Pittsburgh: An Urban Portrait

In the last installment, we discussed Lawrenceville and the factors that led to its gentrification. In this installment, we will discuss the nearby neighborhoods of Bloomfield, Garfield, and Friendship. In retrospect, each of these had at least some of these factors at the time Lawrenceville began gentrifying in the early 2000s, and in the decades since, each has gentrified to some degree. But none has undergone the full-scale transformation that happened in Lawrenceville.

Series Index:

What Is a Neighborhood?

Before we get started, I want to point out that, geographically, this part of the city has some major discrepancies regarding official boundaries versus colloquial ones, and I want to investigate what exactly we talk about when we talk about neighborhoods. I can't find any information regarding how many American cities officially define their neighborhoods, but preliminary research suggests that the number is not high. I know Cincinnati, Cleveland, and Chicago do, but I can't find anything for Boston or Philadelphia other than lists of names, and New York explicitly refuses to do so. Part of the problem is that no matter how carefully you try to collect the data, as soon as you draw a line on a map the arguments start flying. And once you make an official designation, that designation affects, to some degree, how people view the area going forward.

For a city that prides itself on the diversity and distinctiveness of its neighborhoods, it was only within the past 50 or so years that anyone really paid attention to them. Most of the published histories of Pittsburgh do not discuss them, save occasional mentions of Oakland or the Hill District. Contemporary publications aren't much better. A sense of cohesive neighborhood identity did not become established until the 1960s, when the urban renewal projects of the Pittsburgh Renaissance threatened to tear communities apart. It was then that neighborhood groups formed to provide organized opposition to the projects. However, these groups found it difficult to negotiate effectively with city government without accurate information about the neighborhoods, which was not available at the time. Census data was available, but this only covered relatively large areas that did not necessarily conform to neighborhood boundaries as they were popularly understood at the time. The Pittsburgh Neighborhood Alliance was formed in 1969 to gather this data, and in order to do that, boundaries had to be determined. The Alliance held community meetings, where they would simply ask participants to define the boundaries in which they lived. In other words, we have NIMBYs to thank.

The city itself was taking interest. Pete Flaherty was elected mayor in 1969 as part of a backlash against Renaissance policies. He vowed instead to implement a "neighborhood renaissance" that would move away from large-scale boondoggles in favor of local civic improvement. The Planning Department drew boundaries based on census tracts and in 1974 published a series of 88 Community Profiles. In the meantime, the Pittsburgh Neighborhood Alliance, in Conjunction with the Pitt School of Social Work, conducted neighborhood surveys in 1976 to collect the neighborhood-level data that was so sorely needed. The result was the 1977 Pittsburgh Neighborhood Atlas, which identified 78 neighborhoods. When Richard Caliguri took over as mayor in the late 1970s, he formed the Neighborhoods for Living Center, which published its own map in 1983. The planning department settled on the currently recognized 90 neighborhoods in 1990, which appear on official maps today. In the early 1990s, however, mayor Sophie Masloff implemented a program to erect street signs, which were rare at the time. Part of this program was that signs of major roads have the neighborhood name on them, which Reddit refers to as the "Blue Sign Squad".

It should go without saying that there are discrepancies between the 1976 survey, the 1983 map (which is probably the best one but didn't result in anything else so I'm not going to mention it anymore), the official planning boundaries, and the street sign designations. The 1976 survey is probably the most colloquially accurate, but includes several small, odd neighborhoods that I haven't seen mentioned anywhere else. The official maps upped the count to 90 by implementing semi-bogus geographic subdivisions to otherwise cohesive neighborhoods and by giving isolated housing projects their own sections. The blue signs don't conform to the planning boundaries exactly and recognize sub-neighborhoods that aren't part of the official total, but don't recognize some sub-neighborhoods that are part of the official total when political considerations are at play (the official Hill District divisions make sense, but residents view them as part of a "divide and rule" strategy meant to inhibit neighborhood cohesion).

I've spent a lot of time thinking about how I would define the neighborhood boundaries for this series (don't worry, most of it was while driving when I literally didn't have anything better to do). It would have been really easy for me to just use the official list, but the purpose of the series would then be frustrated by my having to make a lot of caveats, and I had to come up with my own system. I think it comes down to three questions:

What do the local stakeholders identify as? In most cases this means residents, but business owners, those who work there, and those who visit regularly need to be taken into consideration as well. This is the approach that the Pittsburgh Neighborhood Alliance took in the 1970s.
To what degree do the residents actually interact?
To what degree does the neighborhood feel cohesive to an outsider driving through it? Do the street grids match up? Are there significant geographical barriers? Consider West Oakland, which we discussed a couple installments ago. It's a bitch to define. The residents in the vicinity of Robinson St. consider themselves as Oakland when it's convenient for them but as part of the Hill District for historical reasons, and different residents have different identities. Outsiders may have considered it as part of the Hill at one time but may not now. But the Hill has five different official neighborhoods, each of which is a legitimate division. If you don't view the Hill District as one neighborhood, and you don't think the area around Robinson St. should be part of Terrace Village—which is self-evident, because it's not part of the old housing project—then you either need a new name for it or you can keep calling it West Oakland, which means you have to treat it as part of Oakland. But then the second question comes into play when defining the boundaries, because the black working-class residents of the area around Robinson St. have little interaction with the Pitt and Carlow students who reside within the official boundaries. And then there's the part that's demographically similar to the area around Robinson St. but is geographically distinct from it and connected to Uptown. The line I ended up drawing doesn't conform to any of the three criteria, but nonetheless conforms to all of them.

