Anatomy of NIMBYism in Albuquerque: Part 3

From Environmentalism to Exclusion

In a recent guest column on Pete Dinelli’s website¹, Mike Voorhees, a prominent leader of the Westside Coalition of Neighborhoods and a staunch local advocate, argues that the Albuquerque City Council’s recent amendments to the integrated development ordinance are merely a ploy to benefit developers at the expense of low-income residents. Voorhees, like many others in the city’s preservationist camp, denies the need for increased density in Albuquerque and clings to environmentalist tropes that, despite their long-standing discrediting, still dominate local and national discourse on urban planning. His stance on development echoes a broader, more entrenched narrative: one that positions progress as an existential threat to the neighborhood character and local environment.

Voorhees’ rhetoric is strikingly reminiscent of the environmental concerns that Silent Spring ignited over half a century ago. Rachel Carson’s work illuminated the destructive impacts of industrial practices, and it undoubtedly inspired generations to take up arms in defense of the environment. Yet, as we’ve seen in the decades since, that same sense of environmental stewardship has been co-opted to fuel a brand of NIMBYism that, while rooted in concerns for the environment and community well-being, now often stands in direct opposition to the broader need for urban transformation.

This blend of environmental rhetoric and opposition to growth has created a paradox: individuals who see themselves as protectors of the environment often unwittingly embrace ideologies that stymie the very development necessary to address the city’s social, environmental, and financial needs. Just as Carson’s warnings helped foster grassroots action for environmental protection, today’s NIMBY advocates, like Voorhees, employ a similar kind of fear-based language—one that, in many cases, leads to policies that fail to confront the true challenges Albuquerque faces. This ideological blindness serves to lock the city into a status quo, where the preservation of a nostalgic past trumps the creation of a vibrant, sustainable future.

Voorhees’ stance on the city’s housing reforms reflects a broader misunderstanding of environmentalism that echoes mid-20th-century notions of suburban living². His critique is rooted in the outdated view that density is inherently harmful to the environment, a trope popularized by earlier environmental movements which conflated sprawling, manicured lawns with ecological virtue. This mindset appears clearly in his warning that zoning reform will “erode the unique character of neighborhoods and cities” and produce “vast generic swaths of rental properties and corporate fast food.” Such framing reveals a deeper allegiance to the visual and cultural norms of postwar suburbia than to environmental stewardship. The irony here lies in his resistance to modern, sustainable urban design, which, when properly implemented, can actually enhance environmental quality by reducing car dependency, conserving land, and fostering biodiversity.

His critique aligns with the preservationist mindset, where nostalgia for an idealized suburban past clouds judgment, as well as past fights that viewed any development as environmentally harmful. In his rhetoric, the fear of change—particularly the transition from single-family homes to denser urban spaces—prevents him from recognizing that environmental stewardship must also evolve. He also invokes the fear of diseases such as Zika, transmitted by mosquitoes, as a potential consequence of zoning reforms like O-24-69. However, evidence suggests that urban sprawl, rather than density alone, is a significant driver of increased zoonotic disease risks worldwide. By concentrating development and protecting wildlands, compact urban growth serves as a critical strategy for mitigating these risks and promoting public health resilience.³ ⁴

Voorhees’ rhetoric also draws from a long and troubling history in American zoning, where apartments and their occupants were frequently portrayed as threats to public health and social order. Early zoning laws were shaped by fears that dense housing would attract disease, invite crime, and destabilize “respectable” neighborhoods. Apartments were often cast as unsanitary and morally suspect, while single-family homes were idealized as clean, safe, and virtuous. When Voorhees warns that “Aedes aegypti and Aedes albopictus—the yellow-fever and tiger mosquitoes… have been spreading… within developments of greater urban density,” he is reviving those early tropes almost verbatim. These narratives, while updated with modern terminology, continue to serve the same purpose: to delegitimize renters, stigmatize density, and block inclusive development.

