Describe your current research. What about it drew your interest?
I’m working on a new book that’s tentatively titled The Wickedest City in America: Sex, Race, and Organized Crime in the Jim Crow South. It’s about Phenix City, Alabama, a small city in the southern part of the state that served as the headquarters for a large organized crime network during the first half of the twentieth century. Most people had never heard of Phenix City before the summer of 1954, when a crime-fighting local attorney named Albert Patterson was assassinated just days after winning the Democratic primary to become the state’s new attorney general. The murder inspired a Hollywood feature film and forced state officials to intervene and clean up the city after years of looking the other way. More than 700 people were indicted in the cleanup, including the three prominent public officials charged with Patterson’s murder. One was the attorney general of Alabama. He checked himself into a mental hospital in Texas to evade prosecution, but the highly publicized trials of his accomplices, the deputy sheriff and the circuit solicitor, exposed the sordid details of the city’s long history of crime and corruption and kept Phenix City in the news for nearly a year.
Like most people I have always associated organized crime with urban centers outside of the South, so the revelation that a small city of 20,000 people in Alabama was run by a homegrown mob surprised me. But I only decided to write a book about it when I realized that this sensational murder story was but the ending to larger and more important story about white crime in the Jim Crow South. Generations of ordinary white citizens and elected officials in Phenix City participated in criminal enterprises that ranged from gambling to narcotics to a black market adoption scheme, and they were shielded from prosecution by the same Jim Crow governments that were criminalizing black southerners. The reverence for local control among white supremacists in the South protected criminal regimes like the one in Phenix City from outside scrutiny or criticism. I think this also helps to explain how Phenix City remade itself in the wake of scandal. Newspapers and tabloids called it “Sin City, U.S.A.” and the “wickedest city in America” after the Patterson murder case exposed its secrets, but less than a year after the murder Phenix City received an All-America City Award for the crime cleanup. Everyone wanted to forget what had happened there, and almost everyone did.
Describe what you are currently teaching. How does your teaching relate to your scholarship?
I teach both graduate and undergraduate courses on the modern South, race and politics, and crime and punishment, so there’s not much space between what I do in the classroom and what I do at my desk. And I love that. My current research into sex trafficking and illegal adoptions in Phenix City in the 1940s and 1950s inspired a new seminar on modern slavery and human trafficking that I taught last year while I was a research fellow at the Gilder Lehrman Center at Yale. While those students were developing their own research papers, I worked alongside them on my own. That paper ended up being an article that I completed over the summer. In my regular courses, I incorporate new scholarship into lectures and class discussions, but I also do primary source workshops with things I’ve found in the archives. Students seeing those sources for the first time have sharp questions and insights that I incorporate into my research and writing all the time.
What recent or forthcoming publications are you excited about?
What advice do you have for young scholars preparing themselves for a career related to urban history or urban studies?
The most important piece of advice that I can give to any young scholar is to write a lot and share that work widely and often. Submit to journals and presses, sure, but write shorter essays and op-eds and blogs for the kinds of media outlets and general publications that you like to read. Give conference papers or brown bag talks or lectures even when your work is not yet polished, as scary as that is, and do it with scholars and citizens and policymakers outside of your main field of interest. This is especially important in this challenging job market—a sore subject, I know—because you may discover job opportunities or publishing opportunities that you wouldn’t know about if you stayed in the same lane all the time. And you’re bound to get feedback that you are never going to get if you only share your work with your closest advisors and classmates and colleagues.
Your first book was on the Dixie Highway, the nation’s first interstate highway system. Can you suggest a road trip itinerary that urban historians would enjoy?
Oh, I love this question. Of course I have to recommend at least a portion of the Dixie Highway. Very little of the original roadbed is left, but you can drive much of the original route between Chicago and Miami. Whether you choose the eastern or western division of the highway, it’s a meandering route that will take you through ghost towns and railroad towns and straight through the middle of major urban centers like Indianapolis and Atlanta, so it’s a great way to see how towns and cities were linked in the 1910s and 1920s, when long distance automobile travel was a newfangled concept. Motorists skipped from town to town hoping their cars would get them to the next fueling station or hotel or auto camp before dark. I especially love the route through middle Georgia, where portions of the original roadbed survive, and in South Florida. I’ve never driven the entire thing, but anyone who wants to make a long road trip out of it should call me. If they want to do it on motorcycles, even better.
One of my earliest memories is of my dad, a pretty even-keeled guy most of the time, punching through a toy drum of mine after what surely seemed to be the trough of his Cleveland fandom. It’s the winter of 1988, and the Cleveland Browns are facing the Denver Broncos for the second year in a row in the conference championship game. The previous year the Browns lost in overtime, after John Elway’s (in)famous 98-yard drive knotted the game up in the waning minutes of regulation (forever remembered by masochistic Cleveland fans as “The Drive”). Long story short, Browns running back Earnest Byner fumbled on the literal one-yard line with a minute left to go, losing the chance to tie the game (forever known to Cleveland fans as “The Fumble”). Browns lose again, my dad was irate, my drum destroyed. And that began my very sad sojourn as a Cleveland sports fan.
In popular culture, Cleveland sports has become so synonymous with losing that it’s one of the first things associated with the city. That narrative of loss has also tracked Cleveland’s more painful economic rise and fall from a booming steel city in the middle of the 20th century to the one of the preeminent examples of a broken down rust belt town. In 1950, Cleveland was the seventh biggest city in United States with 900,000 residents, but it had reached its peak with an economy heavily centered on manufacturing. By the late 1960s, Cleveland’s steel industry was struggling with environmental regulation, rising labor costs, and changes in trade. The city lost one-quarter of its manufacturing jobs between 1958 and 1973 and 14 percent of its overall population in the 1960s. To boot, the Cuyahoga River, which feeds into Lake Erie on the shores of Cleveland, caught on fire in 1969.
Losing was what the city became known for; after all, Cleveland was called the “mistake by lake.” And its sports weren’t any better. You can do a quick tour of these losses anytime, as the internet is littered with “Worst Moments in Cleveland Sports History” articles. ESPN’s 30 for 30 documentary “Believeland” helped popularize the connection between Cleveland’s economic demise and its sports curse.
Let’s go back to the Browns for a minute and fast-forward from 1988 to 1995. Art Modell, the Browns owner, decided to relocate the team to Baltimore for the 1996 NFL season, after he lost a bruising battle with the city to have taxpayer dollars refurbish the decrepit Cleveland stadium (forever known as “The Move”). People in Cleveland were devastated and Modell has forever been one of Cleveland’s most hated villains.
Up until this point, despite the crushing playoff losses, the Browns were largely considered a respectable franchise. They won the last title for the city back in 1964, before the NFL-AFL merger and the Super Bowl, but still. Cleveland was considered one of the most loyal, rabid fans bases. Losing the team hurt. But then, in 1999, the NFL gave Cleveland an expansion franchise. Football was back in Cleveland. And pretty much from that season on it’s been a horror show. One playoff appearance. Zero playoff wins. The worst record in the league from 1999 to today. Only two winning seasons. The Browns’ quarterback situation since 1999 has been a tire fire, starting an unconscionable 28 different QBs.
I’ve been going to the Browns home opener since 2011 (they have only won one of those games). Every year there’s the same spectrum of hope and dread among the fans, with some sure that this is the year they turn it around and the others just a little too beaten down to have any such notion. But, everyone there gets why my brother and I drive from Washington, D.C. to see the game. We know the Browns are probably going to lose. For those of us who come from out of town, or just down the street, we’d rather experience that loss with 60,000 other Browns fans. Misery loves company.
Since the mid-1980s, Cleveland’s baseball team – the Indians will be referred to as the Cleveland Professional Baseball Team (CPBT) because Chief Wahoo is a racist mascot – did things a little differently. Although mostly known as a laughing stock from the 1960s through the ‘80s, in the ‘90s the CPBT became a true powerhouse in Major League Baseball. The ‘90s CPBT were my first real “favorite team” and were beloved by the city. Despite all the star power on those teams, though, they could never make it over the hump.
The CPBT made the World Series in 1995 and 1997, losing both, with the ’97 loss coming in the 11th inning of the last game of the series. Eventually that team disintegrated, but by the mid-2010s the CPBT was once again one of the best in Major League Baseball. Last year, in the famous cursed-franchise World Series against the Chicago Cubs, the CPBT was up 3-1 before the Cubs came roaring back to win three in a row and break their 108-year drought. This year, after setting the modern-day record for most consecutive wins at 22 during the regular season, the CPBT was widely regarded as the one of the best teams in baseball. In the first round of the playoffs against the universally hated Yankees, the team went up 2-0, only for the Yankees to storm back and win three in a row and knock them out of the playoffs. Another gut-punching playoff loss.
Like the Indians, the Cavaliers, Cleveland’s NBA team, have had moderate success since the 1980s, punctuated by some pretty awful lows and the highest of highs: The Land’s only modern-day championship. Before drafting LeBron James in 2003, the Cavs were probably most famous for being one of the teams Michael Jordan regularly trounced come playoff time in the second half of the 1980s. One year after The Fumble, Jordan knocked the Cavs out of the playoffs in the first round with an iconic buzzer-beating jumper over Craig Ehlo (forever known as “The Shot”).
Unable to take on Jordan, that talented Cleveland team eventually fell by the wayside and the Cavs were about as mediocre as you could imagine for a decade. Then in 2003, the Cavs won the draft lottery and the chance to draft native son LeBron James, who hails from Akron, Ohio, 40 miles south of Cleveland. At 18, LeBron came into the league ready to dominate, and he was immediately embraced by the city as our best and brightest hope. By 2007, LeBron was the best player in the league (at 22!) and took the Cavs to the finals, where they lost, of course, to the San Antonio Spurs. But, that loss really didn’t hurt that much – we had LeBron, things were only going to get better.