Or look at Lawrenceville, from last time. The city officially divides it into three parts: Upper, Middle, and Lower. Old timers did so as well, but used the ward numbers instead. These aren't distinct enough to really merit being their own neighborhoods, since the overall Lawrenceville identity is stronger. But even as subdivisions, some are stronger than others. Although geographically separated, there's isn't much of a difference between Central and most of Lower Lawrenceville. The residential section between Penn and Liberty is quite different, but this is more of a no man's land than a separate neighborhood, and given the way prestige and the real estate markets work it's identity as part of Lawrenceville is solidified, but it's never going to have its own name.

For the present installment, we have to contend with the fact that a large part of what is officially Bloomfield is colloquially Friendship, which is officially quite small. And also with the common problem that the Penn Ave. corridor outside of the Penn/Main business district by the hospital is officially split between Garfield and Bloomfield, except for a small part on the eastern end where one side of the street in officially in Friendship. I consider everything south of Liberty to be Bloomfield. North of Liberty, apart from the street itself (which is all Bloomfield), the dividing line is at Friendship Park in the vicinity of West Penn Hospital. It is here that the housing stock changes significantly enough to give the entire neighborhood a different feel. Both sides of Penn are Garfield. There's also a section of Bloomfield south of the ravine that includes a residential section that feels more like part of North Oakland but not enough to deviate from the official boundary, not least of which because it's off of Baum on the other side of a bridge which most people would consider Bloomfield though it's really sort of a no-man's land.

11. Bloomfield: Little Italy

Bloomfield is located in Pittsburgh's East End, to the south and east of Lawrenceville. The main entrance, so to speak, is via the Bloomfield Bridge, which connects the neighborhood to Oakland via Bigelow Blvd. and Craig St. The ravine that the bridge crosses bounds the neighborhood to the west, though it splits and while one branch forms the border the other cuts off the southernmost portion of the neighborhood. The southern end is along the Baum Blvd. corridor, and I've taken the liberty of putting the boundary with Friendship at the complicated intersection with Liberty and Center where it's easy to make a wrong turn. From there I include the Liberty Ave. corridor to West Penn Hospital, where the line jogs north to Penn Ave. based largely on housing typology. I give the Penn corridor west of Friendship Ave. to Lawrenceville, and I include the Liberty Ave. corridor back to the bridge.

Entering the neighborhood via the bridge, one sees a sweeping vista of the entire neighborhood laid out on a plateau above the ravine. This plateau was once home to Joseph Winebiddle's farm, back in the days when it was still part of the now defunct Peebles Township. It was annexed to the city in 1868 and developed in the subsequent decades, development being mostly complete by 1900. It was originally settled by German Catholics, but around the turn of the century, Italians from the Abruzzi region began settling there. Bloomfield's reputation as an Italian district notwithstanding, it should be noted that at that time there were several parts of the city with significant Italian populations—Larimar, Oakland, parts of the Hill District and Downtown, among others, all had a legitimate claim as Pittsburgh's Little Italy, so in that respect it was not unique.

What is unique is that it retained its Italian character through the midcentury upheavals of urban renewal, suburbanization, and increasing urban crime rates, as well as through the ongoing diminution of ethnic identity in America and the continuing gentrification of urban areas. The 1977 Atlas noted that while there was still a large German presence, the neighborhood was mostly Italian, and while it's impossible to determine precisely when the Little Italy designation came into the public consciousness, a sign welcoming visitors to Bloomfield and describing it as such was erected in 1993, and the Little Italy Days festival was established in 2002. At that time, New York's Little Italy had become a shell of its former self, a façade of tourist-oriented restaurants on top of a neighborhood that had few actual Italians. Pittsburgh, by contrast, was in a different boat. When the census bureau began tracking ancestry in 1980, 50% of people in the core of Italian settlement in Bloomfield claimed Italian ancestry, a number which held into the new millennium. And there was little to nothing that would appeal to the casual tourist; there were two Italian grocers, but most of the Italian businesses were things like beer distributors, dry cleaners, and barbershops, none of which had any outside appeal. Even the Italian restaurants weren't anything special.

