successful collaboration with one foundation can open doors with others. He suggests that partnerships with local foundations – as members of state and national associations of foundations – can help RDOs access matching grant programs from larger foundations.

By engaging in ongoing dialogue and establishing a reputation for using dollars well, RDOs can foster enduring partnerships with foundations. The organizations’ shared constituencies benefit from this spirit of collaboration and mutual understanding of each other’s work.

Complementary strengths and perspectives: What are the benefits of specialization and collaboration?

Both RDOs and foundations may benefit from their counterparts’ complementary strengths and perspectives. RDOs often collect data on community needs that foundations can tap. For example, Virginia’s New River Valley PDC (NRVPDC) and a consortium of partners are facilitating a regional Livability Initiative. Through the Initiative, NRVPDC has collected data that the Community Foundation of the New River Valley uses to develop its priorities. At the Foundation’s Spring 2012 programming retreat, NRVPDC briefed the group on key indicators from the region, and the foundation used these

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Innovative, Different Approaches Data, Demographics, Trends Development Patterns, Pressure on Rural Areas Funding, Financing, Incentives Accessibility, Proximity, Mobility Community Amenities, Services, Programs Home Modifications, Retrofits, Rehab Housing Needs/Options, Consumer Demand Land Use, Zoning, Building Regulations Issues of Affordability: Housing and Related Costs 0

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Figure 1: New River Housing Priorities and Issues (compiled from public input).

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data to shape its funding directives. NRVPDC also facilitated a low-literacy survey, to gather data and perspectives from some of the most underrepresented and least vocal members of the community. Figure 1 shows a sample of data collected through these public processes.

According to NRVPDC’s Executive Director Kevin Byrd, the low-literacy survey “received a lot of response. This is beneficial in helping to align grant money with local needs, rather than aligning programs only with the more vocal minority that attends public meetings.” The foundation’s Director Jessica Wirgau confirms that data collected through the Livability Initiative have shown the foundation “what needs are out there so that we can educate donors on the most substantial needs and how we can support organizations that are meeting those needs.”

In addition to data concerning community needs, RDOs provide knowledge of government processes and issues that may interest foundations. Community Foundation of Northeast Alabama President and CEO Jennifer Maddox remarks: If our board decides it wants to be involved in an emerging issue, the Planning Commission is the f irst place we can go to get data. Also, because the Planning Commission has substantial experience with the Federal government, I know that I can rely on [EARPDC Area Agency on Aging Director] Randy’s expertise whenever the Foundation needs assistance in understanding the intricacies of government policy, procedures, and processes.

Similarly, referring to a federal grant application filed by a consortium of partners in Iowa, the Greater Cedar Rapids Community Foundation’s Tritle remarked: “ECICOG’s knowledge was key to writing the grant.”

Central Minnesota’s Hills echoes the sentiment that RDOs provide proficiency in government processes, and adds that her organization’s interdisciplinary experience adds value for partner foundations. R5DC’s work crosses disciplinary boundaries including watershed management, agriculture, housing, land use, transportation, and economic development, and R5DC has connections with professionals, community leaders, and elected officials in all of these fields. The RDO has also applied for state and federal grants from a myriad of agencies and keeps tabs on current funding sources. According to Hills, “That’s a sizeable value when foundations are asking you to leverage their dollars – knowledge of funding opportunities and diversification amongst disciplines makes us a major asset.”

R5DC has seen foundations show some flexibility in their funding programs, based on the RDO’s perspective on community needs. Hills counsels, “I’m strategic about aligning projects with the foundation’s priorities. When the shift happens and you’re given the trust to just apply, you still have to make sure you’re getting the biggest bang for a foundation’s buck. Be thoughtful about how a project advances the foundation’s goals.”

For example, the Blandin Foundation – which focuses on expanding broadband access – recently collaborated with R5DC to fund technological improvements for fire departments. While not exclusively about

broadband, this project related to the foundation’s technological focus. As a bonus, it exposed the foundation to technology’s effectiveness in improving government efficiency, and local government reform has since become a priority for Blandin and other foundations in the region. As this anecdote illustrates, Hills has seen that foundations will shift their strategies based on RDO input on community needs, if they understand how a change will better benefit the community.

While RDOs provide a broad perspective, collect data, track issues, and provide knowledge of government processes, foundations often offer highly specialized expertise within their focus areas. Historically focused on health issues, the Community Foundation of Northeast Alabama offers EARPDC knowledge of the medical field. Minnesota’s R5DC has worked with foundations that specialize in land use, civic engagement, housing, broadband access, and entrepreneurship.

Along with knowledge, these foundations also maintain connections with professionals in their fields of interest. Thus, the Community Foundation of Northeast Alabama helps EARPDC connect with stakeholders in the medical field. Hills notes that the Initiative Foundation’s “amazing relationships with people at various levels” open opportunities if she needs an introduction. Meanwhile, RDOs help foundations connect with local government officials that they may not otherwise know.

Foundations and RDOs can also leverage one another’s professional capacities.

For example, Minnesota’s Initiative Foundation helps communities conduct visioning processes, but it does not specialize in project

development or implementation. Once community priorities are identified, the foundation often provides funding to R5DC to assist with project implementation. Conversely, since the Initiative Foundation provides a neutral perspective, R5DC has contracted it to facilitate a public engagement process.

The fundraising drive for fire departments in west Texas illustrates the power of collaboration based on shared skills, networks, and expertise. In this case, each partner did what it does best: The Lubbock Area Foundation housed the fund, since its 501(c) (3) status allowed for tax-deductible donations. It also connected with community leaders, businesses, and organizations to solicit funds; coordinated a media effort; collected donations; managed the fund; and disbursed grants. SPAG connected with emergency responders across the region, encouraged local governments to participate in the fundraising drive, tracked fire departments’ levels of need, accompanied the foundation to media events, and even ran an office auction to raise money for the effort. The foundation’s Executive Director Kathy Stocco reflected, “It made it a lot easier for both of us to work together. They had information and contacts that we definitely needed, and we had other contacts and the ability to raise funding.” By November 2011, the foundation had raised over $40,000 for 18 fire departments.

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Figure 2: Contributions to ECICOG Small Business Recovery Revolving Loan Fund.

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Stakeholders: engaging a broad network Even beyond their professional networks, foundations and RDOs may engage different stakeholders, and tapping into each other’s constituencies can facilitate more inclusive programs and decision-making processes. In Virginia’s New River Valley, the area’s Community Foundation helps NRVPDC connect with community members who may not usually engage with government through formal public meetings. Byrd notes, “The foundation is an extremely well-respected organization. They provide a conduit to people who are passionately engaged in the community, but who are not involved with government.” As the regional Livability Initiative’s public engagement facilitator, the foundation helps bring community members and leaders to the table (Community Foundation of the New River Valley).

Meanwhile, RDOs bring together regional organizations and local governments that foundations may not normally engage. In eastern Iowa, a consortium of regional players – including ECICOG and the Greater Cedar Rapids Community Foundation – has submitted grant applications for regional sustainability planning and veteran support services. In these efforts ECICOG added value by bringing organizations from around the region to the table, though they may not have collaborated before. Tracy Tritle from the foundation remarked, “ECICOG’s staff brought knowledge about who the players should be. They helped create a consortium of city and county governments that don’t always sit at the table together, and assisted in facilitating the process.”

Leverage and diversification of funding Of course, funding represents a major driver for RDO-foundation partnerships.

The financial advantages of working with foundations extend beyond simply soliciting and receiving grants, however. Foundations represent an important mechanism for communities to leverage funding opportunities, and to diversify their funding portfolios.

Iowa’s ECICOG successfully leveraged foundation funds in 2011, and launched an enduring partnership with the Greater Cedar Rapids Community Foundation. In 2008, eastern Iowa experienced devastating floods, which intensified for Iowans the economic crisis sweeping the nation. Following the floods, the U.S. Economic Development Administration (EDA) provided a grant for ECICOG to establish a small business assistance revolving loan fund. Recognizing a need to recapitalize the fund in 2011, EDA offered ECICOG a $2.9 million grant. The community needed to raise a hefty local match in a matter of weeks, and ECICOG approached the Greater Cedar Rapids Community Foundation for assistance. As shown in Figure 2, the foundation committed to provide up to $50,000 to fill the gap and ultimately provided the largest of 17 contributions to the $195,000 local match (East Central Iowa Council of Governments 2011).

Foundations also work with each other to leverage funds, share risk, and align goals to achieve the greatest impact. Networks of foundations jointly fund projects that advance their mutual goals but are too big for any of them to accomplish alone.

From Minnesota, the Initiative Foundation’s Don Hickman explains, “Foundations

Figure 3: Contributions to R5DC-administered Micro-lending Program Fund.

don’t mind sharing the gain or pain of risky projects. I can’t just toss a million dollars at a project, but if I can get several partners to toss in a quarter-million, it’s more likely to happen.” R5DC understands this strategy and has used it to leverage foundation and government dollars. As shown in Figure 3, R5DC obtained a $25,000 commitment from three foundations, to match a $400,000 federal grant for micro-lending. Not only did the tri-partite match secure a hefty sum, but it demonstrated broad local buy-in that federal agencies love to see. Even for smaller projects, SPAG’s Director of Regional Services Elena Quintanilla suggests that RDOs look to foundations to complement other funding sources: “Think about how foundations can fund a piece of a project; many contributions can come together to make a bigger picture come to life.”

Anticipating a tight fiscal future, Alabama EARPDC’s Frost suggests that working with foundations can help RDOs diversify their funding sources. According to Frost: We [RDOs] have been such advocates – and will continue to be – for federal and state programs, but the burden on municipalities with limited tax bases, struggling economies, and high unemployment kills revenues in states like Alabama.

We can complain about it or we can seek out other sources. The bottom line is we need to diversify, especially for growth and innovation.

The Community Foundation of Northeast Alabama has provided gap funding for public services like paratransit in rural Alabama. Still, the Foundation’s Maddox adds a note of caution against over-reliance on the

not-for-profit and foundation community to provide public services: “Not-for-profits have to operate in a fiscally conservative way because, without assets, they can’t borrow large sums of money like the government or business sectors can. If the government continues to cut services, and assumes not-for-profits will pick them up, there will come a point when they just can’t.”

Conclusion: aligning work programs with community needs A primary benefit of partnerships between RDOs and community foundations is that both types of organizations benefit from the other’s perspective, resources, and networks. As a result, their coordinated work programs provide the best means to serve community needs. Several RDOs have experienced give-and-take with foundations in aligning priorities, and, as Hills notes, “Many RDOs have a wealth of knowledge and perspective about community needs and gaps.”

By meeting early to discuss mutual goals, organizational strengths and complements, and previous project successes, RDOs can gain credence with foundations. Foundations and RDOs each benefit from the other’s skills, expertise, and networks, and by working together they can leverage community and external resources for the benefit of their common constituency.

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Community Foundation of the New River Valley. (n.d.). NRV Livability Initiative. Retrieved 1 2012, June, from Community Foundation of the New River Valley: http://www.cfnrv.org/about-us/ community-partnerships/nrv-livability-initiative/.

East Central Iowa Council of Governments. (2011).

ECICOG Express. Cedar Rapids, IA. List of Standards. (n.d.). Retrieved June 11, 2012, from Community Foundations National Standards Board: http://www.cfstandards.org/standards.

Molinaro, J. (March 13, 2012). Community Foundations in Appalachia: The Current and Potential Development Role and Impact of Community Foundations in Appalachia. Presentation, Consultation on Community Philanthropy in Appalachia. Appalachian Regional Commission.

About This Report This report was funded by the National Association of Development Organizations (NADO) Research Foundation, with guidance from Associate Director Kathy Nothstine. Anju Chopra provided preliminary research.

Special thanks to those who consented to be interviewed: • Cheryal Lee Hills, Region Five Development Commission (MN) • Don Hickman, Initiative Foundation (MN) • Doug Elliott, East Central Iowa Council of Governments • Elena Quintanilla, South Plains Association of Governments (TX) • Greg Godard, Upper Coastal Plain Council of Governments (NC) • Jennifer Maddox, Community Foundation of Northeast Alabama • Jessica Wirgau, Community Foundation of the New River Valley (VA) • Kathy Stocco, Lubbock Area Foundation (TX) • Kevin Byrd, New River Valley Planning District Commission (VA) • Randy Frost, East Alabama Regional Planning and Development Commission • Tracy Tritle, Greater Cedar Rapids Community Foundation (IA)

The National Association of Development Organizations (NADO) is a national membership organization for the national network of over 520 regional development organizations (RDOs) focused on strengthening local governments, communities, and economies through regional strategies, partnerships, and solutions. Founded in 1988, the NADO Research Foundation is the nonprofit research affiliate of NADO. The NADO Research Foundation identifies, studies, and promotes regional solutions and approaches to improving local prosperity and services through the nationwide network of RDOs. The Research Foundation shares best practices and offers professional development training, analyzes the impact of federal policies and programs on RDOs and their local communities, and examines the latest developments and trends in small metropolitan and rural America. Most importantly, the Research Foundation is helping bridge the communications gap among practitioners, researchers, and policymakers.

Michelle Fournier, M.S. NRE, 2014 “Market”. Mulanje, Malawi

Du Bled à la Banlieue From the Bled to the Banlieue Terra Reed, MUP ‘14 67 AG O RA

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The French term banlieue refers to the suburbs around major cities, which are home to many low-income and immigrant residents. This urban space reflects the interaction between the cultural backgrounds of its people and French culture and politics. Often the source of violence and riots, the banlieues are contentious spaces that require better integration and services. This paper seeks to shed light on the physical and cultural phenomena that shape the banlieue – particularly how residents’ experiences and backgrounds inform and interact with physical space and the political environment. This is done largely through poetry and rap, which are important cultural activities that have emerged out of the banlieue. This paper uses the Islamic city as a point of reference, as many banlieue residents have roots in Islamic nations in the Middle East and North Africa. There are important similarities and differences between the traditional Islamic city and modern French urban form, which may provide useful context to better understand the banlieue.

Banlieue is a term that has become prevalent in recent decades in French news and culture, often connected to the immigrant experience in France. In English, it translates simply to “suburb,” but refers to something very different than the traditional American suburb. Lacking context, an American reader might imagine the sprawling, single-family neighborhoods that sprang up in the United States after World War II. Within a French cultural context, however, the term evokes the violent riots and uprisings that have sprung from the country’s suburbs, which are home to many of France’s immigrant residents and their French-born children. French society has a complex relationship with these communities and their cultural histories – a relationship with strong implications for the future.

This kind of context is important: how people interact with their environment is tied to social values, relationships, and conflicts. As planners, it is important to understand these complex relationships to better understand how cities function. Within a French context, the banlieue is an important

place for planners to focus their efforts, keeping in mind both the built environment and social interactions. It is a complex node where racial, ethnic, religious, and class conflicts collide, but it is also a place where very different populations are learning to live together. An analysis of the conflicts and cultural convergences provides some insight into the banlieue that might help planners and politicians alike improve their cities’ urban fabric and resolve some of the issues that arise there.

Introduction to the Banlieue Geographically, the French banlieue is similar to the American suburb. Most large French cities are surrounded by a series of small towns, or banlieues. In the United States, suburbs were a refuge for middle-class white America from the growing numbers of low-income people of color in inner cities.

Conversely, in France the poor were concentrated in shantytowns on the periphery, leaving the city center for the urban middle class:

...in 1950 the state mounted an ambitious project to create public housing estates, known as Habitations à Loyer Modéré (HLMs). In the 1960s and early 1970s, the government created 195 planned housing estates, mostly in Paris.

These housing estates, the banlieues, were remote and poorly equipped.

(Gonick 2011) Like inner city projects in the United States, these areas continue to suffer from disinvestment and lack of services. This neglect, compounded with the physical and social distance between the population of the banlieues and more mainstream French society, creates a challenging social situation that often results in violent conflict.

The banlieues are made up largely of low-income and immigrant residents – although it is difficult to find exact demographic data about them, as French census studies have only recently begun collecting data about the national origin of recent immigrants and French citizens (Thierry 2004).

The first study of national origin was completed in 2005 and provided data for firstand second-generation immigrants (Algan 2010). In 2010, France’s population was 62.8 million (Prioux, et al. 2010), with immigration bringing around 200,000 people to the country each year since 2002. Of these, about 25 percent are from other countries in the European Union, 50 percent from Africa (largely the Maghreb1), and 15 percent from Asia (INED 2008). This data does not

necessarily indicate where immigrants live, but it is generally understood that many can be found in the banlieues, where it is cheapest to live and where they are most likely to find family and compatriots.

Unlike some American cities, where ethnic concentration is common in many low-income communities,2 the French banlieues are very diverse. Grand Corps Malade, the French slam poet quoted in the epigraph, was born and raised in a banlieue north of Paris. In a poem named after his neighborhood, “Saint-Denis,” he describes the many cultures one might come across walking through his neighborhood: En une heure, tu traverseras Alger et Tanger. / Tu verras des Yougos et des Roms, et puis j’t’emmènerais à Lisbonne / Et à deux pas de New-Deli et de Karashi (t’as vu j’ai révisé ma géographie), j’t’emmènerai bouffer du Mafé à Bamako et à Yamoussoukro / Et si tu préf ères, on ira juste derrière manger une crêpe là où ça sent Quimper et où ça a un petit air de Finistère / Et puis en repassant par Tizi-Ouzou, on f inira aux Antilles, là où il y a des grosses re-noi qui font “Pchit, toi aussi kaou ka fé la ma f ille!”

Here, he tells the listener that, in Saint-Denis, one might simultaneously experience the culture and food of Algeria, Morocco, Yugoslavia, Romania, Portugal, India, Japan, Mali, Ivory Coast, the French region of Brittany, and the West Indies.

Maghreb, for the purpose of this data, includes the North African, largely Muslim countries of Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria.

For example, many American cities have ethnic neighborhoods like Chinatown or Little Italy, which were originally created by immigrant communities clustering together.