After several seasons of not being able to advance back to the finals, things were getting dicey for the Cavs and LeBron’s mounting frustration with the organization’s inability to surround him with enough talent was beginning to make everyone in Cleveland nervous. LeBron couldn’t leave, right? In the summer of 2010, LeBron made an hour-long special on ESPN, all to tell the obsequious Jim Gray, who was “interviewing” him, that he was “taking his talents to South Beach” (forever known as “The Decision”). Cleveland was crushed.
There are many, many Cleveland fans who regret their behavior and the things they said about LeBron after The Decision and during his years with Heat. Some burned his jersey. Others tried to convince themselves he was overrated (definitely me for the first two years he was gone). In the end, though, it was obvious to everyone: we lost the best player in the world, maybe ever. How could we ever overcome that loss?
But, miraculously, LeBron returned in the summer of 2014 after going to the finals four straight years with the Miami Heat. He came home as a champion and rallied us all back when he told in the pages of Sports Illustrated: “In Northeast Ohio, nothing is given. Everything is earned. You work for what you have. I’m ready to accept the challenge. I’m coming home.”
All of that melodrama with LeBron led to the most precious, important, historic moment in Cleveland sports history: the Cavs 2016 championship. After losing to the formidable and hated Golden State Warriors in the 2015 NBA finals, the Cavs found themselves facing a 3-1 deficit to those same Warriors in the 2016 finals. Then LeBron went nuclear. The next three games were something out of a fever dream. LeBron scored 41 in game 5, 41 in game 6, and notched a triple double in the closing stand to put Cleveland over the top.
As long as I live, I will never forget LeBron’s block on Andre Iguadola with less than two minutes to go in game 7 of the 2016 NBA finals. With Iguadola about to drop in a layup to put the Warriors up two with less than two minutes to go, LeBron made the most defining play of his career: With the perfect combination of timing, superhero athleticism, and unadulterated power, LeBron locked on to the ball like precision-guided missile and smashed the layup attempt into the glass (forever known as “The Block”). The Cavs would go on to win the game, becoming the only team to ever come back from a 3-1 deficit in the NBA finals. If it wasn’t for The Decision, we wouldn’t have had The Block and it would have never been so sweet.
I watched that game from rooftop of the 9 Cleveland Hotel and got to take in the city in the immediate aftermath of the 2016 championship. Walking the streets afterward, I’d never seen so many people so happy at once, as random strangers hugged and slapped backs for blocks and blocks. Everyone let out a collective breath of relief and the curse was broken.
I’d like to say it ended there and it felt like the losses would stop. But, then the CPBT had its 2016 and 2017 post-season collapses and the Browns look as pathetic and sad as ever, losing 23 of their last 24 games. With Cleveland, the losses just seem to be so much more impactful. It’s not just run of the mill futility with regular losses piled on top of another over the years – of course, there’s plenty of that too. These are devastating losses: We lost our football team, the World Series twice in three years, the best basketball player in the world.
After The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, The Move and The Decision and all of the tragedies foisted upon Cleveland fans by the CPBT, it’s fair to ask why Cleveland fans keep coming back? In some weird way, sports have long been a bellwether for the city; the losses are just part of a life in Cleveland. For me, the collective resolve was its own sort of victory, as I experienced so many of those losses with my family and friends. Maybe we almost never won, but at least we all went through it together.
With the NBA season just underway, and a more realistic shot at a championship than in most years for most Cleveland teams, Clevelanders stare into a deeply uncertain future. LeBron remains at his peak; after 15 seasons in the league he’s still regarded as the game’s best. But, at the end of this season, LeBron will once again have to make a decision as he enters free agency. Will Cleveland lose again?
Photo at top: Cleveland Stadium, April 6, 1931, Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress
Adam Gallagher is a writer and editor, who was born in and lived throughout Northeast Ohio. His writing on foreign policy, politics and sports has appeared in The Hill, The American Prospect, The Huffington Post, World Politics Review, The National Interest, The Progressive, The Diplomat, International Policy Digest, Tropics of Meta and for the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, among other outlets. Follow him on Twitter @aegallagher10.
“[Cleveland, a city] of nearly 400,000 residents is where millennial boomerangs are returning and transplants are arriving, bringing with them big ideas,” Fran Golden wrote in the Los Angeles Times earlier this year. “Count me among the most surprised to see amazing stuff happening in the Rust Belt.” For much of the late twentieth century, Cleveland and its Rust Belt peers, functioned almost as a synecdoche for deindustrialization and urban decay. However, as noted by the L.A. Times headline, “Cleveland, once called the ‘mistake on the lake’ is on the cusp of cool”, hope is in the air and as evidenced by two new works on Cleveland so is historical scholarship.
Yet, the way writers like Golden speak about places like Cleveland betrays a set of tropes too often employed by those trying to grasp the region that often grates locals and longtime residents. One can hear this frustration across the Rust Belt in Cleveland and beyond. On their 2014 album “Under Color of Official Right,” the postpunk house band for Detroit, Protomartyr, mocked the media narrative of a Motor City revival and redemption led by the coastal creative classes. “Have you heard the bad news, we’ve been saved by both coasts, a bag of snakes with heads of gas, the complicated hair cuts ride in on white asses.” Lead singer Joe Casey dryly comments on this apparent hipster utopia/dystopia, “Count their money with broken arms, come as friends, are you ready to be capitalized?”
In its own way, the band’s commentary serves as short hand for the worries of urban and planning historians concerned about overly simplistic narrative arcs. Too often cities are framed like VH1 Behind the Music episodes, hitting the routine beats of nostalgic origin story, bitter collapse, and promising second act renewal. As band members attest, they never left Detroit and it never left them; to those who stayed, the promises of urban salvation–whether by “Pure Michigan” tourism campaigns, investment by the likes of Cleveland Cavs owner Dan Gilbert, or Portlandesque twenty-somethings with impeccable taste in urban farming–ring false. With the Amazon sweepstakes at play, now might be a perfect time to reconsider how these narratives influence policies, perceptions, and life on the ground and how two historians poke and pull at the various loose threads emanating from them.
One could argue, with admittedly a bit more complexity, that urban historians have been struggling with this dynamic for some time. Stories of ascension and declension obscure as much as they reveal. “[N]arratives of urban death are unfair – both to thriving neighborhoods such as Detroit’s Mexicantown and, more generally, to the millions of people who remain in shrinking cities,” Andrew Highsmith wrote in a 2011 Journal of Urban History review essay. “Cities are immortal geographic and political constructs. Even if they could die, though, recent experience suggests that civic boosters rarely abandon their chosen cities.”
Granted a certain irony exists in deploying a Detroit band as a means to open a discussion about Cleveland and urban history narratives, but one might argue it represents the sort of pessimistic humor at the heart of J. Mark Souther’s Believing in Cleveland: Managing Decline in “The Best Location in the Nation. According to Souther, residents and boosters of “America’s North Coast,” working class laborers and white-collar elites alike fell victim to a similar dark humor, even amidst outwardly positive rhetoric and ambitious urban renewal projects. “Perhaps some truly believed that downtown Cleveland might continue on the path it had taken during its initial half century rise, but many more said what they were expected to say publicly while expressing serious concerns behind the scenes,” writes Souther.
Not everyone signed on for or even faked knee-jerk boosterism; local journalist George E. Condon, for example, rejected publicity campaigns like “Cleveland: The Best Things in Life are Here” or “The Best Location in the Nation” as “braggadocio” that both annoyed locals disappointed by the tendency to pitch said efforts to higher income populations and also set falsely high hopes for visitors. One Shaker Heights resident commented acidly, “Anyone dumb enough to believe that ‘the best things in life are right here in Cleveland’ deserves to breathe Cleveland’s air and live in Cleveland’s filth.” In general by focusing on these sorts of interactions between resident and booster, Souther seeks to complicate “rise and fall” narratives so often attached to Rust Belt metropolises.
Todd Michney also engages Highsmith’s argument in his most recent work on Cleveland, Surrogate Suburbs: Black Upward Mobility and Neighborhood Change in Cleveland, 1900-1980. In Surrogate Suburbs, Michney explores black agency by studying how African Americans staked their claim to homeownership in Cleveland’s outer neighborhoods and inner ring suburbs. Offering a “less pessimistic perspective on the postwar city,” one that eschews rote histories of urban decay and deterioration that often overemphasize black victimhood, the Georgia Tech professor highlights how even during some of the city’s tougher moments, residents battled for better lives and homes. Inequalities no doubt existed and weighed heavily on the prospects of minority homeowners but so too did creative resistance.
As we noted in our bibliography for “The Forest City,” despite the attention paid to Rust Belt counterparts like Detroit, Pittsburgh, Chicago, and others, historians have not delved into Cleveland’s history to the extent they have others. Taken together, Michney and Souther both situate Cleveland in these discussions, but, like many of their peers, they attempt to complicate the discourse that scholars like Arnold Hirsch, Robert Caro, and Tom Sugrue critically put forth in earlier decades. Additionally, since Souther and Michney focus on very different aspects of the city’s twentieth century history, interested parties would do well to read both as means to grasp at the city’s attempts to “manage decline,” as Souther argues, but also to examine how those who remained in the city—in Michney’s case, African Americans and ethnic whites—negotiated the difficulties of structural racism in housing markets and the deleterious effects of urban renewal.