But alas, all things must pass. The Italian population had declined to 40% by 2010 and sits at 30% as of 2024, still double that of Pittsburgh as a whole but a far cry from where it was. The business district, which was mostly Italian-owned in 2002, isn't much different than anywhere else. Several of the mainstays have closed, not due to lack of business, but because the owners retired and couldn't find a buyer. Little Italy Days has since become county fair mainstream with both Bloomfield and Italiana an afterthought. While something like 78% of Bloomfield businesses participate, they represent a small proportion of the total vendors, most of whom are large regional companies selling things like insurance and gutter guards. There's still wine, bocce, and Italian entertainment, but the 100,000 visitors necessitate the closing of Liberty Ave. and cause parking issues. The residents hate it.

While the decline of the Italian tradition may be lamentable, I'm not going to shed too many tears for it, despite being of (non-Bloomfield) Italian extraction myself. Things change, and unless the change is unmistakably negative, I don't think we're served any better by clinging to vestiges of the past. The organizers of Little Italy Days can make a deliberate attempt to make it more Italian, but they can't turn it back into the local festival that it was prior to 2012. Do this on a neighborhood scale and we turn Pittsburgh's Little Italy into New York's Little Italy, an ersatz imitation of an ideal that probably never existed, meant to appeal to a tourist's idea of what a Little Italy is supposed to look like. As someone who remembers the old Italian Bloomfield, I can assure you that it wasn't like what you are imagining.

Let me elaborate. I first started hanging around here circa 2004; I went to a small liberal arts college where there was little to do and headed off to greener pastures nearly every weekend. Friends of mine from high school who went to Pitt moved here because the rent was cheaper than in Oakland and there was decent bus service. By cheaper I mean you could rent a 3 bedroom house for under $700/month and a 1 bedroom apartment for under $500. My impression of the place from then up until around 2016 or 2017 was that it was a stable working-class neighborhood that demographically skewed older and more Italian but had a fair amount of younger people as well. Bloomfield was a hipster neighborhood at a time when Lawrenceville had nothing worth glancing at, except for drug addicts and prostitutes. Maybe there was some nascent gentrification going on, but as I said last time, it was totally off my radar. And while Bloomfield may have had a fair share of hipsters at that point, there wasn't anything hip about the neighborhood itself. There were a few places that catered to young people, but the business district was mostly functional. Unlike Oakland, you could actually do most of your business within a ten minute walk from your house.

The Italian businesses that we frequented were not of the type that would appeal to outsiders, and there wasn't necessarily anything Italian about them other than the owner's last name. The Italian bars we used to hang out in were initially selected on the basis of whether or not they carded, which they mostly didn't because it had been a while since they had a customer under the age of 70. These places all had illegal poker machines and your chances of developing lung cancer increased by 50% each time you visited. I later learned that these places ran numbers and offered a sports book if you were willing to bet $50/week. The most famous Italian restaurant was Del's, which was so bad it was featured on Restaurant Impossible in 2012 and closed in 2015. The second most famous was the Pleasure Bar, which is still open. I'm pretty sure they used Prego brand sauce, and the only reason to go there was for karaoke. I remember seeing the waitresses at D'Amico's smoking cigarettes while they cut customers' bread. When I'd see old women drinking wine at these places, it was invariably Riunite. The neighborhood had a lot of characters. The Foodland was ahead of its time in that all of the employees looked like they were on fentanyl before fentanyl became common. It was easily the most disgusting grocery store I have ever been in.

If it seems like I'm nostalgic for the old Bloomfield, I'm not. When I recount these memories to newcomers or younger people they respond along the lines of "It sounds like it was a lot cooler then" to which I reply "No, it wasn't. We hung out at these places first out of necessity, and later out of familiarity. But we didn't feel like we were anywhere cool at the time." To put a finer point on it: When the Steelers won the Super Bowl in 2006, I remember watching the game at my friend's house and walking down to Liberty Ave. after it was over. There were a decent number of people out on the sidewalks celebrating, many of them spilling out of bars, and cars on the street honked as they went by, but when returned and saw the images on the TV news of the absolute mayhem on the South Side, we vowed that if a Pittsburgh team was ever in another championship, we were watching the game there. Luckily, we'd see two there just a few years later. If you're looking for an otherwise unglamorous neighborhood that has a not insignificant hipster population, those places aren't exactly uncommon, even today. But they aren't chic. Bloomfield is cooler now than it was then, and that's a good thing. Sure, I may get some street cred for having hung out in Bloomfield before it was cool, but I don't know why, because it wasn't cool.

When Lawrenceville really took off around 2011, Bloomfield was more or less the same as it was in 2004. The residents definitely skewed younger as the mostly elderly residents were replaced by students lured by cheap rent and excellent transit service, and rents had begun to rise in response, but it didn't show any signs of what we'd traditionally think of as gentrification. Little had changed in the business district, and nobody seemed to be buying houses to restore them. In an East End that was changing, Bloomfield seemed like an island of stability. But as the decade wore on, two things happened. The first is that, as I mentioned earlier, some of the long-time business owners retired and were unable to sell. The second was that prices in Lawrenceville started getting out of hand (by Pittsburgh standards) and Bloomfield, with its intact, functional business district and safe streets, seemed like a good alternative to those who either couldn't afford or didn't want to pay to live elsewhere. The newly vacant storefronts were soon snatched up by people catering to a younger, more affluent demographic, residential prices kept rising, and gentrification was well underway.

