"Hampton and Brambleton" is not really a place to cross. It is a knot of overpasses and ramps. A person on foot cannot get through it. There is no crossing. There is no signal. There is no path. The roads just meet above the ground and keep going. They were built for a thing that weighs two tons and moves at forty miles an hour.
Original
"Hampton and Brambleton" is not an intersection. It is a tangle of overpasses and ramps that a pedestrian cannot navigate at all — there is no crossing, no signal, no path. The roads simply converge above the ground and continue, designed for a body that weighs two tons and moves at forty miles an hour.
The only places you can cross on foot are the corners next to this knot. Each one has six lanes. The lights are set for cars. They are set to move traffic. If you are slow, you will not make it before the light changes. If you use a wheelchair, you will not make it. If you are with a child, you will not make it. This is not a mistake in the design. This is the design. No one aimed the lights at you. They are just kept this way. A person crossing on foot counts for less than the cars.
Original
The places where you can actually cross — on foot, as a human being — are the intersections adjacent to this knot. Six lanes. Lights calibrated for throughput, for the movement of cars. If you're slow, if you're in a wheelchair, if you're with a child, you will not make it before the signal changes. This is not a design failure. It is the design. No one aimed the lights at you. They are only kept this way — because a crossing on foot counts for less than the cars.
I have crossed Brambleton Avenue on foot hundreds of times. I have walked in cities on many continents — Barcelona, London, Istanbul, Singapore, Tokyo, Seattle, New York. I know how it feels to walk in a city that is built around you, a city that expects you to be there. Norfolk is not that city.
Some days I walk up to the Brambleton crossing and turn around. The heavy feeling hits me before I reach the curb. It is not quite rage, not anymore. It is something that lives in the body, like weight that has built up over time. It is like the body remembering all the times before. I have learned to do the math before I step off the curb. If even one car is in any lane, I cannot cross seven lanes in time. By the time a car is close enough that I can see if the driver is on the phone, it is already too close for me to step out safely. There is a spot in the middle that is supposed to be a safe place to stand. It is not. It is a raised curb. It is so narrow that if you are not right in the center, you are in the lane. The city will not turn the turn lane into a real safe spot. This morning I walked up to the crossing, looked at it, said no, and took another way. Some days it costs too much.
Hampton Boulevard is different. Hampton carries the truck traffic. A hundred years ago, ferries would have moved those containers. You can feel the trucks in your bones from blocks away, before you can even see the road. There is a low rumble that tells you something heavy is coming. I stay away from it. I try to imagine what it feels like to live on it. When I walk the Hampton and Brambleton area, something rises up in me. It is not the heavy feeling from Brambleton. It is older and cleaner. The body knows how to walk. The body has been walking ten thousand times longer than there have been cars. And my body feels rage.
Original
I've crossed Brambleton Avenue on foot hundreds of times. I've walked cities on multiple continents — Barcelona, London, Istanbul, Singapore, Tokyo, Seattle, New York — and I know what it feels like to be a pedestrian in a city designed around you, that assumes your existence and accounts for it. Norfolk is not that city.
Some days I walk up to the Brambleton crossing and turn around. The heaviness hits before I even reach the curb — not rage exactly, not anymore, but something that lives in the body like accumulated weight, like the body remembering all the times before. I've learned to do the math before I step off: if even one car is visible in any lane, I can't make seven lanes in the time it takes them to reach me. By the time they're close enough that I can see if they're on their phone, they're already too close for me to safely decide to cross. The pedestrian refuge in the center isn't one — it's a raised curb, narrow enough that if you're not exactly centered you're in the lane. The city won't turn the turn lane into a real refuge. This morning I walked up to the crossing, looked at it, said nah, and took another route. Some days it costs too much.
Hampton Boulevard is different. Hampton carries the truck traffic that containers would have moved by ferry a hundred years ago. You can feel it in your bones from blocks away, before you can even see the road — a subsonic rumble that tells you something heavy is coming. I avoid it. I try to imagine what it feels like to live on it. Walking the Hampton and Brambleton corridor, something rises in me that is not the accumulated heaviness of Brambleton. It is older and cleaner. The body knows how to walk. It has been walking ten thousand times longer than there have been cars. And my body feels rage.
Rage. Every time. Not rage at a system that is broken — rage at one that is working.
Original
Rage. Every time. Not rage at a broken system — rage at a functioning one.
Under your feet, eight feet down, is someone's kitchen floor.
Original
Under your feet, eight feet down, is someone's kitchen floor.
