(Part 6) What is Gentrification Series (6-10) Gentrification and Public Space

Public space has always been a reflection of power and belonging. With gentrification, changes to streetscapes, parks, and sidewalks are not just cosmetic—they communicate who these spaces are now meant for. A newly renovated plaza might look inviting, but its design and programming often cater to new, wealthier residents. This presentation explores the complex, often invisible ways gentrification reclaims public space. From surveillance to design choices, we'll see how longstanding communities are subtly pushed out—not just from homes, but from the very sidewalks they grew up on. We begin by asking a fundamental question: who are these spaces really for? Understanding this allows us to begin reclaiming public space for everyone, especially those who have always made our neighborhoods vibrant, even before the developers came

A fresh layer of turf or a modern art installation might appear as clear signs of neighborhood progress. But ask Malik from South Dallas, and he’ll tell you what those upgrades really mean: this place isn’t for us anymore. His kids once rode bikes where there's now a dog run. Their music, once part of the everyday soundscape, now invites disapproval. This slide examines the disconnect between what these changes claim to offer and how they’re experienced by legacy residents. It's not just about what's added—it’s about what disappears. Basketball hoops vanish. Local vendors can’t afford booths. And while the plaza hosts yoga at dawn, there’s no space for the teens after school. Improvement shouldn’t mean erasure. The illusion of progress is strongest when it hides its human cost.

Sidewalks and parks aren't just walkways and green zones—they're the neighborhood's social glue. In historically underserved communities, these spaces are where elders pass down stories, teens find belonging, and local creatives paint murals that capture the soul of the block. Public space is often the first place where community is built and the last refuge during hard times. It’s where small-scale economies thrive—whether that's a food cart, a sidewalk barber, or a musician playing for tips. When these areas are co-opted or redesigned without the community in mind, it erodes much more than convenience—it threatens connection, safety, and cultural memory. We must recognize public space as infrastructure as vital as housing or transit. Without it, the community loses a crucial anchor.

Want to know if a public space has been gentrified? The signs are often hidden in plain sight. Surveillance cameras perched where there once were stoops. Dog parks where neighborhood basketball courts used to be. Farmers markets where local hustlers used to sell mixtapes and mangos. These changes are usually framed as 'improvements.' But for longtime residents, they often signal displacement. The shift isn't just about who uses the space—it's about whose behavior is criminalized, whose voices are silenced, and whose aesthetics dominate. Recognizing these patterns allows us to push back. It reminds us that public space should reflect public input—not private interests.

Public space isn’t just somewhere to hang out—it’s where a community breathes. When gentrification transforms these areas, the damage is not only spatial but deeply psychological. Longtime residents lose the ability to see themselves in their environment. Cultural murals disappear, vendors are pushed out, and once-familiar behaviors are policed. This breakdown of visibility and function leaves communities feeling silenced and erased. What’s left is a shell of a space—clean, regulated, and disconnected. And even when residents remain in the same zip code, their sense of belonging erodes. This is why public space equity matters—it’s about preserving voice, visibility, and dignity.

Psychological displacement is what happens when you live in the same place but feel like you no longer belong. You walk the same block you grew up on, but the murals are gone, the music is quieter, and the people—if they’re still there—seem like they’re on edge. This form of displacement is insidious. It doesn’t make headlines the way eviction does, but its emotional toll is deep. People grieve silently as their memories are paved over. They withdraw from public life. And slowly, they stop seeing themselves as part of the neighborhood they helped build. The mental health consequences of gentrification are underexplored but significant. Displacement is not only about property—it’s about psyche.

Inclusive public space starts with a shift in mindset—from designing for people to designing with them. When community members co-lead the process, the outcomes are profoundly different. Murals reflect lived experiences, and gathering spaces align with how people already use them. It also means acknowledging street vendors and performers not as nuisances but as essential to the economic and cultural fabric. Real inclusion is making sure the park doesn’t just serve yogis and dog owners but also kids, elders, and cultural workers. Cities like Oakland and NYC have piloted policies protecting vendors and co-developing safety protocols that center care over enforcement. These are blueprints for what public space can and should be.

Inclusive space-making isn't just theory—it’s already happening. In Los Angeles, community groups transformed MacArthur Park into a welcoming zone by pushing for inclusive programming and policy protections for street vendors. In Oakland, cultural corridors were formalized to safeguard neighborhood identity through murals, local events, and small business zones. Meanwhile, New York City passed laws to support immigrant vendors, giving them the right to exist in the streets they’ve long supported. These stories show the power of organizing. They prove that when communities demand ownership of their public space, change is possible—and it can be beautiful.

The transformation of public space is just the first wave. What often follows is the quiet disappearance of Black and Brown businesses—the corner store that spotted you change, the hair salon where stories were shared, the food spot with a line around the block. As rents rise and cities impose fees, these businesses are squeezed out. New establishments, backed by capital and connected networks, move in and change the face—and flavor—of the block. This slide sets the stage for what’s coming next: a deep dive into how these businesses are displaced, and what tools—from policy to organizing—exist to protect them. Because saving public space also means saving the people who define it.