Part of the reason I drew the lines for Bloomfield where I did was because this is the part of official Bloomfield that housed the vast majority of the Italian population. But the main reason was because of the housing types. Bloomfield's stereotypical housing style is one that is fairly unique to Pittsburgh—the wood-framed row house. The only other parts of the continent where I know they exist in significant numbers are in the hard coal country of Northeastern Pennsylvania and in Atlantic Canada. These exist all over Pittsburgh, but in Bloomfield they predominate. These houses are almost invariably severely remuddled. In fact, I can only think of one house in the entire neighborhood that retains its original wood siding. While these remuddlings may seem like travesties to modern sensibilities, it's worth keeping in mind the context in which they were done. In the 1950s and 1960s, suburban houses with big yards were the thing to have, and remaining in a place like Bloomfield, with its small, old-fashioned houses meant that you were either too poor to move away or too stubborn to do so. Adding aluminum siding, an awning, and some new, smaller windows gave these people a measure of privacy they couldn't otherwise achieve and made them feel like part of the middle class. These homes were lovingly cared for.

As you may have guessed by now, Liberty Ave. is the main business district. It was great when I first discovered it and has only gotten better since then. While gentrified businesses have moved in, it's still mostly functional, so the presence of places like SPiLL wine bar, Fet-Fisk (Scandinavan food), and Trace Brewing add to the neighborhood rather than detract from it. While I count the Penn/Main business district as part of Lawrenceville, I will include the part of Penn [opposite the back of the cemetery](, which includes Apteka, a vegan restaurant specializing in Central European Cuisine (a gentrified Pittsburgh business idea if there ever was one). Then there's Baum Blvd., which is at the southern end of the neighborhood. This was traditionally the home of Pittsburgh's car dealerships, and currently operates as a sort of urban stroad, with car-dependent businesses, including a dealership or two. This area also includes a small residential area separated from the rest of Bloomfield by a ravine. This sort of feels more like North Oakland and is mostly students, but it's officially Bloomfield, and Oakland is big enough as it is. In reality, the whole Baum-Center Ave. corridor between Oakland and East Liberty is a kind of no man's land, a business district that skirts the edges of Bloomfield and Shadyside but which neither neighborhood claims.

Neighborhood Grade: Gentrifying. Bloomfield skipped the early gentrification phase because it never went through a sketchy period. I'd say Bloomfield's future is bright on the whole, but I would have said that 15 years ago as well, as it didn't really need to see gentrification. That being said, there's room for improvement. Particularly, the housing stock is garbage. Frame is not as desirable as brick, but I have nonetheless seen some nice frame rowhouse restorations in other parts of the city. Bloomfield is still at the stage where houses are being "improved" by replacing the aluminum siding with new vinyl, particularly in a dark color that's meant to fool the eye into thinking it's actually Hardi-Board. Aesthetics aside, most of these houses are small, with a disproportionate amount of 2 bedrooms. The streets are narrow to the point that Lawrenceville looks spacious by comparison, and there isn't a blade of grass or single tree in the entire district. Whether or not these are insurmountable barriers remains to be seen.

12. Friendship: The Suburbs of Bloomfield

As I mentioned in the introduction, Friendship is an official city neighborhood, but the colloquial definition includes a substantial part of what is officially Bloomfield. I've drawn the line at the point where the narrow alleys and frame rowhouses abruptly give way to larger brick houses and wide, leafy streets. I've drawn the northern boundary to follow the Penn business district but to exclude it, since this is traditionally claimed by Garfield, and I've drawn the southern boundary to follow the block between Baum and Center. The eastern boundary is at Negley, though some businesses used to unofficially extend it further into East Liberty in their advertising during the time when being in East Liberty was bad for business.

Historically, this area developed later than Bloomfield. While Bloomfield was largely built out by 1890, Friendship didn't start seeing development until around the turn of the century, though that development proceeded quickly and the neighborhood was built out by 1910. Unlike Bloomfield, Friendship isn't traditionally Italian. This section was originally built for the managerial and professional classes, as opposed to working class Bloomfield. As such, the houses are larger and more attractive. The period when this was considered a desirable area was short-lived, however. The Depression made many of the larger houses difficult to sell, and many of these were converted into rooming houses. Zoning would prevent this from happening on a wide scale until 1958, when a new ordinance explicitly allowed the larger homes to be chopped up into apartments. By the 1970s, 2/3 of the housing units in the official part of Friendship would be rentals, mostly targeted toward students and other young people. As the adjacent neighborhoods of Garfield and East Liberty declined in the 1970s and 1980s, vice and crime problems spilled into Friendship and triggered a measure of white flight from the neighborhood, though it never came anywhere close to being majority black.

