This article is part of a larger feature on how land use battles are hindering the clean energy transition.

A critical land use dimension of the clean energy transition is the mining of metals used for batteries for electric vehicles and general power storage, including lithium, cobalt, copper, nickel, niobium, and graphite. The World Bank estimates that over 3 billion tons of minerals and metals will be needed by 2050 to meet the clean energy storage and deployment goals in the 2015 Paris Agreement—a production increase of 500 percent.

With these minerals in such high demand, regions like Latin America, which controls two-thirds of the global supply of lithium, are under tremendous pressure to allow mining as a new source of economic development. But the mining process is dangerous, hugely disruptive to the environment, and often occurs within Indigenous territories.

The resource-rich countries where the minerals are, primarily in the Global South, are home to extensive biodiversity and uniquely vulnerable to the impacts of climate change, said Claudia Dobles Camargo, former First Lady of Costa Rica, where open-air mining is banned. “We cannot just transition from one type of energy to clean energy without taking into consideration that this could become a new extractivism,” she said. Honduras and El Salvador have also banned the practice.

Beyond the developing world, any move to extract these clean-power minerals seems to become instantaneously contentious. When a Maine couple discovered large lithium deposits on their property, they were surprised that neighbors didn’t celebrate the potential contribution to the clean energy transition—but rather demanded state regulators prevent any kind of mining operation at all.

Technology may come to the rescue, in the form of more sustainable lithium mining techniques involving microbes, seawater, and brine. Lithium can also be recycled from old batteries, a process dubbed “urban mining.” And researchers at MIT and elsewhere are working on new kinds of batteries, such as metal-air devices using aluminum, zinc, or iron, all of which are abundantly available, that would obviate the need for lithium altogether.

Another approach to minimize damage and land use conflicts: reduce demand for batteries for electric vehicles by driving less—a higher bar, to be sure, for societies just getting used to the concept of alternatives to fossil fuel.

A report by a team led by Providence College Professor Thea Riofrancos found that the United States “can achieve zero emissions transportation while limiting the amount of lithium mining necessary by reducing the car dependence of the transportation system, decreasing the size of electric vehicle batteries, and maximizing lithium recycling.”

“Reordering the US transportation system through policy and spending shifts to prioritize public and active transit while reducing car dependency,” the report says, “can also ensure transit equity, protect ecosystems, respect Indigenous rights, and meet the demands of global justice.”

Anthony Flint is a senior fellow at the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, host of the Land Matters podcast, and a contributing editor of Land Lines.

Lead image: Silver Peak lithium mine, Nevada. Credit: simonkr via E+/Getty Images.

One emerging consensus to combat climate change is increasingly clear: electrify everything, and make that power come from renewable sources, like wind, solar, and hydro power. Removing fossil fuels from electricity generation can be surprisingly smooth, as clean power facilities have rapidly become more cost-efficient. Renewables are currently 20 percent of US power generation and steadily growing.

But there’s a sprawling and daunting land use task that is necessary to make that clean energy transition happen: not only the siting of solar arrays and wind farms, but the construction and improvement of transmission lines and substations and pipelines, across thousands of acres of land.

Researchers at Princeton University have estimated that if manufacturing capacity for turbines and photovoltaics continues to ratchet up as it has been for the last several years, up to 400,000 square miles will be needed in the US to harvest wind energy alone. That means much more visible renewable energy infrastructure on hilltops, in suburban neighborhoods, and in what may feel like people’s backyards.

Battles over the siting of wind and solar installations, and opposition to the key upgrades and expansion of the grid that will allow clean power to plug in, are occurring on a state-by-state basis, in the absence of federal authority or oversight. In many cases, renewable energy facilities have been cleared through the permitting process to start operating, but remain in limbo because they can’t plug in to the existing, antiquated grid.

A crazy quilt of local land use regulations—including bylaws restricting solar fields and wind farms—has amplified the voices of opposition from neighbors and organized groups, including, in what many climate advocates consider a profound irony of the times, some environmental organizations. In addition, land use conflicts are hindering another critical component of the clean energy transition: the mining of metals such as lithium to make high-capacity rechargeable batteries, for electric vehicles and storing power from renewable sources when the sun doesn’t shine or the wind doesn’t blow (see sidebar).

Those targeting net-zero emissions by mid-century hoped for a high-level wave of renewable energy that would transform the way everyone gets their power. Instead, there are standoffs and bottlenecks, at the state and local level, as the execution of this extraordinary transition gets bogged down, literally, on the ground.

“I would agree things aren’t going well right now—though I would suggest that we also have way more shots on goal than in previous years, so there are more stories of projects getting blocked because there are just more project proposals,” said Sarah Banas Mills, senior project manager at the Graham Sustainability Institute and lecturer at the School for Environment and Sustainability, University of Michigan.

As frustration mounts at what many see as a fumbling of the ball at a key moment in the fight against climate change, Mills, who has been tracking battles over renewable energy all over the US and coauthored a paper on the topic, says a more nuanced analysis is required about each and every site, now that installations are ramping up. Wind projects in places with more people or higher scenic amenities are more likely to be opposed; neighbors may also be more likely to balk at large solar arrays on farmland, which many clean-energy advocates thought would be an easier sell.

“Renewables present one of the biggest economic opportunities rural communities have seen in decades,” she said. “But with all opportunities, there are trade-offs. That we have so many communities saying no suggests to me that in many places communities are finding that the positives—economic benefits—don’t outweigh the negatives. Changes may need to be made to project characteristics, like size, location within the community, and distribution of economic benefits . . . to get more communities to ‘yes.’”