Atlantic City was a working-class neighborhood. About 400 families lived there. It was just west of downtown. It sat between Colley Avenue and the Elizabeth River. It was near what is now the midtown tunnel. Today a medical campus sits on it. In the early 1950s, it was one of the few places in Norfolk where the line between Black and white was fading. Black families had lost their homes in an earlier round of urban renewal. They found homes to rent here. By the mid-1950s, Atlantic City was special. It was one of the only mostly white neighborhoods in the city where more than ten percent of the people were Black. It was a working community that worked. Nearly a quarter of its homes were single houses that stood on their own. Close to one in five had been built in the last thirty years.
Original
Atlantic City was a working-class neighborhood of about 400 families located just west of downtown, bordered by Colley Avenue and the Elizabeth River, around what is now the midtown tunnel entrance and under what is now a medical campus. In the early 1950s it was one of the few places in Norfolk where the color line was blurring — Black families displaced by an earlier round of urban renewal had found rental housing there, and by the mid-1950s Atlantic City had become one of the only predominantly white neighborhoods in the city where the African American population exceeded ten percent. It was a functioning working-class community: nearly a quarter of its homes were single-family freestanding houses, close to twenty percent built in the last thirty years.
Then city officials began to call it a slum.
Original
Then city officials began describing it as a slum.
Historian Forrest White has shown what this really was. It was a trick. Once city leaders said the area might be redeveloped, landlords stopped putting money into it. The buildings fell apart. Then that decay was used as proof that tearing the area down was the right thing to do. The slum was made on purpose. Then it was used as a reason to destroy the community. Until the decay was made, that community had taken care of itself. The decay looked natural. But it was built that way on purpose. The trick fooled people, and it was called policy.
Original
Historian Forrest White has documented what this was: a technique. Once city leaders floated the possibility of redevelopment, landlords stopped investing. Properties deteriorated. The deterioration was cited as evidence that clearance was justified. The slum was manufactured, then used to justify destroying the community that had, until the manufacture began, sustained itself. The look of natural decay hid the engineering of it — beguiling, cast as policy.
In 1957, the city council said the area could be torn down. Hundreds of homes were knocked down. In their place, the city built Norfolk General Hospital, now a medical campus, and made the nearby roads bigger. No new homes were built for the people who lost theirs. The community was not moved somewhere else. It was wiped out.
Atlantic City was not the only case. Between 1951 and 1973, when urban renewal officially ended, every neighborhood in Norfolk where Black and white people lived together was marked to be torn down. About 20,000 people lost their homes. That was almost one in ten people in the city. James Baldwin called it what it was: Negro removal.
Why these neighborhoods and not others? White's answer is exact. The goal was to wipe out the city's in-between neighborhoods. In those neighborhoods, the color lines were not sharp, so they did not split into two separate school groups, one Black and one white. In 1954, the Brown v. Board ruling made it against the law to split up schools by race on purpose. The city's answer was to destroy the mixed neighborhoods that would have led to mixed schools. By getting rid of the homes that made mixing possible, the city kept races apart in fact. When that was not enough, Norfolk simply closed six of its public schools in 1958. That left more than ten thousand students with nowhere to go.
Original
In 1957, the city council approved demolition. Hundreds of homes were torn down to build Norfolk General Hospital — now a medical campus — and expand the surrounding road infrastructure. No new housing was built for those displaced. The community was not relocated. It was erased.
Atlantic City was not an isolated case. Between 1951 and the formal end of urban renewal in 1973, every racially integrated neighborhood in Norfolk was targeted for clearance. Roughly 20,000 people — almost a tenth of the city's population — were displaced. James Baldwin called it what it was: Negro removal.
Why these neighborhoods specifically? White's analysis is precise: the targeting aimed to wipe out the city's transition neighborhoods where indistinct color lines had failed to produce two distinct school communities, one Black and one white. The Brown v. Board decision in 1954 had made explicit school segregation unconstitutional. The city's response was to destroy the integrated neighborhoods that would have produced integrated schools — to maintain de facto segregation by eliminating the residential conditions that made integration possible. When that wasn't sufficient, Norfolk simply locked six of its public schools in 1958, leaving more than ten thousand students with nowhere to go.
The hospital that was built on Atlantic City now trains the doctors who serve the region. It has done important medical research. It has gotten a lot of public money and real pride from the community. The land just became an institution. The institution kept going. And people see this as progress.
This is enclosure in its full form. It is not just the taking. It is the forgetting. The change is complete when the commons that was destroyed can no longer be seen as a commons. It is complete when people think what replaced it grew on empty ground.