Friendship's fortunes began to turn somewhat in the 1980s and 1990s, as middle class homeowners began restoring some of the houses. It was also around this time that Friendship began taking on a more distinct identity. The area had been called Friendship since at least the 1920s, but the extent to which locals embraced the name is difficult to determine. The official part of the neighborhood was officially recognized by the Planning Department from the beginning of official neighborhood designations, but it was lumped in with East Liberty in both the 1977 Neighborhood Atlas and the 1983 Neighborhoods for Living Center map. The urban pioneers of the 1980s, drawn to the architecture and low prices, formed two associated neighborhood groups in 1989, Friendship Development Associates and the Friendship Preservation Group. In 1993, and annual home tour was initiated following a one-off event in 1988.

And thus the double-edged sword of urban advocacy. The early advocates for Friendship, many of them architects, felt that the neighborhood was an overlooked gem. Many of the historic homes had been remuddled by apartment conversions—the most notable crime against architecture was the removal of many of the neighborhood's signature porches—but that was still intact enough to make restoration worthwhile. Friendship Development Associates proceeded with the noble, bottom-up goal of restoring neglected homes and selling them. Friendship Preservation Group, on the other hand, took the top-down approach of pushing for zoning changes to limit apartment conversions and filed lawsuits to stop virtually all new development that didn't conform to their idea of what the neighborhood should look like. Most of this opposition wasn't even focused on the residential core, where multi-unit apartments were still permitted by right, but on the fringes of the neighborhood, where zoning rules were more complicated and variances were often required. Some of this was good, in that they convinced a national drugstore chain to reuse an old car dealership on Baum that they had originally planned to demolish in favor of a suburban-style box, but they were NIMBYs, through and through.

These groups also took the liberty of claiming territory beyond the neighborhood's official borders to Gross St. It was in this section, officially Bloomfield, where most of the urban pioneers actually lived, as the homes were smaller, meaning they were less likely to have been converted into apartments, more likely to come on the market, and cheaper to renovate. While their work wasn't the intentional rebrand that some sources claim it was, it did put Friendship on the map, so to speak. Actually changing the neighborhood was another story. While they repeatedly lobbied to rezone the entire district to limit residential structures to two units, the 1998 rezoning only changed a small section. The majority of Friendship remains zoned for multi-family to this day, and while the city is currently in the midst of rewriting its zoning laws, the zeitgeist is toward more permissive uses and not less, so I doubt there is much political will to eliminate multi-family where it already exists. Not that this is an issue anymore, anyway. Both groups currently exist as the merged Friendship Community Group, which is more of a social organization than a real estate developer or political advocate.

The upshot of all of this is that Friendship changed relatively little between the 1930s and 2020s. Apart from a small influx of blacks in the 1970s and 1980s and a small number of yuppies in the 1980s and 1990s, it mostly had an odd stability of middle class families combined with students and young professionals. The official part of the neighborhood went through a sketchy phase for a while due to proximity to East Liberty. Even into the 2000s, while the area wasn't exactly dangerous, it was certainly a little rough around the edges. To illustrate: Pennsylvania liquor law doesn't allow six packs to be sold anywhere that doesn't have on-premises service. Years ago, there was a convenience store in Friendship that got around this by setting up a perfunctory bar in the back with Formica countertops. No matter when you went in, there was always some raging alcoholic sitting at the bar. Occasionally there would be a few older black guys shooting the shit, but otherwise the place was sketchy as hell. We used to call it the "Grandfathered Inn". The mere existence of this place was, of course, unacceptable to the Friendship NIMBYs, who found a buyer willing to turn the place into something more upscale and convinced the owner of the building to evict. Instead, the proprietor absconded with the liquor license (which he didn't own) and the building sat vacant for more than a decade. It's now a coffee shop which is probably a more convivial location to hang out but which I imagine doesn't sell pornography.

In terms of built form, Friendship is mostly brick houses from the late 19th and early 20th centuries, but within this constraint there is a surprising amount of variety. Some of the blocks north of Friendship Park are reminiscent of Chicago, while other parts are more modestly streetcar suburban. Generally speaking, the houses become grander as you go west to east, with the neighborhood proper containing the grandest homes. As I mentioned earlier, this part of the neighborhood suffered most from the wave of apartment conversions, as the houses are too large to be of interest to most homeowners and absentee landlords are reluctant to sell. Many of these homes look nice enough on the outside but are dumps on the inside, but even at that, the transition between owner-occupied houses and rentals can be quite jarring.

There isn't really a business district. There are a few blocks of Baum, but they aren't as developed as the ends in Bloomfield or East Liberty, though there is an Aldi. There are also probably a few scattered businesses like that coffee shop, but in reality, Friendship doesn't need its own business district. Some old maps divide this area between Bloomfield and East Liberty, because those areas are where Friendship residents traditionally shopped, and the Penn Ave. business district in Garfield forms the neighborhood's northern boundary.