It wasn’t always this way. In the past, there was little to no veto power exercised at the local level, as industrialization advanced and critical infrastructure was deemed necessary, whether canals, railroads, and telegraph lines in the 19th century, or the interstate highway system in the 1950s.

A common thread for infrastructure is the intensive use of land, which is necessary to complete networks and distribute benefits across large expanses. This was especially true in the development of the grid. Power plants were built at whatever location was required, whether near a coal mine or on a river. Then, a decentralized but highly connected system of substations, transformers, and transmission and distribution lines got the power to the end user—homes and businesses. The flow of power is from point to point and as it happens, since large amounts of electricity are not stored; the power is used as it is produced, and vice versa.

Although the construction, organization, and regulation of the grid started out in a patchwork state-by-state and regional framework, the federal government established oversight with the Federal Power Act of 1920, which Congress passed to coordinate the development of hydroelectric projects such as the Hoover Dam. Major new agencies like the Tennessee Valley Authority, established in 1933, helped create a sense of intention and purpose; bringing electricity to rural areas was part of a national mobilization in economic development during the Great Depression (and, also intentionally, a fountainhead of jobs). Among other federal agencies, what is now known as the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) took the lead in managing power generation and the grid, although generally oversight of utilities, and the prices they charge in particular, remains a state responsibility.

In terms of the extraordinary accomplishment of the grid, the ultimate result of planning and coordination is the familiar landscape of today: 160,000 miles of high-voltage power lines draped on shiny metal stanchions up to 200 feet tall, with forest and brush cleared away underneath, crisscrossing the countryside, whisking electricity generated by 7,300 power plants to nearly 150 million customers across the US, according to the US Energy Information Administration (EIA). The North American grid—three grids, technically, called the Eastern, Western, and Texas Interconnect—is completed by millions of miles of low-voltage power lines and distribution transformers.

To date, most electricity is produced using conventional sources such as natural gas, oil, coal, and nuclear. But at least 20 percent of the nation’s power is now generated by renewable energy facilities—wind, solar, hydroelectric, biomass, geothermal—and that proportion is growing, as coal-fired power plants, for example, are steadily phased out. Over the past decade, 290 coal-fired plants were decommissioned in the US, leaving 224 in operation.

The Biden administration has pledged to eliminate fossil fuels as a form of energy generation in the US by 2035, setting the goal of 80 percent carbon-free electricity by 2030. Wind, solar, and hydroelectric power have been the fastest-growing segment of the energy sector, and will be further fueled by some $370 billion in funding under the Inflation Reduction Act. Wind and solar projects, steadily improving in their technology and efficiency, are ready to roll.

But therein lies the current land use challenge—not only in the siting of renewable energy installations, but also in the all-important upgrade to the grid to carry and distribute all that clean power. On both fronts, the development of renewable energy has been stymied in recent years.

Opposition to offshore wind farms, notably the Cape Wind project off Cape Cod, was perhaps the first and most infamous example of affluent homeowners objecting to clean-energy infrastructure because they claimed it spoiled the view. But wind farms on land, whether atop ridges or on farmland, have also ignited fierce opposition, even in remote areas.

In Northern California, Shasta County supervisors rejected a proposal by Connect Wind/Fountain Wind for 48 turbines on rural land after hearing concerns about impacts on wildlife habitat, Indigenous lands, and even whether the turbines would interfere with fighting wildfires from the air. A local ordinance passed shortly afterward banning large wind projects outright. The California Energy Commission is allowing the developers a second chance under a provision of Assembly Bill 205, which can override local veto power over clean energy projects.

In Iowa, a judge ordered developers to dismantle three 450-foot turbines on farmland after neighboring landowners complained about the noise they made. The victorious opponents, who successfully argued that the zoning board shouldn’t have issued the permits, hope their battle “will empower other rural landowners and small towns to take on wind,” according to the Des Moines Register.

A typical concern as well is the danger posed by wind turbines to birds—although pesticides, buildings, and housecats kill many times more birds than the slowly rotating blades, and clean-tech researchers, using artificial intelligence, have come up with ways to keep birds away anyway.

Solar installations have not fared much better. While more than 2,500 solar farms are up and running in the United States, solar projects are increasingly running into blockades, in Indiana, Ohio, Virginia, and elsewhere. Neighbors often get in an uproar when they see how large, visible, and land-intensive some of the solar arrays are, describing them in alarming fashion, as in one battle over a Midwest proposal, as filling up thousands of football fields with shiny, deep blue panels.

Researchers in a 2021 Michigan study found that despite readily acknowledged benefits such as economic development, tax payments, and compensation for the landowner and community, “projects have increasingly faced local resistance . . . [due to] aesthetics, noise, and negative impacts to rural and Tribal culture, values, and community energy sovereignty, along with . . . risk to wildlife, productive farmland, biodiversity, and human health.” Additional perceived risks included lowered home and property values, increased electricity rates, impacts to tourism, and the toxicity of materials used in construction and operation, the study says.

A team at MIT studied 53 American renewable energy projects that were paused, delayed, or canceled between 2008 and 2021 in 28 states because of local opposition. The researchers identified seven common drivers of conflict: environmental impact; financial viability; quality of public engagement; Tribal rights; health and safety concerns; and concerns related to land and property values.

“We found overwhelming evidence to suggest that federal, state, and local regulators need to rethink the design and operation of their facility siting processes,” the researchers conclude. “A fast and fair transition to renewable energy will not be achieved in the US if policymakers and energy developers do not anticipate and respond proactively to the full array of sources of local opposition.”

