Anatomy of NIMBYism in Albuquerque: Part 5

Martineztown, GENM, and the Struggle Between Preservation and Progress

Deflecting Progress: How NIMBYism Exploits Concerns for Vulnerable Communities

Across Albuquerque, and in cities nationwide, opponents of zoning reform increasingly frame their resistance as advocacy for the working class. They warn that new housing, denser development, or infill will displace low-income families, harm communities of color, or erase cultural identity. But too often, these arguments serve as rhetorical cover—used not to uplift vulnerable communities, but to delay or derail the very changes that might benefit communities the most.

In practice, limiting where housing can go worsens the challenges working-class communities already face. When most of the city is off-limits to growth, development pressure doesn’t vanish, instead, it concentrates. And historically, it has concentrated in neighborhoods like Albuquerque’s Martineztown or the International District, where resistance is lower and political clout is weaker. These communities have endured the brunt of targeted rezonings, shelter proposals, and planning experiments, while exclusionary zoning preserves wealth and privilege elsewhere.

This isn’t unique to Albuquerque. A study from Columbia Law School shows how NIMBY opposition to affordable housing increases regional housing costs and funnels development into areas that are already under-resourced and vulnerable to displacement.¹ Even when projects include affordable units, opponents often pivot from rhetorical support to fierce resistance—fueling systemic inequities. We saw this dynamic in the backlash to Mayor Keller’s shelter proposal, and again in Los Ranchos, where opposition to a project with affordable units was framed as concern for neighborhood character.

The result is a city where the burden of growth is not shared, but strategically offloaded. By resisting zoning reform citywide, opponents entrench a dynamic in which a few neighborhoods absorb all the change—reinforcing the very displacement they claim to oppose.

Meanwhile, working-class residents are denied the ability to participate in the evolution of their own communities. As Charles Marohn notes, legalizing small-scale, incremental development empowers residents to reinvest in place—whether by converting a garage into a studio, adding a small backyard unit, or building housing for a family member. These changes aren’t threats to neighborhood character; they’re tools of stability, flexibility, and intergenerational opportunity. Yet NIMBY opposition, and support for exclusionary single-family zoning, consistently denies these possibilities—trapping communities in a pattern of disinvestment and stagnation.² As Yoni Appelbaum argues in Stuck, modern zoning codes weren’t just shaped by racism and classism—they were designed to entrench them. Few institutions in American public life have more effectively encoded white supremacy and economic exclusion than the zoning and appeals system itself. To this day, those same systems continue to prevent marginalized communities from building wealth and shaping their neighborhoods on their own terms.³

It’s worth noting that some local leaders, including Loretta Naranjo-Lopez, have argued for the imposition of single-family zoning in Martineztown—framing it as a matter of fairness, given past disparities in how zoning was applied across adjacent neighborhoods.⁴ While the goal in Martineztown is to preserve a culturally rich, historically New Mexican enclave, not to exclude other racial groups, history shows that single-family zoning has rarely delivered that kind of protection. As Appelbaum points out, the original purpose of single-family zoning was not fairness—it was exclusion. In cities like Euclid, Ohio, these zoning rules were explicitly designed to keep out lower-income residents, immigrants, and people of color under the guise of neighborhood stability. Yet even there, the imposition of single-family zoning ultimately failed to preserve the character or composition of the neighborhood, as market forces reshaped it anyway.

In Martineztown, too, the idea that restrictive zoning can freeze a neighborhood in time is both historically misplaced and practically ineffective. Rather than preventing change, such policies may actually accelerate displacement—by suppressing housing supply, intensifying scarcity, and raising property values beyond what long-time residents can afford. In this light, the call for single-family zoning may offer a comforting sense of protection—but one that, historically, has too often replicated the very inequalities and upheavals it hopes to guard against.