1 2

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Diverse languages and cultural backgrounds converge in the banlieue, creating an interesting source of inspiration for urban poets like Grand Corps Malade, but they also conflict with other aspects of French society.

Many immigrants face racism and bullying in schools, religious persecution in the name of laïcité, or secularism, and difficulty assimilating into French society. Anti-immigrant attitudes are ingrained in French political culture – a reality expressed in the 2011 presidential primary election, where 18 percent of the vote went to the ardently anti-immigration candidate Marine Le Pen (Ministre de l’Intérieure 2012).

Political and cultural conflicts make it very difficult for immigrants and their children to live in French society, despite the fact that French law calls for almost automatic assimilation of immigrants when they receive citizenship or resident status.3 “Assimilation” refers to the state’s assertion that there are no differences among French citizens, regardless of their heritage, which both veils and complicates the situation: There has been a great reluctance to acknowledge any ethnic divisions.… One consequence of this refusal... has been an inability to even know – due to a lack of reliable data – whether the reality of equality is matched in the rhetoric, leading to the accusation that serious problems were emerging but being ignored.

(Algan, et al. 2010)

Here, Algan is referring both to anti-immigrant sentiments and lack of services – like language or employment assistance – to help immigrants and their children truly integrate into French society. It is this ironic and somewhat destructive dissonance between assimilation on paper and lack of integration in reality that often leads to violent outbursts from banlieue residents, which reinforces concern among the rest of the population that immigrants and their children are a menace and that the banlieues where they live are dangerous places.

Urban Form: From the Bled…

In order to better understand the culture of the banlieue, it helps to examine the cultures and communities that immigrants are coming from. Immigrants from the Maghreb and other areas influenced by Islam – a large portion of the immigrant population – often bring elements of their home countries to France, including their language.

Many Arabic words have become a part of common French vocabulary, including the word bled, which means village. Many immigrants and their children use this term to refer to their home country or their parents’ country of origin.

Accordingly, to better understand how this heritage influences the immigrant experience in France, it is helpful to examine the Islamic city. Islamic influence spread into Europe in the early centuries A.D., bringing with it many architectural and urban design

3 Many immigrants gain citizenship or resident status through family associations, while others receive titres de séjour to study or work in France for long periods of time.

characteristics found in the Arab world. This influence can be seen most clearly in Spain, which for centuries served as a center of Islamic civilization in Europe. In France, the physical influence is less obvious, but some cultural elements of urban form in the Islamic city do inform life in the banlieue.

Cultural Division in the Islamic City Islamic cities respond to the requirements of faith: as Rabah Saoud notes, “Islam made particular emphasis on the form and design of the city enabling it a greater functionality and responsiveness to meet the socio-economic and cultural needs of the community” (Saoud 2002, 2). Separating public and private life led to narrow streets and culs-de-sac for residential areas and wider main streets for economic activity and other aspects of public life. This separation extended to kinship and other social groups, with distinct neighborhoods arising based on family relationships, as well as shared cultural backgrounds and religious affiliations. There were also separate spaces for men and women – not only within homes and mosques, but also within the city limits.

As the Islamic empire spread from the Middle East through Africa into Europe, many of the conquered maintained their own religious practices because there is no compulsion within the Five Pillars of Islam to convert (Cities of Light 2007). This is evident in the urban form of the Islamic city, which

is characterized by religious neighborhoods: “Muslims grouped in [some] quarters and Jews in others so that each group could practice its own cultural beliefs” (Saoud 2002, 6).

This segregation was not designed to relegate one group to a less desirable space, but rather to respect the different religious practices and lifestyles of a city’s people.

Natural Environment in the Islamic City The Islamic city embraces beauty through archetypal elements like bright mosaic patterns and sculptured arches, which represent natural features like flowers and plants. Natural elements also inform the organization of the built environment: The f irst principle that def ined much of the character of the Muslim city is the adaptation of the built form and plan of the city to natural circumstances expressed through weather conditions and typography. These were expressed in the adoption of concepts such as courtyard, terrace, narrow covered streets and gardens.

(Saoud 2002) Most Islamic countries face harsh climates and geographies, and their cities are designed to mitigate these by creating more livable conditions. For instance, densely arranged buildings minimize the time residents must spend outside in the heat, while also reducing travel time. The narrow streets and high walls of residential areas serve the dual purpose of promoting privacy and maintaining shade for streets and private gardens.

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Urban Form: …to the Banlieue If the bled embodies these naturalistic, communal characteristics of the Islamic city, the banlieue is in many ways its opposite.

One of few shared characteristics between the two is density, which, in the Islamic city promotes communal interaction, particularly during prayer. In French suburbs, density is the result of historic urban planning practices as well as a constant influx of people, and a failure to provide enough housing and services. While the reasons for density differ, in both cases it contributes to the development of a communal identity.

and especially class disparities. Low-income residents and immigrants are confined to the banlieue, but are not separated by religious or cultural affiliation within their neighborhoods as they are in the Islamic city. Muslims, Jews, and Christians fill the same buildings, with little space or privacy. In many cases, these different groups learn to live together and develop a sense of brotherhood – but this may be to the detriment of their distinctive cultural practices and beliefs. The state’s goal of mixité – or diversity – benefits from this, but it diminishes the cultural strength of the banlieue’s residents.

Cultural Division in the Banlieue The banlieue is separated from the rest of France both culturally and geographically. In Lyon, France’s third largest city, there is one metro line that starts and ends in the two main banlieues – Vaise and Vénissieux.4 Other than the metro line, these two neighborhoods are poorly connected to the rest of the city, as well as the greater metropolitan community. Most people easily and safely travel through most of the central neighborhoods of Lyon by bike, foot, metro, or tramway at almost any time of day, but rarely go to the banlieue. It is much more difficult to get to, and considered dangerous, especially after the last metro of the night.5 While the Islamic city is consciously separated into neighborhoods out of respect for cultural and religious differences, as well as personal privacy, French cities tend to be segregated based on poorly veiled racial, ethnic,

The Natural Environment in the Banlieue Another major difference between the Islamic city and the banlieue is the role of the natural environment. Nature is celebrated throughout the Islamic city – from the naturally inspired decorative elements on walls to the gardens and courtyards throughout.

French urbanism tends to incorporate much more concrete – with the exception of gardens originally built for the country’s monarchs, urban parks tend to be fairly small and lack natural elements. This is especially true of the banlieue, where there is little public investment in parks. Another Grand Corps Malade line illustrates the lack of greenery: “Vu de ma fenêtre y a que des bâtiments / si je te disais que je vois de la verdure, tu saurais que je mens / Et pour voir un bout de ciel, faut se pencher franchement”6 (Grand Corps Malade, “Vu de ma fenêtre”).

4 Vénissieux was the starting point for the riots that spread to over 200 cities in France in 2005. This bout of uprisings was the most violent and disruptive in over a decade.

5 This is based largely on personal experience living in the city.

If the gardens of the Islamic city recreate paradise on earth by celebrating natural elements (City of Light 2007), what might this concrete city represent for its inhabitants?

NTM, a rap group known for violent, political lyrics, offers the following response: “Plus de bitume donc encore moins d’éspace / Vital et nécessaire à l’équilibre de l’homme”7 (NTM, “Qu’est-ce qu’on attend?”). People need space to live in – to interact with one another and with the natural and built environments.

Densely packed cities without public spaces or natural elements detract from the lived experience and may lead to social imbalances and unrest.

While the urban form of the Islamic city promotes community and interaction, as well as a relationship to the natural environment, the isolation of immigrants and low-income citizens in the banlieue leads to frustration. The lack of communal space or natural beauty creates an even more stark and isolated experience, which only serves to exacerbate existing dissatisfaction. To add insult to injury, policies and attitudes that contribute to these feelings of unease abound in French society. Urban form is not the sole source of agitation for these volatile communities, but it does exacerbate residents’ reactions to social pressures. It is not uncommon for these reactions to manifest as upturned burning vehicles and violent confrontations with the forces of order.

The Banlieue as a Source of Positive Cultural Interaction Despite this grim picture, there are positive forces emerging from the banlieue.

Although they struggle to overcome the dissonance between the banlieue and the rest of French society, they do empower many residents to overcome some of the differences that might otherwise separate their diverse cultures and histories. In some cases, a sense of brotherhood develops between residents who might not get along under other circumstances: “Quand je vois ces deux hommes qui boivent un coup en riant, alors qu’ils sont soidisant différents, / Parce que l’un dit «Shalom» et l’autre dit «Salam» mais putain ils se serrent la main, c’est ça l’âme de mon slam” (Grand Corps Malade, “Vue de ma fenêtre”). “Vu de ma fenêtre” tells the story of what the poet sees from his window in Saint-Denis. This particular line describes two men having a drink and laughing together, despite the fact that one is Jewish and the other is Muslim.

The fact that these two men from different cultures are able to come together in this community is one of the characteristics of the banlieue that inspires the poet’s art and strengthens his love for his community.

The 1995 film, La Haine, illustrates this well and is considered by many to be a realistic expression of the banlieue experience.

The story follows three young men in one of the banlieues of Paris on the day following a massive, violent riot. They are all Frenchborn, but represent cultures typically found in the banlieue – Vinz, a Jew; Saïd, an Arab;

­“ The view from my window is only buildings. If I told you that I see greenery, you would know that I’m lying. And to see any sky, you really have to lean out the window.”

7 “More asphalt, so even less space, vital and necessary to man’s equilibrium.”

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and Hubert, who is Afro-French. The three come from different backgrounds, but share a common daily experience, which seems to provide a stronger tie than their roots, which are – superficially if at all – planted in their families’ countries of origin. The film illustrates that, despite many cultural obstacles and lack of understanding or acceptance by outsiders, life goes on in the banlieue. Residents of these areas recognize how the rest of France sees them – as animals in a zoo, violent and capable only of breaking things and burning cars. Meanwhile, they go about their daily lives.

The Development of a New Banlieue Identity Facing a society that has largely abandoned it, the banlieue has become its own culture. This is particularly true for children of immigrants, who are often separated from their parents’ heritage: C’est parce qu’ils sont déjà “entrés” que les jeunes immigrés en appellent à une culture qui leur soit propre face à une société qui leur refuse la sienne.

Mais leur ethnicité est loin de la culture de la première génération et emprunte beaucoup plus au monde moderne…Si l’“ethnicité” se développe, c’est à cause de cette distance “physique, culturelle et émotionnelle” avec l’univers des parents, de la disparition de l’idée de retour, de la certitude de rester dans le pays d’accueil et de devoir y defender ses chances.8 (Lapeyronnie 1987)

Without substantial connections to their heritage, children of immigrants do not typically associate with their parents’ culture.

Although they are French citizens under the law, they are not given a real opportunity to assimilate into the country of their birth. Out of this comes an urban community of youth who are full of rage at the obstacles they face every day from racist policies and practices.

One of the defining factors of this emerging culture is a new form of language.

In Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson emphasizes the cultural importance of language development: “languages thus appear rooted beyond almost anything else in contemporary societies…there is a special kind of contemporaneous community which language alone suggests” (Anderson 2006, 145). The language of the banlieue is very much demonstrative of the community from which it has emerged. Nadia Duchene performed a study of this constantly evolving language by analyzing the origins of French slang. She found that, of the 729 slang words she identified, 69 percent were created using one French word to mean another; 18 percent were also created, but in the verlan style, which swaps the first and last syllables of a word; and the rest come from other languages, like Arabic, English, African, and tzigane – Roma or gypsy cultures (Duchene 2002).

This new language arises out of the aggregate

8 ­“It is because they have already ‘entered’ that young immigrants call for culture that would be their own faced with a society that refuses [their original culture]. But their ethnicity is far from the culture of the first generation and takes much from the modern world…If ‘ethnicity’develops, it is because of this ‘physical, cultural, and emotional’ distance from the universe of their parents; the loss of the idea of returning, the certainty of staying in the host country; and having to defend themselves there.”

of cultures of the banlieue and illustrates an emerging culture that is territorial rather than racial: Their identities are mostly territorial. So you can have someone with white skin saying that he’s a beur, that he’s North African, because he belongs to this group of youth from this territory…I remember that some day [sic], a young man told me, “I am not French; I am from Marseille.”

Meaning that his identity was from that city – the city was everything for him. But he knew he was a second-class citizen who was being discriminated [sic].

(Social Dynamite 2007) Banlieue culture is increasingly distant from traditional French culture. Residents of the banlieue speak their own language and they have a different history than the rest of the country. They face an immense amount of racism from police, politicians, and people on the street. The culture they have created represents both pride and shame: they are proud to the point of arrogance and sometimes take that too far, which leads to conflicts with the outside world. At the same time, they are highly aware of the unfortunate aspects of their lives – poverty, lack of resources, structural problems, and lack of real integration into French society.

Taking pride in a place that the rest of the world seems to have abandoned incites anger and violence among residents. Nevertheless, at the end of the documentary Social Dynamite, Sophie Body-Gendrot expresses optimism about the situation in the banlieue.

She has seen innovation and positivity among the people, as well as an attempt on the part of politicians to invest in those communities. For now, many of those investments are symbolic rather than truly effective, but there is hope that the situation will continue to improve.

French Responses to the Crise des Banlieues There is an understanding among French politicians and planners that the banlieues of France are in a state of crisis. The violent uprisings of 2005 loom constantly over the social situation – with no guarantee that they will not be repeated. How is the French government responding? Are officials doing anything to improve the situation for the banlieues – to formalize and assist their residents’ integration into French culture, or to improve their aging or limited infrastructure? French presidents love what the French call les grands projets – large-scale construction projects that leave a legacy. Jacques Chirac requisitioned the Musee du Quai Branly along the Seine.

François Mitterand left behind the controversial glass pyramids that welcome tourists into the Louvre (Erlanger 2009).

Nicolas Sarkozy, who served as president from 2007-2012, did not complete his own grand projet. However, he started one in 2009 that would, in part, address social issues in the banlieues of Paris. At the very beginning, Sarkozy’s Grand Paris project brought in ten urban designers to come up with plans for Grand Paris – an area which includes both the central city and the banlieues that encircle

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it. Sarkozy’s original plan integrated the city and the banlieues under a regional jurisdiction, which would make it more feasible to invest in previously-ignored communities. Proposed designs completely re-envisioned the city of Paris – making it much more connected and environmentally responsible (Erlanger). Each of the designs addresses the situation in the banlieue – generally by destroying the existing dilapidated housing structures and replacing them with newer buildings.

Many of the proposed designs incorporate natural features like rooftop gardens and urban open space to allow people in the banlieues to engage with the natural environment, rather than relegating them to the kind of vast concrete landscapes that they currently inhabit. These natural features are much more reminiscent of the Islamic city, although it is likely that their inspiration sprang from a modern concern for sustainability rather than from cultural heritage of the residents. Done correctly, though, these plans have the opportunity to emulate some of the positive aspects of the Islamic city.

The global economic crisis put a damper on Sarkozy’s Grand Paris project.

Sarkozy nevertheless remained adamant that grands projets are critical in helping pull France out of the economic crisis, and that the time is ripe for such projects: Moi, je pense que la réponse à la crise sont les grands projets et que la France ne s’en sortira que s’il y a des grands projets. Si encore une fois notre pays, Paris, la métropole, la France fait le choix de renoncer

à l’investissement, parce qu’il y a une crise, alors nous sortirons de la crise plus faibles. La crise, c’est l’opportunité de faire des grands projets. 9 (Nicolas Sarkozy 2009) Nevertheless, France found itself unable to afford the massive projects laid out as Sarkozy’s legacy, so the government is working to identify the most financially feasible and effective elements – with a likely focus on infrastructure. The French government will devote the equivalent of $50 billion to improvements to the transit system to better connect the banlieues, as well as to 19,000 badly-needed new public housing units (Erlanger 2009).

Past responses to the situation in the banlieues have been insufficient, including symbolic replacements of deteriorated housing structures which failed to address a larger, systematic problem of disinvestment and lack of integration. The plan to integrate the banlieues into a single jurisdiction with Paris would have allowed the Parisian city government to invest more into the areas that need it most. It is yet to be seen what will become of the Grand Paris plan now that Sarkozy has left his post as president.

While some infrastructure programs may take place as planned, will they truly reflect the needs of the people? The French reggae band, Tryo’s “Paris” ends with the following: “Paris! Et sa superbe mairie qui n’entendra jamais / tout c’que j’viens d’vous chanter. /

­“I think that the response to the crisis is large projects and that France will not overcome the crisis without great projects. If France again makes the choice to refuse to invest because there is a crisis, then we will come away from it weaker. The crisis is an opportunity to do big things.”

9

Tibéri et Chirac, son vieil ami / sont occupés à de biens vastes projets.”10 Tryo warns that too often the government ignores the voices of the people – banlieue and centre-ville alike, in the name of grands projets.

Political change is in the air in France. Last year, the French electorate chose between Marine Le Pen, whose Front National campaign depended on anti-immigrant sentiment; the incumbent Nicolas Sarkozy, who increasingly leaned toward the right on social services and immigration policy; and François Hollande, the French Socialist Party candidate, who supported a more inclusive immigration policy. Although Hollande won the election and entered office in 2012, it is still difficult to say what legacy he will leave in terms of including the immigrant and low-income populations that reside in the banlieues.

Cultural Aspects of Community Development

A wide array of literature is devoted to describing the facets of emerging cultural group experiences. Planners can use this research to better understand the context in which they will be working. The banlieue is emerging as a unique blend of many different cultures and histories. Within recent decades, a small body of literature has emerged to describe the situation in the banlieue, but the data is not always adequate for the types of studies that are needed. Demographic data on French immigrant communities is particularly sparse, as the national government has not permitted this type of data collection until recently.

In the face of insufficient data, planners can employ other methods to educate themselves about the cultures they work in.