High-profile standoffs have the effect of scaring off partners worried about bad publicity. In Queensland, Australia, the tech company Apple withdrew from an agreement to buy power from a proposed 80-turbine windfarm on nearly 2,000 acres, a project the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) had criticized for threatening koalas, wallabies, and red goshawks. A WWF spokesman applauded the move, saying it demonstrated “leadership and a commitment to renewables that are good for climate and nature.”

Opposition to transmission lines and the upgrades and expansion of the grid that are necessary to handle new clean power has been perhaps the most strenuous of all—leaving renewable energy installations that have already been built or permitted to remain in limbo, an untenable scenario for green-tech companies and investors.

A four-year legal battle over a 145-mile transmission line that would carry hydroelectric power from Quebec to Massachusetts has been representative of the bare-knuckle brawling over land use. Conservation groups said the pipeline threatened wilderness areas in Maine, where most of the line would be constructed, prompting a statewide vote against the project, though it had already been permitted. A judge recently ruled that construction could resume.

Proponents complained that the opposition had been financed and motivated by a rival natural gas utility seeking to block competition. Joseph Curtatone, president of the Northeast Clean Energy Council, said he hoped the court decision “marks an end to the self-interested, corporate-funded attempts to sabotage this project.” Building the project as planned, he said, would remove more than 3 million metric tons of carbon annually and provide $200 million in desperately needed upgrades to the electric grid.

“This is essential work in our effort to electrify everything in order to avoid the worst effects of climate change. Without grid upgrades we can’t deliver power to heat pumps and electric vehicles. These are the kinds of big leaps we need to take after decades of minimal progress on climate action,” he said. “If we’re fighting tooth-and-nail over removing 3 million tons of CO2 with lower-cost energy, we’re never going to reach net zero.”

In the book Superpower, the author Russell Gold chronicled the ultimately futile attempt by Houston businessman Michael Skelly to get approval for a transmission line to connect windfarms in Oklahoma to the grid in Tennessee, which became emblematic of community opposition paired with politics. But the same problem keeps recurring. It took 18 years before a 732-mile transmission line was approved by federal authorities to carry clean power from the proposed 700-turbine TransWest wind farm on ranchland in Wyoming to homes and businesses in California. The interstate project required multiple approvals under the National Environmental Protection Act (NEPA), with detailed examination of impacts on flora and fauna, including the sagebrush grouse.

The objections to green infrastructure have evoked past battles over endangered species, sacred sites, and otherwise culturally valuable land. The Greenlink West project, a 470-mile transmission line through Nevada, is under fire because it might disturb woolly mammoth tusk fossils.

The irony is not lost on many that environmental laws passed in the 1970s to combat rampant pollution are now being used to fight renewable energy projects that will curb climate change. Environmental litigation is threatening a wide range of environmentally advantageous initiatives across the country, from dense housing to bike lanes to congestion pricing.

“I’m an environmentalist, which means I’ve got some practice in saying no. It’s what we do,” wrote Bill McKibben in an essay for Mother Jones titled, “Yes in Our Backyards.” McKibben’s decades of activism include successfully fighting the Keystone XL fossil-fuel pipeline. “But we’re at a hinge moment now, when solving our biggest problems—environmental but also social—means we need to say yes to some things. . . . One way may be to back up a little and think of the slightly longer term.”

Without any sense of a grand plan or rationale, and environmentalists divided—one camp saying impacts on the environment must always be considered, the other that there will be no functioning wildlife habitats or thriving species if climate change isn’t curtailed—renewable energy projects are increasingly being viewed as what Harvard professor Alan Altshuler called LULUs: “locally unwanted land uses,” like prisons or landfills.

An array of solutions for overcoming this impasse has emerged recently, including legislation introduced just this year. At least three steps are needed to adequately and effectively deploy clean energy infrastructure, says Patrick Welch, an analyst in the Climate Strategies group at the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy: federal-level permitting reform, local regulatory changes, and more strategic and creative planning.

“In many instances, there are genuine issues regarding the proposed siting of new solar, wind, and hydro projects—whether that is related to stormwater runoff issues, other impacts on important ecosystems, or new land grabs on Indigenous lands,” Welch said. “We need to be more strategic and creative. Things like co-locating solar on parking lots and rooftops or interstate rights of way, rather than clearcutting forests, are good solutions.”

The Nature Conservancy’s Site Renewables Right initiative, which identifies suitable sites for wind and solar energy by mapping factors including environmental impact and agricultural production, is a good example of trying to find workable solutions, he said; another is Baltimore County’s study on solar siting, which identified nearly 34,000 acres of potential optimal solar sites on rooftops, parking lots, and degraded lands.

But even with more appropriate siting, Welch said, permitting and local land use regulations can get in the way. “Both sides of the aisle have known for decades that NEPA and the associated permitting spiderwebs are responsible for long, unnecessary delays. Now, the climate crisis has brought new urgency to that conversation. Local regulations must allow for the appropriate siting of renewable energy infrastructure, too.”

Federal coordination—harkening back to the more intentional establishment of infrastructure in the first half of the 20th century—has seemed to many the obvious first step. This spring, US Senator Sheldon Whitehouse (D-RI) and US Representative Mike Quigley (D-IL) introduced the Streamlining Interstate Transmission of Electricity (SITE) Act, which would establish a new federal siting authority at the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission to ease the process of constructing long-range, high-voltage transmission lines.