This scarcity-driven dynamic also accelerates gentrification. Gentrification doesn’t begin when new housing is built—it begins when housing is blocked everywhere else. By prohibiting growth in high-opportunity areas, cities manufacture scarcity that drives up prices in the few places where demand can still flow. The result is a paradox: communities like Martineztown are protected rhetorically but exploited economically.⁵

That’s why reforms like O-24-69 matter. Rather than concentrating change in already burdened neighborhoods, the bill begins to distribute opportunity more evenly—legalizing gentle, incremental housing in walkable corridors across Albuquerque. For the first time in decades, zoning reform is being pursued not at the expense of vulnerable neighborhoods, but in solidarity with them. Some critics have expressed concern that O-24-69’s reforms to the appeals process may limit neighborhood input—especially in communities like Martineztown, which have historically relied on appeals as a form of protection. That concern is understandable: when neighborhoods have experienced a legacy of top-down decision-making, tools like appeals can feel like a rare source of leverage. But as Appelbaum reminds us, the litigation-based mechanisms at the heart of zoning, like the appeals process, were not designed to empower marginalized communities. In cities like New York, well-meaning reforms to tenement housing were quickly co-opted by real estate interests and weaponized through litigation and zoning to slash affordability and accelerate racial displacement. What began as a push for safety and dignity helped birth a zoning regime that served white supremacy and classicism under the guise of order and improvement.

The same dynamics echo today. In Albuquerque, the appeals process has too often been dominated by well-organized, affluent residents far from the neighborhoods being debated—residents who use it to delay, derail, or deny investment in communities they don’t live in and don’t serve. In this context, O-24-69 isn’t an attack on community voice—it’s a necessary systems-level correction to ensure that tools of public process are not hijacked by those with power to block change elsewhere. That can feel uncomfortable, especially for those accustomed to using these tools as a form of defense—but reforming unjust systems often does.

And yet, the legacy of targeted harm lingers. In Martineztown—a neighborhood shaped by past displacement, political neglect, and cultural resilience—those tensions remain raw. As new proposals emerge, the community finds itself at the center of a debate that asks not just whether change should happen, but who gets to shape it, and on whose terms. What unfolds here is not only a planning question, but an emotional one—where decades of betrayal have made investment itself feel suspect, and where fear of change sometimes turns inward, fracturing movements meant to protect these very communities.

This is not unique to Martineztown. In neighborhoods across the country, similar anxieties have taken root, even among those who claim the mantle of justice. As we’ll explore in Part 6, fear of gentrification—combined with purity politics and left-inflected resistance—can create a dynamic where progress is pathologized, opportunity is treated with suspicion, and the people most committed to equity end up standing in the way of it. The story of Majora Carter in the South Bronx, that we will explore in Part 6, is one such example, where bringing investment home triggered not solidarity, but a backlash rooted in exclusion, distrust, and ideological infighting. In Albuquerque, too, we must ask: what happens when the fear of displacement becomes a fear of any change at all?

From Preservation to Stagnation: Martineztown’s NIMBY Impulse in Context

A growing tension has emerged in Martineztown over differing views on development, sparked by recent debates surrounding a proposed specialty medical facility and plans to expand Downtown’s Metropolitan Redevelopment Areas to parcels bordering the neighborhood*.⁶ These proposals have highlighted deep divides between those who fear further change and those who see growth as a necessary step toward revitalization. Few areas in Albuquerque were more targeted by urban renewal in the 1960s and 70s than Martineztown,⁷ and the neighborhood’s survival stands as a testament to the grit and determination of its residents in the face of displacement. Loretta Naranjo-Lopez, a vocal critic and perhaps the face of activism for the area among neighborhood groups, argues that Martineztown is already “too full” and that the influx of new developments, particularly the medical facility, would overwhelm the neighborhood.⁸ However, this concern is not substantiated by MRCOG traffic data, which shows streets in the neighborhood do not have heavy traffic which would be made worse by development.⁹

Naranjo-Lopez’s position, while grounded in a legitimate fear of displacement and past urban renewal traumas, reflects a broader caution toward change that can, at times, veer into resistance to all development, even when it may benefit the community. Martineztown today is caught in a familiar urban paradox: how to honor the past without letting it define the future.