Ideally, a planner would work within a given community to collect qualitative data by talking to residents about the issues that concern them and their hopes for their community. For the banlieue, voices like Grand Corps Malade and other rappers and artists describe local conditions through their work. They have become a useful and enlightening source of information, and the arts may be a resource that planners and decision-makers can use to better understand these types of communities.

The banlieues are in their current state because French society has largely ignored the people and their needs. Their voices go unheard because they speak a different language. If French decision-makers and planners listened to the voices of the banlieue – however they express themselves – they could better serve the needs of the people there. There is an opportunity here for planning to engage communities in new and innovative ways and to be more responsive to the actual needs of the people. Working with the banlieues toward positive integration rather than token assimilation will not only help communities in need of investment; if done correctly, it should also reduce the violent conflicts that arise where banlieue and more traditional French culture collide.

­“ Paris! And her superb city hall that will never hear all that I am telling you. Tibéri and his old friend Chirac are too busy with their vast projects.”

10

AGORA 76 D u Bled à la Ban lieu e

References 77 AG O RA

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Algan, Y., Dustmann, C., Glitz, A., and Manning, A. (2010). The economic situation of first and second generation immigrants in France, Germany, and the United Kingdom. Economic Journal, 120(542), F4-F30.

Lapeyronnie, D. (1987). Assimilation, mobilisation et action collective chez les jeunes de la seconde génération de l’immigration maghrébine. Revue Francaise De Sociologie, 28(2), 287-318.

Anderson, B. (2006). Imagined Communities. Brooklyn, NY: Verso.

Ministre de l’Intérieur. (2012). Résultats de l’élection présidentelle 2012.

Duchêne, N. (2002). Langue, immigration, culture: Paroles de la banlieue française. Meta: Journal Des Traducteurs/Translators’ Journal, 47(1), 30-37.

NTM. (1995). Qu’est-ce qu’on attend? Paris Sous les Bombes, CD.

Erlanger, S. (2009, June 10). A Paris plan, less grand than gritty. New York Times Online.

Gonick, S. (2011). Disciplining the metropolis: Grand Paris, immigration, and the banlieue. Berkeley Planning Journal, 24(1), 26-45.

Grand Corps Malade. (2010). Je viens de là. Enfant de la Ville, CD. Grand Corps Malade. (2006). Saint-Denis. Midi 20, CD. Institut national d’études démographiques. (2008). Flux d’immigration par nationalité détaillée depuis 1994.

INED: Flux d’immigration.

Kassovitz, M. (Dir.). (1995). La haine. DVD. USA: Criterion Collection.

Kronemer, A., and Wolfe, M. (Prod.), and Gardner, R. (Dir.). (2007). Cities of light: The rise and fall of Islamic Spain. DVD. USA: Unity Productions Foundation.

Kuagbénou, V. K. (1997). Intégration ou assimilation: L’épreuve des faits: La France et les migrants africains.

Politique Africaine, 67.

Prévos, A. (1998). Hip-hop, rap, and repression in France and in the United States. Popular Music and Society, 22(2), 67-84.

Prioux, F., Mazuy, M., and Barbieri, M. (2010).

L’évolution démographique récente en France: Les adultes vivent moins souvent en couple. Population, 65(3), 421-474.

Reysset, P. (1997). Aménager la ville. Paris: Sang de la Terre.

Saoud, R. (2002, August). Introduction to the Islamic City. Foundation for Science, Technology, and Civilization.

Social Dynamite. (2007). DVD. USA: Criterion Collection (Special feature with La Haine).

Thierry, X. (2004). Évolution récente de l’immigration en France et éléments de comparaison avec le RoyaumeUni. Population (French Edition), 59(5), 725-764.

Vampouille, T. (2011, April 7). France: Comment est evalué le nombre de musulmans. Le Figaro.

Van Zuylen, G. (N.d.) Alhambra: A Moorish Paradise.

New York: Vendome Press.

Aly Andrews, MUP 2014 “Riviera Palette“. Menton, French Riviera

Justin Garrison, M. Arch/MUD 2013 Orestad, Copenhagen, Denmark

The Pink Bus Gender Issues in Transportation Planning and Beyond Benjamin Crumm, MUP ‘13 81 AG O RA

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When I was studying in the city of Derby, England during the first half of 2009, I came across a distinctive pink bus operating in Derbyshire under the Trent Barton bus company. The sides of this bus were covered with silhouette impressions of women carrying shopping bags, pushing strollers, and standing around in fashionable feminine apparel. This bus ran between the city center, a stop in the suburbs, and the advertised shopping mall. Beyond being portrayed as friendly to those pushing strollers, the bus was clearly marketed towards women specifically. As a male, I wasn’t sure what to make of the pink bus at first: Was this sexist? Was it bad? On one hand, the bus promoted female stereotypes. On the other, it represented transit planners’ acknowledgment of the real differences between men’s and women’s interactions with the world. An exploration of whether the pink bus and programs like it are sexist may shed some light on issues of gender in transportation planning.

First, the bus’ creators should be given some applause for at least considering women’s issues. The decision to make buses stroller-friendly (e.g., having larger aisles and an entryway that can accommodate strollers) greatly enables women running errands with their children. In the United States, transit authorities generally only allow strollers on buses when they are folded prior to boarding. The two highest-ridership bus systems in the United States, operated by New York City’s MTA and Los Angeles’ County’s LACMTA, do not allow unfolded strollers

(although they are allowed in Chicago, which has the third-highest ridership) (APTA, MTA, LACMTA, CTA 2013). Without a stroller, a woman would be forced to either carry the child, which would limit the other items she could carry, or she could find childcare – often an expensive option. If a transit agency allows strollers, but does not have buses designed for them, it may lead to other passengers displeased with a stroller blocking the aisle, or even confrontations (O’Neil 2012). The designer of stroller-friendly buses was most likely someone who understood the sometimes-unique needs of women, quite possibly another woman. This gets at a broader question in planning: how to ensure that the distinctive needs and insights of women are represented.

In the United States, the American Planning Association is 37 percent female (American Planning Association 2010). That proportion is roughly the same as Kenya, which has the greatest planning gender parity in Africa (Olufemi 2005). This gender disparity, and its consistency across international borders, is unsettling. Even if planners decided to discuss the distinctive needs and preferences of women, planners must then question if they even have an understanding of the needs and preferences of mothers or women, due to the disproportionate gender representation.

Despite the profession’s gender disparity, a number of planning initiatives have successfully addressed gender issues. The Canadian city of Montreal is the birthplace of a United Nations Human Settlements Programme-recognized transit project aimed at increasing gender equality called “Between Stops.” Introduced in 1996, the program

allows women to get off a bus anywhere along its route in the evening or at night, in order to support each rider’s safe arrival. Prior to this program, passengers could only get off of the bus at official stops – places which may be poorly lit and even dangerous after sundown. The program describes itself as one that “recognizes that men and women live different realities, and that specific measures must take these differences into account, if the inequalities between the sexes are to be reduced.” (Michaud 2008) The central theory behind the program was that “a major obstacle to equality is the lack of mobility for women, particularly the poorest such as heads of single-parent families. Fear is also a major factor limiting the mobility of women, particularly those who depend on public transit for their travel” (Michaud 2008). This program has been highly successful over its 16-year lifespan, and is a model of how planners can address gender differences through mass transit. However, the program originated not with planners, but rather with women’s groups (primarily Le Comité d’action femmes et sécurité urbaine), which provided part of the initial $15,000 investment into research and advertising for the program. A resulting study found that 60 percent of Montreal public transit users are women and that two-thirds of all Montreal women felt unsafe walking in their own neighborhood at night (Michaud 2008). After that survey and a successful trial run (89 percent of Montrealers wanted the program continued), the city decided to implement it permanently. Clearly though, before the “Between Stops” program,

the city was failing its female constituents by not accounting for the fear many of them felt using mass transit at night.

“Between Stops”, the pink bus, and similar forms of female-targeted transit also address concerns that most buses are routed for predominantly male commuters and not for mothers who need to make trips related to home life. The United Nations Entity for Gender Equality and the Empowerment of Women claims that most mass transit around the world is for the “‘typical’ male [headed] household” and not for women’s transit preferences. It notes that a typical woman, especially in the developing world, needs to run multiple errands throughout the day, which requires more routes than home to work and back. The vast majority of mass transit programs, it goes on to say, “cater to [the] outdated ideal of the middle-aged, male breadwinner who goes from the home to his place of employment in the morning and back again in the early evening” (UN 2011). This line of thought advocates for gender-conscious transit options, such as the pink bus and programs like it. A planner who has not studied gender issues or examined data that specifically identifies women’s needs might not recognize the dearth of easy options to get to department stores and grocers, due to their lack of information.

AGORA 82 Th e P in k Bu s

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Despite its advances over the status quo, a pink bus does not address systemic gender bias in planning. The risk of giving women token planning positions or pigeonholing them in fields that are more ‘feminine’ in order to avoid deeper gender issues is quite high, and quite real – and not just in North America. Female Nigerian-born planning professor Olusola Olufemi argues that planners have done just that in Africa: “Certain aspects of planning have effectively been feminized – e.g., community and social planning issues – effectively marginalizing women from ‘hard-core’ planning such as transportation and infrastructure planning, as well as from the theoretical debates around planning philosophy and practice” (Olufemi 2005). While this is most likely not due to malicious intent, it nevertheless enables the male-dominated hierarchy to imply that gender issues are being addressed, while simultaneously pushing those issues to the side.

A good test of whether or not planning is successfully addressing women’s issues is whether they are integrated into all aspects of urban planning, instead of being treated as their own subject. Presently, gender-specific issues are typically assigned to a separate theoretical category from general planning issues – yet theoretically affect half of the population. Why should they be segregated from the rest of the discipline? From both a theoretical and practical perspective, it would make far more sense to integrate the needs of women into the general needs of a society: while mothers with small children benefit from the pink bus’ stroller-accessibility, the reality is

that every bus should be stroller-accessible.

Planning theorist Gwendolyn Wright looks at this same concept in architectural design terms, theorizing that traditional housing architecture is male-oriented and that many women want something different. Suburban homes are built too large, forcing the home keeper to spend large amounts of time cleaning, or built with no room for a mother to call her own (an equivalent to a man’s den or workshop). In addition, architects design houses with a two-parent family in mind, without considering the increasing number of single-parent households. Some feminists proposed that feminist architecture could remedy this issue, but Wright points out that women “reject the idea of being segregated from … ‘normal life’” (Wright 2011). In general, women do not want feminist architecture; they want a mainstream architecture that addresses their needs. Although isolating woman-specific architecture, transportation, and other needs into a theoretical ghetto limits their application to other issues, it is a major step forward that women’s issues are being discussed at all. Addressing these issues through supplementary means is a move towards integrated planning for all.

Unfortunately, it is not always the case that women’s issues are being addressed.

Planning professors Barbara Rahder and Carol Altilia at York University in Canada believe that feminism and feminist theory is on the way out in discussions of planning theory, based on the interests of their

students. “While feminism is visibly represented in our own planning curriculum, our in-class experiences reflect a decline in student interest in tackling feminism as a topic” (Rahder 2004, 111). Among other potential causes, they attribute this decline to an increase in the number of identity groups that students are required to study, decreasing the total exposure time to feminism. Additionally, they cite a prevailing postmodern attitude that finds feminism to be a historical piece of modernism and no longer relevant. The professors believe that this is not a decline in the feminist movement, but is instead linked to a declining interest in women’s issues as a whole. This is highly problematic. If gender issues become lost from the planning debate, the male-dominated planning world will continue to give at most passing consideration to issues of gender. If the idea of a pink bus and programs like it originated with stereotypes of shopping-obsessed women, they would be very different from programs that directly consider what women might actually want and need, such as the previously mentioned Quebec bus program. Discovering what real-world women do want and need from transit systems can only be accomplished by both increasing female participation in planning and by studying the distinctions between the male and female experience with the transit environment.

Prolonged consideration of programs like the pink bus and academics’ opinions of the profession make it clear that there is room for a significantly expanded female presence in planning. Yet while it is important to have female planners at all levels of the planning process, it is essential that male planners also have an understanding of the issues related to women, as the effects of their actions are not limited to their own half of the population. At the same time, planning theorists should stop treating gender as a distinct topic in planning and instead integrate it with the rest of the field. Until that happens, it is unlikely that planners’ current paradigms will effectively address these issues. After all, if the situation were reversed, what would it be like if men were made to ride on a fleet of pink buses, designed by women and for women? While they might not experience issues like being groped in a crowded bus, they might finally understand what it feels like to be the other gender.

AGORA 84 The P in k Bu s

References 85 AG O RA

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American Planning Association (2010). Planning Salary Survey: (Table 1.02, Gender) APTA (American Public Transportation Association).

“Public Transportation Ridership Report”. Fourth Quarter, 2012.

CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) (2013). Transitchicago.com. Children in Strollers.

LACMTA (Los Angeles County Metropolitan Transit Authority) (2013). Customer Code of Conduct.

MTA (Metropolitan Transit Authority, New York City Transit) (2013). Mta.info.

Michaud, A. (2008). Integrating a Gender Perspective in Public Transit - The “Between Two Stops” Service Montreal Quebec Canada. In UN Habitat for a Better Urban Future, Gender Mainstreaming in Local Authorities (pp. 72-76). UN Settlements Programme.

Olufemi, O. (2005). Women Planners in Africa. Retrieved 2 Mach 2013 from http://www.gendersite.org/ case-studies/women-planners-in-africa.html

O’Neil, K. (2012). Stroller wars continue on CTA. CTA Tattler.

Rahder, B., & Altilia, C. (2004). Where is Feminism in Planning Going? Appropriation or Transformation?

Planning Theory, 107-116.

UN Entity for Gender Equality and the Empowerment of Women. (2011). Safe Public Transit for Women and Girls. http://www.endvawnow.org.

Wright, G. (2011). Women’s Aspirations and the Home: Episodes in American Feminist Reform. In S. S. Fainstein, & S. Campbell, Readings in Urban Theory (pp.

147-159). Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell.

Stephen Luongo, MUP 2013 “Catalan Spring”. Arc de Triomf, Barcelona, Spain

Public Land Revitalizing Vacant Land in Hope Village [This piece is part of a larger project originally prepared for UP 515: Liquid Planning.]

Cole Gehler, MUP ‘13 Leigh Davis, MUP ‘13 Landry Root, M. Arch ‘13 Catie Truong, M. Arch ‘13 87 AG O RA

A 12%

L L L

35%

LOW VACANCY 0 to 12% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS LOW VACANCY

PRIVATE 40%

PUBLIC 60% 11.2%

0

12%

SAMPLE BLOCK:

HAS 11.2% TOTAL VACANCY

OF 11.2% VACANCY, 60% OF THE PARCELS ARE PUBLICLY OWNED AND 40% ARE PRIVATELY OWNED

LOW VACANCY 0 to 12% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS LOW VACANCY

PRIVATE 40%

PUBLIC 60% 11.2%

0

SAMPLE BLOCK: HAS 11.2% TOTAL VACANCY

LOW VACANCY

12%

OF 11.2% VACANCY, 60% OF THE PARCELS ARE PUBLICLY OWNED AND 40% ARE PRIVATELY OWNED

0 To 12% of total block qualifies as low vacancy

LOW VACANCY 0 to 12% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS LOW VACANCY

PRIVATE 40%

PUBLIC 60% 11.2%

0

SAMPLE BLOCK: HAS 11.2% TOTAL VACANCY

Has 11.2% Total vacancy Of 11.2% Vacancy, 60% of the parcels are publicly owned and 40% are privately owned

34.1% 69.3% PRIVATE

M

PUBLIC

30.7%

MODERATE VACANCY 12.1 to 35% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS MODERATE VACANCY 0

SAMPLE BLOCK: HAS 34.1% TOTAL VACANCY

MODERATE VACANCY

12.1%

OF 34.1% VACANCY, 30.7% OF THE PARCELS ARE PUBLICLY OWNED AND 69.3% ARE PRIVATELY OWNED

34.1%

12.1 To 35% of total block qualifies as moderate vacancy

69.3% PRIVATE

M

35% 34.1%

PUBLIC

30.7%

MODERATE VACANCY 12.1 to 35% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS MODERATE VACANCY 0 12.1%

SAMPLE BLOCK: HAS 34.1% TOTAL VACANCY

Has 34.1% Total vacancy

PRIVATE

M

PUBLIC

Sample block:

OF 34.1% VACANCY, 30.7% OF THE PARCELS ARE PUBLICLY OWNED AND 69.3% ARE PRIVATELY OWNED

69.3%

35.1%

Sample block:

OF 11.2% VACANCY, 60% OF THE PARCELS ARE PUBLICLY OWNED AND 40% ARE PRIVATELY OWNED

12.1%

35%

Founded in 1968, Focus:HOPE is a non-profit human rights organization based in Detroit, MI whose mission is to promote trust, equity, and opportunity within the surrounding neighborhood and metropolitan community (About Focus:HOPE, 2013).

The HOPE Village Initiative takes a direct approach to address issues pertaining to the health, safety, and stability of Detroit families by offering support and educational services.

This project looks at Focus:HOPE’s capacity to acquire vacant land and utilize it in support of community revitalization. Through the adoption of re-use and regeneration strategies for vacant and underutilized parcels, Focus:HOPE will develop a policy for public land that encourages sustainable stormwater management practices, enhances recreational

30.7%

Of 34.1% Vacancy, 30.7% Of the parcels are publicly owned and 69.3% Are privately owned

MODERATE VACANCY 12.1 to 35% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS MODERATE VACANCY 0

SAMPLE BLOCK: HAS 34.1% TOTAL VACANCY

OF 34.1% VACANCY, 30.7% OF THE PARCELS ARE PUBLICLY OWNED AND 69.3% ARE PRIVATELY OWNED

HIGH VACANCY

H

35.1%

35.1 To 100% of total block qualifies as high vacancy

HIGH VACANCY 35.1 to 100% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS HIGH VACANCY PUBLIC 38.4%

0 | 100%

SAMPLE BLOCK: HAS 64% TOTAL VACANCY

Has 64% total vacancy

64%

H

35.1%

61.6% PRIVATE 64%

Sample block:

OF 64% VACANCY, 38.4% OF THE PARCELS ARE PUBLICLY OWNED AND 61.6% ARE PRIVATELY OWNED

61.6% PRIVATE

Of 64% vacancy, 38.4% Of the parcels are publicly owned and 61.6% Are privately owned

HIGH VACANCY 35.1 to 100% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS HIGH VACANCY PUBLIC 38.4%

0 | 100%

SAMPLE BLOCK: HAS 64% TOTAL VACANCY

OF 64% VACANCY, 38.4% OF THE PARCELS ARE PUBLICLY OWNED AND 61.6% ARE PRIVATELY OWNED

opportunities, provides access to fresh food options, promotes better maintenance of properties, and spurs economic development.