“If we don’t build more long-range transmission lines, much of the low-cost clean energy that is coming online will simply not be able to get to the homes and businesses that need it,” Whitehouse said when unveiling the bill. The goal is better reliability, an upgrade of the nation’s creaky grid infrastructure, and lower emissions while “responsibly balancing local needs and preferences,” he said.

There is action at the state and regional scale as well. After criticism that state regulatory authorities have been dragging their feet on the clean energy transition, Massachusetts Governor Maura Healey appointed climate-savvy commissioners to the state Department of Public Utilities, and established two new commissions, one to review clean energy siting and permitting, and another to coordinate offshore wind development.

In Washington State, Governor Jay Inslee recently signed a bill requiring longer-term planning by utilities and allowing bigger transmission projects to go through the state’s streamlined siting process. The Bonneville Power Administration (BPA), which manages hydropower from 31 federal dams in the Northwest, has proposed some upgrades to its system, which, if completed, will help increase transmission capacity.

The electricity market is structured differently in the Pacific Northwest than in California and other states, making coordination and planning that much more difficult, said Emily Moore, director of the Climate and Energy program at the Sightline Institute. Washington and Oregon have assertive climate action plans to shift to clean energy, but even if all utilities agreed to switch tomorrow, the grid couldn’t support the load, she said, so hundreds of wind and solar projects are languishing.

“In an ideal world, we would have clarity on how much more transmission is needed . . . and where it would go, so we could then start building it before it is too late,” she said. “But planning, at least in our region, is largely reactive, not proactive. Changing that here will require new levels of coordination between BPA, individual utilities, regulators, and policymakers.”

When renewable energy projects or transmission lines are first rolled out to the public, developers would do well to practice better stakeholder engagement, said Josh Hohn, a principle at the urban design firm Stantec. He urges project leaders to help people visualize what’s actually being proposed “before imaginations run wild.”

Building consensus about clean energy infrastructure is especially challenging in part because the land use issues are so local, but tie back to the global problem of climate change, requiring conceptualizing priorities in sometimes counterintuitive ways. For example, it seems outrageous to clear trees to make way for solar panels. But according to one forest ecologist, doing so actually reduces carbon emissions more after a period of time than leaving the trees in place.

Technology is also advancing so rapidly, the land use dimension of clean energy could become less onerous. Geothermal drills require less land, though are akin to the oil rigs that have dotted the landscape since the turn of the last century.

Batteries are getting better, allowing clean power to be stored. And there is the notion of the mega-solar project, consolidating arrays all in one or two large, out-of-the-way locations, like a corner of the Sahara desert. By one calculation, solar panels on a single parcel of 43,000 square miles—1.2 percent of the Sahara—could power the entire world.

At a more conceptual level, McKibben—who founded the organization Third Act to recruit aging boomers concerned about climate change—called for a change in mindset when looking at clean energy infrastructure. Instead of viewing it as unsightly, he suggests, we could appreciate how it’s helping the planet wean off fossil fuels, and has great economic returns as well. “It’s a different kind of beauty,” he said in an interview, though he acknowledged people are used to judging landscapes by more conventional measures.

Whether such reconceptualization can happen remains to be seen. But the public’s relationship with land has clearly become a key element of the clean energy transition. Above all, this is a moment for thoughtful land policy, with the future of the planet hanging in the balance, said the Lincoln Institute’s Patrick Welch.

“Given the scale and urgency needed for this massive rollout of new infrastructure, there is a significant risk that we do it in a way that leads to serious unintended consequences,” Welch said. “So we need to be mindful and strategic—but not to the point of inaction.”

Anthony Flint is a senior fellow at the Lincoln Institute, host of the Land Matters podcast, and a contributing editor to Land Lines.

Lead image: Protesters in Maine express their opposition to a planned hydroelectric corridor that will cut through the state as it carries energy from Quebec to Massachusetts. Credit: AP Photo/Robert F. Bukaty

There’s so much happening today in the world’s cities—from climate change to a massive shortage of affordable housing—that the job of the city planner has become a furiously busy one, requiring a singular talent for multitasking and managing the needs of increasingly divided constituencies.

Planners have traditionally labored largely behind the scenes, but are emerging into a more visible role as they explain their work and try to keep the peace, said author Josh Stephens on the latest episode of the Land Matters podcast. Stephens interviewed 23 big-city planners for a new book, Planners Across America.

“Planning directors have huge influence over these cities . . . but they’re not necessarily well known. They are not on the level of a mayor or a city council person who are obviously elected officials, and by definition in the public spotlight; they’re not necessarily like a police chief who is always doing press conferences,” he said. “I think one thing that is very clear in these interviews is how earnest planning directors are about mediating, about figuring out what different stakeholders need and want, and are willing to tolerate.”

Acknowledging the distrust that has grown particularly in communities of color, over urban renewal, highways through urban neighborhoods, and exclusionary zoning, Stephens said planners realize the importance of “listening to people, especially people who have historically been left out of the planning conversation.”

At the same time, planners must confront established residents fighting growth, in what is presented as a virtuous grassroots rebellion but is actually the manifestation of NIMBYism, standing for “not in my backyard.”

“Many communities are empowered, and some of that power is unevenly distributed to the extent that some communities have louder voices, and some communities will invoke people like Jane Jacobs in ways that are not necessarily beneficial for the city as a whole, or might even be disingenuous,” Stephens said.

As he spoke with planners, Stephens found widespread acceptance of the idea that most cities need a massive infusion of new housing supply including multifamily housing—and even high-end housing—to help bring prices down as a matter of basic economics. That’s been the aim of several statewide mandates requiring local governments to modify zoning.