This instinct to frame density as pathological, whether by evoking disease, discomfort, or environmental risk, isn’t new, and it is not unique to Albuquerque, but it has evolved. As journalist Jerusalem Demsas notes in The Atlantic, today’s opposition to urban housing often cloaks itself in environmental concern, even as it reinforces exclusion. In her analysis of Minneapolis’ 2040 Plan, she identifies a growing divide within the environmental movement itself—between those who see dense, climate-aligned growth as a necessity, and those who resist change in favor of lifestyle preservation⁵. The plan, which calls for climate-aligned, equity-driven housing and density, were derailed by legal challenges framed as environmental concerns. Further, Demsas distinguishes between “Crisis Greens,” who prioritize urgent decarbonization and sustainable urban form, and “Cautious Greens,” who resist change out of loyalty to localized aesthetic and lifestyle preferences. In her account, the latter often use environmental law not as a tool for protection, but as a shield against urban reinvention. Their skepticism of density, she argues, is less about carbon or conservation and more about discomfort with shifting norms. The result is a kind of culture war over what environmentalism should mean in an era of climate urgency—one that mirrors Albuquerque’s own tensions, where outdated visions of “green space” (or open space, in our case) are used to justify sprawling development patterns that harm both people and ecosystems.

The generational divide mentioned earlier in the series was on full display during the public debates over O-24-69 and its relationship to the environment in Albuquerque. Supporters of the ordinance—many of them younger advocates—framed the need for infill housing as essential not only for affordability, but for sustainability. They argued that density along transit corridors, near job centers, and within the city core was a critical strategy for curbing sprawl, reducing vehicle miles traveled, and protecting open space and cultural sites at the urban edge. Yet longtime voices in the coalitions rejected this logic, describing even modest zoning changes as dangerous incursions that could bring disease, degrade neighborhoods, or threaten “neighborhood character.” Voorhees’ reaction echoes the “Cautious Green” impulse Demsas describes: one rooted less in ecological science than in discomfort with changing norms. For younger generations raised with climate change as the central environmental concern, resistance to density in the name of neighborhood preservation feels not only misguided, but actively harmful at a time of climate urgency. This is more than a disagreement over policy—it’s a conflict between visions of what justice, progress, and stewardship look like in 21st-century cities. The “cautious green” resistance often masks a discomfort with cultural and demographic shifts rather than a data-driven environmental concern. In doing so, the Cautious Green perspective may inadvertently reproduce the very inequities and ecological damage it claims to resist.

Instead of promoting a balanced approach to growth and sustainability, he leans on familiar, but ultimately flawed, environmentalist tropes that serve more to protect property values than to engage with the pressing, broader issues of equity, climate change, and urban livability. This reveals a deeper trap of inaction: a defense of status quo interests masked as environmental advocacy. In this way, Voorhees and others like him inadvertently impede the very progress needed to address Albuquerque’s housing crisis and its environmental concerns. By clinging to a narrow, nostalgic vision of suburban utopia, they miss the opportunity to embrace a more sustainable and equitable future for the city. Furthermore, suburban sprawl not only exacerbates environmental degradation but also undermines our responsibility as good neighbors to Indigenous nations. It threatens cultural sites that should be preserved and protected in partnership, highlighting the moral and cultural imperative of prioritizing compact, responsible urban development on land we have already developed or set aside for development – while preserving lands at the the periphery.

More concerningly, he dismisses the need for zoning changes and accuses supporters of O-24-69 of being misled by developers, implying that neighborhood associations (NAs) are being scapegoated. He also expresses disdain for renters and young people, criticizing them for their support of the bill. However, this narrative fails to address the underlying issues of housing affordability and access, which are exacerbated by restrictive zoning and opposition to density. Voorhees’ own position as a homeowner benefiting from rising property values reveals a blindspot: he, too, profits from the very scarcity he condemns in developers.