Neighborhood Grade: Upper Middle Class. Friendship passed the gentrified point a long time ago, and there's very little grit left. Ten years ago I would have kept this in the gentrifying category due to the high student population and prevalence of student slumlords, but prices have gotten high enough in the past few years that even these are starting to disappear. I wouldn't have thought there was much of a market for 6 bedroom houses at a million bucks, but here we are. Some of the apartment houses are going to stick around for a while because students will always pay top dollar to live in crap, but I don't hold this against other parts of the city, so I won't hold it against Friendship, either.

13. Garfield: Forcing the Issue

Unlike Bloomfield and Friendship, the borders of Garfield are relatively easy to define: The Penn business district on the south, Allegheny Cemetery on the north and west, and Negley Ave. on the east. The only slightly goofy boundary is on the northeast, which includes both sides of Mossfield and Black streets plus a little bit of surplusage that I threw in because it doesn’t fit anywhere else, and there are a few side streets off of Negley that don't have any road connections to the rest of Garfield and are thus more properly East Liberty, but that's not a huge issue. The most notable geographic feature is the hill that rises steeply to the north of Penn Ave.

Garfield was part of the Winebiddle farm and was named after president James Garfield, who was buried on the day the first residential lot was sold in 1881. It was built out over a long period of time in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and was mostly settled by Irish immigrants, perhaps becoming the most easily identifiable Irish neighborhood in the city. Garfield was never a particularly nice area, and the top of the hill was flattened in the early 1960s for the Garfield Heights housing project. The result was one of the more notable instances of white flight in the city. Garfield's minority population was 17.5% in 1960, 37.3% in 1970, 61.5% in 1980, 78.9% in 1990, and 89.1% in 2000.

Beyond mere demographic change, though, the neighborhood was clearly in decline. By the mid-1970s, while the crime rate was comparable to the city average, people's own eyes told another story. A city councilman's daughter was assaulted on Penn Ave., and the councilman himself had to flee two mugging attempts. The grocery store saw purse snatchings almost daily. The commercial district found itself without a bank, a drugstore, or a men's clothing store, and more closures were sure to follow. Perhaps counterintuitively, the housing project was easily the best in the city at the time and had a crime rate below that of the neighborhood as a whole. In 1975, Rev. Leo Henry, pastor of St. Lawrence O'Toole Catholic Church, formed the Bloomfield-Garfield Corporation to stabilize the neighborhood, as he feared that if no intervention was done, the neighborhood would continue to deteriorate. The group would spend the next 25 years getting grants for property improvements, grants for cleanup of abandoned properties, appearing on the news every time a desirable business would close, appearing on the news urging the city to shut an undesirable business down, but to little avail. The neighborhood got worse, people kept leaving, businesses kept leaving, street crime turned to gang crime, and by the end of the 90s the neighborhood was a war zone.

In 2000, the BGC formed the Penn Avenue Arts Initiative in an overt attempt to replicate the Soho effect in Garfield and turn the neighborhood into an arts district. And it worked. Sort of. A number of galleries opened on Penn, along with a vegan café, Quiet Storm, that became popular among the arty set, as well as People's Indian. (There's also Kraynik's, an iconic bike shop that moved from Oakland in the late '70s when the area was starting to get really bad and has the rare distinction of being a hipster business that's part of the old neighborhood.) The First Friday gallery crawls became a popular thing. But apart from some artists, few actually wanted to settle there. The vibe of the place in the 2000s was distinctly different than anywhere else in the city. It wasn't quite full-on ghetto, but even the low-income businesses seemed to have pulled out, leaving behind a smattering of newsstands and barbershops that stood in contrast to the art galleries and ethnic restaurants. There was still enough left to support a fairly vibrant street life during the day, mostly older black men loitering in front of buildings, and the combination of the narrow street and abandoned, but extant, storefronts gave one a sense of claustrophobia. Nights were even weirder. Most of the time it was a ghost town, except on First Fridays when the street was overtaken by an incongruous mob of white people who didn't wince about going into the hood after dark. Even these contained a mild sense of unease, as when these ended I found myself rushing to the safety of Friendship a block away.

I think this proximity helped the arts district take off in a way that wouldn't have been possible somewhere like the Hill District, where one would actually have to soil one's tires in the ghetto and park in a place where their car was liable to be broken into. I never saw anything remotely sketchy on Penn in those days, but there was security in the knowledge that one could park in a middle class area and beat a retreat if things got too spicy. It's also around this time that the g-word started being mentioned, much to the alarm of the BGC, who had formed the Penn Avenue Arts Initiative just before the word entered the popular consciousness. If the success of the initiative didn't convince people to move to Garfield, it did convince them that it wasn't as dangerous as they thought. I remember several conversations during this period where everyone agreed that its bark was worse than its bite. I met one guy who actually moved here and liked it.