“We do need to add luxury housing in high-cost places to accommodate the people who can afford it. I think ideally, that frees up space, and frees up capital and opportunity, and sometimes public funds to then also build deed-restricted affordable housing, and hopefully maintain a supply of naturally occurring affordable housing,” he said.

“You look at where the prices are highest, and that’s where you need to add housing. You need to add it at every level. There’s an argument that there’s no such thing as trickle-down housing. I don’t buy that. I live in Los Angeles, and there’s more than enough money to go around. If you don’t build luxury housing, that doesn’t mean that wealthy and high-income people are not going to move to LA. They’re simply going to move into whatever the next best housing is. That pushes people down, and eventually some people are left with no place to live.”

However, he said, there will be more post-pandemic movement, from hot-market cities to legacy cities, for example, suggesting the contours of a national housing market. “People have moved from LA to Phoenix, from San Francisco to Boise or Reno or Vegas, and there are other equivalents around the country. I think it’s going to be really interesting in the next decade to see how this filters out,” he said.

Josh Stephens is contributing editor of the California Planning & Development Report and previously edited The Planning Report and the Metro Investment Report, monthly publications covering, respectively, land use and infrastructure in Southern California. Planners Across America was published by Planetizen Press in 2022.

City and regional planning has been a major focus of the Lincoln Institute for many decades, from the annual gathering of 30-plus professionals in the Big City Planning Directors Institute, held in partnership with the American Planning Association and the Graduate School of Design at Harvard University, to the more recent promotion of exploratory scenario planning.

You can listen to the show and subscribe to Land Matters on Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher, or wherever you listen to podcasts.

Further Reading

Five Ways Urban Planners Are Addressing a Legacy of Inequity (Land Lines)

Seven Need-to-Know Trends for Planners in 2023 (Land Lines/APA)

A Day in the Life of the City Planner (Princeton Review)

Anthony Flint is a senior fellow at the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, host of the Land Matters podcast, and a contributing editor of Land Lines.

Lead image: Josh Stephens. Credit: Rich Schmitt Photography/Westside Urban Forum.

This article is reprinted with permission from Bloomberg CityLab, where it originally appeared.

It’s been a workhorse of affordable housing in urban New England for more than a century, and a building type that is as Boston as a Dunkin’ coffee. But in keeping with the city’s predilection for barstool debates, there’s disagreement about what to call it: Is it the triple-decker or the three-decker?

The only consensus may be that the correct pronunciation of the latter part of the term is “deckah.”

Either way, the triple-decker — let’s go with that — has endured since the turn of the last century as a sturdy, practical and even urbane form of housing, quietly prominent in the quintessential Boston neighborhoods of Dorchester, South Boston, Charlestown and beyond.

Tens of thousands of triple-deckers were built during the late 19th and early 20th centuries across New England, in surrounding cities like Worcester, Lowell, Lawrence and Fall River. The simplicity of the design is its calling card. The three floor-through living units stacked on top of each other — initially likened to British sailing warships that had three decks of armament — had kitchens and bathrooms at the same spot on each level, to consolidate plumbing and electricity in one vertical duct.

Invariably simple-wood-frame construction, these free-standing buildings had generally identical floor plans, succinct balconies and small backyards, a mix of flat and gable roofs, and abundant fenestration, to bring in fresh air and natural light. A single front door leading to an internal staircase usually served residents of all three levels; others boasted two front entrances, with one reserved for the ground-floor occupants (often the building’s owner), and another for those upstairs.

The triple-decker building boom was a very pragmatic response to a housing crush in this fast-industrializing region. Waves of newcomers, often immigrants from Eastern and Southern Europe, were drawn to the factories and textile mills of New England during the second half of the 19th century. Many had been staying in stables and tents or were crowded in substandard conditions. Business leaders had a need, and private developers bought up parcels and built the supply.

Despite their modest roots as cheap housing for low-income families, triple-deckers boasted up-to-date amenities and a touch of style that allowed them to blend into a mix of urban and suburban contexts. As groups like the New Haven Preservation Trust have documented, ornamentation followed the architectural tastes of the era: Earlier triple-deckers might include Queen Anne-style elements like decorative shingles and elaborate turned porch balusters and railings; later, the Colonial Revival style, with its plain clapboard siding and more staid details, predominated. Most had bay windows facing the street, to maximize interior lighting; a larger trio of decks invariably hung from the house’s rear.

Inside, a typical floor plan called for two bedrooms, living and dining rooms, a generous kitchen and a full bathroom with a tub. 

Long before contemporary urbanist catchphrases like “gentle density” and “missing middle” housing were invoked to promote modestly scaled multifamily construction, triple-deckers embodied the idea. The original threeplex. (Oh no, another label option!) Packed tightly onto narrow lots, sometimes in semi-detached pairs known as “perfect sixes,” the boxy structures — close to workplaces or linked to public transit— offered an attainable alternative to more expensive single-family homes, all in service to a healthy local economy. This was state-of-the-art workforce housing, New England-style. 

“The three-decker is democratic architecture,” wrote architectural historian Arthur Krim in his 1977 survey of the form, The Three-Deckers of Dorchester. “It was neither tenement nor mansion, but rather good solid housing. It was large enough to raise a host of children around the dining room table, but small enough to keep a pot of flowers on the back porch.”

A Multi-Level Menance

In a parallel with the current affordable housing policy debate, three-deckers eventually drew a backlash.

