The attributes of a photograph that are often chosen to represent the City of Flint are not present in my photo choices. This photograph is taken from the street view of Adams Avenue in Flint, Michigan, my hometown. Many could consider the photograph I took as representing the city in a “less than flattering light.” A lone house in the second ward of the city stands disconnected from its neighbors, vacant lots that once held homes on Adams Avenue, create a valley of emptiness. It has no windows, no doors, and its foundation is worn and weary. In the back and sides of the house, empty spaces stretch, telling a story of abandonment. For some, this image confirms common stereotypes of Flint, a city stuck between decline and irrelevance, a place left behind by progress and hope. But to me, this photo represents something much deeper - a reflection of Flint’s traumas, its struggles, and its potential for change.
Flint is often portrayed through a lens of brokenness. It’s a city that has been on dozens of lists of the most dangerous places to live, being marked by poverty, an ongoing water crisis, and corporate abandonment. It’s a city that has struggled with systemic inequality, leaving residents to pick up the pieces. But Flint is also a city of stories. The story of families that have lived here for generations, the story of a city that was built on extraction, organizing, and exploitation. The story of a community fighting for its future. I see these narratives not as defining qualities of a broken city, but as the foundation for something new - an opportunity to build something better, more equitable, and more sustainable.
My journey with how I personally see Flint has been complicated. Growing up here, I was acutely aware of how Flint is framed as “disadvantaged,” or “historically marginalized.” I’ve come to feel that these terms often soften the reality, providing an oversimplified narrative that glosses over the roots of Flint’s struggles. They fail to name the systems that have deliberately and strategically under-resourced the community of Flint. They erase the coordinated campaigns of disenfranchisement that have been systematically designed to deprive people in Flint, particularly its Black majority, of resources and opportunities. And while I believe all of this is true, I have experienced a different side of Flint as well—one of incredible beauty and connection centered in residents relishing their collective humanity. And while many recognize this and paint the city as “resilient,” I find that its use to describe oppressed communities tends to imply that the suffering of its members is just part of the process. However, I reject that premise, as I don’t believe that people's only source of validity comes from the fulfillment of an expectation to power through their struggles - surviving, enduring, and moving forward. I feel that in the context of Flint, the label of resilience has felt like a denial of the reality that people here are fighting against systems that are not just broken, but actively rigged against them. To me, this requires us to reframe resilience away from the antiquated idea that it is solely about the existence of communities being forced to survive under oppressive systems. Rather it should be rooted in valorizing the tangible support that helps communities stand tall in the face of adversity and efforts to dismantle the systems that have created these conditions.
Throughout high school, as I began to critically engage with the status quo of Flint and its history, I began to ask myself and others around me tough questions. Why had Flint been allowed to deteriorate the way it had? What were the choices made by city planners, politicians, and developers that led to all of these vacant lots, abandoned homes, and seemingly unsurmountable level of devastation ? What could be done to fix it? These questions eventually led me to the discipline of urban planning. The more I learned about the history of urban planning and the origins and applications of the discipline the more I became enamored. It has opened my eyes to the multidisciplinary world in which exists, and structured the way in which I now engage with the very city I am from. I have begun to take very seriously the power dynamics of the profession, gaining a clear identity of who I am and who I want to be as a planner. I have come to understand that while urban planners absolutely have the ability to contribute to meaningful change, they also have the capacity to create and protect inequitable systems.
To end, as someone who has lived in Flint most of their life, I see it as a city of opportunity, a city where if applied critically, the lessons of the past can create a guide to shaping a more equitable, sustainable future. It’s a city where the work of individuals and organizations creates lasting change, where the efforts to address inequality are laying the foundation for a better tomorrow. And, most importantly, it’s a city where residents organize around the central belief that they collectively have the power to save themselves. A future where Flint’s residents no longer have to prove their worth through their suffering, they simply live in a city that affirms it. I see and believe in that future.
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