The Management of Decline
First one needs the broad outlines of Cleveland’s economic and demographic state in the ensuing decades that followed World War II. During the 1950s, labor opportunities largely absconded for the suburbs and Sunbelt. From 1953 to 1958, Cuyahoga and Lake Counties shed 68,000 manufacturing jobs. Census figures also shifted. From 1950 to 1965, the city’s black population almost doubled to 279,352 as 128,000 African Americans migrated from the South. At the same time, 242,000 white residents decamped from the city; these countervailing population flows drove the proportion of the city’s black population to nearly 35 per cent. As in many cities of the time, industry retreated and tax revenue shrunk just as a population looking for work and in need of municipal services arrived. Things did not necessarily improve. During the 1970s, Cleveland’s population shrunk by almost 24 per cent; the five county metropolitan area lost 6.3 per cent of its residents, the first time it did so in its history. From the early 1980s to the mid-2000s, the “metro area hemorrhaged” over 40 per cent of its industrial jobs; while gains in health care made up for some of the loss, overall job creation remained well below the national average during the same period.
As with cities from Los Angeles to New York, beginning in the late 1940s and early 1950s downtown retail struggled. Municipal, business, and civic leaders sought to staunch the out-migration of industry while encouraging investment in the city, especially downtown, hence Souther’s account of the countless attempts to rebrand and resell Cleveland to the nation and to some extent to the city itself. The aforementioned Condon, who functions like a dissident Greek Chorus throughout Souther’s account, summarized these efforts in his usual style. “The curious thing about Cleveland is that the more plans are devised to make it more interesting the more it stays the same,” he argued. “No city in America has undergone such close scrutiny by so many planners for so many dollars for so few results.”
This dynamic between city boosters and residents, witness to the various efforts made by the municipality to reassert Cleveland’s Midwestern dominance, serves as Souther’s main focus. “Long before urban image became unhinged from the specific symptoms of urban crisis and morphed into almost a self driven obsession with reversing decline, it served as a rationale for promoting development that would maintain growth,” Souther writes. Indeed, in Believing in Cleveland Souther swaps declension narratives for a different approach, one in which boosters, government, and residents attempted to maintain positivity and move forward in the face of economic and demographic challenges, often to no avail.
As one draws on out-of-town bands to frame a discussion of Cleveland, so too did boosters draw upon outside examples to promote development. For example, Cleveland’s political, economic, and civic leaders advertised the potential construction of a subway system as a means to recreate the Chicago Loop; likewise the Erieview project, the largest downtown urban renewal project of its day, drew comparisons with Rockefeller Center, the Ohio City Renaissance on the city’s West Side was equated with New York City’s Central Park West, and the Cleveland Development Foundation (CDF) modeled its mission on the Allegheny Conference on Community Development (ACCD). Even in its efforts at rebirth, Cleveland seemed constrained by promotional and development boundaries established by other metropolises.
Unfortunately, most of these efforts foundered. The CDF struggled with internal fissures and never matched the cohesiveness of the ACCD. The subway failed to achieve public support not once, but twice. In the case of Erieview, the project came to fruition much more slowly and with less success than boosters promoted. Ohio City did succeed by some measures emerging as an attractive housing option in league with Shaker Heights, Lakewood, Rocky River, and Chagrin Falls. Still, the Near West Side neighborhood lost 34 per cent of its population in the 1970s and depended on a ginned up “historical authenticity” related to the city’s legacy of white ethnic settlement.
Not every effort was for naught. As part of his Cleveland NOW! initiative Mayor Carl Stokes delivered more than 4,600 units of new housing, though roughly half were public housing units that were in the works before he ascended to the mayoralty. Moreover, Stokes literally lit up the city with a revival of earlier mayoral plans to improve the city’s streetlights. “We determined that we wanted to change all these lights because this was something visual” that enabled residents to see a physical manifestation of their tax dollars while also improving security, noted the city’s utilities director. “The relighting bolstered public confidence, burnished Stokes’s image, and provided bragging rights in a city that had had few new superlatives,” Souther points out. The revival of Playhouse Square—home to five theaters, which when combined amounted to 12,000 seats—as a cultural attraction also enjoyed modest success. Over time the waterfront area known as the Flats would also develop but much more slowly than municipal leaders had hoped.
New Homeowners Amidst Cleveland’s Struggles
Predictably, urban renewal and development in Cleveland hinged on race. Efforts to reshape the city focused on its East Side, where racial transition and the desire to contain integration held sway. Todd Michney documents what this meant for African American residents in his 2017 work, Surrogate Suburbs. Invoking Andrew Wiese, Michney explores the ways in which black Clevelanders secured housing in an era dominated by structural and individual racism. Rather than highlight victimization, which Michney and others argue has been the focus of too much urban housing literature, Michney emphasizes the responses by black residents, particularly those hoping to settle down in more suburban environments. The communities of Mount Pleasant, Glenville, Lee-Seville, and West Park (to a lesser extent than these other examples) serve as his main focus, sometimes juxtaposed with the harder scrabble, inner city neighborhoods of Cedar Central and Hough. As with Wiese’s Places of Their Own (2005), Michney explores how largely middle and working class Africans Americans sought to cement homeownership and, to some extent, suburban status in outlying Cleveland neighborhoods and inner-ring suburbs.
One of the more provocative arguments presented by Michney regards urban history’s intellectual forbearers, Arnold Hirsch and Thomas Sugrue, and their evaluation of black struggles for housing. “This historiography,” argues Michney, “has fallen short in underestimating black agency, the ability of African Americans–and especially those with comparatively greater economic resources–to push against and reshape manifold barriers placed in their way.” The Cleveland’s of the world, and their black middle class inhabitants, have been largely ignored.
To Andrew Highsmith’s point about ignoring longstanding urban populations with declension models, Michney’s work attempts to address this both in terms of race and class. He juxtaposes the unfolding demographic change in more working class Mount Pleasant and its slightly better off counterpart, Glenville. “During and after World War II, Mount Pleasant in the southeast and Glenville in the northeast would emerge as black middle class strongholds where families achieved homeownership at levels far surpassing the black average,” notes Michney. In the book’s early chapters, he documents how the varying ethnic and class composition of each affected neighborhood transition.
In the process of exploring efforts by Cleveland’s black middle class to gain a foothold outside the lines of FHA/HOLC inspired segregation, Michney highlights relations between the city’s white ethnic population and their growing numbers of black neighbors. Jewish Cleveland in particular played a large role in this regard and though self-interest exerted an influence over the actions taken by Jewish homeowners in the city. Michney suggests that due to the dynamics between the two communities, housing integration in Cleveland lacked the kind of violence found in Chicago and elsewhere.
What explains relationship between Cleveland’s Jewish and black populations? According to Michney, early contact between black and Jewish homeowners established some familiarity at the turn of the century. Relatively, close proximity during these years between blacks, Jews, Italians, and Slavs in Cleveland perhaps helped to reduce later frictions or at least blunt violence. Jewish Cleveland, though undoubtedly hostile in moments, also made efforts through the formation of interracial community organizations to maintain neighborhood stability in Mount Pleasant and Glenville. While some Jewish homeowners attempted to enforce housing covenants prohibiting sale to prospective African American buyers, many others chose to take advantage of market dynamics and sell at higher profits, a point a 1939 HOLC study lamented: “Jewish occupants in [Glenville] have not been unwilling to sell to colored.” 
In contrast, Catholics demonstrated greater zeal in preventing black homeownership. Expressing more hostility and engaging in vandalism, Catholic Cleveland proved more aggressive and outspoken in its racism. They resisted joining interracial community groups aimed at managing racial transition and generally resisted encroachment by minority homeowners, possibly in the name of defending local parishes, which as historians have noted did not move with Catholic populations like other Christian sects. Nonetheless, though blacks were hardly welcomed with open arms by their white neighbors and moments of real conflict emerged and persisted, overall Cleveland residents worked to blunt the worst aspects of housing integration seen in other cities.
To this point, significant portions of white Cleveland recognized differences between race and class. As middle class blacks purchased new and better housing in Glenville and Mount Pleasant in the late 1940s and early 1950s, some white residents admitted that their new middle class neighbors demonstrated better care for their homes and community than previous working class white homeowners. “Glenville’s Negroes are better than [hillbilly] white trash,” one white resident told interviewers. “I wouldn’t want white or colored trash as neighbors,” commented a second white homeowner.
In Glenville and some other communities, whites did not necessarily equate black residence with deterioration, rather they often attributed housing conversions or decline to particular members of the community instead of to the whole. Even with such understandings, blacks witnessed a certain level of social distancing between themselves and their new white neighbors. “The Jews were here first, but they seem to be running from us now,” one black interviewee noted. Some black homeowners even pointed out that burgeoning friendships with whites really wasn’t a central concern: “The white man needs to learn that the Negro believes in the right to choose one’s own associates, but being good neighbors and citizens does not demand that you become a personal friend.” One white Lee-Harvard resident captured the general attitudes of even more “progressive” homeowners: “We wanted to be friendly and democratic with the Negro but when it’s a case of children not having [any] white friends, you think twice about remaining in such an area,” explained one resident about to leave the city for the suburbs.
Due to the structural racism of the housing market, African Americans often paid more for less; limited stock meant many had to settle for older houses with greater maintenance requirements. With so many communities off limits to black homeowners, competition for housing in places like Lee-Harvard led to higher prices for buyers and better profits for sellers. “I know my house is not worth more than $25,000,” noted one white homeowner, “but if I have to sell to a Negro, I’m going to get $30,000.” The segregated market, however, giveth and it taketh away; white homeowners might have exploited such conditions for profit, but it also drove up prices in other city neighborhoods and the suburbs. [I]nstead of blaming the segregated, ‘dual’ housing market for erratic prices, they saved their ire for the incoming black residents,” observes Michney. Much as David Freund has noted in his own work, white homeowners naturalized the benefits of structural racism, unable or unwilling to see how it shaped their lives for the better and penalized their black counterparts.