Gentrification eventually picked up, but it's been more of a slow burn. Some time around 2010 all the black people suddenly disappeared from Penn Ave., and the crime rate fell off a cliff. The streets around Penn began gentrifying when the arts initiative was established, but the hill was a tougher nut to crack. Garfield Heights was razed in the late 2000s and replaced with the mixed-income Garfield Commons, and while that development is safe, violent parts of Garfield still remain, though these are becoming fewer and are hyper-localized. It's only been since the pandemic that houses farther up the hill have been rehabbed, though these are more in the line of cheap flips than historic restorations. Part of the problem is that the hill poses a serious barrier to walkability, and while the area is served by several transit lines, frequency isn't good.

In terms of built form, it varies due to the length of the buildout period. The southwest corner, around Dearborn St., was built out earliest, and is similar to Bloomfield. Other parts look like a modest streetcar suburb, and there are even a few larger houses. But there's also a significant number of frame mill houses, and there is significant [blight and abandonment]( the further up the hill you go. Some areas even have a rural, ghetto in the woods feel. Meanwhile, the BGC has been constructing newer homes on vacant lots that are so ugly they seem to block gentrification by design, signaling to outsiders that the neighborhood is for poor people, no hidden gems here.

Neighborhood Grade: Early gentrification. The caveat here is that it's been in this stage between 15 and 20 years now, depending on who you ask, and while things have improved significantly over that time, the bottom was so low that there were many obstacles that had to be overcome, and still more to be overcome in the future. The crime is down dramatically; Part I crimes, which include murder, sex crimes, robbery, burglary, arson, aggravated assault, and theft, are at about 2.5 per 1,000 residents, which is comparable to better neighborhoods in the city. The difference is that when murders happen in better parts of the city, they're explained away as outliers, but when they happen in places like Garfield, they’re cited as evidence that things haven't changed. That said, the gangbanging is pretty much gone, and the safety risk to the general public is lower than places like Downtown and the South Side.

The bigger impediment at this point is the housing stock, which isn't the best. During the bad old days, there was significant blight and abandonment, particularly as you get higher up on the hill, which made the neighborhood fabric patchy in places and downright rural in others. While this may eventually present as opportunities for yuppie infill, the BGC is liable to snatch all these up for ugly affordable housing before that happens. There was already neighborhood opposition to a possible conversion of the former Fort Pitt Elementary into apartments. The BGC was founded in an attempt to stabilize Garfield when it was still largely a working-class Irish neighborhood, and they're currently trying to stabilize it as a working-class black neighborhood, though the common denominator is that it should ultimately be working class. As recently as a decade ago this wasn't too hard to do, as they would build houses for $200,000 and sell them for $140,000 in market-rate transactions. In other words, as long as they had the money to build or renovate, all housing was inherently affordable, because the neighborhood wasn't particularly desirable, especially as one got farther from Penn.

The final thing that's holding Garfield back is the business district, which has a lot of cool stuff but not many necessities, and still has more than its share of vacant storefronts. I think this is one of the things about gentrification that rubs locals the wrong way more than anything else, provided they aren't actively being displaced. I remember an interview with a Garfield resident from some years ago, a black woman in her late 30s, who said that while she supported the new development generally, she wasn't that enthused; her kids weren't interested in art and she couldn't afford t eat at any of the restaurants. I can understand the alienation that comes from waiting decades to see your neighborhood revitalized and when the day comes, it's revitalized for the benefit of other people, people who don't even live there. Politicians can get their pictures taken on a shiny main drag, but there's nothing there for you.

The inherent issue is that economics favors this approach. If I want to open a gentrified-type business, say, a crepe shop, I have two options. I can open it in an established area where I will be competing with established brands and pay a fortune in rent to do so, or I can move to an "emerging" neighborhood where I might not get as much business but where my costs will be significantly lower. I'm not just going to open a storefront in the hood and hope for the best, but if a local community organization is making an effort to bring like-minded businesses to the area, I might be persuaded. Conversely, if I'm trying to open a pharmacy or a bank branch or something where the selection criteria usually boil down to which one is closest, I'm only looking at demographics, and rent is commensurate with how many people are in a given area and how much money they have to spend. What I lose in business by opening up in the hood I might not save due to the rent discount. So people who live in poor areas without huge populations thus have to travel farther for basic services that they'd rather have access to in their own neighborhoods, and they get a bit resentful when the business district "revitalizes" with a bunch of shit they don't need. This is a problem that will be solved in time, but the only solution is to increase the population, and even then, there's going to be a lag. That being said, they do have a grocery store, the Aldi on Penn, and given the Hill District's woes on that front, that's quite the accomplishment, especially since they didn't have to incentivize anyone to build it.

What Did We Learn, Palmer?