What today we see as an elegant housing solution was greeted as scourge by the established order in Boston and environs, precisely because of who was moving in. The triple-decker was targeted as part of the wave of anti-immigrant sentiment at the turn of the 20th century, blocked from spreading farther, either by code tweaks that prohibited cooking on the second floor — the wood-framed buildings were described by opponents as fire-prone — or by outright construction bans, as cities began to curate restrictive land use regulations via the newly embraced concept of local zoning.

By about 1920, 36 municipalities in Massachusetts outlawed new triple-deckers, according to the New England Historical Society. Bridgeport, Connecticut, and Providence, Rhode Island, followed suit. Commentators in an organized public-relations campaign railed against the “three-decker menace.”

Imagine that — a not-in-my-backyard rebellion against density, with the building itself cast as the villain — just like those caricatures of monster-scaled apartment towers with fierce teeth that today’s NIMBYs brandish at protests. Then as now, the resistance was less about the structures and more about the people who would live in them. 

By the 1930s, the bans had succeeded in halting triple-decker construction, choking off the supply of what ended up being naturally occurring affordable housing. Boston and many other cities ultimately began building public housing developments to house lower-income families, which due to a variety of reasons in design and policies ended up riddled with problems.

The triple-deckers that were built remained in place, and went through various iterations. Many deteriorated badly after World War II, as neighborhoods suffered through the economic turmoil of manufacturing and population loss. Some were bulldozed amid “urban renewal” efforts of the 1950s and ’60s, relegating the style to a signpost of blight in what had become beaten-down neighborhoods.

But thousands survived, becoming entry-level home ownership that had the added benefit of potential rental income.

Survival and Revival

By the 1980s and ’90s, some triple-deckers in rebounding neighborhoods like Charlestown and South Boston were were being snapped up by developers, turned into condominiums, or sold as townhouses to single families who could afford them.

Carol Wideman bought her 1905 Dorchester triple-decker in 1980. A single parent, she let the tenants in the first and third floors remain until they moved elsewhere, then installed her sisters and parents in those spaces.

“They’d be here for transitional times until they got back on their feet,” Wideman says, referring to extended family who on occasion gratefully took advantage of the lodging. The modest rental income helped out with utility bills and upkeep. “It’s comfortable,” she says. “I like the idea I can provide a place for family. It was a nice feeling for my parents as they got older.”

That’s the thing about living in a triple-decker. The common floor plan can conjure a sense of community among each building’s residents, whether they’re related or not, that somehow feels more right-sized than living in a larger apartment building. Because each level follows the same floor plan, the only difference between units is each family’s furnishings and interior décor. (Thanks to stacked kitchen locations, lower-floor triple-decker denizens are likely to also share the cooking smells that waft upwards.) Despite their modest roots, the roomy, light-filled living spaces remain appealing to modern homebuyers.

The building form has clearly been worth saving. After a fire in 2019, Wideman’s home was renovated for the popular TV show This Old House, in a glorious demonstration of how the original configuration works so well. The structure got the full treatment, retrofitted down to the studs, with new wiring, heating system, plumbing and more. The show’s Boston-bred host, Kevin O’Connor, was thrilled to do the work, having lived in a triple-decker himself for a few years. “These are extremely durable homes,” he says.

Finding the ‘Future-Decker’

Keeping Boston’s stock of roughly 10,000 triple-deckers alive is also a priority for the city, which is grappling with a severe shortage of affordable housing. 

Wandy Pascoal, the Housing Innovation Design Fellow at the Mayor’s Housing Innovation Lab, has been studying the life and times of the triple-decker — both to reuse and renovate the existing housing stock and to promote new models of simple multifamily housing that capture some of its virtues. When speaking with residents about their experiences living in three-deckers, Pascoal found that, far from being a sinister monster, the triple-decker was a versatile home style that could accommodate housing needs at different stages of life.

“The scale and abundance of the triple-decker allowed for the creation of truly intergenerational communities who not only knew each other but also came to grow alongside one another,” she says. “We heard from those who grew up in them, newer residents who came to appreciate the personal value of the building type, and even those who never lived in one but would often visit family members who did. A story we frequently heard was of an older grandparent, typically a grandmother, who upon migrating to the United States would soon after purchase a triple-decker. While living in one of the apartments, the grandparent would offer the remaining two to extended family or rent them out at an affordable price to those who needed a home.”
 

Several triple-deckers have been renovated with the support of city-sponsored programs such as the Boston Home Center’s HomeWorks Home Equity Loan Program

And something else came along fairly recently that put the triple-decker in the spotlight: As more communities looked to the building sector for solutions to the climate crisis, these drafty old houses became great candidates for clean-energy retrofits. Local designers are participating in competitions like the Massachusetts Clean Energy Coalition’s Triple-Decker Energy Challenge and Co-Creating Boston’s Future-Decker, sponsored by the City of Boston and the Boston Society for Architecture, to come up with retrofit protocols. Oil-heated original homes are being converted to electric heat and given green add-ons like solar panels and charging ports.

Such retrofits can be expensive, further boosting the values for what was cheap housing. A triple-decker in Dorchester is listed at $1.2 million for the entire building; the floor-through apartments, sold as individual condos, routinely go for $700,000 and up. Still, adapting older homes is inherently efficient as a matter of carbon emissions: As O’Connor, and many others point out, the greenest building is the one that already exists.

There is nothing like a preserved triple-decker — or even better, a whole block of them — to stir appreciation of graceful density and urbanity. Being 100 years old, their presence connotes a certain pride in the region’s history. Yes, they look essentially the same, one after the other. But that uniformity has a certain functional beauty. 