Original
The hospital that was built on Atlantic City now trains the doctors who serve the region. It has produced significant medical research. It has received significant public investment and genuine community pride. The land simply became institutional, and the institution proceeded, and this is understood as progress.
This is enclosure in its full form. Not just the taking — the forgetting. The conversion is complete when the commons that was destroyed becomes invisible as a commons, when what replaced it is understood as having grown on empty ground.
My anger is not only about the past. It is about the choice being made right now. That choice is the way the road is built for people on foot. Or the way it is not.
Original
My rage isn't only about history. It's about the present tense of the decision, which is the pedestrian infrastructure — or the absence of it.
No one has to say what this road is for. You can feel it. You can feel it in how long the lights stay green. You can feel it in how wide the lanes are. You can feel it in how far apart the crosswalks are. You can feel it in the speed limit, which no one obeys. The road feels fast and open and easy to drive. But on foot near it, you feel exposed. You feel like an afterthought. You are a human body in a place that was not made for human bodies.
Original
You can feel the argument for this road without anyone making it explicitly. It's built into the timing of the lights, the width of the lanes, the distance between crosswalks, the speed limit that no one observes, the way the road feels to drive — fast, open, efficient — and the way it feels to be on foot near it, which is exposed, an afterthought, a human body in a space not designed for human bodies.
The people who designed this road were not bad people. The people who keep it up are not bad people. The city planners who treat it as just the way things are are not bad people. They are working inside a set of rules. The rules say what roads are for, who they serve, and what counts as a real problem. The rules feel so normal that they do not feel like rules at all. They feel like the way the world is.
Original
The people who designed this road were not bad people. The people who maintain it are not bad people. The city planners who have absorbed its existence as a given are not bad people. They are operating inside a template — a set of assumptions about what infrastructure is for, who it serves, what counts as a problem worth solving — that feels so natural it doesn't feel like a template at all. It feels like reality.
I have been to cities where planners made other choices. In those cities, people on foot came first, and cars came second. Crossing a big street took thirty seconds, not three minutes. A neighborhood was not cut in two by six lanes of traffic. Once you have seen those places, you cannot un-see them. The other way becomes real to you. And then the anger can begin.
Original
I've been to cities where planners made different assumptions — where pedestrian movement was the design constraint and car throughput was the variable, where crossing a major street took thirty seconds instead of three minutes, where a neighborhood was understood as something that should not be bisected by six lanes of arterial traffic. Once you've been to those places, you can't un-know them. The alternative becomes thinkable. The rage becomes possible.
It is easy not to see Hampton Boulevard as a choice. That is not your fault. This is how power works. The way things are set up starts to feel like the only way it could be. It feels natural. You need to see another way before you can see that the set-up was a choice at all.
Original
It's easy not to see Hampton Boulevard as a choice, and that's not a failure. It is the nature of hegemony — the way that existing arrangements sink into the category of the inevitable, the natural. It takes the experience of an alternative to make the existing arrangement visible as an arrangement.
This is common sense. It is the leftover of old ideas that tells you what is normal, what can be done, and what a smart person thinks. It does not mean people are tricked or fooled. It means the ideas built into our roads, our schools, and our daily life wear in like a trail. Each time someone passes, the ground packs down a little more. In time the path holds, and the body just follows it without thinking. Common sense is the trail, not the choice. A tracker reads the same ground in a different way. The tracker reads the signs. The tracker builds a map in the body of the whole land, and of the forces that pressed the trail into it.
Original
This is common sense: the sediment of prior thought that tells you what's natural, what's possible, what a realistic person thinks. Common sense is not false consciousness — it's not that people are fooled. It's that the assumptions built into the infrastructure, the institutions, the daily texture of life wear in like trails — pressed by every passage until the ground holds the route, and the body follows automatically. Common sense is the trail, not the decision. A tracker reads the same ground differently: reads the signs, and compiles in the body a map of the terrain — including the pressures that pressed the trail into it.
Hampton Boulevard is that trail, made hard and fixed in place. It does not break down. It works. That is the problem.
Original
Hampton Boulevard is that trail, poured permanent. It doesn't fail. It functions. That's the problem.
On the other side is the most beautiful street in the most beautiful neighborhood in the city. It is the one street in Norfolk that took out its pavement thirty years ago. Street trees in Norfolk are slowly being swapped for trees that are easier to care for, like crepe myrtle. Some of the old trees are so big they take over the sidewalk. But willow oaks line this street on both sides. Their name is Quercus phellos. They are one kind of tree, with long thin leaves that turn gold in the fall. Night herons nest in them every spring. The corner meets a wetland. Come at the right time, and you can see every kind of heron in the Hampton Roads area, all in one place at once. Just past it is a canal. This year it has two sets of baby geese and one set of ducklings that just learned to fly. We see friends there a lot. On a good day, a half-hour walk can take us several hours. Last year we saw muskrats for the first time.