In contrast, emerging groups like Generation Elevate New Mexico (GENM) represent a new and dynamic perspective on development. With a membership that is notably young and diverse, GENM embodies a generation that is deeply engaged with the issues of urban equity, sustainability, and community empowerment. Their advocacy centers on a parcel-based approach that prioritizes infill development and incremental, community-driven growth—an approach that sharply departs from the top-down strategies of the past. Unlike the urban renewal era, which sought to erase entire neighborhoods under the guise of progress, GENM’s vision for development is fundamentally different. It promotes sustainable and equitable growth that builds on the existing fabric of neighborhoods, aligning with principles that Katherine Einstein identifies in her work on contemporary urban planning. Modern developers, unlike their mid-century predecessors, are not proposing broad demolitions or large-scale projects that displace communities; rather, they are increasingly focused on making use of underutilized spaces within the existing urban framework.

Interestingly, GENM, unlike Naranjo-Lopez, supported the construction of the proposed medical facility, applying an equity-based lens to advocate for it as both a crucial source of investment in Martineztown and a solution to city-wide needs for specialty care.¹⁰ This stance highlights the growing tension between two distinct visions for the future of neighborhoods like Martineztown. GENM sees the facility as an opportunity to address pressing healthcare disparities and bring much-needed infrastructure to an area historically underserved by such resources. In contrast, Naranjo-Lopez’s opposition stems from a long-standing fear of displacement and the loss of the neighborhood’s identity—a valid concern, but one that might overlook the potential benefits of such an investment. This divergence in priorities—preserving the status quo versus embracing targeted growth—illustrates how the broader debate over development, equity, and change has now reached Martineztown. The differing visions reflect a larger national conversation on urban development, where the lines between progress and preservation are often drawn starkly. As cities across the country grapple with similar tensions, the Martineztown debate underscores the complex and evolving nature of community development, where historical trauma and the need for modern investment coexist uneasily. GENM’s work doesn’t reject the past—it seeks to build on it. Their vision offers a way for younger and older generations alike to find common ground: development that is rooted in culture, but not restricted by fear.

The juxtaposition of these two approaches underscores the deep-rooted fears and trauma caused by past planning strategies, which were marked by destruction and disempowerment. These fears, while valid, can sometimes create barriers to progress, even as new models offer alternatives that are more respectful of historical context while also addressing contemporary needs. Unlike the top-down decisions of the 60s and 70s, which often involved aggressive tactics such as eminent domain wielded without oversight, today’s urban planning landscape offers more nuanced solutions. Cities no longer operate under the assumption that growth must come at the expense of marginalized communities, and developers have largely moved away from the widespread use of eminent domain. However, the distrust of developers—stemming from past betrayals and injustices—remains a powerful force. While the fear of displacement is entirely understandable, rigid preservationism risks fostering cycles of underinvestment, deteriorating infrastructure, and missed opportunities for local residents. By resisting thoughtful, strategic investment, neighborhoods like Martineztown risk stagnation, leaving them vulnerable to far more destructive forces like market-driven gentrification, which often threatens to erase cultural legacies in a more insidious way than previous forms of planning. While historical trauma must remain part of the conversation, it should inform the planning process, not paralyze it. Empowerment means writing new chapters—not being frozen by past ones.

