The price of segregation: Who pays and who profits in Phoenix?

White homeowners gain millions, while Black and Brown communities pay with their lives. Once promoted as “the winter playground of the Southwest,” Phoenix remains a city deeply shaped by segregation, where privilege dictates who gets to stand their ground and who is displaced — who is protected and who is left behind.

Phoenix is the ninth-most gentrified city in the country, but “urban revitalization” is nothing more than redlining with a fresh coat of paint — another way of systematically displacing Black and Brown residents. It’s a modern-day Jim Crow tactic, cleverly disguised as progress. 

The Fair Housing Act of 1968 was enacted to end these discriminatory practices, yet, much like the de facto segregation of Jim Crow, gentrification still dictates who can remain and who is forced out of their community. Today, instead of train tracks, highways and light rail lines carve through neighborhoods, while real estate deals and “best neighborhood” websites help reinforce segregation under the guise of personal preference.

In 1935, the Home Owners’ Loan Corporation (HOLC) drafted residential security maps, which gave us the term “redlining.” They became blueprints for discrimination, rating neighborhoods from “A” (most desirable) to “D” (too risky for investment). 

As a result, the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) used redlining maps to decide who deserved a loan and which communities would be denied the chance to build wealth. Redlining maps ensured neighborhoods of color were locked out of home loans, funneling money into the suburbs while excluding and disinvesting in Black and Brown communities.

Between 2012 and 2016, residential properties within a half-mile of public transit nationally saw a 4%-24% higher median sale price, while commercial properties in four of seven regions experienced a 5%-42% increase in median price per square foot — a trend that continues today. 

Take south Phoenix’s 85042 ZIP code, which includes the latest extension of the light rail, where median home values have risen from $210,000 in 2012 to $465,000 today. Families near public transportation can save $2,500–$4,400 annually, with one in four needing only one car. 

However, even though light rail was pitched as a way to help improve life for the Black and Brown people who have called that part of Phoenix home for generations, rising home prices are driving them from the area.

Politicians, urban planners, and real estate companies often use diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) rhetoric while simultaneously displacing communities based on race, class, and power. This isn’t just about property values — it’s about who is allowed to belong and who is pushed out.

If you’ve lived in Phoenix long enough, you’ve heard the narratives. On one side of South Mountain sits Ahwatukee, derisively nicknamed “All White Tukee,” which is seen as a privileged safe haven, while the south Phoenix redlined neighborhoods on the other side of the mountain that have long been populated by mostly Black and Brown people — neighborhoods recently bisected by the Loop 202 expansion — are described as violent, crime-ridden and struggling. “All White Tukee” is not just a nickname: It is a reflection of systemic inequity sewn into the city’s foundation.

The Arizona Supreme Court recently awarded Ahwatukee homeowners in the Foothill Reserves $12 million in damages, including an additional $6 million for seizing common areas in the community. This comes after a long battle over claims that the controversial Loop 202 construction devalued their properties and impacted their health with increased noise, pollution, and visual obstructions. The judgment acknowledged not just financial loss but also emotional distress due to the increased health risks. 

Meanwhile, Black and Brown communities in South Phoenix, forced to live in redlined, high-risk areas like “sacrifice zones,” which causes not only health risks but causes property values to plunge facing an onslaught of injustices with no compensation.

“Separate but equal” was ruled constitutional in the 1896 case Plessy v. Ferguson, cementing segregation into law. The U.S. Supreme Court claimed segregation was legal as long as facilities were “equal” — but in reality, they never were. Black residents were shut out of white neighborhoods unless they took on predatory loans they could never hope to repay.

Even though Brown v. Board of Education in 1954 struck down “separate but equal” in schools, the damage was already done. Generations of Black families had been denied access to quality education and locked out of homeownership, expanding the racial wealth gap and limiting social mobility.

Every day, I am struck by the great migration unfolding in South Phoenix. 

This is not a movement driven by choice or opportunity. Instead, generations of Black and Brown residents are being forced out by rising home values, increasing property taxes and the systematic closure of schools in historically minoritized neighborhoods. 