Original
On the other side is the most beautiful street in the most beautiful neighborhood in the city — the one street in Norfolk that successfully depaved thirty years ago. Street trees in Norfolk — some so massive they take over the sidewalk — are being gradually replaced by more easily maintained species like crepe myrtle. The willow oaks line it on both sides. Quercus phellos, a single species with long, narrow leaves that turn amber in the fall. The night herons nest in them every spring. The intersection backs up to a wetland where, if you arrive at the right moment, you can see every heron species in the Hampton Roads region in the same place at the same time. There's a canal just beyond with two broods of goslings this year and one of ducklings that just fledged. We see friends there regularly. A half-hour walk can, on a good day, take several hours. Last year we saw muskrats for the first time.
The wetland is thick enough that the green herons can ignore us, and the joggers going by, and just keep fishing.
Original
The wetland is dense enough that the green herons can comfortably ignore us — and the joggers going past — while they concentrate on the fishing.
Two years ago, the parks department mowed a field that had grown into a meadow. They said they were just following a plan. I gave them hell. Their plan was based on how the land looked, not on the plants and animals there. They told me I was right. Their plan was made to stop neighbors from complaining. They have not changed the plan on paper. But they have not cut the meadow since. Every morning I walk past it. Every morning I expect it to be cut. Every morning it is not cut feels like a small win. I have seen bunnies there. One cold winter storm, I watched a tiny kinglet. It is one of the smallest birds in North America. It took shelter in the tall grass. That is just where a meadow should be.
Original
Two years ago, the parks department mowed what had become a managed meadow — following a management plan, they said. I gave them hell. Their plan was based on appearances, not ecology. They said I was correct — their plan was calibrated to mitigate complaints from neighbors. They haven't changed the plan officially, but they haven't cut the meadow since. Every morning I walk past it expecting it to be cut. Every morning it isn't is a small triumph. I've seen bunnies there. One cold winter storm I watched a tiny kinglet — one of the smallest birds in North America — taking shelter in the tall grass, exactly where a meadow should be.
I cross Brambleton to get there. The anger and the beauty are not two different things. They are the same road. The same choice. The same structure. They are what was taken and what is still fighting to be there.
Original
I cross Brambleton to get there. The rage and the beauty are not separate. They are the same corridor, the same decision, the same structure — what was taken and what is still fighting to be there.
On a weeknight in 2022, I was running a neighborhood league meeting. I was not the president. I was just the person leading the meeting. New members had just joined. A brewery was trying to open nearby.
Original
On a weeknight in 2022, I was running a neighborhood league meeting — not as president, but as the person conducting the meeting. New members had recently joined. A brewery was trying to open nearby.
Armed Forces Brewing Company wanted a permit to open in Norfolk. The neighborhood was mostly Black and friendly to LGBTQ people. The brewery would be next door to an LGBTQ aid center. The brewery had already used ads to show off its plan. The ads used sexual images. They showed guns aimed at targets it called "woke." The people in the ads were mostly white. Later, the LGBTQ aid center would move away. The neighborhood league next door wanted to put out a statement against the permit. That is only a symbol. But neighborhood groups are allowed to do it.
Original
Armed Forces Brewing Company was seeking a conditional use permit to open in a majority-Black, LGBTQ-friendly neighborhood in Norfolk, next door to an LGBTQ aid center. It had already marketed its planned arrival with sexualized imagery, firearms aimed at targets described as "woke," and advertising that featured a majority-white cast. The LGBTQ aid center would subsequently move. The neighboring neighborhood league wanted to issue a statement opposing the permit — a symbolic action, within the rights of neighborhood organizations to take.
The new members of my league wanted to sign on too, to stand together. The board did not want to put it to a vote. They left it off the agenda.
Original
The new members of my league wanted to sign on in solidarity. The board did not want to bring it to a vote. They left it off the agenda.
In the meeting, under new business, the members brought it up anyway. The rules of order let them do this. They made everyone take a vote. It passed. Most of the members there voted yes. The board did not vote at all. They used a rule to step back. That let them do what they did next. They ignored it.
Original
In the meeting, under new business, the members raised it anyway. Robert's Rules of Order permits this. They forced a vote. It passed — by a majority of the members present. The board abstained procedurally, which preserved their ability to do what they did next: ignore it.