Vacant Land in Hope Village Hope Village is a 100-block area located in north central Detroit and extends east into Highland Park. Throughout Hope Village there is significant vacancy of both residential and non-residential parcels, and while Focus:HOPE is currently limited to the purchase of public, city owned parcels, this would still provide an opportunity to create a robust strategy for public land use.

VACANT LAND IN HOPE VILLAGE

TARGET AREA Dexter

LOW VACANCY

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Linwood

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From looking at the above diagram, the vast amount of vacncy in the north (top) as compared to the south (bottom) is apparent.

Doris

We chose an area in theKendall northwest corner of Hope village to focus our recommendations around. We chose this area because of the separation of the Kendall Ewald Circle et Focus Hope Campus Fle north and south areas by the abandoned rail line and because of the distinct difference between the Privately Owned Vacant Residential Parcels ris Ewald Circle We are etamounts of vacancy in these Oakman two areas.

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Also, we anticipate that Focus:HOPE Owned Vacant Residential Parcels CirResidential Parcels Privately Owned alldlVacant an d m nwa k will use this area as a pilot area, which will serve as KCityeEOwned Oakman Ct. Vacant Residential Parcels Oa Vacant Non-Residential Parcels . a precedent for other projects serving to revitalize cle Blv d Vacant Non-Residential irParcels C n a vacant parcels in the village. ld Focus Area

4

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WildmeWreildmere 35.1%

Linwood Linwood

12.1%

30.7%

M

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0

LawtonLawton

35%

Muirland Muirland

HIGH VACANCY

Fair eld Fair eld

DexterDexter

12.1 TO 35% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS MODERATE VACANCY

11.2%

onnceton PrincetPri

L

MODERATE VACANCY

LOW VACANCY 0 to 12% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS LOW VACANCY

40%

Princeton

Dexter

0 TO 12% OF TOTAL BLOCK QUALIFIES AS LOW VACANCY

Alden Alden

Throughout Hope Village there are a number of vacant parcels, both residential and non-residential.

Currently, Focus:HOPE only has the ability to purchase the public, city owned parcels. Despite this, Focus:HOPE has the opportunity to create a robust strategy for public land should they decide to acquire these parcels.

Focus Area

Fleet

Fleet

Focus Hope Campus

Target Area Our recommendations focus on an area in Hope Village’s northwest corner.

We chose this area for its clear contrast in quantity of vacancy on the north and south sides of an abandoned rail line. We make these recommendations with the intention that Focus:HOPE will implement them, and that upon completion, these two areas will be better connected. In addition, we anticipate that Focus:HOPE will use this area as a pilot, to serve as a precedent for other projects engaged in the revitalization of vacant parcels in Hope Village.

m a Ew O ak

Privately Owned Vacant Residential Parcels

d.

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City Owned Vacant Residential Parcels

LIQUID PLANNING | Assignment 02

Vacant Non-Residential Parcels

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Reference About Focus:HOPE. (2013). Retrieved from Focus:HOPE: http://www.focushope.edu/

AN

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Social Justice and Detroit Transit Service Reductions Cole Grisham, MUP ‘14 Terra Reed, MUP ‘14 Kevin Shelton, MUP ‘14 89 AG O RA

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Transit cuts and service reductions are an ongoing and widespread problem for Detroit-area residents. While reductions have been dispersed throughout the service area, anecdotal evidence based on personal conversations with locals suggests that recent reductions disproportionately affect those most dependent on public transit. This study seeks to identify where transit-dependent residents are located in the Detroit area and to what degree recent service reductions have affected low-income and disadvantaged neighborhoods. The data we collected suggests that transit cuts do affect more transitdependent areas of the city, although not as acutely as we had expected based on anecdotal evidence. We believe further analysis of service reductions over time, as well as not simply relying on DDOT data, would provide a more realistic and in-depth assessment of the impacts of transit reductions.1 A scene in the recent documentary Detropia shows Detroit residents discussing cuts to bus service in the city and the resulting difficulties created for many working-class residents. One woman in the film indicates that those most affected by transit reductions are those with no other transportation option (Ewing and Grady 2012). Residents who rely primarily on public transportation, such as the bus system, paratransit, or other modes due to financial constraints or lack of a personal vehicle, are dependent upon transit.

When cuts are made to transit systems, there can be drastic impacts for residents without other means for getting to work. Anecdotal evidence coming from transit riders in Detroit2 implies that these impacts have indeed been severe for many Detroit residents.

The Detroit Department of Transportation (DDOT) has been involved in an ongoing process of service reductions in response to economic decline in the city. DDOT made three major cuts to public transportation services in less than two years in April 2011, March 2012, and September 2012, in

addition to earlier cuts in 2005 and 2009 (TRU 2011). Simultaneously, many comparable urban areas are experiencing strong growth and investment in public transit services (APTA 2012), while DDOT’s service reductions appear to be an outlier. This makes DDOT’s reductions all the more deserving of close analysis and scrutiny. A DDOT report analyzing March 2012 route changes – primarily service reductions – found that proposed changes would have a disproportionate impact on minority and low-income residents (City of Detroit 2012). September 2012 reductions were given less consideration because they were not considered major changes (Bukowski 2012). Meanwhile, Detroit residents continue to be concerned about the impacts of route cuts, particularly on minority and low-income residents. Assessing the impact of public service reductions is an important part of the planning process, particularly for cities like Detroit, which are responding to shrinking populations.

Space constraints prevented the inclusion of all of this article’s referenced figures in Agora’s print edition. For the full set, please consult the online version at www.agoraplanningjournal.com.

2 See http://www.northendwoodward.org for more examples of this anecdotal evidence from Detroit residents. The North End Woodward Community Coalition is compiling video interviews with residents about their issues with the services DDOT provides.

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AGORA 90 So c i a l Ju s t i c e and Detroit Tr an s i t Se r v i c e Re d u c t i o n s Figure 1: Transit dependency by block group in Detroit, Hamtramck, and Highland Park, 2006-2009.

The purpose of this study was to investigate the March 2012 DDOT service changes and their impact on transit-dependent riders. Based on the concerns of Detroit residents, we hypothesize that transit reductions most acutely affect the highly transitdependent populations in the city. This paper assumes that the most transit-dependent areas are low-income communities with limited access to other forms of transportation. To measure this impact, we analyzed the system changes and their relationships to communities that may be highly transit-dependent.

Our resulting data allowed us to determine which cuts have had the greatest impact on public transit-dependent areas of Detroit, and provided a framework for further research to be carried out in the future.

Detroit Department of Transportation Transit line data was based on information from DDOT.3 One file was from June 2012 and contained all existing DDOT lines, as well as one bus route (Imperial Limited) that was previously eliminated in the March 2012 reductions. In addition, we used an older file that included two lines that had been eliminated prior to March 2012 changes. We also used data from a report released by DDOT in April 2012 that documents March 2012 system changes in order to determine the extent of reductions, which were primarily running time reductions. (DDOT 2012).

Data Sources ACS Data (2006-2010) We collected demographic data from The American Community Survey (ACS) 2006-2010, which allowed us to use block groups as our level of analysis (Census Bureau 2008, 9). The ACS five-year estimates

Anecdotal Evidence Stories and discussions coming out of some Detroit communities indicate that DDOT buses tend to run over capacity, are often late, and are in poor condition. We relied primarily on local news stories and information from community organizations to

aggregate demographic data continuously over a five-year period, so all of our demographic data represents this five-year average.

The most recent shapefile was created by Robert Linn at Data Driven Detroit, using data from DDOT. We verified both sets of data against route maps on DDOT’s website.

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inform our analysis. A project by the North End Woodward Community Coalition (NEWCC) collects community stories about riding the bus in Detroit as short video interviews that are posted on the organization’s website and YouTube page.

Methods Transit Dependency Index Transit dependency, for the purposes of this study, is defined as individuals who rely on public transit systems in order to meet their daily needs, such as low-income persons or those without a private automobile. This could be contrasted with an individual who takes public transit by choice but otherwise is capable of facilitating his or her own private transportation. In order to measure transit dependency, we looked to US Department of Transportation (USDOT) and the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) definitions. Based on their definitions and our own input and ideas, we identified four variables for assessment: vehicle ownership, elderly population (over 65), youth population (under 18), and population below the national poverty line (FEMA 2010; FHA 2012; RCIP 2003). As FEMA and USDOT do not specifically identify transit-dependent populations in relation to public transit purposes, this study borrows from FEMA’s and USDOT’s definitions to create a realistic index.

In addition, the poverty variable represents the proportion of the population below the three-city median household income, as this median income baseline for the area is more representative of the local cost of living than the national poverty line.

Using block group level data from the US Census Bureau 2006-2010 ACS, we divided each variable into quartiles representing the three-city area of Detroit, Hamtramck, and Highland Park. As Table 1 illustrates, we assigned a 1- 4 rating for each variable’s quartile, where 1 is low risk for dependency and 4 is high risk. We added the quartile scores for each variable to calculate the summary “TDI Score” for each block group. This became our Transit Dependency Index (TDI) for the entire research area. Figure 1 shows our resulting data by block group for the three-city area. The darker shaded block groups are more transit-dependent, while the lighter ones are less transit-dependent.

GIS Analysis Our analysis used the DDOT bus route shapefiles described above and the DDOT service change report to determine which routes had been changed (City of Detroit 2012). In addition to full and partial bus route eliminations, the service change report describes runtime reductions ranging from 2 hours per week to more than 30 hours per week, depending on the route. Runtime reductions were primarily at the end of routes – meaning that the buses do not run as late into the evening. Many routes were also reduced from the beginning of the day, so that service starts later in the day. The report separates changes to weekday service from changes to Saturday and Sunday service. In many cases, weekend reductions were more severe than weekday reductions. For example, the

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Figure 2: Limitations of using a buffer to select block groups. The project selected block groups with any part within the buffer.

Clairmount route was reduced by three hours at the end of the day during the week, and eliminated completely on Saturdays and Sundays.

We assigned categories to the different changes in order to create a digestible and meaningful portrait that clearly outlines the route changes for the reader. The categories we chose are: 1) No change, 2) Less than 15 hours reduced,4 3) 15 to 30 hours reduced, 4) Over 30 hours reduced, and 5) Full elimination. These categories give equal weight to weekday and weekend cuts due to variable work schedules and/or weekend grocery shopping and other errands. Once we determined these categories, we joined the route change data to the DDOT bus line shapefile, which allowed us to spatially assign these categories to routes in GIS. The second step combined this route change data with the TDI data to determine the populations impacted by route reductions (Figure 1, described above). Once all bus route changes and TDI scores were in one map, we selected all areas of Census Block groups within a quarter mile of each bus line. This distance was chosen based on a review of previous transportation planning research, which indicates that one quarter mile is the approximate distance that the average

American will choose to walk instead of drive (Aultman-Hall et al. 1997).

Mean TDI Score and Weighted Averages Using the quarter-mile buffer, we analyzed the characteristics of the populations affected by each type of route change by using GIS to calculate the mean TDI score for each group. In order to generate TDI scores more reflective of the actual population, we calculated a weighted mean for the three-city area as a whole, as well as for each service area affected.5 Table 2 contains the raw averages as well as the weighted averages.

Findings And Discussion Our initial non-weighted results show a fairly narrow range of scores (Table 2) giving a rough idea of transit dependency in the area. However, the weighted means for each area show greater separation between the affected areas. While these weighted results do not change the order of transit dependency between focus areas, results show a wider spread of scores when the averages are weighted by population. The weighted averages also indicate that the entire DDOT service area displays slightly more transit dependence than the non-weighted averages. Note also

Hours Reduced refers to the total number of hours removed from the run-time over the course of one week.

The weighted TDI score was calculated with the following equation: TDI Score = ∑ [Block Group TDI Score * Block Group Population] / Total Population of all Block Groups.

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that, as Figure 1 indicates, transit dependency is not concentrated in any noticeable areas, but is instead highly dispersed geographically.

Our resulting data illustrates that while route changes have a widespread and dispersed impact throughout Detroit, the most transit-dependent areas have experienced the harshest transit cuts. The three-city area has a mean TDI score of 10.25, which falls close to the median of possible scores and near our expected outcome. Route changes seem to affect areas with TDI scores above the average score that is found when the mean TDI score of each route change category is arranged from low to high. As Table 2 shows, routes with “No Change” have a mean TDI score of 9.98, while “Eliminated Routes” areas have a mean TDI score of 10.49. Figures 3 through 7 show each of the reduction categories overlaid on the TDI map. While our results do not fit exactly with the expected findings, results indicate that route changes and cancellations tend to affect areas with a higher dependency on public transit.

We anticipated “No Change” areas to have the lowest transit dependency, “Eliminated” areas to have the highest transit dependency, and a graduated range in between. We assumed that service reductions would fall on lower-income areas where ridership rates are low, as these routes may be less profitable or financially unsustainable for DDOT. However, results indicate that the “15-30 hour reduction” category affects the most transit-dependent areas, and the “Over 30 hour reduction” affects considerably less transit-dependent areas. The impacts of the

“15-30 hour reduction” category were more severe than route eliminations or reductions of over 30 hours for the most transit-dependent riders. This shows that even subtle changes have important impacts on the people who depend most on transit. It is important to note that any reduction in bus service will have a disproportionate impact on individuals who are very transit-dependent than on those who are less transit-dependent. Less transit-dependent riders may have access to a friend, neighbor, or family member’s car or may have the resources to take a taxi to their destination if necessary. In totality, DDOT’s service reductions affect a wide range of age, income, and vehicle ownership groups throughout Detroit.

Limitations and Assumptions Our analysis provides a snapshot of the impacts of the various service reductions, keeping in mind that both DDOT’s capacity and our study are subject to some limitations.

Scope of Analysis Economic limitations to DDOT’s decision-making process are not explicitly examined in this project. Our research does not aim to condemn route reduction on its face, given that recent route alterations are driven by the economic imperative to reduce service.

Service reductions are, if not absolutely necessary, at least an important aspect of responding to the economic crisis. Rather than attempting to assess fiscal decisions, we seek to evaluate recent system changes and cancellations strictly from a social justice perspective.

AGORA 94 Figure 8: DDOT Bus Service Reductions, by severity of reduction, 2012.

As Census block groups effectively equalize the population distributions, our selection method captures some degree of data that is both unintended and nearly unavoidable. In creating a buffer to select all block groups within a quarter mile of the bus lines, some of the block groups selected were only partially within the intended buffer. Figure 2 shows the quarter mile buffer and the resulting selected block groups for one of the route reduction categories. While the extent to which this affects our overall results is difficult to determine, there are a number of possible resulting impacts on the data. One possible effect is that our study may include more people than actually have access to the transit lines entering their block group. This could affect TDI scores by including block groups only marginally affected by transit reductions.

Although the exact effect of this limitation is unclear, this is a condition that we acknowledged at the beginning of the study.

An additional variable in our measurement of transit dependency that could have yielded stronger results would be “single-mother headed households”. Given more time it would be useful to see whether this additional variable would alter or strengthen our results. Another factor for consideration could be measuring route reductions as a percentage change, rather than a raw amount of

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time. Although the scope of our project did not allow us to incorporate these ideas, further research into this topic might take these factors into account.

Data

DDOT Service change data only addresses March 2012 reductions. Other service changes have taken place recently – notably in June 2011 and September 2012 (TRU 2011) – that may exacerbate the influence of recent changes. Aggregated, these reductions likely amplify the impacts that we find in this study, although their direct effects may vary.

More narrative analyses of residents’ experiences with DDOT service indicate that advertised service may not reflect reality. For example, the North End Woodward Community Coalition (NEWCC) produced several short videos of residents discussing their experiences with Detroit transit service.6 Some residents describe waiting two to four hours for a bus, either because buses were too full or did not arrive on schedule.

Our analysis was only able to capture route data provided by DDOT and likely does not reflect such deviations.

These videos can be found at http://www.youtube.com/user/NorthEndWoodwardCC.

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Conclusion Our research found that transit reductions are widespread throughout Detroit, affecting residents in all areas of the city. Our analysis illustrates two important reasons for this. The first is illustrated in Figure 8, which shows all of the March 2012 cuts to DDOT services. As the map indicates, transit cuts were reasonably dispersed across the city. The scale and breadth of all of DDOT’s cuts affects individuals representing a wide range of age, income, and vehicle ownership groups throughout the service area. The second reason is illustrated in Figure 1, which shows the range of TDI scores and transit dependency across DDOT’s service area. This shows that transit dependency is dispersed across the city, and not as concentrated as was expected.

While our results suggest that service reductions were not as highly correlated with transit dependency, most route reductions did have impacts on populations with higher TDI scores than the average for the city. This is an important issue for cities like Detroit, which are continuing to reduce existing public services in response to shrinking populations. Developing a system to assess the impacts of these reductions is an important part of planning for shrinking cities.