Inclusive planning must reconcile the need to honor the wrongs of the past with fostering the growth that is essential for future sustainability. In communities like Martineztown, where the weight of historical injustices remains heavy, the challenge lies in finding a balance between protecting what is valuable and allowing for positive, equitable change. The preservationist mindset, especially from older generations who have lived through urban renewal’s scars, often falls back on resistance to growth, fearing that any change could erase the neighborhood’s identity. Comments like Angela Vigil’s, “Martineztown is not a Downtown neighborhood,” and Loretta Naranjo-Lopez’s assertion that, “we are never given any respect,” reflect the deep-rooted frustrations that have led to this protective stance. They fear that the neighborhood’s historic and cultural value is being overlooked, sidelined by modern development pressures. Yet, by rejecting growth altogether, leaders risk deepening inequality and entrenching the very marginalization they seek to avoid. Ironically, such resistance can hinder progress and obstruct the pursuit of greater equity.

This generational divide mirrors broader tensions seen in the growing wave of younger activists advocating for more dynamic, inclusive approaches to development. Today’s younger activists tend to embrace holistic views of urban evolution, seeing neighborhoods and cities as organic, adaptable entities—rather than static, fixed places to preserve in amber. They challenge the notion that growth and density are inherently in conflict with neighborhood cohesion, arguing that cities can evolve while respecting their history. This shift in perspective opens up new possibilities, including the reimagining of Martineztown’s architectural identity. A potential model for this approach can be found in South Bend, Indiana, where the city’s resurgence has been lauded for returning to traditional architectural styles as part of its redensification efforts.¹¹ Martineztown, too, could integrate its cultural and historical fabric, drawing inspiration from New Mexican vernacular styles such as territorial architecture, while still supporting growth that benefits current residents. Griegos Farms, a small-scale development now underway in Albuquerque’s North Valley, exemplifies this approach—blending cottage court-style density with traditional New Mexican design in a way that respects its surroundings. Led by local developer Jay Rembe, it offers a model for how infill can feel both rooted and forward-looking.¹² This balance of old and new, of preserving cultural integrity while embracing necessary development, could become a powerful way forward—one that fosters sustainability, inclusion, and respect for both past and future. While architecture alone won’t prevent displacement, familiar forms can ease transitions, ensuring that change feels connected to place, not imposed from outside.

As researcher and storyteller Brené Brown notes, healing from trauma requires the ability to write new chapters of one’s story—to reclaim agency and shape the future rather than being bound by past pain.¹³ In many ways, GENM’s vision reflects that principle: they aren’t asking Martineztown to forget its past, but to imagine a future where investment isn’t something done to the neighborhood, but with it. By embracing growth that reflects local values and architectural vernacular, they demonstrate how honoring history and pursuing equity can coexist. Preservation, when it hardens into fear, can prevent this kind of healing; but when rooted in empowerment, it can guide thoughtful, resilient reinvention.

The pressure to develop affordable housing in neighborhoods like Martineztown is a direct result of limited zoning and the lack of walkability in other areas of the city, partly addressed by O-24-69 and its expansion of incremental density along important corridors and in the city center. The experience of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, illustrates how gentrification can take hold when neighborhoods become desirable, but zoning restrictions limit growth across a city. In Williamsburg, the lack of diverse housing options, combined with its proximity to desirable amenities, resulted in skyrocketing prices and the displacement of long-time residents. Despite its reputation as a global hub, New York’s zoning code has historically restricted housing development, and the city is now working to address this issue. By addressing these concerns early in Albuquerque, we can avoid the extremes of gentrification and displacement seen in coastal cities. Similarly, without expanding zoning to allow for gentle density in more central areas like Uptown or Nob Hill, and allowing other walkable centers to develop, young professionals seeking proximity to work and an urban lifestyle may feel compelled to purchase older homes in Martineztown, driving up demand and prices. O-24-69 helped accomplish this.

Consider a young professional who may want to live close to work in a vibrant, urban environment but is constrained by the city’s zoning and lack of housing options in more walkable areas. Unable to find a suitable home in places like Uptown, Nob Hill, or Downtown, they might feel compelled to purchase an older home in Martineztown, even if it’s not their first choice. This increases demand and drives up prices, making it harder for long-time residents to remain in their community. Allowing for walkable, modern townhomes in areas around the city would provide more housing options to meet diverse tastes and budgets, easing the pressure on neighborhoods like Martineztown while also developing a larger variety of walkable places that people can choose to live in.