Indeed, the fate of the triple-decker might well inform the emerging critique that new multifamily developments all look alike. (It remains to be seen if future generations will look back at today’s “five-over-one” complexes with similar appreciation.) Just like the elegant curve of townhouses in Bath, the blunt symmetry of triple-deckers sends a message: There’s plenty of room here for people to live.

And what to call them? Wideman, the owner of the Dorchester building, says she was only vaguely aware of the three-decker versus triple-decker debate.

“Either one is fine for me,” she says. “The main point is that it works.”

Anthony Flint is a senior fellow at the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, host of the Land Matters podcast, and a contributing editor of Land LInes.

Lead Image: An East Boston neighborhood showcases its stock of triple-deckers. Credit: DenisTangneyJr/iStockphoto via Getty Images
 

Aftab Pureval, elected in 2021, is making history as Cincinnati’s first Asian American mayor. He was raised in Southwest Ohio, the son of first-generation Americans, and worked at a toy store when he was in middle school. After graduating from the Ohio State University and the University of Cincinnati Law School, Pureval held several positions including as counsel at Procter & Gamble before entering public service. He served as Hamilton County Clerk of Courts from 2016 to 2021, and was the first Democrat to hold that office in over 100 years. Pureval resides in the north Cincinnati neighborhood of Clifton with his wife and their two sons and, as has become evident during his time in office, is a big-time Cincinnati Bengals fan. He spoke with Senior Fellow Anthony Flint earlier this year for the Land Matters podcast

Anthony Flint: You’ve attracted a lot of attention for what some have called a “heroic undertaking” to preserve the city’s single-family housing stock and keep it out of the hands of outside investors. Briefly, walk us through what was accomplished in coordination with the Port of Cincinnati.

Aftab Pureval: Just to provide a little more context, Cincinnati is a legacy city. We have a proud, long tradition of being the final destination from the Underground Railroad. We were the doorstep to freedom for so many slaves who were escaping that horrific experience. We have a lot of historic neighborhoods, a lot of historic buildings, and we have a lot of aging infrastructure and aging single-family homes, which—paired with the fact that we are an incredibly affordable city in the national context—makes us a prime target for institutional investors.

Unfortunately, Cincinnati is on national list after national list about the rate of increase for our rents. It’s primarily being driven by these out-of-town investors—who have no interest, frankly, in the well-being of Cincinnati or their tenants—buying up cheap single-family homes, not doing anything to invest in them, but overnight doubling or tripling the rents, which is pricing out a lot of our communities, particularly our vulnerable, impoverished communities.

The City is doing a lot of things through litigation, through code enforcement. In fact, we sued two of our largest institutional investors, Vinebrook and the owners of Williamsburg, to let them know that we’re not playing around. If you’re going to exercise predatory behavior in our community, we’re not going to stand for it.

We’ve also done things on the front end to prevent this from happening by partnering with the Port . . . . When several properties went up for sale because an institutional investor put them on the selling block, the Port spent $14.5 million to buy over 190 single-family homes, outbidding 13 other institutional investors.

Over the past year, the Port has been working to bring those properties into compliance, dealing with the various code violations that the investor left behind, pairing these homes once they’re fixed up with qualified buyers, oftentimes folks who are working in poverty or lower middle-class who’ve never owned a home before.

Just this year we’re making three of those 194 available for sale. It’s a huge success across the board . . .  but it’s just one tool that the Port and the City are working on to increase affordability of housing in all of our neighborhoods.

AF: What did you learn from this that might be transferable to other cities? It takes a lot of capital to outbid an institutional investor.

AP: It does require a lot of funds. That’s why we need more flexibility from the federal government and the state government to provide municipalities with the tools to prevent this from happening in the first place. Now once an institutional investor gets their claws into a community, there’s very little that the city can do to hold them accountable.

The better strategy as we’ve seen this time is to, on the front end, buy up properties. A lot of cities have a lot of dollars from the federal government through ARP [American Recovery Plan]. We have used a lot of ARP dollars not just to get money into the hands of people who need it most, which is critically important in this time, but also to partner with other private-public partnerships or the Port to give them the resources necessary to buy up the land and hold it.

That has been part of our strategy with ARP. This is a unique time in cities where they have more flexibility [with] the resources coming from the federal government. I would encourage any mayor, any council, to really think critically about using the funds not just in the short term but also in the long term to address some of these macroeconomic forces.

AF: Cincinnati has become a more popular place to live, and the population has increased slightly after years of decline. Do you consider Cincinnati a pandemic or climate haven? What are the implications of that growth?

AP: What I love about my job as mayor is my focus isn’t necessarily on the next two or four years, but the next 100 years. Right now, we are living through a paradigm shift because of the pandemic. The way we live, work, and play is just completely changing. Remote work is completely altering our economic lifestyle throughout the entire country, but particularly here in the Midwest.

What I am convinced of is because of climate change, because of the rising cost of living on the coast, there will be an inward migration. I don’t know if it’s in the next 50 or 75 years, but it will happen. We’re already seeing large businesses making decisions based on climate change. Just two hours north of Cincinnati, Intel is making a $200 billion investment to create the largest semiconductor plant in the country.

Two of the reasons they chose just north of Cincinnati are access to fresh water, the Ohio River in the south and the Great Lakes in the north, and our region’s climate resiliency. Now, don’t get me wrong: we’re all affected by climate change. We’re not all affected equally—our impoverished and disadvantaged communities are more affected disproportionately than others—but in Ohio and Cincinnati, we’re not seeing the wildfires, the droughts, the hurricanes, the earthquakes, the coastal erosion that we’re seeing in other parts of the country, which makes us a climate-change safe haven not just for business investment but also for people. Cincinnati is partly growing because our economy’s on fire right now, but we’re going to really see, I believe, exponential growth over the next few decades because of these massive factors pushing people into the middle of the country.

