Mapping Plant Growth Against Gentrification
I didn’t expect a clump of mugwort growing behind a chain-link fence to stop me in my tracks. But that’s exactly what happened one spring morning as I was walking through a rapidly changing neighborhood in the city I’ve called home for two decades. There, in the narrow no-man’s-land between a cracked sidewalk and a construction site, the plant had taken root—sturdy, fragrant, and almost defiant. It was a reminder that while buildings rise and populations shift, plants keep their own kind of time.
As a landscape architect, I spend a lot of time thinking about green corridors—those often overlooked spaces like alleyways, roadside strips, overgrown train tracks, and community gardens that connect urban patches of nature. But lately, I’ve come to see these corridors as more than just ecological infrastructure. They’re also timelines. Living archives. If you know how to read them, they can show you what a place has been, how it’s changed, and who might have once called it home.
Weeds Don’t Lie
One of the great myths of the modern city is that it’s completely under our control. We like to think that development happens in clean lines and that progress is measured in square footage and property values. But all you have to do is walk through a back alley or an abandoned lot to know that nature has its own opinion.
Plants grow where they’re allowed to. And sometimes where they’re not. What grows where—and when—can tell you a lot about a neighborhood’s history. For example, I’ve noticed that the more neglected an area has been in the past, the more botanical richness it often has. Layers of wildflowers, medicinal herbs, fruiting trees planted by residents years ago. These aren’t just pretty details. They’re clues.
Then, as gentrification rolls in—new developments, higher rents, fast-tracked rezoning—those same green corridors often begin to shrink. Landscapes get sanitized. Gardens get razed. What was once a weedy, wild little haven becomes mulch-covered ornamental groundcover outside a luxury condo.
A Living Record of Who Came Before
There’s a stretch of the city where I’ve been documenting plant growth for the last 10 years. It used to be home to a patchwork of small family businesses, immigrant-owned groceries, and row houses with vegetable gardens spilling onto the sidewalk. You could find fig trees, mint patches, and flowering vines growing up fences.
Now, much of it is glass and steel. But in certain alleys and fence lines, the plants persist. The fig tree that someone’s grandmother planted decades ago is still bearing fruit, even though the house is long gone. The calendula by the loading dock still blooms every spring.
These are more than plants. They’re memories rooted in place. And they offer a kind of resistance—not aggressive, but quiet and persistent. They remind us of who shaped these neighborhoods long before developers showed up.
Why the Green Corridor Matters
To me, a green corridor is like a living time machine. It stretches through years of change, stubbornly keeping record in roots and branches. These spaces are crucial not just for pollinators and birds, but for people. Especially in neighborhoods facing displacement.
When you protect or thoughtfully integrate these green corridors into urban planning, you’re making room for continuity. You’re saying that not everything has to be paved over in the name of progress. That there’s value in honoring what was already here.
They can also serve as gathering spaces—places for community gardening, cultural memory, and intergenerational connection. If we’re serious about inclusive cities, we need to treat green corridors as cultural infrastructure, not just landscaping afterthoughts.
Designing with Memory in Mind
I believe good landscape design doesn’t erase what came before. It builds on it. That might mean saving that old plum tree instead of cutting it down. Or designing a park that acknowledges the plant species common to the community’s cultural practices. Or preserving the layout of a backyard garden even as the homes around it change.
In my work, I try to design for layered time—combining new uses with echoes of the past. It’s not always easy. Developers want clean lines. Cities want low maintenance. But I’ve found that when you make space for the natural and cultural history of a site, people respond with more care, more ownership, and more joy.
What Happens When We Stop Paying Attention
The danger isn’t just losing plants—it’s losing memory. When we flatten the landscape, we flatten the story. And that’s a loss for everyone, not just longtime residents. Gentrification doesn’t have to mean total erasure, but it often does. And when the last fig tree gets cut down to make room for a valet stand, something meaningful disappears.
That’s why I keep walking the same routes. Keep taking notes. Keep planting where I can. Not every corridor can be saved, but some can. And every time a native aster blooms in the cracks of a sidewalk next to a new build, I take it as a small win.
The Future Grows in the Margins
The good news is: plants are patient. Even after the bulldozers come, even after the leases expire, something green usually finds its way back. But we don’t have to wait for nature to reclaim the city. We can choose to value it now. To integrate it into how we build, how we design, and how we remember.
The green corridors in our cities are more than patches of wild growth. They are breathing histories. And maybe, if we pay close enough attention, they can also guide us toward a future that’s a little more rooted, a little more just, and a lot more alive.