At first glance, it’s just another small city. Just another place with a downtown and suburbs, highways and side streets, greenery and concrete; but imprinted on the blueprint of Baltimore is a painfully beautiful butterfly. Coined by Dr. Larwence Brown at Morgan State University, “The Black Butterfly” in contrast with “The White L” is used by locals, researchers, and historians to describe the racial and economic divide of Baltimore City. The wings of this butterfly, shown in darker shades of blue, are zip codes that have predominantly black residences, and also happen to have lower income levels, higher drug use and mortality rates, lower greenery investment, and more. The body of the butterfly, also described as The White L, is shown by the lighter blue areas between the wings and in the downtown area. These areas are predominantly white, highly affluent, occupy the majority of Baltimore’s private schools, and have multiple green spaces. These aren’t just stats- the differences in the quality of living between even just one neighborhood to another is rivetingly noticeable. As a biracial student, living in a predominantly black neighborhood in The Black Butterfly, while going to school and being friends with people living in The White L gave me a profound awareness of race and the role race plays in government, education, and everyday life.
In my neighborhood, corner stores are filled with people talking, playing music, and selling Orioles or Ravens merch. The streets are lively, sometimes chaotic, but always full of community. My neighbors are kind and look out for each other, but just a few blocks further into the city there’s also struggle. The dozens of abandoned row houses with shattered windows, litter and car crash debris on the side of the roads, and a police presence that feels less protective and more predatory.
Then, I drive up the 695, and the world changes. My school is nestled in a deep, largely undisturbed wooded area where every lawn looks like it belongs in a magazine. Here, the houses are enormous, sometimes historic, with long driveways and perfectly pruned gardens. My friends from school live in houses with multiple guest rooms, drive Teslas to class, and have summer homes on the beach in Ocean City. Their idea of Baltimore is the Inner Harbor, high-end restaurants, and Ravens games. Another version of Baltimore is crime, homelessness, and frequent sirens. My idea of Baltimore is something in-between; balancing a world that is both mine and not mine.
These two Baltimores exist–literally–side by side but rarely touch, except through people like me, who have no choice but to navigate both. I have spent my life being too white to be black when with my friends from deeper in the city, and being too black to be white when with my friends from school. I see how race and class determine everything here—who gets fresh produce at their grocery stores and who gets expired meat. Who has parks with new playgrounds and who has cracked sidewalks with no shade. Who gets the police response in minutes and who waits an hour. It’s not just statistics; it’s the air we breathe, the spaces we occupy, and the opportunities we are given—or denied.
After being at Cornell, now more than ever I’ve come to appreciate Baltimore. I used to pray to leave this city that would never fully finish fixing roadwork, a place where I couldn’t leave the house without seeing someone I know, and the streets and buildings that built the complex relationship I have with myself and others, but Baltimore has shaped me into someone who sees beyond surface-level narratives. I don’t just see a city; I see a system. I see the way history lingers in redlined neighborhoods, how disinvestment manifests in struggling schools and crumbling infrastructure. I see the resilience of my community, the way people turn small moments into joy despite it all. And most of all, I see the potential—for change, for justice, for a city where the butterfly’s wings are no longer weighed down by inequity but can fully take flight.
I love my city and the rich history that runs deep within the streets, and existing in its Black Butterfly and White L simultaneously has taught me to navigate multiple realities at once. It has made me aware of the privileges I have and the injustices that persist. It has made me a bridge between two worlds that often refuse to see each other. But more than anything, it has made me determined to be part of the change that Baltimore so desperately needs.
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