The investments that we make right now to help our legacy communities and legacy residents stay in their homes and continue to make Cincinnati an affordable place for them, while also keeping in mind these future residents, is a really challenging topic. While Cincinnati right now is very affordable in the national context, it’s not affordable for all Cincinnati residents because our housing supply has not kept up with population growth and our incomes have not kept up with housing prices.

In order to make sure that the investments in the future and the population growth in the future does not displace our current residents, we’ve got to stabilize our market now and be prepared for that growth.

AF: What are the land use changes and transportation improvements that you’re concentrating on accordingly?

AP: Oftentimes, people ask mayors about their legacy, and the third rail of local politics is zoning. If we’re going to get this right, then we have to have a comprehensive review and reform of our land use policies. When I talk about legacy, that’s what I’m talking about.

We have, for over a year now, been having meetings with stakeholders to [explore what] a modern Cincinnati looks like. I believe it looks like a dense, diverse neighborhood that’s walkable, with good public transportation and investments in public art. Right now, the City of Cincinnati’s zoning is not encouraging those kinds of neighborhoods. Close to 70 percent of our city is zoned for single-family use exclusively, which is putting an artificial cap on the amount of supply that we can create, which is artificially increasing rents and artificially increasing property taxes, which is causing a lot of our legacy residents, who even own their homes, to be displaced.

If we’re serious about deconcentrating poverty and desegregating our city, then we’ve got to take a look at multifamily unit prohibitions. We’ve got to take a look at parking requirements for both businesses and homes. We’ve got to look at transit-oriented development along our bus rapid transit lines. We’ve got to look at creative opportunities to create more housing like auxiliary dwelling units, but none of this is easy.

It’s not easy because NIMBYism is real, and we’ve got to convince people that I’m not going to put a 20-floor condo building on your residential cul-de-sac . . . . Zoning is very, very difficult because change is very difficult, and people are afraid of what that will turn the city into. That’s why we’ve been doing a year-long worth of community engagement, and I am confident we can make some substantive changes to our zoning code to encourage more affordability, encourage more public transportation, and just be a greener city.

On that note, we have made a commitment that we will only buy city vehicles that are electric vehicles when they become available. We have the largest city-led solar farm in the entire country, which is significantly contributing to our energy consumption.

AF: A little bit of this is back to the future, because the city had streetcars. Do you have the sense that there’s an appreciation for that, that those times actually made the city function better?

AP: The city used to be dense, used to have incredible streetcars, public transportation, and then, unfortunately, cities—not just Cincinnati but across the country—saw a steady decline of population, losing folks to the suburbs. Now people want to come back into the city, but now we have the hard work of undoing what a lot of cities tried to do, which was create suburban neighborhoods within a city to attract those suburban people back, right? It’s a little bit undoing the past while also focusing on what used to exist. When I share this vision with people, they say, “Yes, that’s a no-brainer, of course, I want to do that,” but they don’t want to do it on their street.

AF: What worries you most about this kind of transition, and what do you identify as the major issues facing lower-income and communities of color in Cincinnati?

AP: Displacement. If we cannot be a city that our current residents can afford, they will leave, which hurts everything. If the city is not growing, then a city our size, where we’re located in the country, we are dying, and we are dying quickly. Cities our size have to grow, and in order to grow, not only do we need to recruit talent, but we have to preserve the families and the legacy communities that have been here in the first place.

No city in the country has figured out a way to grow without displacement. The market factors, the economic factors are so profound and so hard to influence, and the City’s resources are so limited, it’s really difficult. Getting back to our institutional investor problem, the City doesn’t have the resources to just go up and buy property and make sure that we’re selling to good-faith owners, right? If we had that power, that market influence, we would do it. Oftentimes, I guess I get frustrated that I don’t have enough resources, enough authority to make a meaningful impact on the macroeconomic forces that are coming into the city. Because if we get our dream, which is more investment, more growth, that comes with negative consequences, and it’s really difficult to manage both.

AF: Finally, back to climate change, the mayor’s website says Cincinnati is well-positioned to be a leader in climate change at home and abroad. What do you think the city has to offer that’s distinctive in terms of climate action?

AP: All of our policy initiatives are looked at through two lenses. The first is racial equity and the second is climate. Everything that we do, whether it’s our urban forestry assessment, looking at a heat map of our city and investing in trees to not just clean the air but also cool our neighborhoods, [or] our investments in biochar. We are one of only seven cities in the entire world that received a huge grant from the Bloomberg Philanthropies to continue to innovate in the world of biochar, which is a byproduct of burning wood, which is an incredible carbon magnet that helps with stormwater runoff but also pulls carbon out of the air.

Our parks department, which is one of the best in the country, continues to innovate on that front . . . . Continuing to have some of the best testing and best preservation in the country for our water supply will be important. Ultimately, businesses and people who are looking to the future consider climate change in that future. If you’re looking for a city that is climate-resilient but also making massive investments in climate technology, then Cincinnati is that destination for you.

Anthony Flint is a senior fellow at the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, host of the Land Matters podcast, and a contributing editor of Land Lines.

Lead image: Cincinnati Mayor Aftab Pureval. Credit: © Amanda Rossmann – USA TODAY NETWORK.