roads paved over lives

Joan Green Storr’s life has unfolded on the same block for nearly a century. Born in 1933 at Dr. Holly’s hospital in Overtown, Storr was brought home to 443 NW 10th Street, where she would witness the changing world around her. From the moment she first set foot in the house, it became the center of her universe, a place where memories and milestones would transpire over nine decades.

Overtown, Miami, was founded in 1896. Originally deemed the "Harlem of the South," Overtown was a bustling city for the Black community. Housing singers such as Ella Fitzgerald and Sam Cooke, it was a place with a wealth of history and culture. During its heyday, Overtown had everything its residents needed despite segregation. From Black-owned hair salons to its own "Little Broadway," it was a self-sustaining society. Primarily African American business owners, professionals, and families filled stucco houses, apartments, and other residences across the city. In this epicenter of Blackness, there was a collective of people who cared for each other like no other, according to Storr.

“Overtown was beautiful, with the fellowship and the love we had for each other,” said Storr. All that she had known was bordered in roughly two square miles. From attending early morning Sunday school sessions at A.M. Cohen Church to saying her wedding vows in that very sanctuary, her life was steady and full. Paced by the people around her and anchored in the heart of her city, Storr wanted for nothing outside of this Black mecca.

Storr’s first 25 years in Overtown are remembered fondly, with the word "community" at the forefront. If one person had turnips and fish, her mother had greens and cornbread to share in return. In a time when "separate but equal" was far from reality, Storr’s neighbors, family, and peers created an asylum where that concept was a fading thought. When they graduated from Booker T. Washington Senior High School, Storr and her classmates cried for each other. Overwhelmed by the legacies and bonds they had created, the Class of 1951 was ready to carry that impact into the next generation. Little did these students know, all they strived to protect and love would be forever changed in the next five years.

Concrete monsters consume almost every major city in America. The long tails of expressway exits hover over houses. The talons of pavement pillars dig into what used to be free land. But under the bellies of these beasts lie untold stories.

The first American highway, Route 40, was built in the early 1800s, and the expansion of these roads has continued. In 1956, former President Dwight D. Eisenhower initiated the Federal-Aid Highway Act. This act expanded the interstate system by 41,000 miles nationwide. Aimed at easing the hardships of road travel and creating jobs across the states, the act was praised as the foundation of the modern transportation system.

Since then, over 4 million miles of road have been built across America. But this success did not come without consequences. According to the Department of Transportation, 475,000 homes were demolished to continue this progress, leaving over 1 million Americans displaced from their homes.

Miami is now a city run by roads. From U.S. 1 to the Turnpike, these paths take residents through what some call the Magic City. But in the late 1950s and 1960s, one road gained a bittersweet reputation. I-95, the longest north-to-south highway in America, became a convenience for South Florida residents. But in this convenience, the interstate became an inanimate suppressor for the residents of Overtown.

“The quality of what we had is forever gone,” said Cathia Darling, a 72-year-old resident of Overtown. Like most of Overtown’s residents, Darling grew up in the AME churches that stand as some of the only remaining landmarks from Overtown’s golden days. She attended Booker T. Washington Senior High and matured in a community where Black people could be anything.

In 1957, Miami city officials began constructing I-95. Using eminent domain, Overtown was placed on the chopping block. This bustling city was in the direct path of destruction and had no power to pivot.

Cathia Darling was a first-year college student when the effects of I-95 hit her life. To build this interstate, the city demolished buildings in Overtown, including her apartment. The Darling family was relocated to the “Pork ‘n’ Beans,” a popular Miami housing project.

“I really didn’t understand what was happening until I came back home,” said Darling. During her pursuit of higher education, fostered by her teachers in Overtown, she returned to find the world she had known decimated.

Recalling the time she spent in her one-bedroom apartment with her mother and sister, Darling said the life she knew in Overtown had diminished into just a distant memory. All she has now are her memories and Greater Bethel Church to remind her of what once was.

“The bastards had a choice, and they just ran that sucker right through our home,” said Darling. In her opinion, the creation of I-95 was segregation by design.

The west was the heart of the city, where almost every business, church, and homeowner lived. Instead of winding the roads to the less-populated east, city planners decided the epicenter was the perfect place.

The construction of I-95 resulted in over 80 acres of property and housing being wiped out, reducing an estimated 40,000-person population to a mere 10,000. The displacement of so many residents crippled the Black economy, making it impossible to thrive.

By 1965, the damage caused by transportation infrastructure was irreversible. While I-95 was being constructed, additional projects such as the East-West Dolphin Expressway and the Miami Metro further disrupted the city. Overtown, once a vibrant community, now faces poverty, homelessness, and income disparities. It stands as a stark reminder of how systemic decisions can devastate marginalized communities.

Today, walking through Overtown, the remnants of its rich history and vibrant culture are faintly visible through the encampments and subsidized housing. Bea Hines, a journalist who lived in Overtown during its golden age, hopes people will remember the community's resilience and beauty.

“Overtown was more than just a place—it was a heartbeat, a rhythm of life,” she said. She hopes efforts to revitalize the area honor its history while bringing hope and opportunity to future generations.

“I want people to see that Overtown is not a lost cause but, in turn, a different creature,” said Hines. As the city tries to cover the horrors of I-95 with thought-provoking murals and condos, Hines wishes for a rebirth of her hometown.

Places such as the Historic Lyric Theater are dedicated to preserving Overtown's history and creating programs that showcase what it used to be. New plans, like the “Overtown Underdeck,” aim to create outdoor spaces for residents. To Hines, it seems as if city planners are trying to atone for the sins of their predecessors. With that in mind, she hopes this newfound empathy breathes life into the city.

“I am hopeful for the future. I just hope others can let go of the past,” said Hines. In the opinion of many residents, Overtown will never be the same after these last 75 years. However, the dream has not yet died. In the coming years, Overtown can only be described as an episode to be continued. Prayerfully, the leaders, figureheads, and preservers can weave a brighter fabric into the tattered quilt that is Overtown.