One of the more interesting discussions in Surrogate Suburbs focuses on the role of black real estate agents. Blockbusting proved a divisive practice that garnered criticism from whites and blacks. In Cleveland, the Urban League pleaded with brokers to follow a code of sales conduct. Yet acknowledging the reality of the housing market placed their actions in context. The Call and Post critiqued the practice but also noted that it proved a symptom of larger malady: “any real onus for its existence must be placed squarely in the laps of the forces that created it … ‘Blockbusting’ hurts nobody as much as it does the poor devil who is forced to pay through the nose for the dubious advantage of occupying a white family’s second hand house.” Whatever reservations one held regarding black real estate agents who engaged in blockbusting, their efforts, arguably manipulative and exploitive in moments, the practice did eventually open up whole neighborhoods to African American homeowners.
Andrew Wiese made similar arguments in Places of Their Own. Wiese found that black real estate agents openly advertised their efforts to integrate communities. Bringing racial transition to a formerly segregated community served as a “source of special pride in Realists’ efforts to expand the African American housing market.” Black brokers saw “race progress” as a “class responsibility.” Of course, the question follows, how much of this was about racial progress? How much was an advertising ploy? And to what extent did this victimize black homeowners? Definitive answers to these questions remain debatable but Michney captures these sorts of processes and their meaning to white and black residents of Cleveland during this era, exactly the sort of stories ignored by rise-and-fall narratives that paint real estate brokers as inherently compromised.
Michney brings into focus the complexities that emerged between populations obscured or ignored by urban declension narratives, but that continued to occupy and shape the city. In such instances, Souther and Michney are in direct dialogue. Along with those cases of white resistance, Michney details the community organizations formed by white ethnics and blacks to help smooth neighborhood transition. In comparison, Souther discusses the pessimism expressed by these same communities toward the various urban renewal and economic development plans enacted by the city. Though the Ohio City Restoration Plan hinged on selling and idealized the city’s white ethnic past to investors and the public, ward representatives and residents articulated doubts about the viability of such efforts.
In addition to historians already mentioned, one catches glimpses of others. Michney mentions the toil of blacks who built their own homes or hired African American contractors to do so during the 1920s, much as Becky Nicolaides demonstrated the same of working class whites in the Los Angeles suburb of South Gate. John Teaford enjoys nearly a half dozen references by Souther, who draws upon the professor emeritus to frame Cleveland’s economic and political straights. This is to say nothing of the new cohort of Rust Belt historians mentioned in our bibliography earlier this month, including Tracy Neumann, Patrick Vitale, and Suleiman Osman, among others.
Ultimately the combination of the two books enables readers to, on the one hand, understand the kind of urban renewal efforts and publicity campaigns underway in post World War II Cleveland, and on the other, to confront the stories of those communities who remained in “The Mistake on the Lake” and the frictions that defined life there. To paraphrase a famous musician, looking back near the end of one’s life our personal histories read like a perfectly written novel, but the fact is no one’s life unfolds in such a manner. We apply a narrative later; the messiness of living defines who we are at the end, but it’s a well-crafted story by then and not necessarily accurate. In the end, cities persist long after we are gone, but the lived experiences of those inhabiting them form the material for historical narratives. Indeed, cities are immortal but, in their own way, so too are the lives that form the spine of urban spaces and culture—not least of all Cleveland. We choose narratives; Michney and Souther tell a story that reimagines the ones we have told ourselves about urban America.
 Andrew R. Highsmith, “Decline and Renewal in North American Cities”, Journal of Urban History, 37.4 (2011): 619, 625.
 J. Mark Souther, Believing in Cleveland: Managing Decline in “The Best Location in the Nation, (Temple University Press, 2017), 19.
Describe your current research. What about it drew your interest?
I’m currently working on a project which examines a perceived crisis of crime, particularly street crime, in 1960s and 1970s New York City, and its role in transforming the city’s politics, public policy norms and modes of governance, built environment and media cultures. You can find a recent example of my research in theJournal of Policy History, which examines the role of public and political anxieties over crime in undermining a culture of expertise in New York politics and policy during the Lindsay years. I was initially hooked in by the image of the infamous ‘Fear City’ campaign run by some of the city’s police officers during the fiscal crisis and widespread austerity of the mid-late 1970s, as well as the symbolic power New York holds in shaping the image we hold of the contemporary city and the promise and perils that lie within it. Yet there’s also something about this period more broadly which seems so fluid, so transformative, and so crucial to the making of our own times and our own cities today: it really is a critical juncture in contemporary history. I wanted my work to be part of that.
Describe what you are currently teaching. How does your teaching relate to your scholarship?
I teach a final year, full-year course on narratives of crisis and decline in the 1970s United States called Life During Wartime (I’m a Talking Heads fan). We look at the construction of various political and cultural narratives of crisis in the 1970s, from Barry Commoner and Paul Ehrlich’s predictions of imminent environmental disaster to neoconservative warnings of the impending ‘Finlandization’ of the United States; the pathologies of the urban crisis to the perceived failures of public policy in areas such as welfare or prisons. This is what we in British history departments call a Special Subject, with a strong emphasis on the analysis and discussion of primary sources. It is extremely rewarding to teach, as each year my students come up with new and amazing ways of conceptualising or making sense of the 1970s from their readings of original sources, much of which work to inform my own research (even if they also regularly complain how “gloomy” and “depressing” the content is!).
What recent or forthcoming publications are you excited about, either of your own or from other scholars?
I really enjoyed Brian Tochterman’s recent book on cultural and political representations of post-war New York, The Dying City. It offers such a diverse and wide-ranging insight into the various narratives of fear, pathology and even death which worked to construct a particular image of New York, taking us from film and literature to planning documents and public policy discussions. I also enjoyed the recent collection of articles in Journal of Urban Historyon New York City after the fiscal crisis, edited by Jonathan Soffer and Themis Chronopoulos, each of which do much to challenge many of our prior understandings of the crisis and the rather loose or imprecise labels – neoliberalism, conservatism, gentrification – we use to conceptualise it. The series also, like Kim Phillips-Fein’s recent book, finally gives us an account of how ordinary New Yorkers experienced the crisis, and its role – sometimes deliberate, at other times inadvertent – in establishing many of the city’s contemporary problems and inequalities.
What advice do you have for young scholars preparing themselves for a career related to urban history or urban studies?
Put yourself out there. It’s not easy, and often intimidating, when you’re starting out, but attend conferences and seminars, submit your work for review, and don’t be afraid to approach others, even senior scholars, with questions, advice, or simply to introduce yourself and your work. The encounters and exchanges you have will undoubtedly enrich your work. On a similar note, don’t forget where you have come from. You were once that irritating undergraduate determined to perfect their coursework or borrow that book. Likewise, you were once that sessional teaching assistant on a poorly-paid, fixed-term contract with little time for marking and teaching preparation, let alone research. Provide counsel and advice, lend support – especially to those new to the game or on short-term contracts – and be as giving of your time as others were to you.
What item/idea/trend/attitude would you bring back from the 1970s, and what enduring item/idea/trend/attitude from that decade do you wish hadn’t followed us into the present?
What a question. I would certainly argue that our diminishing faith or trust in a particularly academic or professional form of expertise – a trend whose genesis I would trace to the 1970s – has had a destructive impact on public life since the 1970s. Equally would anyone argue that the individualism of the 1970s identified in Tom Wolfe’s (admittedly limited) “The ‘Me’ Decade” – now manifested in selfies, Instagram feeds and #YOLO – has really enriched our lives?! As for what I would like to bring back, greatly reduced income inequality would be nice. Or how about a socialist Labour government?
As for my earliest Cleveland memory, I am unsure, but riding the RTA’s Red Line Rapid Transit to the old Municipal Stadium for baseball games toward the end of the 1970s is one that certainly stands out. Initiated in 1928 when Cleveland still ranked as the country’s fifth-largest city, the facility in its twilight years felt cavernous with the fans coming nowhere close to filling its near 80,000-seat capacity.
Another is the Terminal Tower in all its Art Deco grandeur – once the city’s main train station, and until 1964 the tallest skyscraper outside New York City. Its observation floor was regularly open then, and I can still faintly resolve the urban vista I spied through those windows as a child. Or Gordon Park – founded at the turn of the twentieth century, and as I experienced it, a place where my father sometimes played in softball tournaments. I would later discover that the park was a site of sporadic racial conflicts over beach access in the 1930s and 1940s. It was to Gordon Park that I went even earlier, on one of the in-state field trips that the Cleveland Public Schools authorized under the auspices of some Nixon-era federal program, in tow with my father and his students from Harry E. Davis Junior High School on a visit to the city’s aquarium formerly housed there. The sight of Lake Erie’s vast expanse on that occasion, probably for the first time, may actually be my earliest Cleveland memory.
When my parents met there in the late 1960s, just out of college, Cleveland was about to elect Carl B. Stokes as the first African American mayor of a major U.S. city; although civic leaders in the 1950s had burnished a somewhat exaggerated reputation for good race relations, Stokes was elected in the hopes of quelling the discontent exposed by the 1966 Hough Riots.