It would be useful to further examine whether this trend existed over previous reductions, or whether this was a unique occurrence. Repeated trends of service reductions may further exacerbate the difficulties that

transit-dependent riders face. This analysis could demonstrate whether the areas receiving the most intense service reductions under this cycle were less intensely impacted on the last reduction, or if the latest iteration of reductions has been more equitable in relation to past reductions than our narrow analysis shows. This type of question was beyond the scope of our research, but further investigation might provide a deeper understanding of both our results and the justice impacts of transit reductions in the area.

References American Public Transportation Association. (2012).

2012 Public Transportation Fact Book. Washington, DC: APTA. Aultman-Hall, L., M. Roorda, and B. W. Baetz. (1997).

Using GIS for Evaluation of Neighborhood Pedestrian Accessibility. Journal of Urban Planning and Development, 123(1), 10-17.

Bukowski, J. (2012, 26 September). “Bing Throws Detroiters ‘Under the Bus,’ Say Riders. Voice of Detroit.

Detroit Department of Transportation. (2012). Service Equity Analysis for Minority and Low-Income Populations.

Detroit, MI. Federal Emergency Management Administration.

(2010). Organizational Emergency Response. Washington, DC: National Preparedness Directorate National Training and Education.

Federal Highway Administration. (2012). Transit Dependent Population. Message posted to https://www.transportationresearch.gov/dot/fhwa/ReNepa North End Woodward Community Coalition. (2012, September). Transit Justice: Lived Experience. NorthEndWoodwardCC YouTube Channel.

Riverside County Integrated Project. (2003). Transportation Plan. Riverside, CA: County of Riverside.

Transit Riders United. (2011, 29 April). Massive Cuts Proposed in DDOT Service. Detroit Transit Update.

United States Bureau of the Census. (2008). A compass for understanding and using American Community Survey data. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Commerce.

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Cole Grisham, MUP 2014 “Underneath the ‘L’”. Near Damen Station, Chicago, Illinois

Identity, Home, and Community Design for the Place-Needs of Student Housing Victoria McGovern, M. Arch ‘15 99 AG O RA

The public versus private dichotomy is one that is of particular interest to architects and urban planners. Private dwellings with advantages of community living promote the importance of semi-private spaces, surveillance zones, communal space, and other design features that encourage social interaction. Student dormitories are a form of cohousing, in which the success of social interaction is closely tied to the academic success, involvement, and overall happiness of university students. The following essay identif ies three place-needs of student housing design: home, identity, and community as a paradigm for how designers can evaluate the success of dormitories. Using a multitude of projects, an argument for this trinity of place-needs serves as a guide for carefully crafted public and private areas, and the essential division between them.1 The design of student dormitories requires integrated planning and careful arrangement of variables. In many universities, fragmented priorities, institutional budget cuts, value engineering, and conservative design decisions have resulted in banal, uninviting student housing projects. These oversized edifices present themselves as prison barracks rather than an environment for fostering new relationships and a passion for higher education. Not only do these architectural decisions last for decades, but “insofar as college is defined as structured around academic or intellectual activity, the informal context of the dormitory may allow for a more relaxed and less noticed input for change” (Heilweil 1973). Within institutional requirements, there are opportunities for strategic design decisions that can both bolster the social health of the campus community and influence architectural discourse surrounding this building type.

The following essay seeks to identify the formal ways in which a college dormitory can fulfill user-determinant place-needs and explore why and how these conditions are

important to the social development of young adults. From a phenomenological perspective, or the haptic properties of a space that examine an experiential outlook to architecture, three concepts of place arise: identity, home, and community.

The psychosocial Object Relations Theory forms the basis for my argument for college dwellings that foster highly imageable identities. This school of thought is based on the belief that people internalize social interactions and frame their personal identity on their understanding of others’ perception of them (Flanagan 2011). Therefore, the physical presentation of student dormitories including the façade, scale, and outward projection of space, functions in context with the campus and surrounding town as an element around which a student bases his or her new identity.

Sociological definitions like the Object Relations Theory are consistent with architectural approaches to identity, including those by theorists Jon Lang, Trigger-Ross and Uzzell, and Kim Dovey.

Space constraints prevented the inclusion of all of this article’s referenced figures in Agora’s print edition. For the full set, please consult the online version at www.agoraplanningjournal.com.

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Figure 1: Baker House (MIT). Cambridge, Massachussetts. Alvar Aalto, 1948.

The concept of the ‘home base’ explores how certain dorm complexes may provide many students’ first ‘home away from home.’ In this section, two distinct approaches are considered. The first deals with the formal comforts of home and semi-private spaces according to Sarah Susanka and Christopher Alexander, while the second speaks to Paul Gruchow’s more phenomenological, or experiential, philosophy of home as a crossroads between past and present.

The last section unpacks the dormitory’s role in fostering social networks. This is a place need that is essential to a student’s sense of belonging in higher education and directly impacts his or her overall satisfaction with the university (Heilweil 1973). It is within this third place-need where the student and educational institution’s values converge. Jo Williams’ study of how design considerations promote social interaction in cohousing communities offers important insights for dormitory design.

Successful fulfillment of these three place-needs enables student housing to provide for the social and physical needs of the average college student.

Identity

The need for a student dormitory to serve as form of identity for students is twofold. “The primary functions of buildings are to ‘orient’ and ‘identify’ – architecture tells us where we are and who we are. Buildings are seen to ‘ground’, shelter and stabilize a fragile sense of being” (Dovey 2008). In context with the Object Relations Theory, inhabitants are

likely to become acutely aware of how others perceive the community of their dwelling place, which in turn will likely affect the way in which those inhabitants regard their home and group affiliation. For example, a student who lives in a dorm complex that has the reputation of housing athletes or creative-types may impact his or her feeling of inclusion within that particular community. He or she may notice details, such as its proximity to the recreation building or performance center that will further strengthen this framed identity. This can become either a negative or positive association based on how the students perceive themselves.

“This [same idea] refers to a person’s expressed identification with a place, e.g. a person from London may refer to themselves as a Londoner. In this sense place can be considered to be a social category” (Twigger-Ross and Uzzell 1996). For many students who do not enter into the college environment as a member of a specific team or club, the dorm complex is their first group affiliation.

The building itself should communicate an identity in context with its environment, or “place identity, [which] describes the person’s socialization with the physical world” (Twigger-Ross and Uzzell 1996). One student building that both functions to ‘orient’ and ‘identify,’ as well as fulfills TwiggerRoss and Uzzell’s definition of place identity is the Baker House, a Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) dormitory designed by Alvar Aalto in 1948. Aalto adopted an undulating form that imitates the winding banks of the adjacent Charles River, maximizing

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Figure 2: Simmons Hall (MIT). Cambridge, Massachussetts. Steven Holl, 1991.

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the view for all rooms (Figure 1). This formal configuration also allows for the dorm rooms to avoid right-angle orientation toward the busy street, hereby decreasing the noise of oncoming traffic (Perez 2010). The formal aspects of the Baker House not only give it a unique physical identity, one that is easily discernible from its surrounding environment, but these aspects also connect the dorm – and by extension the school – to its surrounding context. The Charles River has been a landmark to the Boston area since the city’s establishment. This inspired form draws on the biophilia hypothesis, which suggests that human beings have “the urge to affiliate with other forms of life” (Wilson 1993). A connection with nature is therefore believed to elicit a positive response. Regardless of whether Aalto was aware of this perspective while designing the Baker House, the dorm’s unique façade achieves a distinctive identity that both celebrates its site along the Charles River and contrasts the rectilinear forms of the campus.

The importance of identity in terms of cognitive mapping for student housing emerges again at MIT in Steven Holl’s Simmons Hall, built in 1991. Cognitive mapping is defined as the way in which people orient themselves in a place by sorting imagery in their minds. “A highly imageable city, neighborhood, building complex, or building interior is one that is perceived as a well-structured system of components that are related to each other” (Lang 1987). The architectural goals for Simmons Hall were to create a “slice of the city” both in terms

of form and function. The façade mimics the urban complexity of a figure-ground drawing and gradient of public/private space by “balancing opposing architectural elements, such as solids and voids and opaqueness and transparency” (Perez 2010) (Figure 2). While Baker Hall drew inspiration for its aesthetic qualities from the natural aspects of the surrounding context, Simmons Hall embodies the urban fabric within itself.

While the aesthetic identity of student housing is of great importance, the presence of the other two place-needs, home and community, are essential to the design of this building typology. If ignored, it is possible that student housing will follow a path similar to that of early public housing programs in the United States, which in many cases resulted in developments characterized by the isolation of their residents and the physical neglect of their buildings. While the use of “American architectural traditions with European modernist styles [gave] public housing its distinctive image,” this preoccupation with identity caused oversights on home and community architectural elements (von Hoffman 1996). This is a common critique of Modernist architecture: a fixation on the projection of values over the ways in which users connect to the space and each other. What resulted were large austere edifices that did not adequately consider the presence of human beings, and whose resemblance to many college dormitories suggests that their lessons should figure into future campus plans.

Figure 3: White Dormitory for Il Vento. Teshima Kagawa, Japan. Koichi Futatsumata, 2011.

Home

The concept of home is more enigmatic than that of identity or community because it relies heavily on personal definitions. Many theorists have sought to provide a response to what constitutes the core meaning of home, or at least define architectural characteristics that promote comfort associated with the homestead. One such theorist is Sarah Susanka, an architect with expertise in the tie between human psychology and the spaces where humans live (Herbert 1999).

Drawing from Japanese inspiration, Susanka opts for rooms that have lines of vision and multiple uses, making these spaces feel larger and more connected to the rest of the house.

One student housing project that embodies Susanka’s point of view on home design is the White Dormitory for Il Vento by Koichi Futatsumata (Figure 3). The building was inserted into a historic Japanese district and aimed to fit into this context, yet still exude its own identity. A large white terrace unites the entire space, creating linkages between interior and exterior space, as well as between rooms.

One formal feature that often resolves conflicts between private and communal spaces is the alcove. Susanka is in favor of the alcove for the ways in which it can make a space comfortable and connect various parts of the house together:

By dividing a room into smaller spaces, it can be used for a variety of functions while offering human-scaled spaces that are actually connected to things that go on in the house. [She calls] this idea ‘shelter around activity,’ and one of the best examples of it is the window seat. The floor is raised, the ceiling is lowered and the walls are brought in to def ine a place for one or two people, from which they can observe the world. Sitting in a window seat feels like an embrace from the house. It is the epitome of comfort.

(Susanka 1974)

The alcove is used often in the White Dormitory and provides an element of comfort to the pure, white geometries consistent with contemporary Japanese architecture.

While Susanka’s interest speaks to how to provide a home with elements of comfort, other theorists write on the essence of what makes a home more than solely a place where one dwells. A common theme places weight on the way that tradition and connection to a place’s history may be joined within the present context. Paul Gruchow, an author and theorist who celebrated the rural way of life, described home as “like a garden, [existing] as much in time as in space. A home is the place in the present where one’s past and one’s future come together, the crossroads between history and heaven” (Gruchow 1997).

While people cannot move into a new place and immediately find it rich with memories of the past, one formal move is drawing from the past for inspiration. A student complex that appears to adequately fuse the comforts of home with elements of

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Figure 4: Mather Residence Hall (Kenyon College). Gambler, Ohio. Perkins + Will, 2009.

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tradition is the Retreat at Knoxville at the University of Tennessee. The dormitory is composed of 65 separate cottages with lowpitched roofs reminiscent of quaint southern architecture. Each house only holds a small number of rooms to keep the communities small and at the correct physical proportions for a southern cottage. While architecture of this kind often raises issues of authenticity, students are likely to understand the historic and traditional connotations of this type of architecture and aptly associate it with their experience at the University of Tennessee.

Community Community represents the apotheosis of place-needs for student housing projects. University leaders have significant incentives to make decisions that encourage students to become active participants in their college communities: for example, studies have shown that students who have a roommate or are involved in clubs during his or her first year of college are less likely to consider dropping out or attempting suicide (Heilweil 1973). While the clubs and societies require direct involvement, student dormitories create an environment for less demanding social involvement on their own terms. Accordingly, it is in the students’ and university’s best interests to build community within the dormitories.

In many ways, student housing can be accurately compared to cohousing, or private dwellings with the advantages of community

living (Williams 2005). Studies show that vibrant communities build local social capital, which in turn can promote trust among residents, creation of social networks, and establish rules and norms (Williams 2005).

Of all the formal characteristics of cohousing examined in recent studies, the design features that promote social interaction are buffer zones or semi-private space, communal space, opportunities for surveillance, shared pathways, small community size, and clustering to reduce anonymity in large communities. However, while these formal features do have effect in fostering community, it must be noted that other informal factors such as personality traits and keenness to participate have a large impact on the success of cohousing design.

One dormitory that sought to create small, tight-knit communities within a single building is Mather Residence Hall at Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio. While the narrow, winding hallways render the impression of “riot-proof ” design for many students, the real intention behind the “kinks in the halls are to define ‘neighborhoods’ of nine dorm rooms, a strategy to ‘humanize’ a large dorm building” (Kenyon College & Alumni Bulletin 2009). Perkins + Will, the Chicago-based architecture firm responsible for Mather’s design used the concept of the cluster to unite individuals. These clusters are more like alcoves, where dorm rooms are grouped in

Figure 5: Monash University Student Housing. Monash, Australia. BVN Architects, 2011.

threes that branch out from the main narrow hallway. The doors of these three rooms face one another, making the possibility for casual run-ins highly likely and frequent. Whether it be positive or negative, a relationship between neighbors in this arrangement is inevitable (Figure 4).

The Monash University Student Housing by BVN Architects in Monash, Australia used courtyards, or communal spaces, to create a community while simultaneously supporting the individual. With the project made up completely of studio apartments, the designers felt that they needed to enhance the buildings’ communal features to counteract the isolation of the individual units. They did so by placing a courtyard at the entry and meeting point to each building (Figure 5). Courtyards are instrumental in the discussion of functional distance versus physical distance: The research of Festinger et al. (1950) articulated the concept of functional distance, the distance, which must actually be travelled rather than sheer physical distance. Thus separate and poorly connected areas may actually be more functionally distant than remoter areas that are well connected. In accord with these concepts, the researchers found that patterns of friendship tended to be def ined by adjacency and traff ic flow.

(Williams 2005)

This study also found that inhabitants cognitively grouped houses that faced a common courtyard together, even if some of these dwellings were technically, even adjacent to a different courtyard. As a result, these courtyards seem to serve as communal spaces, buffer zones, and surveillance space. Other communal spaces in the housing complex are double-story in order to provide a sense of ownership to inhabitants of the two levels and encourage interaction amongst them.

According to Heilweil, research shows that residents living closer to stairwells have more contact with others on different levels.

Despite the communal aspects of the prominent courtyard plan, the overall interactive sense of the Monash University Student Housing is weakened by the independence of each individual unit. According to Heilweil’s studies, limited private space and a lack of kitchen and laundry facilities encourage residents to leave their apartments to use the communal spaces. However, the studio units at Monash are each equipped with a kitchenette and given ample space (BVN Architects).

Even the provision of a shared appliance, such as a microwave, would contribute to the communal qualities of the dormitory.

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Figure 6: Bikuben Student Residence (University of Copenhagen). Copenhagen, Denmark. Aart, 2008.

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Conclusion This paper has sought to demonstrate that university student housing should consider the three place-needs of identity, home, and community. After considering each of these in isolation in the aforementioned projects, we now arrive at what is arguably one of the best contemporary examples of student housing design. Formal evaluation of the Bikuben Student Residence in Copenhagen, Denmark reveals that dormitories can establish a strong identity while also cultivating a rich sense of home and community (Figure 11).

The Bikuben Student Residence creates the settings for student life and extends the possibility that unity can arise from a broad social network… It has been the ambition to create a building with a strong and clear identity, with a direct connection to the contextual situation.

The homes of the students and the common rooms are connected in a double spiral that surrounds an enlightened courtyard. That offers direct contact and visibility between common and private space and at the same time, ensures the student’s privacy in the home. The boundaries of every college home are expanded… giving the social interface and every single student’s latitude, maximum priority.

(World Buildings Directory 2008)

This building is successful in concept because its architects made a conscious effort to satisfy the three place-needs that this paper recognizes as the parameters for evaluating student housing design. If any critique can be made, it is that a residence with only studios undermines the sense of community that otherwise develops between roommates. However, the placement of kitchens outside the individual apartments complies with Williams’ argument that inhabitants should be forced to step outside their private spaces. While no example is perfect, the Bikuben Student Residence serves as a key precedent for quality dormitory design.

The study of the formal strengths and weaknesses of student housing in fostering identity, home, and community shows that it is a challenging endeavor to fulfill all the aforementioned place-needs in one project: identity is heavily reliant on cultural associations with a place, while home is dependent on personal history and personal definitions of comfort. Fostering

community is a goal that many housing projects actively take on, attempting to fix the problems of isolation through the addition of communal spaces like courtyards. Yet like identity and home, the effectiveness of these formal moves is contingent on the people who inhabit the environment.

Understanding a program’s general needs is an essential first step in the design process. Through this kind of sociological and psychological analysis of design, it is possible to better fuse architectural pursuits with real client needs.

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References 107 AG O RA

Alexander, Christopher. (1979). The Timeless Way of Building. New York: Oxford University Press.

World Buildings Directory Online Database. (2008).

“Bikuben Student Residence.”Accessed 17 March 2013. http://www.worldbuildingsdirectory.com/ project.cfm?id=832.

Twigger-Ross, Clare L. and David L. Uzzell. (1996).

“Place and Identity Processes.” Journal of Environmental Psychology.

Von Hoffman, Alexander. (1996). “High Ambitions: The Past and Future of American Low-Income Housing Policy.” Housing Policy Debate 7, pp. 423-430.

Dovey, K. (2008) “Domestic Desires.” Framing Places: Mediating Power in Built Form. 2nd ed. New York: Rutledge, pp. 157-175.

Williams, Jo. (2005, February 10)“Designing Neighborhoods for Social Interaction: the Case for Co-Housing.” Journal of Urban Design, pp. 107-125.