This isn’t a new phenomenon but a rebrand of segregation and exclusion, rooted in Jim Crow laws that once labeled South Phoenix as “hazardous,” a designation that justified confining Black and Brown communities. White banks and developers deemed it too risky for investment, while the city allowed industrial facilities like landfills, stockyards and rendering plants into these neighborhoods, banning them from white neighborhoods. 

Today, Black Americans are approximately 1.5 times more likely to be exposed to pollutants than white Americans due to living near industrial parks, highways and pollution sources, bearing the brunt of environmental racism. Meanwhile, wealthier, predominantly white communities remain protected from these toxic burdens. This stark inequality exposes the systemic neglect of Black and Brown communities, where the cost of industrial development is paid in poor health and a diminished quality of life.

Though redlining is illegal, its impact remains embedded in housing policies and urban planning. Much like de facto Jim Crow laws, modern policies and regulations, like exclusionary zoning regulations, still force Black and Brown communities into areas plagued by environmental hazards, underfunded schools and economic disinvestment.

Exclusionary zoning are regulations that restrict the amount and type of housing that property owners are allowed to construct on their land. One example in Phoenix is the R1-6 zoning code, which restricts housing density by mandating that only single-family homes can be built on lots of at least 6,000 square-feet. This limits the construction of multi-family or affordable housing, making it difficult to provide denser, more affordable options and effectively excluding lower-income residents from certain neighborhoods.

Gated communities, a specific type of development, often utilize exclusionary zoning practices to restrict access and create a sense of exclusivity and safety. This can reinforce social and economic segregation, leading to a concentration of wealth and resources in certain areas, while others face disinvestment and limited opportunities.

Highways, like Interstates 10 and 17, have long been weapons of gentrification, disrupting and displacing communities of color. The two intersect when highways and gentrification collide with neighborhood revitalization — just as historically disinvested communities begin to thrive on their own, the city steps in, claiming to support them, but instead destabilizing the ecosystem. This pattern echoes past attempts to dismantle Black progress, from Reconstruction to the Black Power Movement.

Robert Moses, the powerful New York City urban planner in the early 20th century, exemplified this strategy. He used highways as tools of segregation, intentionally designing roadways that cut through Black and low-income neighborhoods, displacing thousands of residents. His projects, like the Cross-Bronx Expressway, not only destroyed communities but also isolated them from access to wealthier, predominantly white areas. Moses’ use of infrastructure to reinforce racial and economic divides serves as a historical parallel to current practices of gentrification and urban displacement.

Where vibrant urban farming by Black and Brown communities was revitalizing the area, the city disguised exploitation as progress. Just as freed slaves in the post-Civil War era were granted land to cultivate, only to have it stolen through sharecropping, the city designates these once-neglected, “hazardous” spaces as valuable only after they begin to thrive — then swiftly takes them away.

White residents, with greater access to generational wealth thanks to redlining, can afford rising property taxes and home values, while Black and Brown residents in South Phoenix struggle to keep up with the increased rent and mortgage. Developers, motivated by profit, inflate costs due to rising impact fees, driving up rents and mortgages. Areas like Ahwatukee and Laveen have the lowest impact fees at $15,000, while Scottsdale and North Phoenix face the highest at $37,000.

Despite these systemic barriers, some communities fought to defy segregation. One of the first neighborhoods to be demolished, the Golden Gate Barrio, was a historically Mexican American community in South Phoenix that had begun breaking racial barriers. Located where Sky Harbor Airport now stands, it was one of the few places in Phoenix where integration was taking root. 

But this progress was cut short when the neighborhood was displaced under the guise of airport expansion. As families were forced to relocate, Mexican Americans integrated into other neighborhoods throughout South Phoenix, reshaping the area’s cultural landscape. This displacement serves as yet another example of how “progress” in Phoenix has often come at the expense of minoritized communities.

Phoenix’s segregation wasn’t an accident. It was deliberately designed, reinforced through policy, and sustained by economic and environmental inequality. The language of discrimination may have changed, but its impact remains.

The question is: Will we allow history to keep repeating itself, or will we demand justice for the communities that continue to pay the price for Phoenix’s progress?