In a seminar convened this past summer to commemorate the semicentennial of his landmark victory, I had a particularly poignant opportunity to contemplate Cleveland’s changes in my lifetime, against the backdrop of my book research on its African American middle class over the course of the twentieth century. As David Stradling has shown, the city’s reputation took a hit as the 1969 Cuyahoga River Fire coincided with a rising environmental consciousness; however, Cleveland was still a decade away from receiving its notorious moniker, “The Mistake on the Lake.” Even as the city hit its population peak of almost one million in 1950, the shrinking heavy industrial base was already a cause for worry, as discussed by J. Mark Souther. I experienced this contraction when in the late 1970s my paternal uncles lost jobs at factories like White Motors and LTV Steel. For working-class African Americans, it proved even tougher. In Cleveland just like in Detroit, they had been forced to confront rising unemployment from deindustrialization much earlier. Along with other suburban adolescents attracted to the local punk rock music scene in the late 1980s, I approached the city and metro area’s declining population with a sense of adventure as I made trips to explore downtown spaces like the Old Arcade, a precursor to the modern shopping mall built in 1890 with considerable buy-in from Cleveland’s most famous citizen at the time, John D. Rockefeller.
Like many other historians, I was motivated to choose a dissertation/book topic relating to my own personal background. But for those of us who make this choice, at what point does the intense familiarity with (and affection for) one’s hometown stop, and scholarly interest begin? How does one articulate the significance of such overlooked places to a broader audience – or, as I have been asked on more than one occasion: “Why should we care about Cleveland history?” For me, this question has become even more perplexing with the rise of “Rust Belt Chic,” a term Richey Piiparinen credits to Joyce Brabner, life partner to the late Clevelander and comics legend Harvey Pekar. Explored in Rust Belt Chic: The Cleveland Anthology – first published in 2012 by Anne Trubek, who went on to found Belt Magazine the following year – the concept represents a wry effort to reappropriate and shape the urban image of Great Lakes postindustrial cities amid increased attention from East and West Coast culturati, most recently on the occasion of Cleveland’s hosting the 2016 Republican National Convention.
I grounded an argument for Cleveland’s significance not just in its past prominence among U.S. cities and its significance as a Great Migration destination for African Americans, but by comparing its patterns of racial encounter with those in nearby Chicago and Detroit. Inspired by the work of Arnold Hirsch and Thomas Sugrue, among others, I nonetheless became dissatisfied with the applicability of Hirsch’s “second ghetto” concept for the black middle class neighborhoods I studied, ultimately coming to believe that “surrogate suburbs” served as a better descriptor for these outer-city spaces and their residents’ ability to find creative workarounds in facing structural racism. I found that there was some truth behind Cleveland’s reputation for a more proactive approach to racial conflict during the 1950s – at least compared to Chicago and Detroit – but that an even more important factor was the disproportionate prominence of its Jewish neighborhoods that came to serve as black middle-class expansion areas, turning over with racial tension but little in the way of violent resistance. The intertwining of Cleveland’s Jewish history and African American history comes through particularly clearly in the tour we have created in conjunction with the upcoming SACRPH conference, which traces the outward geographic mobility of black families from peripheral city neighborhoods to suburbs like Shaker Heights.
The more obscure among these resources are obviously not where the novice or weekend conference-goer should begin. However, significant among all the changes I’ve seen in Cleveland over the last two decades is a growing consciousness of local history and the increasing availability of digital resources. Among the best places to start are the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History, which originally debuted in 1987 in print form, as the first such reference work on an American city; and Cleveland Historical, a website and mobile phone app created by CSU’s Center for Public History + Digital Humanities. CSU’s Michael Schwartz Library has also developed the Cleveland Memory Project, containing thousands of maps as well as images from the aforementioned Cleveland Press collection; the Cleveland Public Library’s Digital Gallery also contains photographs, among other resources. An outstanding blog and research clearinghouse worth mentioning is Teaching Cleveland Digital. If you’re on Twitter, you could consider following This Was Cleveland, the most active of about a dozen similarly-themed accounts I’ve found. In any case, I hope to see you in Cleveland sometime, and that whether you come on a conference or a research visit, you have an enjoyable and rewarding stay.
 Richey Piiparinen, “Anorexic Vampires, Cleveland Veins: The Story of Rust Belt Chic,” in Rust Belt Chic: The Cleveland Anthology, ed. Richey Piiparinen and Anne Trubek, 2nd ed. (Cleveland: Belt Publishing, 2014), 26.
 Arnold R. Hirsch, Making the Second Ghetto: Race and Housing in Chicago, 1940-1960, reprint ed. with a new forward (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998).
Ryan and I put out a call on Twitter asking what people were looking forward to at the upcoming SACRPH conference in Cleveland, and the response was crickets. I’m concerned that urbanists are insufficiently excited for what will most certainly be a great weekend! So here are the five things I’m most looking forward to…
5. Revisiting a Favorite City
Betraying my adopted home of Pittsburgh, I will confess: I love Cleveland. I can’t really explain why, except to say that I’m easily bewitched by bookstores and believe in omens.
4. Paper Sessions
It appears that I will have to roll a die to determine which panels to attend–there are so many good ones. I do know that I will be sitting in on the presentation of one of my best friends from undergrad, who I didn’t know was attending SACRPH until I found her name in the conference program!
I’ve never been to a library I didn’t love, and I can’t wait to drink a few glasses of wine and shmooze with my fellow urbanists while surrounded by books. Take note, graduate students–afterwards there will be a reception for the field’s most junior scholars at Hodge’s.
Please come up and introduce yourself to me at SACRPH! Whether you’ve been a Member of the Week or a quietly lurking reader of The Metropole, I want to hear from you. This platform exists to bring together UHA members who might otherwise never meet, converse, share, influence, or inspire one another! As co-editors of the blog, Ryan and I do not only read and comment on writing–we also serve as a node, a point of connection within the larger network of our Association. So if you see me around, I would love to hear more about what you’re working on and what makes you passionate about urban history.
Describe your current research. What about it drew your interest?
I’m currently writing my dissertation about the development of black politics in Atlanta in the 1970s and 1980s by examining how members of the black political class–namely, mayors Maynard Jackson and Andrew Young as well as people on the city council and county commissions, in the Georgia Assembly, in the Department of Public Safety, and within the the black business community–governed through issues of crime and urban development. More specifically, I investigate how these figures responded to rising crime rates, in particular what they identified as “black-on-black crime,” and escalating fear of crime, as well as deepening inequality with punitive public safety policies and market-based economic development programs based in notions of law and order, personal responsibility, and the sanctity of capital. I argue that these leaders accomplished this with the approval of much, though not all, of Atlanta’s black electorate by drawing on a black reformist liberal tradition that emerged in the late 19th century, a political moment of revanchism similar to that of the 1970s and 1980s. More broadly, I consider the ways in which shifts in black politics on the urban level provide insight into the broader rightward shift of the post-Great Society Democratic Party.
I came to this topic in the aftermath of the murder of Freddie Gray and the uprising in Baltimore. I wanted to understand how putatively liberal, Democratic black political officials could come to condone systems of policing and urban redevelopment that criminalized poor black people and exacerbated racial inequality. My research shows that black leaders not only condoned these practices, they designed them, and furthermore, they defended them by appealing to traditional ideals in black political culture.
Describe your current public history work. How does what you are working on relate to your scholarship?
This year, I’m working as an editorial assistant with the Washington Post’s “Made By History” blog. It’s a forum that enables historians to share insights about current events and their historical context with a broad audience. It has been really fun as a historian to learn about the work other people are doing and to read fascinating pieces outside of my field. It has also been really rewarding as a scholar committed to dismantling barriers between the academy and the wider world to help other scholars make their work accessible and cogent for a broader audience.
What recent or forthcoming publications are you excited about, either of your own or from other scholars?
When I’m not writing my dissertation or editing pieces for the blog, I’m working on an article that provides a genealogy of the concept of “black-on-black crime.” It has really surprising origins in black progressive politics that provide insight into the role of African Americans in constructing the carceral state. As for the work of other scholars, Brian Goldstein’s The Roots of the Urban Renaissance: Gentrification and the Struggle Over Harlem has been really instructive for me as I try to untangle the messy politics of development within black politics. I also really enjoyed Kim Phillips-Fein’s Fear City: New York’s Fiscal Crisis and the Rise of Austerity Politics, which is not only a well-researched historical study, but is a real page-turner. I think it would make a great movie a la The Big Short.
What advice do you have for graduate students preparing a dissertation project related to urban history or urban studies?
As I was struggling to write my dissertation prospectus, Nathan Connolly advised me to spend some time reading the records of city council proceedings. This really helped me to get a sense of what issues were really important to city legislators and their constituents and what they believed was at stake in how the city governed on particular issues. Issues that I thought would be really significant based on the secondary literature–affirmative action and animosity between the mayor and the business community, for example–were not nearly as inescapable or as contentious as the crime issue, which of course was inextricable from the development issue and the push to make Atlanta the “next great international city.” This realization changed the entire project. So my advice would be to start by spending a good amount of time with city council records to see what people actually cared about and how they went about addressing their concerns.
You have served as a teaching assistant and editor with the Georgia Civil Rights Cold Cases Project, in which Emory University undergraduate students are examining unsolved and unpunished racially motivated murders from the modern civil rights era. What was one of the most memorable moments–either experienced by you, or a student, or shared as a class–from the time you worked on the project?
The Cold Cases Project is an important initiative and I’m very happy to been able to contribute. There isn’t quite one particular moment that stands out because the course, and the project itself, was very much a process of discovery. We spent the semester examining one case, the murder of James Brazier in southeastern Georgia. Each week the students examined different components of the case and gradually they were able to put the pieces together. As a teacher, I enjoyed helping students do the real work of history–examining different kinds of evidence such as autopsy reports and witness statements, putting these pieces of evidence in conversation with each other and the secondary literature, and creating a narrative that provides an informed explanation of the case.