Gruchow, P. (1997). “A Discovery of the Universe of Home.” Minnesota Historical Society’s Theodore C. Blegen Memorial Conference.

Wilson, Edward O. (1993). The Biophilia Hypothesis.

Washington, D.C.: Island Press.

Flanagan, Laura Melano. “Object Relations Theory.”

Inside Out and Outside In: Psychodynamic Clinical Theory and Psychopathology in Contemporary Multicultural Contexts. (Plymouth: Rowman & Littlefied Publishers, LLC, 2011) 118.

Heilweil, Martin. (1973, January 1). “The Influence of Dormitory Architecture On Resident Behavior.” Environment and Behavior, pp. 377-411.

Lang, Jon. (1987). “Cognitive Maps and Spatial Behavior.” Creating Architectural Theory The Role of the Behavioral Sciences in Environmental Design. Van Nostrand Reinhold.

“Monash University Student Housing / BVN” 25 Apr 2012. ArchDaily. Retrieved 17 December 2012 from http://www.archdaily.com/228371 “Monash Student Housing.” BVN Architects.

Retrieved 16 December 2012 from http://www.bvn. com.au/projects/monash_university_student_housing. html?OpenDocument&idx=Type&pcat=Education&t pl=ext Kenyon College & Alumni Bulletin. (2009.) “Riot Proof Hallways.” vol. 32, Number 1, Fall.

Susanka, Sarah. (1974). The Not so Big House: A Blueprint for the Way we Live. New York: CT: The Tauton Press.

Tim Bevins, MUD 2013 “National Mall from the Mt. Vernon Trail�. Washington, D.C.

Tradable Planning Permits A Market-Based Approach to Combat Sprawl Matt Lonnerstater, MUP ‘14 109 AG O RA

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In many developed countries, including the United States, sprawling development patterns have led to the overconsumption of land and the onset of many negative externalities, which affect the environment, health, the economy, and more. Federal, state, and local governments have attempted to inhibit excessive land consumption through direct zoning regulations with very little success.

A possible means of addressing this issue land use centers on the introduction of market-based approaches into the public policy realm. Whereas regulatory approaches set standards for community development and growth, proponents of market-based development restrictions argue that the introduction of economic principles into land use regulation will make policies more powerful (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009). Because inefficient development patterns can be seen as market failures, many economists argue that the only way to create an efficient pattern of land use is to utilize economic instruments in land use policy (Henger and Bizer 2010).

The three main economic instruments for land use regulation (and all regulation of externalities) are: (i) fines and taxes; (ii) abatement subsidies; and (iii) marketable permits (Stiglitz 2000). This paper will focus on the third economic instrument – marketable permits – by examining the process of its implementation, its economic functionality and vitality, and its advantages and disadvantages relating to the overall goal of sustainable land use development. The first section of this paper defines the physical characteristics and externalities of sprawl. The second section

explores the economic context of sprawl and the general market-based instruments used to combat it. The third section introduces marketable permits using emission-based permits as an example. The fourth and final section explains land use development tradable planning permits and explores their feasibility.

Physical Characteristics and Externalities of Sprawl While the detailed characteristics of sprawl may vary depending between metropolitan regions, there are several overarching characteristics of sprawling development. The most observable physical characteristics of metropolitan sprawl are low densities, stripstyle commercial buildings, and leapfrog development patterns (Bluffstone et al. 2008).

Certain homogenous social patterns are often fairly identifiable in sprawled-out regions, including the individual tendency to own an automobile, drive greater distances, walk less, and use public transit sparingly (Bluffstone et al. 2008). In an economic sense, sprawling land use development is a dysfunctional, inefficient style of growth that exhibits many negative physical and social externalities (Bluffstone et al. 2008).

The negative externalities associated with inefficient land use and overconsumption of land extend from environmental degradation to social issues to public health concerns. Examples of negative environmental externalities relating to sprawling development include habitat endangerment, as well as deterioration of water and soil resources (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack

Sprawling land consumption and development represents a market failure not only in the sense that such externalities exist, but also, and more importantly, in the sense that actors fail to take the social costs of these externalities into account when purchasing, selling, or developing land.

2009). Environmental externalities have led to certain public health issues such as air pollution, which can increase incidences of asthma, and an increase in automobile accidents (Bluffstone et al. 2008). Inefficient land use has also led to deep municipal, social, and equity problems, such as increases in municipal infrastructure maintenance costs, increases in the sedentary lifestyle, and reductions in accessibility for low-income residents (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009).

Economic Context of Sprawl and MarketBased Solutions Sprawling land consumption and development represents a market failure not only in the sense that such externalities exist, but also, and more importantly, in the sense that actors fail to take the social costs of these externalities into account when purchasing, selling, or developing land (Stiglitz 2000).

Without strong policy regulations and/or market-based approaches, the costs that an actor (i.e. a developer) has to pay in order to develop a plot of land does not include or reflect the social costs of the externalities imposed by the actor by developing said land (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009). In an efficient economy, the marginal benefits of land consumption must equal the marginal costs (including private and social costs) (Bluffstone 2008). In an area typically defined by sprawling development, however, actors may only be required to pay the marginal private cost thus allowing for overdevelopment

of land and, most importantly, an economically inefficient system (Stiglitz 2000; Bluffstone 2008).

In order for the marginal social benefits to equal the marginal social costs, which would create an economically efficient system of land use, the social costs of negative externalities exhibited by land development must somehow be incurred by the actors.

This process is referred to as the internalization of externalities (Stiglitz 2000; Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009). Proponents of using economic instruments for land use regulation believe that market-based approaches can internalize externalities more efficiently than regulatory approaches.

How, then, can these economic instruments be incorporated into land use planning as a remedy for sprawl? Fines and taxes attempt to equalize marginal private costs and marginal social costs by imposing a fixed charge to the actor (typically a developer) equal to the difference between the two (Stiglitz 2000). An example of such method is the development impact fee, which are imposed one-time levies charged to the developer that account for the provision of infrastructure services such as water and sewer, schools, roads, police and fire protection, parks, and other municipal amenities (Bluffstone et al. 2008). Subsidies can be utilized to compensate an actor, such as a developer or municipal corporation, which agrees to hold back on the development or environmentally degrading use of land (Stiglitz 2000; Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009).

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The final form – tradable planning permits – promotes a “cap-and-trade” based method for land use development, and will be discussed in detail in the following sections (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009).

An Introduction to Marketable Permits: Emission-based Permits The concept of tradable planning permits (TPP) stems from the concept of marketable emission-based permits (Stiglitz 2000). In the emission-based permit system, a set number of permits are allocated to firms that emit certain pollutants, such as greenhouse gases and water effluents, thus capping the total amount of emissions at a certain level (Henger and Bizer 2010). After the initial distribution of such permits, firms are allowed to trade permits with one another. If a polluting company reduces its emissions, it can sell its extra permits. On the contrary, if a polluting company wishes to expand its production it can buy additional permits (Stiglitz 2000).

The economic analysis of marketbased permits is rather straightforward. If the market price of the permit is greater than the marginal cost of reducing pollution, a firm will be willing to sell some of its permits. If the marginal cost of reducing pollution is greater than the market price of the permit, however, a firm will be willing to buy permits (Stiglitz 2000). Therefore, market efficiency is the point where the marginal cost of reducing pollution is equal to the market price of the permit. The “cap-and-trade” system of marketable permits introduces an economically-minded scheme into the realm of

environmental protection by creating a market for tradable permits (Nuissl and SchroeterSchlaack 2009). The following section will attempt to transfer the function of emissionbased marketable permits into the realm of land use regulation through the introduction of tradable planning permits (TPP).

Tradable Planning Permits: Implementation, Functions, and Effectiveness Due to its similarity to marketable emission-based permits, the TPP system relies on the same basic economic cap-andtrade principles. In the TPP system, however, the ‘pollutant’ is not a greenhouse gas, but rather land use. A successful TPP system typically relies on four steps: (i) determining a cap (i.e. total number of permits); (ii) determining the initial allocation of permits; (iii) execution of trading schemes, and; (iv) monitoring and enforcement of permits (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009).

The first step of a successful TPP system – setting the cap, or total number of permits to be distributed – is determined by a regulator (Henger and Bizer 2010). The regulator will likely vary by the geographical scope of the TPP system. If the TPP system is implemented in order to realize a federal mandate for land use regulation, the federal government will most likely be in charge of setting a permit cap. Germany, for example, has recently committed to reduce its settlement area by a significant amount by 2020, and is considering implementing a tradable planning permit program at the federal level (Henger and Bizer 2010). Germany’s goal is to reduce the growth of settlement

The United States may have a tougher time implementing federal-based TPP programs with regional actors due to the various opinions concerning the strengths of regional planning throughout the country.

and high-traffic areas from 113 hectares to 30 hectares per day by the year 2020; under a federal TPP program, the German federal government would be responsible for determining the appropriate amount of overall permits to distribute annually (Henger and Bizer 2010). If the TPP system is implemented to meet a regional goal, a state or regional entity will likely be in charge of determining a cap (Henger and Bizer 2010).

The second step determines the initial number of permits that each actor will receive. In the case of TPP, the actors that first receive permits can be regions, individual municipalities, or communities (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009). For example, given Germany’s stress on strong regional planning, the federal government could potentially determine the region to serve as an actor, and thus allocate permits to individual regions based on current regional trends (Henger and Bizer 2010). The United States may have a tougher time implementing federally-based TPP programs with regional actors due to the various opinions concerning the strengths of regional planning throughout the country.

The entity in charge of setting the permit cap, such as the German federal government, can determine the initial number of permits to distribute to each actor through a broad range of possible indicators, such as theirprojected population or job growth, or long-range master plans (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009). Additionally, once the actor (from here on assumed to be a municipality) receives its permits, it can then set permit caps for its own districts or zones referencing its

own zoning code or master plan (Henger and Bizer 2010). The initial allocation of permits sets the foundation for municipalities to begin the permit-trading process.

The first two steps of a TPP system address the “cap”. The last two steps, on the other hand, address the “trade”. When assigned planning permits, a municipality must take into account certain economic factors in determining its growth strategy. Similar to the economic processes of emission-based permits, municipalities will consider buying TPP when the market price of a permit is lower than the marginal cost of non-development. Municipalities will consider selling TPP when the marginal cost of non-development is lower than the market cost of a permit. Efficient land use patterns are thus achieved when these two variables reach equilibrium (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009).

The final step – monitoring and enforcement – relies upon the system’s regulators. In a regional TPP system, the regional government would likely be in charge of keeping the system in balance (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlack 2009). Regulation could be achieved through required annual reports of land-consuming activities and/or direct monitoring by assigned officials (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009).

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With a cap on total land use development in place set by a regional planning entity, however, municipalities are required to analyze the economic opportunity costs of developing a single additional unit of land.

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Tradable planning permits offer a number of advantages over simple policybased land use mechanisms. The marketbased TPP system intervenes with traditional regulatory approaches to land use development through the introduction of tangible costs and benefits (Henger and Bizer 2010).

Prior to the implementation of a TPP system, or any other market-based mechanism, a municipality’s decision to develop or refrain from developing land would typically fail to reflect upon regional land use goals. With a cap on total land use development in place set by a regional planning entity, however, municipalities are required to analyze the economic opportunity costs of developing a single additional unit of land (Nuissl and SchroeterSchlaack 2009). A combination of traditional land use instruments, such as regional plans and zoning, and a system of tradable planning permits could potentially strengthen the possibility of realizing regional land use goals.

There are, of course, certain disadvantages to the implementation of a TPP system. First, many factors must be analyzed when determining the permit cap and initial distribution of permits (Stiglitz 2000). These factors can be, and often are, based on the politics of the regulating entity. For example, the competition between municipalities for additional capital could potentially influence the assignment of permits. This competition could also impact trading schemes between municipalities, with market failures such as incorrect price signals only accentuating the inefficiencies of the TPP system. One of the main arguments against TPP is the view that

permits only focus on a quantitative figure of land use (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009). While the system introduces economic principles into land use regulation, permit prices fail to take into account the social costs of individual parcels of land because a municipality’s permits are technically uniform in price and cost (Nuissl and Schroeter-Schlaack 2009). Only the overall municipality – a fairly large entity – is required to analyze the opportunity costs, including social costs, when purchasing TPP. The listed advantages and disadvantages set up the foundations for a heated debate on the economic and social effectiveness of tradable planning permits.

Conclusion The implementation of tradable planning permits is a mechanism that introduces economic principles into the field of land use planning far beyond the fines, taxes, and abatement subsidies which it current employs. Sprawling development has become widespread because actors (i.e., land developers and municipalities) have not been required to consider the societal costs relating to land development. The TPP system sets up a foundation in which municipalities are required to internalize certain negative externalities related to land consumption. Comparable to marketable emission-based permits, TPP systems require the actors – in this case, municipalities – to consider the opportunity costs of land development. An efficient system of land

References use is thus reached when the costs of nondevelopment equal the market price of TPP. While a system of tradable planning permits may seem efficient when coupled with traditional land use instruments, the system may become inefficient due to political (or social) disagreements over the cap, assignment, and trading of permits. Discussions about the appropriate role of market-based mechanisms in land use regulation reliably lead to heated arguments. The answer of whether or not TPP and other market-based instruments are effective in the realm of land use can only be realized, however, by testing their effectiveness through actual implementation.

Bluffstone, R., Braman, M., Fernandez, L. Scott, T., and Lee, P.Y. (2008). “Housing, Sprawl, and the Use of Development Impact Fees: The Case of the Inland Empire.”

Contemporary Economic Policy, 12 (3), pp. 433-447.

Henger, R., and Bizer, K. (2010). “Tradable Planning Permits for Land use Control in Germany.” Land Use Policy, 27, pp. 843-852.

Nuissl, H. and Schroeter-Schlaack, C. (2009). “On the Economic Approach to the Containment of Land Consumption.” Environmental Science & Policy, 12, pp.

270-280.

Stiglitz, J. (2000). Economics of the Public Sector, Third Edition. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.

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John Monnat, M. Arch 2015 “New Area”. Pudong, Shanghai

Seoul is Not a City Young-Tack Oh, M. Arch ‘15 117 AG O RA

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As of 2012, 10,442,426 people lived in Seoul ‒ significantly more than in New York, and almost four times as many as in Rome (Seoul Metropolitan Government 2012). If “urban settlements are characterized primarily by a high concentration of people and activities” (Lozano 1990), Seoul’s population density of approximately 17,000 people per square kilometer – the densest in the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) – makes it absurd to doubt that Seoul is a city (Brookings 2010).

Then again, theorists describe density as “the critical variable in determining urbanity because of its locational effects. Density determines the accessibility of people to people, of people to work, or people to service and recreation; in short, it allows urban relationships to flourish” (Lozano 1990). Operating under that definition, major issues with Seoul’s walkability and urban integration mean that the city’s urbanity is not as immediately clear. This essay will investigate walkability and the nature of urban space in the Seoul context, considering the condition of pedestrian spaces, residents’ dependence on public transportation, and general awareness of the city’s streets.

Walkability, One of the Many Definitions of a City For many urban designers, planners, and thinkers, pedestrian movement constitutes one of the most important features of a city. As explained by Vikas Mehta of the University of South Florida’s School of Architecture and Community Design, “streets represent a significant part of the public space

in urban areas and cater to our financial, social, and leisure needs” (Mehta 2009). Urban planning luminary Jane Jacobs, goes further, contending that streets “hold a special place in the literature on public space and are both literally and metaphorically the most fitting symbol of the public realm” ( Jacobs 1961).

“Streets and their sidewalks, the main public spaces of the city, are its most vital organs.

Sidewalks, their bordering uses, and their users, are active participants in the drama of civilization” ( Jacobs 1961). As evidenced by the quantity and quality of research on this topic, there is no question that streets ‒ the medium through which walking takes place ‒ are a major determinant in the definition of the city. What truly inspires urban life is the ability to comfortably walk and experience different cultures. The street becomes a stage for people to constantly encounter unpredictable activities and acquaintances. Scholars suggest that “if we do right by our streets we can in large measure do right by the city as a whole ‒ and, therefore and most importantly, by its inhabitants” ( Jacobs 1993).

The Subway, a Means for Programmatic Sprawl Modern Seoul has only existed for a short amount of time. Effectively razed to the ground during the Korean War in the early 1950s, in the 60 years since, the capital city has experienced astounding rates of growth and redevelopment. The subway system, which opened in 1974, has had a significant

impact on the redevelopment of modern Seoul in terms of density, rate, and spatial configuration. In many ways, the subway was a response to Seoul’s culture: with adults working longer hours and children studying into the night, Seoulites recognized the need to save time in any way possible. In Korea, the work and school week was previously six days long, and plans to make Saturday a nonworking day have only begun being implemented very recently (Bae 2003). Seoulites’ tight schedules, compounded by the Seoul’s steadily increasing population density, have resulted in attempts to make the urban condition more efficient and convenient. The shortened commutes that the subway made possible represented a major success in this regard. Consisting of 18 lines, the Seoul Metropolitan Subway system is today the world’s second most highly used rapid transit system after the Tokyo Subway, and serves as the primary means of transit in Seoul. The network is so vast that it serves satellite cities 100 km away from the capital. Known for its efficiency and convenience, the system has a daily ridership of seven million, which amounts to two-thirds of Seoul’s population (Seoul Metropolitan Government 2011). The expansive subway system allows for residents’ daily activities and services to be located throughout the city. However, destinations typically appear in close proximity to subway

stations, or subway stations are built in close proximity to places that residents want to go.

Only a handful of subway stations become locations where people meet to enjoy leisurely activities. Ironically enough, the efficient subway system displays many characteristics of suburban travel described by Anne Vernez Moudon, a writer and professor of architecture and urban planning. “Commonly relying on a single driveway as a connection to larger routes… travel is restricted to the few grids formed by arterial streets” (Moudon 2000).