When I started this series, the primary goal was to see what conclusions could be drawn about urbanism by systematically looking at a city's neighborhoods; all the neighborhoods, not just the ones that get a lot of press. At that time, two years ago now, I didn't have any expectations as to what I would uncover, and the early installments were filled with a lot of passing observations and deep dives into things I found interesting. Now that I'm a dozen neighborhoods in, some general themes are beginning to take shape, and I want to reflect on them for a minute.

When we started looking at gentrification in earnest last time with the Lawrenceville installment, I argued that while urbanists traditionally pointed to certain factors when making their predictions of what the next hot neighborhood would be, they ignored others, and continue ignoring them to this day. To make a list of all the factors identified thus far:

Proximity to areas of regional importance like Downtown or Oakland
Proximity to desirable neighborhoods
Low violent crime rate (though not necessarily low non-violent crime rate)
Desirability of housing stock
Opportunities for infill construction, especially large apartment complexes
Functional business district
Vacant storefronts available for gentrified businesses
Significant existing white population
Artist presence
Hipster/bohemian presence

I'm not going to reiterate my arguments here, and I'd caution that the list is not exhaustive, but Lawrenceville was unique in that all of the factors applied. City boosters generally treat the first factor as primary, as is evidenced by their predictions that the Hill District or Uptown should be taking off any day now, which trickles down to common people making Reddit posts wondering why neither of these neighborhoods seems to be going anywhere. Lawrenceville wasn't exactly inconvenient, but proximity was probably the least favorable factor on the list, and when that was improved with direct bus service to Oakland it only accelerated the neighborhood's rise. The three neighborhoods we discussed today, while all gentrified to some degree, illustrate what happens when some of these factors are present but not others. Bloomfield had low crime, hipsters, a functional business district, white population, and proximity to Oakland, but few vacant storefronts, modest housing stock, no room for additional development, no artist presence, and no spillover effect from desirable areas. Friendship had low crime, decent proximity to Oakland, decent proximity to desirable areas (Shadyside, in its case), and highly desirable housing stock, but no business district to speak of, and no developable land. Garfield had developable land, plenty of vacant storefronts, and an artist presence, but had a high crime rate, minimal white population, minimal hipster population, few functional businesses, mediocre housing stock, mediocre proximity to Downtown or Oakland, and mediocre proximity to desirable areas.

What changed? Time and spillover. Bloomfield blends almost seamlessly into Lower Lawrenceville, so it was a natural next step, and with time, some gentrified businesses were able to move in. Friendship uses the Bloomfield business district and has better housing, so it was an obvious location as well. Garfield, well, had the most going against it, and still does, but now exists as sort of a "donut hole" in the East End, and while progress has been slow, it's only a matter of time before it booms again, even if the boom is more muted than in other places. So proximity ultimately matters, but not proximity to centers of business and culture, proximity to other gentrified neighborhoods. What people get wrong about proximity to Downtown and Oakland is that people don't want to live in either of those places. Sure, Downtown apartments are expensive, but they're decidedly for the kind of person who wouldn't mind living in Manhattan. People go Downtown because they have to, not because they want to. And Oakland has many cultural treasures, but unless you're in college, not the kind of treasures you need daily access to. Sure, people want to live close to work, but suburbanization proved that proximity to employment is not the primary motivation in the age of the automobile.

As a final disclaimer, don't take any of these conclusions too seriously. While I thought about these factors quite a bit over the past several weeks, I only arrived at the conclusion as I was writing this. This series is a constant work in progress, but so are cities, and it seems like that's a good thing. Next time I'm going to come full circle on gentrification and talk about East Liberty. This is a very different kind of gentrification than what we've talked about so far, and the importance of the neighborhood combined with its history being a veritable cornucopia of all the things urbanists like to talk about makes it another Big One that merits its own entry. Now that this series is finally taking shape after two years, I can give you a preview for the rest of the East End. I got lucky in the sense that the neighborhoods form convenient clusters both geographically and spatially, which eases the roadmap. After East Liberty I plan on discussing the upscale neighborhoods of Shadyside, Squirrel Hill, and Point Breeze. Then it will be the East Liberty "suburbs" of Highland Park, Morningside, and Stanton Heights. Next will be the ghettos of the city's northeastern corner: Homewood, Larimer, East Hills, and Lincoln-Lemmington. We'll round out the East End by looking at a grab-bag of oddball neighborhoods to the south: Greenfield, Hazelwood, The Run, and Swisshelm Park. Actually, I lied; we won't be rounding out the East End. I'm saving Regent Square for something special. Anyway, this is a tentative plan, and is subject to change when I find myself writing 10,000 words on a little-known redevelopment plan in Duck Hollow that I found in the URA archives, but I wanted to reassure both of my readers that I intend on moving forward.

Bonus Content

Since nobody got the Easter Egg from the last installment (possibly because nobody clicks the links), the street from the COPS clip with the dispute among the kids was the same one I used to demonstrate the built form of Lower Lawrenceville below Butler. I wonder what happened to those people and if they saw any benefit from the neighborhood's improvement. In any event, I think it's safe to say that they don't live there anymore.

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