Urban historians in the United States have increasingly been adopting the kinds of transnational frameworks already central to inquiry in other disciplines. We were slower to take the transnational turn than scholars in fields like sociology, anthropology, and geography. The reasons why have a lot to do with both nation and methodology.
Outside the United States, there were clear reasons for people to think in terms that transcended the nation-state. The contributors to the new volume that I’ve co-edited with Nancy Kwak, Making Cities Global: The Transnational Turn in Urban History, many of whom work on South Asia, East Asia, and Latin America, readily pointed out why: in the parts of the world long controlled by colonial powers, , people understood that empires could reach from beyond the horizon and exert authority over them. Scholars trained in Europe, meanwhile, had long understood overseas empires as a taken-for-granted historical formation.The sheer extent of imperial infrastructure—both colonial districts overseas and the looted monuments to their empires that dotted so many metropolitan capitals—made it more intuitive for scholars of urbanism and architecture like Anthony King, Peter Hall, Swati Chattopadhyay, and Zeynep Çelikto place cities in an imperial context. Methodologically, urban historians have studied particular places. Indeed, the entire subfield is defined by its focus on specific categories of space. Our approach is to know a place in great detail; our purpose may be to examine larger processes on the human scale, but that requires close attention to the local instantiation. As Simon Schama once put it, historians can be divided into parachutists and truffle-hunters depending on their preferred scale of inquiry; in that framework, we were clearly more truffle-oriented. To the extent that the community study was the basic building block of the field, that often circumscribed our ability to think systematically beyond the horizon. Indeed, even in areas where U.S. urban history consistently crossed borders, as in the history of immigration to cities, until relatively recently most attention was on immigrant destinations rather than migrant networks or the process of migration. The idea that a substantial contingent of immigrants eventually or repeatedly returned home, for example, was unexplored for decades.
Making Cities Global seeks to combine the most intellectually revealing aspects of transnational studies and urban history. The ground was already well prepared, since many studies of globalization in other fields already viewed cities as the most important sites of transnationalism in actual practice. In many cases, however, globalized scholarship tended toward grand narrative or abstraction. Some approaches seemed to emplot cities into existing narratives of imperialism, while others took unmistakably useful concepts like “system” and “flow” but used them in ways that privileged capital to the exclusion of people and power on the ground, yielding accounts that didn’t have the look, sound, taste, or feel of the world’s extraordinarily diverse metropolitan areas.
In response, we emphasized aspects of urban history that would keep the analysis empirically grounded and fully global. In particular, many of us focus on specific types of metropolitan places; equally important, most of our essays deal with trans-Pacific and pan-American linkages rather than the more commonly researched Atlantic world. In this way, we encourage scholars to think about multiple transnationalisms that were often discontinuous and contested.
These approaches are reflected in the text, of course, but also in an illustration program that is an essential part of our collection. For example, Margaret O’Mara’s chapter on high-tech suburbs features a magnificently mid-century photograph of President Charles De Gaulle visiting Silicon Valley in 1960 as part of his efforts to create a French equivalent—efforts, O’Mara shows, that set the stage for a worldwide competition to establish spaces for innovation.
One of the most striking images in the book is of a man dressed as Jesus walking the streets of Chicago. Arijit Sen sees the man—a member of the Syro-Malabar Catholic Church, which attributes its origin to St. Thomas the Apostle’s landing on the coast of India in 53 CE—as a way to explore the changing character of immigrant parades and the embodied character of transnational performances in urban space.
Building types, too, can cross oceans. Malls, for example, have become some of the most standardized set pieces in metropolitan areas worldwide. Erica Allen-Kim demonstrates, however, that these spaces include local variations like the retail condominium—a spatial arrangement created by small business and real estate investment imperatives in East Asia—that have emerged and been disseminated across great distances. Among her examples is Pacific Mall, a Chinese-Canadian shopping center in suburban Toronto.
Transnationalism is a fundamentally historical process, and Matt Garcia shows how a community’s migrants and immigrants can take on very different meanings depending upon its position in a changing global economy. Arbol Verde, originally a Mexican settlement on the periphery of Los Angeles, meant one thing to workers in early-twentieth-century agribusiness like the one who drew this map of the barrio and something very different to college administrators in the globalized educational economy of the turn of the millennium.
In these and eight more essays, we try to show how urban history can think beyond the nation-state, especially by continuing to modify its methodological traditions to encompass a broader, transnational framework. In so doing, we build upon a body of work in globalized urban history that has been growing quickly in recent years. We discuss a lot of this literature in greater detail in the introduction to the volume, but you can get an initial sense of the emergence of work in this vein by going to the Urban History Association website and perusing the conference programs over the years: research on transnational urban history is one of the components of an efflorescence in the field, a reason why the most recent biennial conferences have between two and three times as many papers as the early ones. Moreover, a group of scholars recently launched the Global Urban History Project, a wide-ranging effort to continue transnationalizing the field; the project also has its own blog.
As far as future directions for transnational urban history, there are all kinds of promising points of departure, but I think political history has a great deal of potential. After all, the entire field of urban history was revitalized in the mid-1990s by scholars who used community studies—often within a metropolitan framework rather than a municipal one—to illuminate trends connecting local and national politics. Theirs was a thoroughly national framework that needs to be globalized.
In this political moment, there is a great deal that is transnational about urbanism and politics. The shocking outcome of the U.S. presidential election of 2016 has become something that needs to be explained, but of course that was only the most surprising of a number of recent political reversals around the world. Domestically, the initial narrative of a blue-collar revolt has been called very much into question by people who have pointed out the centrality of race to people’s electoral choices. But the role of urbanization needs a lot more explanation, since one of the most consistent divides was people living in urban areas and inner suburbs versus those on the further periphery and in rural areas; even after adjusting for race, the differences were considerable, as Richard Florida and others have pointed out.
This is also a transnational story, however. Immigration was not just an important issue in the U.S. election, but also in the earlier Brexit vote and in subsequent national and local elections in the Netherlands, France, Germany, and then again in the United Kingom. But this has not played out the way that people often think. in the U.S., places with the highest proportion of foreign-born people were strongly Democratic (again after controlling for race), while GOP anti-immigrant sentiment paradoxically flourished in places where comparatively few newcomers to our shores reside. In Europe, the relationships among immigration, urbanization, and voting have also been consequential, though less straightforwardly than here.
This is also a transnational matter because this pattern of reactionary politics thriving in rural areas has been apparent for quite some time. The metropolitan split in the politics and violence that followed the dissolution of Yugoslavia comes to mind, as the more complex political geography of the Brexit vote. If we consider this more globally, though, the picture changes dramatically: in India, the world’s largest democracy,the nationalist BJP rests on an electoral base that is relatively urbanized. There is much to think about here, and the answers may have a great deal to tell us about what we analyze in Making Cities Global as the “intertwined historical development” of “the connections between urbanization and globalization.”
White nationalists marched through the streets of Charlottesville, Virginia, in August 2017. From an historian’s perspective, there was little surprise in this action, especially after two years of widespread appeals to white nationalism in the course of one of the most heated presidential campaigns in American history. Why did the organizers’ choose Charlottesville? What do their organizations hope to gain by defending sites of Confederate history?
Virginia is, perhaps, the deepest home for white nationalist expression in the United States. Long before the American Revolution, ideas about racial differences and divisions shaped the Old Dominion. Between 1670 and 1750, the intertwined influences of slavery and white supremacy redefined freedom and bondage in the British Colonies. Cities like Norfolk and Richmond, and small towns like Charlottesville, grew in the soil of racial strife and oppression for more than three centuries. Racial perceptions shaped the spaces and places that teach American history. White supremacy molded the evolution of the American political economy.
Due to the grafting of racial perceptions through economic spatialization (informed by race), we must ask: how can the detailed analysis of metropolitan growth better inform scholarly and public understandings of white supremacy in the twenty-first century? The first step must be the forceful confrontation of the pervasive denials about racist decision-making by people in positions of authority throughout American society. In 2016, university leaders made straight-faced excuses about the hateful politics of white supremacy represented by Woodrow Wilson with nothing more than nostalgia as a rhetorical fig leaf.
Urban historians – better than most – know that the language of economic growth offers the thinnest veneer for earlier generations of racist reasoning based in both science and religion. In the traditions of Kenneth Jackson, Robert Fogelson, Lizabeth Cohen, and Thomas Sugrue, in his book Colored Property, David Freund revealed how the language of biological racism in housing markets before 1945 transformed into market and efficiency justifications during the Civil Rights/Black Power era. Even 100 years prior to the racist housing associations in Freund’s work, in the early nineteenth century, municipal land-use patterns reflected the assumptions of white supremacy, including in discussions about gradual emancipation. In the context of the Charlottesville Nazi and Klan marchers’ chants of “Blood and Land,” the expanding metropolis represents an existential threat against the purity of small towns and isolated rural communities.
The megapolitan threat – as both a symbol and a reality – mobilized the resurgent fascist movement in the United States. A megapolitan is a massive, metropolitan region – there are currently ten in the United States (“BosWash” or “Boston-Washington” being the wealthiest) and perhaps another dozen growing around the world. The white nationalists understand that inclusive cities undermine their political agenda. No one symbolized the ascendant power of a global, multi-racial coalition against white supremacy more than Barack Obama. The daily reminders about an African American with presidential authority instigated a backlash that channeled through a patriarchal xenophobia that simmered under the leadership of Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Bill Clinton, and George W. Bush. The feeling of retreat among social conservatives who perceived the encroachment of women’s rights, racial equality, LGBTQ equality, and fluid immigration policies drove a politics of resentment that continues to unfold daily in 2017. For educators, it is a crucial moment to distinguish among the segments of the American population that are committed to fascism and white supremacy and others who simply stand silently on the sidelines waiting for the tension and conflict to subside.