I ran the meeting. I ran it well, and I will say so. I felt two things at once. My heart leapt at the members. They understood what the group was supposed to be for. They used the rules to make it so. My heart also sank at the board. They were my peers. They sat in that room. They watched the members vote. Then they did nothing.
Original
I ran the meeting. I cannot say I didn't conduct it well because I did. I felt, simultaneously, my heart leaping at the members — who had understood what the organization was supposed to be for and had used the rules to make it so — and sinking at the board, my peers, who sat in that room and watched the membership vote and then did nothing.
The board was allowed to do this. They broke no rule. The members voted yes. The board took in that vote and chose not to act on it.
Original
The board was within their rights. They had not violated any rule. They had simply absorbed a majority vote of the membership and declined to act on it.
It was not corruption. It was not spite. It was fear. The structure made that fear win.
Original
Not corruption. Not malice. Fear made decisive by structure.
Armed Forces Brewing opened. About a year later, it shut down for good.
Original
Armed Forces Brewing went out of business about a year after it opened.
Three pictures. A street crossing. A neighborhood built under a road. A vote that passed and then was ignored.
Original
Three images: a crossing, a neighborhood under a road, a vote that passed and was ignored.
They feel like different kinds of problems. One is about roads and buildings. One is about history. One is about how we are governed. But they are the same problem. It just shows up at different sizes and different speeds.
Original
They feel like different kinds of problems. Infrastructure. History. Governance. But they are the same problem operating at different scales and speeds.
Each one is a system. Each one takes something away from the community. It takes away the way people move around, or their homes, or their say in decisions. In return it gives back something else. More traffic moving through. Bigger institutions. The look of a fair process. In each one, information comes up from the people below. But it does not change the outcome. And the people running the system are mostly not cruel. They are inside a pattern that feels so normal that it works on its own. No one has to force it.
Original
Each one is a system that extracts something from the community — mobility, housing, political agency — and returns something else — throughput, institutional development, the appearance of process. In each one, information flows in from below and doesn't change the outcome. In each one, the people operating the system are not, mostly, malicious. They are inside a template so naturalized it functions without anyone having to enforce it.
A machine like that has no driver to vote out, no villain to blame. It runs on a worn path — and on the belief that the path is just the ground. But belief can be seen through. And what can be seen through can be undone. Name the path as a path, and it becomes a choice again: something someone made, and something someone can unmake.
Original
A machine like that has no driver to vote out, no villain to expose. It runs on a worn path, and on the belief that the path is the ground. But belief can be seen through — and what can be seen through can be undone. Name the path as a path, and it is a choice again: something someone made, that someone can unmake.
Plenty of books name what is wrong. Some books say who is to blame. This book asks something else. What is the machine? How does it work? And what are people really doing to build something different? It looks at real places, real tools, and real moments.
Original
Plenty of books name what's wrong. Some assign blame. The question here is different: what is the machine, how does it work, and what are people actually doing — in specific places, with specific tools, at specific moments — to build something different?
After midnight, the truck traffic on Hampton Boulevard dies down. I used to ride my bike across it on the way home from the restaurant I owned. It was strangely quiet. The rumble was gone. The road was empty both ways. The city at midnight has a kind of magic. It has nothing to do with danger. It feels like you are free. The people who built this world have turned their backs. So the odd ones, like you, can play. Even Hampton Boulevard has that hour. Even the things built to take from us have cracks. Something else comes through those cracks.
Original
After midnight, the truck traffic on Hampton Boulevard subsides. I used to cross it by bike coming home from the restaurant I owned — in the strange silence, the rumble gone, the road empty in both directions. There's a magic to the midnight city that has nothing to do with danger. The feeling of being free, and that the people who have assembled this world have turned their backs, so the weird ones like you can play. Even Hampton Boulevard has that hour. Even the things built to extract from us have cracks where something else comes through.
You have to be moving slow enough to see them.
Original
You have to be moving slowly enough to see them.
The night herons nest in the willow oaks on the other side of the Brambleton crossing. They have come back every spring for as long as anyone has watched. They will come back next spring. They know about the road in the way that matters. They have found a way around it. They have built a life on the other side of it. They would not let it cut off this colony from this stand of trees. And even if you do not see them, they see you.
Original
The night herons nest in the willow oaks on the other side of the Brambleton crossing. They've been coming back every spring for as long as anyone has been watching. They will come back next spring. They know about the road the way that matters: they've routed around it, built a life on the other side of it, refused to let it sever the relationship between this colony and this stand of trees. And even if you don't see them, they see you.