The restrictive nature of suburban streets is mirrored in the similar nature of Seoul’s subways. Their dominance as the primary means of transportation means that anywhere they avoid is avoided by most of the city’s residents as well. The subways have absorbed Seoul’s street life, taking Seoulites underground and out of the urban realm.

One Place to Live, Another to Work In, and a Place to Play The subway’s dominance has had a number of negative effects on Seoul’s built environment. With activities and active spaces limited to walking distances from transit nodes, subway-proximate alleys (gol-mok) and streets (geo-ri), became locations where a single activity or service dominates entire neighborhoods. An economic argument posits that this phenomenon of business concentration results from certain market entry strategies (Lymbersky 2008): much like the automotive industry in Detroit, the same kind of production or manufacturers could share the costs of shipment, raw materials, and maintenance of

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their businesses. However, shops entering a specific gol-mok often seem to go further, in that they share their customers as well. There is a mindset among these businesses that if the most prominent venue is full, the rest of the clients will readily look for substitutes in close geographic proximity (Kalyanaram 1998). The prevalence of the resulting singleuse zones throughout Seoul provides clustered employment and production centers and ensures competition within any given market. Nevertheless, it seems to form a type of place which diminishes the variety of activities in a particular area. Specific programs tend to become affiliated only with certain locations, with new businesses pressured to set up shop in places specific to their industry. The built-out nature of the city means that new gol-mok or geo-ri cannot be created. As a result, the location of subway exits has generally predetermined spatial and programmatic distribution.

As a result of geographically isolated programs and land uses, people tend to travel to a certain place with one specific activity in mind. For example, Hongdae is now a place associated with clubs and bars, and Gangnam a place for nightlife and drinking. Seoul has an area of 600 square kilometers and a population of 10 million yet the existence of these kinds of homogenous areas makes it very natural to meet friends in a very limited set of places, despite living miles away from each other. Seoul is increasingly a place of fragmented experiences in different locations, and as a result, it becomes difficult to enjoy its entirety.

The construction of shopping malls, theme parks, and residential complexes have added to the separation of program. While large corporations who invested in their construction benefit from these developments, the vitality of Seoul’s streets suffers. These malls outcompete local stores and create a misleading form of public space. In terms of form and function, malls emulate the streets of cities in low-density areas (Lee 2011) which offer a fake experience of the city for non-urban dwellers. Consequently, streets of the actual city are emptying out and actual public spaces are underutilized. Lotte World, the world’s largest indoor theme park, provides a prominent example of this practice in the heart of Seoul (Korea Tourism Organization 2010). Although an immense amount of land around the park has been allocated for apartments, these dense residential areas were not planned to accommodate public space and retail. Accordingly, the park’s builders saw no need to include pedestrian walkways.

As a result of this project and similar ones throughout Seoul, the shopping malls, theme park, and apartment buildings have absorbed street life by taking pedestrians indoors and out of the city.

Empty Streets Above the Surface Seoul officials have recognized the scarcity of ‘good’ streets in the metropolitan area. They have already completed many initiatives in support of what they refer to as “walkable streets of Seoul” (Lee 2012). Although intended to create lively and pedestrian-friendly streets for a variety of users,

“Rush hour in the Seoul Metro”. Source: Korea Times, koreatimes.co.kr

these projects prioritized formal strategies without considering the actual functions of urban streets. For example, project designers believed the presence of green spaces and winding paths would be sufficient for them to call a space ‘walkable’. This was a fallacy: although the quality of a street depends on its users, it must first be able to support social behavior through personalization, permeability, seating, shelter, and allowing commercial transactions (Mehta 2009). These superficial streets do not attract life because they do not provide users with a variety of activities, events, or efficient connections to the rest of the city.

Designing streets for people is an ever-increasing challenge as Seoul’s metropolitan streets have been infested with what some observers of the built environment have whimsically termed “amphibian creatures” (Lee 2011). In the same way that a frog straddles the line between life in the water and on land, cars – which should be confined to the road – have manifested in the pedestrian realm as well. Although municipal codes state that all buildings require a minimum setback of three meters, Seoul’s retail owners often decide to convert this space into tight parking lots for cars that are typically five meters long.

This practice obstructs, and even endangers pedestrian movements and physically damages the pavement. There are even cases where

buildings are built with five meter setbacks in order to create more convenient spaces for parking (Lee 2011). Seoul’s streets seem to cater to the needs of drivers more than to those of the pedestrian, yet walkable urban environments require infrastructure and systems that balance the priorities of different transit users including pedestrians, motorists, and subway users. Supporters of walkability in Seoul and other metropolitan areas try to achieve this balance through spatial interventions like traffic calming and landscaping, as well as those that deal with social activities and programming.

Troglodytes Below Seoul In Seoul, ‘walking distance’ refers to the proximity of a particular destination to the nearest subway station. Because the street grid cannot compete with the efficiency of the subway, the city goes unseen, as the people too go underground. What is the purpose of the street when it is no longer used for circulation? The adjacent picture portrays the subway during rush hour. Every square inch is occupied by someone’s head, alluding to the fact that absolutely no one is sitting down. Sitting space has been identified as one of the most important characteristics for retaining people in public spaces (Lindsay 1978; Whyte 1980). Yet, Seoul’s metro offers few opportunities to sit and even incidental seating that can occur on ledges or stairs is out of the question, in the presence of such immense human traffic. Circulation in these underground transit systems inherently needs to act like circulation on roads designed for

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Lotte World, Seoul. Source: Lotteworld.com

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cars. A two-way traffic flow must be clearly defined to prevent congestion. Spaces for pedestrian movement typically double as social space, but the same is virtually impossible in spaces for the movement of vehicles (Carmona 2003). Additionally, choice is a key tenet of urban design, and the freedom provided by movement informs how people can use the public environment (Carmona 2003). Yet within metro stations’ limited space, with the only direct pathways leading to other trains, this freedom is nowhere to be found. Furthermore, underground businesses tend to have no “facades that create a communion with the pedestrian environment” (Mehta and Bosson 2010). This sort of interface between the public and private realms needs to both enable interaction and protect privacy. A host of mechanisms– colonnades, porches, foyers, elaborate facades, and courtyards– has been developed to facilitate physical interaction between public and private spaces, but is utterly missing in subway environments (Madanipour 2003). Finally, the smaller elements of subway environments are very much neglected: for example, spaces do not need to be oriented with respect to the direction of sunlight. By using what is commonly called ‘amenity lighting’ (Carmona 2003), brightness conditions become constant. Lighting elements need to be kept lit throughout the year.

Streetless Seoul; I Don’t Know What Street I Live On Streets have ultimately been lost in the culture of Seoulites. This is compounded by how mailing addresses are written in South Korea: described by the administrative divisions in which it lies, the address will have the largest division written first, followed by the smaller divisions, and lastly with the building and the recipient. A typical building in Seoul belongs to Seoul itself (officially known as the ‘Seoul Special City’), a particular ward (gu), and a neighborhood (dong), within that ward.

There is no mention of the street name that this particular building is located on, in sharp contrast to American addresses which only show city, street name, and building number.

A personal experiment further corroborated this statement. The method and results were similar to Boston residents’ mental maps from Kevin Lynch’s The Image of the City (1960). Three Korean individuals, currently residing in Seoul, were asked to describe the location of Rodeo Street, a wellknown destination for shopping and eating.

The replies were uniform in that the subjects were only able to describe the location in the context of the subway system. “To get to Rodeo Street, you get off at Apgujeong Station on the Orange Line and use exit 4.” Additional subjects were chosen and asked to describe the same location, but without mentioning the subway station. Replies were very similar in that, the site was always described in terms of other well-known landmarks or buildings.

Neon signs in Gangnam, Seoul. Photo by author.

“Rodeo Street is across from Galleria Mall, in front of a bunch of apartments by the river.” This way of thinking about space is accurately described by Leon Krier’s diagram of a “true” city, where Seoulites are thinking in terms of the res publica (Krier 1990). Res publica is the Latin word for ‘public affair’ and refers to civic establishments or spaces. Krier’s res publica is imagined as an area filled with monuments but without streets or squares. In such a setting, people associate locations with recognizable structures; navigation through space is reduced to a description of the destination’s surroundings. The phenomenon, which has roots in the Japanese period, has produced generations of Seoulites who have no easy means of understanding and describing their city in relation to its streets. Operating under the hypothesis that a better awareness of streets could increase the quality of Seoul’s urban fabric, the Korean government has begun a campaign to reintroduce the use of street names and has already established names for many of the smaller alleys and roads (New Address Information 2007). This is borne out in the answers provided when the type of question previously posed to Seoulites was asked in American cities known for their vibrant street life. When New Yorkers were asked to describe the location of the city’s

flagship Apple store, they would respond that it was “at the intersection of 55th Street and Fifth Avenue.” Students at the University of Michigan asked to describe the location of the post office gave similar replies, always mentioning the name of at least one street.

One reason behind the disparity in street-consciousness is that while American wayfinding systems utilize street names, Seoul’s sense of direction heavily relies on landmark-based signage. An additional proof of Seoul’s lack of awareness about its streets is its haphazard use of electric signs, with entire buildings sometimes covered in brightly-lit text and advertisements. According to sociology professor Seok-Choon Yoo of Yonsei University, this phenomenon derives from the practice of writing addresses without their street names (Yoo 1998). Much of Seoul’s retail areas are characterized by large commercial complexes containing many small stores.

Yet as this paper has previously established, Seoulites would not be able to precisely locate a specific place with just the name of its street. Having arrived near a certain destination, they find themselves in a totally unfamiliar environment, and must use businesses’ signs to help them navigate. Ironically, shop owners attempting to create distinctive and attention-grabbing signs for their space, instead, contribute to and get lost in the hodgepodge of letters.

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A Theme Park to Experience a ‘City’ Seoul’s urban fabric is shockingly young, with the average age of its buildings lower than that of its inhabitants (Lee 2011).

Despite Seoul’s 600 year history, structures over 50 years old represent less than 3 percent of the building stock, while those less than 20 years old constitute 57 percent (Lee 2011). The very concept of the historic city is still new to Seoul and Korea itself. Immense amounts of new construction have become the norm, and there appears to be little consideration for preservation. As a result, much of Seoul’s historic axes of circulation have dissolved. Streets have merely become courtesy gaps between buildings. If a city lives in its streets, this kind of neglect is arguably the main reason why Seoul is not a city – yet.

Seoulites misunderstand their daily lives as being experienced in a true city, even as most of their activities happen underground or are

limited to designated areas of Seoul. People are made to believe that they are living in a genuinely cosmopolitan area, when it doesn’t even begin to fulfill the rudimentary qualities of place and personal interaction that a city can offer ‒ Seoul as a true city is a hallucination, for now. Improvements to Seoul’s urban condition should begin with increasing awareness of streets among its residents.

Streets should no longer be treated as residual elements that exist between buildings; instead, their users should learn to recognize the spirit and energy they can offer. It is now time to reflect on and critique the qualities of Seoul’s built environment and the driving forces behind its accelerated development ‒ to find ways to retain its long history, good or bad, and strive to make the necessary improvements over time.

References Bae, Kim & Lee LLC. (2003, September 30). Korean Law Update: 5-Day Work Week Legislation Passed in Korea. Bae, Kim & Lee LLC. Brookings Institute. (2010). OECD Factbook 2010: Economic, Environmental and Social Statistics. Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution Press.

Lynch, K. (1960). The Image of the City. The MIT Press Mehta, V. (2009). Urban Design and Social Interaction on Streets. Journal of Urban Design.

Mehta, V. and Bosson J. (2010). Environment and Behavior. Sage.

Carmona M., Tiesdell S., Heath T., and Oc T. (2003).

Public Places- Urban Spaces. Elsevier.

Montgomery, J. (1988). Making a City: Urbanity, Vitality, and Urban Design. Journal of Urban Design.

Chekki, D. (1994). The Community of the Streets. Jai Press.

Moudon, A.V. and Hess P.M. (2000). Suburban Clusters.

American Association of Planning Journal.

Glaeser, E. (2011). The Triumph of the City. Penguin Books.

New Address Information. (2007, April 1st). The Law for Indicating the Address Based on Street Name. New Address Information.

Jacobs, J. (1961) The Death and Life of Great American Cities. Vintage Books.

Jeon, Y. (2009, July 14th). Un-walkable ‘Walkable Streets.’ Munhwa News.

Kalyanaram G. and Gurumurthy R. (1998, March).

Market Entry Strategies: Pioneers Versus Late Arrivals.

Korea Tourism Organization. (2010). Lotte World.

Korea, Be Inspired.

Lee, H. (2012). The Difference Between Walkable Streets and Paths. Able News Lee, K. (2011). For My Eternal City Life. Prunsoop.

Lindsay, N. (1973). A World of Strangers. Basic Books.

Lim Y., Ryu J., Hong J. (2007). Strategies for Institutional Improvement for the Activation of the Bicycle Utilization. Korean Research Institute for Human Settlements.

Lozano, E. (1990). Community Design and the Culture of Cities. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press.

Lymbersky, C. (2008). Market Entry Strategies. Management Laboratory Press.

Rudofsky, B. (1969). Streets for People. Doubleday.

Seoul Metropolitan Government. (2011). Statistics.

Retrieved April 14th, 2013 from http://stat.seoul.go.kr/ Seoul_System3.jsp?stc_cd=273 Seoul Metropolitan Government. (2012, December 31st). Population Facts. Hi Seoul, Soul of Asia.

Whyte, W. H. (1980). The Social Life of Small Urban Spaces. The Conservation Foundation.

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Yoo, S. (1998). The Culture of Signage. Kyung Hyang Shinmun Press.

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Spatial Analysis of Heat Vulnerability in Detroit Corinne Kisner, MUP ‘13 Kevin Mulder, MUP ‘13 Ben VanGessel, MUP ‘13 125 AG O RA

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As climate change contributes to more frequent and intense extreme heat events, residents of Detroit are increasingly vulnerable to heat-related illness. In the summer of 2012, the City of Detroit provided cooling centers for relief from the heat. This study proposes a spatial methodology to analyze various geographies for heat-vulnerable populations using the City of Detroit as a sample case. This study creates a vulnerability index to identify those areas of Detroit that are most at risk, and then calculates the service area of each cooling center for pedestrians and bicyclists. We determined that 79 percent of Detroit’s most vulnerable population is within a 15-minute bike ride of a cooling center, but only 31 percent can reach a cooling center within a 15-minute walk. Therefore, we recommend that the City examine its current allocation of cooling centers and aim to strategically locate resources to improve the spatial coverage of this increasingly important service and improve the effectiveness of emergency response measures during future extreme heat events.

Climate change is the defining challenge of the 21st century. With increasing certainty and consensus, the scientific community reports that anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions are rapidly altering global climate patterns (IPCC 2007). The human experience of climate change differs within geographies, with spatial variation even within a relatively small region. For example, in Detroit, the average annual temperature from 1980-2010 has increased by 1.4°F, whereas the average annual temperature for Ann Arbor has only increased by 0.2°F over the same period (GLISA, Arbor; GLISA, Detroit).

Although 1.4°F seems like a nominal change, even a small increase in average annual temperature drastically increases the probability of extreme weather events such as heat waves, droughts, and torrential rains.

With these local climatic alterations come a host of human health impacts.

In general, hotter days and longer and more frequent heat waves increase the potential

for heat-related illnesses and death (Altman 2012). Table 1 illustrates the projected increase in excessive heat event days due to climate change in cities across the United States; by 2099, estimates predict that Detroit will experience 36 excessive heat event days per summer, up from nine days on average between 1975-1995 (Altman 2012). This increase will be linked to an average of 48 excessive heat-attributable deaths per year, up from the average of 5.5 heat-related deaths annually between 1970 and 2004 (Kalkstein et al. 2010). The City of Detroit’s official response to the increasing frequency and intensity of heat waves is a system of 21 cooling centers (City of Detroit 2012). A cooling center is a temporary air-conditioned public space where residents can seek relief from extreme heat. However, Detroit’s sprawling geographic area and relatively low population density create challenges of efficiently providing city services to mitigate human health impacts.

Space constraints prevented the inclusion of all of this article’s referenced figures in Agora’s print edition. For the full set, please consult the online version at www.agoraplanningjournal.com.

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Problem Definition We first seek to identify which areas of Detroit are most vulnerable to extreme heat events based on land cover type and socioeconomic risk. Second, we calculate the service area of each cooling center to evaluate whether they are adequately located to serve areas that are vulnerable to excessive heat effects. The City’s 21 designated cooling centers are located within pre-existing facilities, with 17 in public library branches and four in recreation centers. This report seeks to analyze how well the City’s response addresses the needs of heat-vulnerable individuals.

Methodology Vulnerability Index Variables Our analysis incorporated five primary factors that contribute to increased risk of heat-related illness: poverty status, educational attainment, access to a vehicle, old age, and very young age. To arrive at these five contributing demographic variables for a vulnerability index, we conducted a literature review of studies measuring sensitivity to extreme heat. This research revealed the importance of neighborhood socioeconomic position – or group-level factors – in predicting risk of illness, independent of the influence of the same variable measured at the individual level (Diez Roux 2004; Reid et al. 2009; Smoyer 1998). For this reason, and due to the difficulty in obtaining individuallevel income or health data, we conducted our vulnerability analysis at the census block group level. Furthermore, since we are concerned with the vulnerability of people rather

than land area, we represented each of the demographic variables on land that is zoned as residential rather than the entire land area of the census block group.

Two indicators of community-level socioeconomic status are associated with increased heat-related mortality: percentage of the population without a high school diploma, and percentage of the population living in poverty (Curriero et al. 2002). Research has demonstrated a link between low educational attainment and poor health (Brunner 2001), and specific studies of heat-related deaths in cities across the U.S. found greater mortality rates among individuals with low levels of education (Medina-Ramon et al. 2006; O’Neill et al. 2003) because educational attainment is often a measure of quality of life, occupation, and living conditions (O’Neill et al. 2003). Using census data obtained from Social Explorer, we calculated the percentage of each census block group holding no more than a high school diploma, as shown in Figure 1. Similarly, wealth mediates the risk of heat-related death by increasing access to amenities such as air conditioning and other opportunities to avoid heat. On an individual level, “there is little doubt that poverty leads to ill health” (Phipps 2002), and community poverty levels have also been demonstrated to play a role in heat-related mortality (Curriero et al. 2002). Therefore we used census data to calculate the percentage of each census block group living under 200 percent of the federal poverty line, as shown in Figure 2.