Figure 1. Richmond, Virginia (c. 1864)
Urbanists’ challenge is to bring rural spaces into urban history.. This imperative exists because the majority of the participants in the movements to reassert white nationalism come from rural areas and small towns across the United States. In Suburban Erasure, I began this process by showing that the fringes of cities were simultaneously independent small towns and rural communities. Even without formal incorporation into the political framework of major cities, the commercial infrastructure that connected metropolitan areas dramatically transformed rural places. Sometimes, this process even erased the most vulnerable enclaves of African Americans. Since 1960, racially marginalized communities with little material prosperity have remained the easiest target for suburban redevelopment in the United States.
Suburban erasure did not just eliminate small enclaves of African Americans; it also created a new terrain of white nationalism. The twentieth-century erasure of historically black, brown, and impoverished communities differs significantly from nineteenth century settlement and land-use patterns. African American communities were only protected by the perception of the profitability of the residents’ bodies and labor before the Civil War. The possibility of thriving, autonomous black communities after Reconstruction (and, especially, after Plessy v. Ferguson) was intolerable, as seen in the rising tide of lynchings and riots that culminated in the Red Summer of 1919, the Tulsa riot of 1921, and the destruction of Rosewood, Florida, in 1923. With the advent of amortized mortgages, violent removal was no longer necessary. Market forces and economies of scale could simply erase small communities. Over the next century, scholars must grapple with the ways that race informed the evolution of space and place in locations like Middletown and Toms River, New Jersey (see Figures 2 and 3) – formerly rural places where new forms of metropolitan segregation reinforce the politics of white supremacy.
Figure 2. Middletown, New Jersey (c. 2017)
Figure 3. Toms River, New Jersey (c. 2017)
Scholars have added new insights into old debates that simultaneously sought to reverse the process of historical erasure and form new understandings of urban, rural, and suburban spaces. Robyn Rodriguez’s In Lady Liberty’s Shadowand David E. Goldberg’s The Retreats of Reconstruction advance scholars’ understanding of this changing cultural and spatial landscape. Goldberg shows how the political economy of northern Jim Crow entrenched racist policies of inclusion that required immigrants to pursue social expressions of white identity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Rodriguez complements this knowledge by revealing the ways that whiteness shaped the suburban politics of immigration after 1970. Willow Lung-Amam has uncovered similar patterns and pressures in Silicon Valley’s suburban schools. Zaire Dinzey-Flores documented the effects of these forces in Puerto Rico as gated communities shaped the built environment. Rhonda Williams opens the door to new paradigms in urban history by centering the experiences of African American women in the processes of creating just, inclusive metropolitan places. Anthony Pratcher’s new research on Phoenix, Arizona, emphasizes the patterns of displacement and erasure that compose the central assumptions of suburbanization and metropolitan expansion. Work by Carl Nightingale and Angel Nieves shows the ways that transnational institutions communicated these assumptions over the last two centuries, inspiring a new generation of scholars led by Paige Glotzer, Devin Fergus, Nathan Connolly, and Marcia Chatelain to analyze the racial and spatial dimensions of greed in the real estate markets.
These combined efforts bring urban history to the forefront of the public policy debates as seen in the pages of the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Atlantic magazine, the Boston Review, and National Public Radio. As historians contribute to the planning of future cities, Charlottesville reminds us to carefully disentangle the ways that white supremacy has informed the transitions among rural, urban, and suburban spaces over the last three hundred years.
Walter Greason is a professor of history and anthropology and Dean of the Honors Program at Monmouth University. Dr. Greason’s research focuses on the comparative, economic analysis of slavery, industrialization, and suburbanization. He serves as the Treasurer for the Society for American City and Regional Planning History, which is holding its national conference this year in Cleveland, Ohio, from October 26 through 29, 2017. Dr. Greason has published widely including three books, The Path to Freedom, Suburban Erasure, and The American Economy.
On January 3, 1956, a bomb exploded in the garage of John G. Pegg, an African- American newcomer to the Shaker Heights neighborhood. The explosion was a turning point for the Cleveland suburb: the wealthiest neighborhood in America in 1960. Though it destroyed Pegg’s garage, it also jolted Shaker Heights’ residents into action. Out of the debris emerged white residents’ desire to change their community from one that fostered racial intolerance to one that openly accepted African Americans. Instead of succumbing to fear, they decided to racially integrate.
Emboldened by the landmark Supreme Court decision Shelley v. Kraemer (1948), which ruled racially restrictive covenants unconstitutional, African Americans like John G. Pegg began moving to Shaker Heights in the 1950s. In response to this influx of African-American homeowners, some white homeowners feared that they would have to leave their affluent community. Subsequently, some white residents started selling their homes.
Other white residents hoped to remain in the Ludlow neighborhood of Shaker Heights; they felt invested in the community and wanted to continue living there regardless of the increasing black population. Spurred by the firebombing of Pegg’s garage on January 3, 1956, while his home was under construction, white residents, as well as African-American newcomers Winston Richie and Theodore and Beverly Mason, formed the Ludlow Community Association (LCA) in 1957. The LCA’s first president, a white resident named Irwin Barnett, was most concerned with stopping the rumors that “Ludlow was going to turn into a ghetto” due to the influx of black residents and ensuing white flight. As a result of these fears, Barnett sought out strategies to encourage whites to purchase homes in the community. However, two external threats impeded the LCA’s progress: banks and real estate agents. Realtors refused to show whites homes in the Ludlow neighborhood and banks made it difficult for them to secure mortgage financing.
As a result of banks and realtors obstructing white homebuyers’ ability to purchase homes in Ludlow, subsequent LCA presidents prioritized attracting white potential homebuyers. These presidents were able to re-attract whites to Shaker Heights using a variety of methods, including lending up to $5,000 for second mortgages to prospective homebuyers who could not afford the cost of a down payment. Many of the LCA’s social events raised funds for white homebuyers’ loans. In 1966, LCA President Alan Gressel invited jazz singer Ella Fitzgerald to perform, and raised $10,000 in ticket sales, which funded the LCA’s activities, including its mortgage program. In 1969, LCA President William Insull, Jr. used the proceeds from the LCA’s production of My Fair Lady to finance loans for prospective white homebuyers to live in Ludlow. As a result of the LCA’s efforts, Ludlow began to reverse the annual rate of change from 1964 to 1967, where home sales were about one-tenth of one per cent from white to black. By 1968, the rate of change transitioned from black to white.
Unfortunately, the LCA’s focus on white homeowners to maintain integration meant discouraging black people from purchasing homes. While the LCA never explicitly encouraged discrimination against black homebuyers, its actions reveal otherwise. Many African-Americans who wanted to finance their homes faced difficulty and few, if any African-American homebuyers purchased homes through the LCA’s program, given the organization’s preference for white homebuyers.
Additionally, African-American businessman William Percy was so outraged by the LCA’s aloofness towards him when he viewed a home that he was “ready to sue the LCA for discrimination.” Ironically, when Percy moved to Ludlow and joined the organization, he began to understand the LCA’s position, and eventually became its first black President in 1964. Percy’s “shared interests” with white Ludlow residents “as the basis for the construction of suburban identities” both motivated his and white LCA members’ ability to disavow their discrimination against black homebuyers as a way to subsequently maintain their community’s property values.
Several events that took place between 1968 and 1979 laid the foundation for Shaker Heights to pursue a more equitable form of integration in the 1980s. By the 1970s, the changing racial climate in the U.S. ushered in by the Civil Rights Movement, the Open Housing Movement, and the Fair Housing Act of 1968 produced an environment in Shaker Heights where there was harsher criticism of local fair housing organizations’ problematic policies.
In 1972, Joseph H. Battle, an African-American Ludlow resident, realtor, and President of Operation Equality—a national housing program that the Urban League of Greater Cleveland implemented to ensure that housing practices abided by the Fair Housing Act of 1968—wrote a scathing denunciation of the Shaker Communities Housing Office, for Operation Equality. The Shaker Communities Housing Office, an organization founded in July 1967, openly preferred white homeowners over black homeowners, asserted Battle. More specifically, Battle lamented the Housing Office’s continued discrimination against prospective black homebuyers, its failure to achieve neighborhood stabilization due to integrated areas receiving a growing African-American population, and the reluctance to support open housing in unintegrated sections of the city. Given the Ludlow Community Association’s role in establishing the Housing Office in 1967, LCA members expressed guilt over the Housing Office’s errors. In 1972, members internally acknowledged that stabilizing Ludlow would become “increasingly more difficult,” that “nothing is being effected to motivate the white brokers at this time…unless the laws are more vigorously adhered to.” Despite the LCA’s internal admission that it was difficult to maintain integration in Ludlow, more criticism would continue to be levied at Shaker Heights’ failure to equitably integrate.
Tension over the Housing Office’s policies erupted in April 1979 when half of the Housing Office’s coordinators, two black and four white women, resigned in a public protest over the disparate treatment of white and black prospective homebuyers. In a public letter published in the Sun Press, the resigning coordinators cited the ambiguity of whether the Housing Office’s pro-integrative policies were meant to encourage integration or containment. Finally, in June 1979, the Housing Office unveiled a new policy that promised black and white prospective homebuyers equal treatment. Under the new policy, whites were to be shown homes in areas that were predominantly black and blacks would be shown homes in areas that were predominantly white.