This dynamic is not unique to Albuquerque. Across the country, including in progressive states like California, environmental review laws such as the California Environmental Quality Act (CEQA) have been weaponized by opponents of new development—often under the guise of ecological concern—to block even the most environmentally beneficial projects. A notable instance occurred in San Francisco, where a lawsuit invoking CEQA halted the implementation of 34 miles of planned bike lanes for over four years. During this period, nine cyclists lost their lives, and more than 2,000 were injured, underscoring the tangible human cost of such legal obstructions. These delays were not rooted in genuine environmental concerns but were often motivated by opposition to changes like reduced parking availability.⁶ Transit projects, infill housing near rail stations, and energy-efficient buildings have all fallen victim to this tactic, in which environmental statutes become tools not for protection but for obstruction. This mirrors local efforts where outdated fears are invoked to halt compact development that could reduce car dependency, promote biodiversity, and support climate goals. When “saving the environment” is used to perpetuate sprawl, we must ask: whose environment is being saved, and at what cost?

The patronizing tone in NIMBY discourse, as exemplified by Voorhees’ comments, often serves to alienate those advocating for housing reform. This dismissive attitude overlooks the fact that neighborhood associations in Albuquerque, historically resistant to change, have contributed to the very housing crises they now lament. Instead of looking outward and blaming developers or renters, NIMBYs should turn a critical eye to their own role in perpetuating zoning restrictions and exclusionary practices. These policies have stifled much-needed development and limited affordable housing, reinforcing systemic issues now affecting the city.

The dismissive attitude toward younger activists and YIMBYs (“yes in my backyard,” an organic movement that has quickly spread in direct opposition to entrenched NIMBYism) reflects the broader generational power dynamics at play in the NIMBY movement. His portrayal of young advocates as “developer pawns” echoes the older generation’s tendency to resist change and discredit new ideas. This mirrors the myth of the “developer’s pawn” in NIMBY discourse, where younger activists are dismissed as naive rather than engaged in legitimate struggles for housing equity. This attitude supports an exclusionary gatekeeping dynamic that preserves the status quo while hindering progress toward more inclusive housing solutions. For Voorhees, these views protect homeownership interests but perpetuate contradictions that ultimately harm communities, particularly renters and younger generations facing housing insecurity.

This intergenerational tension finds its echo in the broader urban discourse, both locally and nationally, where younger activists—members of YIMBY groups, Generation Elevate New Mexico (GENM), StrongTowns groups, urbanists, and urban progressives—are increasingly championing transit expansion and higher-density housing, particularly along transportation corridors. This advocacy is not a radical departure but, ironically, a return to the kind of vibrant, mixed-use neighborhoods that older generations once knew and lived in. What is striking is the generational disconnect: as these younger voices push for holistic, sustainable cities, many neighborhood leaders, still burdened by the ghosts of failed mid-century urban renewal projects (which we will explore more in-depth later), remain cautious, even dismissive, of the very type of city that could ease modern-day problems. They view the city in fragmented pieces, unable to see the interconnectivity of urban systems—an outlook that echoes the limited vision of those whose past battles against developers, while well-meaning, have left them blind to the future’s necessary compromises. Much like the awareness raised by Silent Spring, which emphasized the interconnectedness of ecosystems, the new wave of urban thinkers insists on seeing cities as holistic systems that require comprehensive, forward-thinking solutions, not mere nostalgia for an idealized past.

This pattern—of invoking noble-sounding values to resist necessary change—extends beyond environmentalism. While Voorhees and others frame their opposition in terms of ecological concern, their arguments often conceal deeper anxieties about change, loss of control, or the discomfort of sharing space. And environmental rhetoric is just one part of a larger arsenal. Increasingly, NIMBY advocates across the political spectrum have embraced a new line of defense: claiming that housing proposals must be rejected not because they are too much, but because they are not affordable enough. But this line of reasoning, too, reveals contradictions. In practice, it rarely results in more deeply affordable housing and often delays or blocks the very projects that could relieve pressure, improve access, and pave the way for more inclusive growth. In the next section, we turn to this so-called “affordability smokescreen” and examine how perfectionism, proceduralism, and weaponized equity rhetoric are being used to stop real solutions in their tracks.

Read Part 1 of Anatomy of NIMBYism in Albuquerque, Here

Read Part 2 of Anatomy of NIMBYism in Albuquerque, Here

Reimagining Albuquerque