A significant body of literature has found old age to be a prominent vulnerability factor during extreme heat, effecting both hospital admission rates (Knowlton et

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Figure 5: Percent of population lacking vehicle access by census block group, City of Detroit, 2010.

al. 2009; Semenza et al. 1999) and mortality (Conti et al. 2005; Fouillet et al. 2006; Hutter et al. 2007; Naughton et al. 2002; Stafoggia et al. 2008; Whitman et al. 1997). Since we could not access individual-level age data by household, we used census data to calculate the percentage of each census block group over age 65, as shown in Figure 3. Similarly, because very young people are also susceptible to extreme heat (Ready.gov 2012), we calculated the percentage of people under age 5 for each census block group, as shown in Figure 4. Finally, we included access to vehicles as a contributing factor in the vulnerability index, since those without a vehicle are likely unable to drive to air conditioning or a cooler refuge during extreme heat events.

Using census data, we mapped the percentage of each census block group lacking vehicle access, as shown in Figure 5.

Our analysis also included two land cover variables that have an influence on the effects of extreme heat events: impervious surfaces and tree canopy. Land use decisions resulting in the high concentration of low-albedo, high-heat capacitance, impervious surfaces such as concrete, coupled with disparities in the distribution of tree cover, interact to make certain areas of the city much warmer

in summer months, and therefore more vulnerable to extreme heat events (Landsberg 1981). This effect is termed the Urban Heat Island (UHI) effect (Bornstein 1968; Oke 1973). Figure 6 shows the near-surface temperatures throughout Southeast Michigan and Detroit (Hove 2011) demonstrating the range of temperatures and highlighting distinctions of particular surface features such as roads. The average annual temperatures of the UHI areas of Detroit can be 1.8-5.4°F warmer than surrounding areas (GLISA, Detroit).

However, vegetation cover has a negative influence on temperature, thereby decreasing vulnerability to extreme heat (Serrano 2003).

To analyze local variations in UHI effect we obtained land cover data from the United States Geological Survey Global Visualization Viewer (GloVis) available at usgs.glovis. gov; a more detailed explanation of this process is available in the appendix, and the land cover map is shown in Figure 7. Using this land cover data we calculated the percentage of each census block group’s land cover comprised of impervious surface and tree canopy, shown in Figures 8 and 9, respectively. Since impervious surface and tree canopy are essentially complements under this methodology, we chose to only incorporate one – tree canopy – into our analysis to avoid double counting the impact of land cover.

In order to understand the cumulative risk of heat-related illness as determined by the six variables shown in Table 2, we calculated a vulnerability index. To do so required converting the variables to compatible scales so they could be combined to produce a single index. In order to normalize the variables, we computed the z-scores for each individual variable by subtracting the mean of each variable from each block group’s value and then dividing the result by the standard deviation of the sample. This ensures that each of the rescaled variables has a mean of zero and a standard deviation of 1. The rescaling allows for the variables to be directly combined with or without factor weights, the relative contribution to vulnerability, to produce the final index of relative vulnerability.

For the purposes of this investigation, we assigned a factor weight of 1 to each variable to produce the map shown in Figure 10.

Cooling Center Service Areas To evaluate the effectiveness of Detroit’s cooling center network, we computed service areas – geographic zones based on access to a particular amenity or service – by three main modes of transportation to the cooling centers: walking, bicycling, and driving. Due to Detroit’s poor and consistently declining level of bus service, we excluded service area by bus from our study (Kleinfelter 2012). Our analysis seeks to show how well citizens can access the centers by each of the three selected modes. While automobiles can often provide the most immediate source of relief, whether by air conditioning in the vehicle or by quickest transport to a cooling center, 24 percent of Detroit households do not

own a vehicle (American Community Survey 2010). Additionally, within households that do own a vehicle, individual members may be without vehicle access during extreme heat events for a variety of reasons. In contrast to autos, walking and bicycling represent relatively inexpensive and reliable modes that are accessible to most of the population at any time, so including these modes in the analysis was an important consideration.

We used national working safety standards to determine the appropriate radius of cooling center service areas. The Occupational Safety & Health Administration (OSHA) has determined threshold limit values (TLV ) for external working conditions.

The TLVs are designed to prevent body temperature from exceeding 100.4° F when experiencing light to moderate exertion (OSHA, 1999). Table 4 shows different proportions of working and resting, given varying temperature conditions and workloads. As shown, in 90° F heat events, each 15-minute period of light activity should be matched by 45 minutes of rest. Therefore, we used 15 minutes of outdoor exposure for the service area radius of walking and cycling.

We then calculated the distance that pedestrians, bicyclists, and drivers can cover in 15 minutes. For pedestrians, 15 minutes translates into 0.8 miles, using an average speed of between 2.8 mph and 3.4 mph based on pedestrian age (Levine et al. 1999; Knoblauch et al. 1996). For cyclists, 15 minutes limits travel distance to 2.3 miles, using an average speed of 9.3 mph (NYDOT 2006).

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Automobile speeds vary, largely due to road type. Therefore, using categorical census feature class codes (CFCC2), which group roads into seven major categories, we approximated speed for each road segment, as shown in Table 5. This allowed us to calculate the distance a driver could travel in 15 minutes while accounting for differences in travel speeds throughout the city.

We created a 0.8-mile buffer from each cooling center to approximate the generally linear range of walking, as shown in Figure 11. To calculate the service areas for cyclists and motorists, however, we created a network dataset from existing road data, and we analyzed the resulting network to develop a more realistic picture of bike and automobile access. However, there are challenges in building the required network dataset to handle each service area: • The available Detroit road data does not contain an elevation field, so the network contains more junctions than exist in reality.

For example, many local roads are built over Interstate 75, but the network treats these overpasses as intersections.

• Bicycles are not allowed on interstates and various other road segments.

While there is no measure used to establish elevation data, the extensive grid network of roads throughout Detroit provides several alternative routes to the false intersections used in the analysis. Many of the road segments classified as A1 in Table 5, where false intersections occur, are paralleled by service drives or other roads. Therefore, we contend that even if the improper junctions

were removed, the automobile service areas would not significantly change. To prevent cyclists from using limited-access roads and access ramps, we removed the CFCC2 categories A1, A5, and A6 from the bicycle service area; the result is shown in Figure 12.

Findings As Figure 10 illustrates, heat vulnerability varies spatially. For example, there are pockets of higher vulnerability located east of downtown and lower vulnerability in northeast Detroit. The service areas of the cooling centers varied by travel mode, as expected. All of Detroit proper is accessible from a cooling center by car trips of five minutes or less, which is not shown. Calculations of the population served by each cooling center reveal that roughly 29 percent of Detroit’s population is within a 15-minute walk of a cooling center, and 85 percent is within a 15-minute bike ride, as shown in Table 7.

Figures 13 and 14 show the walking and bicycling service areas overlaid on the vulnerability index map. Combining the service areas with the vulnerability map allowed us to answer the research question of whether the most vulnerable areas of Detroit are adequately served by the city’s cooling centers.

We selected the top 20 percent most vulnerable census block groups, and we calculated, as shown in Table 8, that the cooling center walking service areas only served 31 percent of the population residing in census block groups considered extremely vulnerable. Additionally, the bicycle service areas serve 79 percent of the population residing in census block groups considered extremely vulnerable. In Figures 15 and 16, the 20 percent

AGORA 130 H eat Vuln er ab ilit y Figure 10: Vulnerability Index by census block group, City of Detroit, 2010.

most vulnerable census block groups are highlighted to show the comparison of vulnerable block groups to walking and bicycling service area coverage.

Limitations While this study provides an adequate framework to determine community risk of heat-related illness, one major shortcoming of this analysis is that it does not incorporate population density. We evaluated each census block group’s vulnerability, but did not adjust for population density to assess the number of people exposed to such conditions. Furthermore, additional vulnerability factors play a role in individual risk of heatrelated illness or death: medical condition is especially relevant, but remained outside the scope of this analysis, largely due to the challenge of acquiring such data. Similarly, disability status and whether one lives alone can also contribute to vulnerability but we chose not to include them here, instead focusing on a smaller set of variables. Lastly, we elected to include the percentage of people living below 200 percent of the poverty level (a binary measure) rather than a census block group’s median income (a continuous range of values). This decision stemmed from the literature suggesting that concentration of poverty

within neighborhoods plays a significant role in individual risk, regardless of whether the same condition is observed at the individual level. However, further analysis might compare the difference in using median income as a measure of wealth rather than neighborhood poverty status.

Furthermore, additional analysis should evaluate the merits of changing the factor weights in the vulnerability index. We experimented with adjusting these coefficients – for example, by counting the poverty variable or the tree canopy variable as twice as important – to observe the changes to the vulnerability map. However, further research is needed to defend different weighting schemes; for this analysis, we chose to use equal factor weights, but greater investigation is merited in future studies. Once a weighting scheme is determined, the analysis of service area coverage will also need refinement.

We examined the 20 percent most vulnerable census block groups, but the complexity of vulnerability factors mentioned above indicate that there are at-risk individuals in less vulnerable block groups who also will need accommodation. Our choice of the 20 percent most vulnerable block groups illustrates the issue at the locations of greatest need.

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Figure 17: Pedestrian service area of cooling centers with the 20 percent most vulnerable census block groups, with a suggested cooling center at Gratiot Ave. and Grand Blvd., City of Detroit, 2012.

Conclusion According to these findings, the City’s official response to extreme heat events – providing cooling centers in existing libraries and recreation centers – is only partially sufficient for addressing Detroit’s needs. Using OSHA guidelines and our analysis, only 31 percent of Detroit’s residents residing in the most vulnerable census block groups are served by the cooling center system when walking. We recommend that the City add cooling centers in additional locations to attain minimum service coverage of 75 percent of residents in the most vulnerable census block groups. Further research and costbenefit analysis are needed to plan a complete cooling center network; however, our work shows that priority consideration should be given to the Near East Side. For example, adding a cooling center near the corner of Gratiot Ave. and E. Grand Blvd. would increase the pedestrian service area to 34 percent of Detroit residents who live in the most vulnerable census block groups – an 8.7 percent improvement in coverage. Figure 17 illustrates the additional coverage of one new cooling center.

To meet the demonstrated need, the City can designate existing buildings as cooling centers or construct new structures.

New single-purpose cooling centers, built only for extreme heat events, would be used nine days per year in 2013 and 36 days per year at Altman’s projection for 2099 (Altman 2012). Given the current fiscal constraints, we acknowledge that cooling centers that are co-located with existing public services such as public libraries and recreation centers are likely a better use of resources than singlepurpose facilities. Therefore we recommend that the City take a similar approach to designating additional centers by partnering with private property owners to install cooling locations in existing businesses. For example, a supermarket on the previously-suggested high-impact corner of Gratiot Ave. and E. Grand Blvd. may have the capacity to provide an air-conditioned area during extreme heat events. Reaching an agreement with the supermarket would be much more cost-efficient for the City than constructing a new public space with the single purpose of increasing the cooling center coverage area.

References Altman, P., et al. (2012). Killer Summer Heat: Projected Death Toll from Rising Temperatures in America Due to Climate Change. Natural Resources Defense Council issue brief.

Baumann, P. R. (2008). Detroit Urban Heat Island. Journal of Geography Vol. 107, No. 4-5 Bornstein, R. D. (1968) Observations of the urban heat island effect in New York City. J. Appl. Meteorol. 7, 575-582.

Brunner, E. (2001)Commentary: education, education, education. International Journal of Epidemiology. 30:1126–8.

City of Detroit. (2012). City of Detroit Cooling Centers Open During Extreme Summer Heat. City of Detroit Official Website. http://www.detroitmi.gov/News/tabid/3196/ctl/ ReadDefault/mid/4561/ArticleId/76/Default.aspx Accessed December 3, 2012.

Ready.gov. (2012). Extreme Heat. Federal Emergency Management Agency. http://www.ready.gov/heat Accessed December 5, 2012.

Conti, S., Meli, P., Minelli, G., Solimini, R., Toccaceli, V., Vichi, M., et al. (2005). Epidemiologic study of mortality during the summer 2003 heat wave in Italy. Environ Res. 98(3):390–399.

Curriero, F.C., Heiner, K.S., Samet, J.M., et al. (2002). Temperature and mortality in 11 cities of the eastern United States.

American Journal of Epidemiology. 155:80–7.

Diez Roux AV. The study of group-level factors in epidemiology: rethinking variables, study designs, and analytical approaches. Epidemiol Rev. 2004;26(1):104–111.

on hospitalizations and emergency department visits. Environ Health Perspect. 2009;117:61–67.

Landsberg, H. (Ed.), 1981. The Urban Climate. Academic Press, New York.

Levine, R., Norenzayan, A. (1999). “The Pace of Life in 31 Countries”. Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology. 30 (2): 178–205.

National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA): Landsat Science - History. http://landsat.gsfc.nasa.gov/about/ landsat7.html. Accessed October 10, 2012.

Naughton MP, Henderson A, Mirabelli MC, Kaiser R, Wilhelm JL, Kieszak SM, et al. (2002). Heat-related mortality during a 1999 heat wave in Chicago. Am J Prev Med. 22(4):221–227.

New York State Department of Transportation, Engineering Division - Office of Design. (2006). Highway Design Manual.

Chapter 17 - Bicycle Facility Design.

Oke T. R. (1973) Review of Urban Climatology 1968-1973.

W.M.O. Report No. 383, TN No. 134, 132 pp.

Occupational Safety & Health Administration (OSHA). f.

(1999). Section 3, Chapter 4: Heat Stress.

Phipps, Shelley. (2002). “The impact of poverty on health.”

Proceedings of the CPHI National Roundtable on Poverty and Health.

Reid C.E., et al. (2009). Mapping community determinants of heat vulnerability. Environ Health Perspect. 117:1730–1736.

Fouillet, A., Rey, G., Laurent, F., Pavillon, G., Bellec, S., Ghihenneuc-Jouyaux, C., et al. (2006). Excess mortality related to the August 2003 heat wave in France. Int Arch Occup Environ Health. 80(1):16–24.

Semenza J.C., McCullough JE, Flanders D, McGeehin MA, Lumpkin JR. (1999). Excess hospital admissions during the July 1995 heat wave in Chicago. American Journal of Preventative Medicine. 16(4):269–277.

Federal Highway Administration (FHWA). (2004). Average Operating Speeds of Nonrail Vehicles. Status of the Nation’s Highways, Bridges, and Transit: 2004 Conditions and Performance.

Serrano, S.M., Vicente, J.M., Cuadrat, P., and Miguel, A., Saz, S. (2003). “Topography and vegetation cover influence on urban heat island of Zaragoza (Spain).” Fifth International Conference on Urban Climate 1-5 September, 2003 Łódź, Poland: proceedings. Vol. 2. Department of Meteorology and Climatology Faculty of Geographical Sciences University of Łódź.

Hutter, H.P., Moshammer, H., Wallner, P., Leitner, B., Kundi, M. (2007). Heatwaves in Vienna: effects on mortality. Wien Klin Wochenschr. 119(7):223–227.

IPCC. (2007). Climate Change 2007: The Physical Science Basis. Contribution of Working Group I to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change [Solomon, S., D. Qin, M. Manning, Z. Chen, M. Marquis, K.B. Averyt, M.Tignor and H.L. Miller (eds.)]. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, United Kingdom and New York, NY, USA. Kalkstein, L., Greene, S., Mills, D., Samenow, S. (2010). An evaluation of the progress in reducing heat-related human mortality in major U.S. cities. Natural Hazards. DOI 10.1007/ s11069-010-9552-3.

Kleinfelter, Q. (2012, March 8). Commuters Suffer As Detroit Cuts Bus Service. National Public Radio Online.

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Smoyer, K.E. (1998). Putting risk in its place: methodological considerations for investigating extreme event health risk. Soc Sci Med. 47(11):1809–1824.

Stafoggia, M., Forastiere, F., Agostini, D., Caranci, N., de’Donato, F., Demaria, M., et al. (2008). Factors affecting in-hospital heat-related mortality: a multi-city case-crossover analysis. J Epidemiol Community Health. 62(3):209–215.

Whitman, S., Good, G., Donaghue, E.R., Benbow, N., Shou, W., Mou, S. (1997). Mortality in Chicago attributed to the July 1995 heat wave. Am J Public Health. 87(9):1515–1518.

Primary Data Sources We obtained data from the following sources to conduct our research: 2006-2010 American Community Survey (ACS).

US Census 2010 Tiger/Line Shapefiles.

City of Detroit: Cooling Center Locations, as of 6/19/2012.

USGS Global Visualization (GloVis) Viewer: Landsat 7 ETM+ GeoTiff Bands 2, 4, 7.

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Michael Harrison, B. Arch 2013 “Seine at Night”. Paris, France

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The Journal is intended for students to share their work within the A. Alfred Taubman College of Architecture and Urban Planning and with others inside and outside the University. We encourage any and all submissions that explore and challenge issues related to planning and design in the good-natured spirit of a “marketplace of ideas.”

For more content, and all the latest Agora updates, please visit our website at

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ag•o•ra (n.)

”

1. A place of congregation, originally a market or public square; the Agora, the chief marketplace of Athens, center of the city’s civic life.

2. A primary locus of social exchange, emblematic of a great diversity of cultures; A marketplace of ideas.

Acknowledgements Funding for this publication was generously provided by the Saarinen-Swanson Endowment Fund and the University of Michigan Urban and Regional Planning Program.

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