Donald DeMarco, who became the Director of Community Services in November 1982, enhanced these policies. Although DeMarco did not work for the Housing Office, as the Director of Community Services, his office oversaw the Housing Office’s seventeen employees. Under DeMarco’s direction, the Housing Office enacted policies intended to “promote and sustain racial integration” instead of aiding homebuyers who want housing in areas that helps “further segregation.” For example, the Housing Office worked with real estate agencies that provided the Housing Office with referrals from homebuyers who were not interested in exploring housing options in an integrated community. Acquainting homebuyers and realtors who were initially opposed to living in and selling homes in an integrated community, with the appealing aspects of Shaker’s vibrant community—such as its excellent schools—were non-race based methods of making these homebuyers and realtors receptive to the idea of living in and selling homes in a community with fantastic amenities, that happened to be integrated.
The City of Shaker Heights also supported the Housing Office’s newfound commitment to equitable integration. In 1986, the City of Shaker Heights inaugurated a homebuyers’ loan program called the Fund for the Future of Shaker Heights. The Fund for the Future of Shaker Heights provided white homebuyers with loans to encourage them to move into neighborhoods that were at least fifty percent black and black homebuyers with loans to encourage them to move into neighborhoods that were at least ninety percent white.
Shaker Heights’ commitment to integration also extended to establishing metropolitan-wide integration by forming an inter-government agency called the East Suburban Council for Open Communities (ESCOC) in 1983. Shaker Heights, in conjunction with the nearby suburbs of Cleveland Heights and University Heights, as well as their respective school districts, founded ESCOC as a joint venture, funded by the Gund and Cleveland Foundations. Led by African-American Ludlow resident Winston Richie, ESCOC provided loans to black homebuyers who purchased homes in suburbs that were less than twenty-five percent black and white homeowners who purchased homes in suburbs that were more than twenty-five percent black. By 1990, ESCOC estimated that it assisted 400 black families in moving into Cleveland’s predominantly white eastern suburbs.
Despite the revolutionary promise of these local and regional fair housing organizations, it was still difficult to eradicate white supremacy’s impact on the housing market. While the city’s policies provided economic incentives to encourage both black and white homebuyers to integrate neighborhoods, few black homebuyers could afford to purchase homes in predominantly white neighborhoods; therefore, white homebuyers still received ninety percent of loans in the early 1990s. Establishing equality proved to be quite difficult in the Cleveland-metropolitan area, given its ranking as the second most segregated housing market in the nation, in accordance with two nationally published independent analyses of 1990 Census data.
This disparity is also important because it reveals that white privilege in the housing market is persistent and cannot be eradicated, only abated. Therefore, the efforts of all three entities to curtail housing segregation underscore that efforts to combat residential segregation have to be consistent and constant because of the housing market’s preference for whiteness and segregation.
By the late 1990s and early 2000s, Shaker Heights’ commitment to pro-integrative policies waned. ESCOC dissolved shortly after Winston Richie’s resignation as Executive Director in January 1991. In 2002, the Housing Office closed and two offices of city government absorbed its functions. Additionally, the community associations that invested so much time and energy into integrating Shaker Heights in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s began to exist as solely social organizations in the 1990s and 2000s.
One possible explanation for Shaker Heights de-prioritizing its fair housing efforts is colorblindness. The idea that Shaker Heights “accomplished” its goal of integrating its community and therefore no longer needs apparatuses to intentionally integrate is a form of colorblindness. This misconception ignores the housing market’s preference for whiteness and residential segregation, under the guise of equality for all.
These colorblind attitudes have had tangible effects on Shaker Heights’ racial demographics over the past two decades. The absence of pro-integrative efforts places Shaker Heights in danger of completely re-segregating as a predominantly black, middle or working-class community. Racial demographics in 2000 and 2010 reveal that Shaker Heights was beginning to re-segregate without persistent methods to maintain integration. According to the 2000 Census, Shaker Heights was 59.9% white and 34.1% black. By contrast, in 2010, whites composed 54.9% of the total population and blacks comprised 37% of the total population. These statistics are significant because they underscore the white flight that afflicted the community over the past two decades.
This high rate of white flight demonstrates the difficulty in retaining white homeowners and attracting white homebuyers to integrated communities without interventions in the housing market. While it is not negative for a community to re-segregate as a predominantly black community, studies demonstrate that predominantly black neighborhoods struggle with less access to quality amenities and report lower incomes compared to white neighborhoods. Employment discrimination causes black employees to earn lower incomes than white employees. Therefore, integration is desirable not for cultural reasons but rather to expose black homeowners to resources that they otherwise might not receive in a segregated, racist housing market. 
The most logical steps for Shaker Heights to stave off complete re-segregation are for residents and activists to be vigilant of the segregation and whiteness that permeate the housing market. While this does not include giving preferential treatment to white homebuyers to reside in the community, these steps should include targeted advertisements to white homebuyers, given many white homebuyers’ fear of living in communities with increasing populations of color. Other steps should include providing mortgage subsidies to both black and white homebuyers and providing financial assistance for black and white homeowners to reside in neighborhoods where their races are underrepresented. Taking steps to encourage integration will also help the community stabilize its home values. Overall, Shaker Heights’ integration can be maintained only if there are concerted efforts to do so.
Nichole Nelson is a PhD candidate at Yale University studying twentieth-century American History, with a focus on post-WWII urban and suburban history. Nelson was the Metropole’s UHA member of the week in April. Read more about her research here.
Photo at top of the page, Shaker Heights rapid transit line, Jet Lowe, 1978, Historic American Buildings Survey Collection, Prints and Photographs, Library of Congress
 Russell H. Davis, Black Americans in Cleveland from George Peake to Carl B. Stokes, 1796-1969. (Washington: Associated Publishers, 1972), 331.
 Thomas Meehan, “The Good Life in Shaker Heights,” Cosmopolitan, 46-51, March 1963.
 Joseph P. Blank, “Ludlow—A Lesson in Integration,” A Reader’s Digest, September 1968, 194.
 Sources: Pegg’s home was located at 13601 Corby Road. Davis, 331; Blank, 194 and “1957-2007: 50th Anniversary LCA—Ludlow Community Association,” 3-4, Ludlow Community Association Records Series I, 1953-1972, Box 5, Folder 5; Western Reserve Historical Society.
 “Trends in Housing,” National Committee Against Discrimination in Housing 9, no. 6, (November-December 1965), Ludlow Community Association Records Series I, 1953-1972, Box 5, Folder 5; Western Reserve Historical Society
 Gilbert Selden served a one-year term in 1959; Bernard Isaacs served as President from 1960-1962; Joseph Finley was President in 1963; William Percy served as President and 1964; Alan D. Gressel succeeded him, serving from 1965 to 1966. Source: “1957-2007: 50th Anniversary LCA—Ludlow Community Association,” 3.
 1966 Ludlow Community Association Annual Report, Shaker Library.
 Sources: John S. Diekhoff, “My Fair Ludlow,” The Educational Forum, March, 1969, Ludlow Community Association Records Series I, 1953-1972, Box 5, Folder 5, Western Reserve Historical Society; Ronald Spetrino, President of the Ludlow Community Association, to Ludlow Residents. Shaker Heights, Ohio, Ludlow Community Association Records Series I, 1953-1972, Box 5, Folder 5, Western Reserve Historical Society; “1957-2007: 50th Anniversary LCA—Ludlow Community Association,” 3-4, Ludlow Community Association Records Series I, 1953-1972, Box 5, Folder 5; Western Reserve Historical Society.
The Worlds of Ludlow. Report. Shaker Heights: Ludlow Community Association, 1968, 8.
 W.C. Miller, “Shaker Housing Office Unveils Equality Policy,” The Cleveland Plain Dealer, June 23, 1979.
 Donald DeMarco, interview by Nichole Nelson. January 8, 2015
 Donald DeMarco, interview by Nichole Nelson. January 8, 2015 and Tuthill, Linda. “Pursuing an Ideal: How Shaker Heights strives to maintain integration,” Shaker Magazine May 1985, 35 (Shaker Historical Society)
 Donald DeMarco, interview by Nichole Nelson. January 8, 2015
 Bill Lubinger, “Pro-Integrative Efforts Assessed Pattern of Segregation Unlikely to Change Study Finds,” The Cleveland Plain Dealer, April 26, 1992.
 Terry Holthaus, “Fair Housing Leader Quits, Calling Efforts a Lost Cause,” The Cleveland Plain Dealer, June 13, 1991.
 “Communities,” The Cleveland Plain Dealer, February 12, 2002.
 Informal conversations with current Ludlow Community Association Presidents, Julie Donaldson and Mary Ann Kovach, underscore the community associations’ transition from integration in the 1950s through the 1990s to social programming in the 1990s and 2000s.
 “Profile of General Demographic Characteristics: 2000: Geographic Area: Shaker Heights city, Ohio,” from “Profiles of General Demographic Characteristics: 2000 Census of Population and Housing, Ohio.”
 I calculated the percentage of white residents by dividing the number of white residents—15,635 by the total population—28,448. I calculated the percentage of black residents by dividing the number of black residents—10,545—by the total population—28,448.
Source: “Race and Hispanic or Latino Origin: 2010—Con.,” from “Ohio: 2010—Summary Population and Housing Characteristics: 2010 Census of Population and Housing.”
 These themes are discussed in detail in Thomas Sugrue’s The Origins of the Urban Crisis: Race and Inequality in Postwar Detroit, Mary Pattillo’s Black Picket Fences: Privilege and Peril Among the Black Middle Class, and Mary Pattillo’s Black on the Block: The Politics of Race and Class in the City.
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