Thoughtfully designed developments—such as modern adaptations of New Mexico Territorial or adobe farmhouse-style homes—could blend with the area’s cultural heritage while offering affordable options. For those that do consider Martineztown a first-choice place to buy or rent, this new though traditional-style development can more readily absorb them into the fabric of the community while placing less pressure on existing residents – who themselves would also have more neighborhood options in newer housing if they should choose to move into a newer unit. This approach strikes a compromise between young activists and professionals like those in GENM and traditional voices like Vigil’s and Naranjo-Lopez’s. It would help meet citywide housing demand and give Martineztown residents more choices, reducing the fear of displacement.

Resistance to change often works against the goals of preservation by fostering stagnation and disinvestment. Broad policies like incremental density and walkable spaces are key to ensuring balanced growth citywide. Such approaches not only reduce displacement pressures but also foster vibrant, resilient neighborhoods that can thrive in a modern, evolving city. Martineztown’s future depends on embracing its role within Albuquerque’s broader urban fabric while championing growth that safeguards its unique character. While voices like Vigil’s argue that Martineztown is “not a downtown neighborhood,” this viewpoint risks isolating the community by ignoring the interconnectedness of Martineztown with Downtown and other adjacent neighborhoods. This stance—though rooted in a desire to protect the neighborhood—ultimately limits opportunities for revitalization and inclusion. Denying investment or growth in Martineztown is a form of burying one’s head in the sand, disregarding the reality that it sits at the heart of Albuquerque’s urban evolution.

GENM’s advocacy offers a hopeful alternative, rejecting the idea that historical neighborhoods should be frozen in time or excluded from growth. They champion a vision where neighborhoods like Martineztown receive the investment and opportunity they deserve, making them welcoming to both long-time residents and newcomers. Acknowledging that these neighborhoods have always been part of Albuquerque’s dynamic urban fabric is the way forward. Only by embracing thoughtful investment and growth can Martineztown continue to evolve—honoring its history while meeting the needs of future generations.

This approach aligns with the broader need to move away from the destructive monoculture of automobile-dependent sprawl and embrace a more diverse, holistic urban environment, much like the shift Carson called for in Silent Spring. Just as monocultures in agriculture create fragile, unsustainable ecosystems, car-centric development fosters a single, limiting vision for our city that ultimately hinders our ability to grow in a healthy, balanced way.

We must resist the protective impulse to freeze neighborhoods in time and instead cultivate an urban environment that allows for choice, prosperity, and sustainability. By embracing diversity in our development patterns—whether in housing, transit, or neighborhood design—we can foster a thriving, resilient city that benefits all its residents. In telling a new story for Martineztown—one shaped by healing, investment, and equity—we can begin to model how Albuquerque as a whole might evolve: not by denying its past, but by learning from it and growing forward.

*The City Council, led by Councilor Baca, successfully integrated these lots into the Downtown MRA Zone.¹⁴ We covered this here.

https://scholarship.law.columbia.edu/faculty_scholarship/707/ ↩︎
Charles Marohn, Escaping the Housing Trap: The Strong Towns Response to the Housing Crisis, 2024 ↩︎
Yoni Appelbaum, Stuck: How the Privileged and the Propertied Broke the Engine of American Opportunity, 2025 ↩︎
https://newmexicosun.com/stories/629873325-the-neighborhood-has-never-been-so-unsafe-albuquerque-s-santa-barbara-martineztown-neighborhood-association-opposes-the-proposed-homeless-encampment ↩︎
https://www.vox.com/22629826/gentrification-definition-housing-racism-segregation-cities ↩︎
Downtown Albuquerque News, Running around Greater Downtown? There’s a club for that. / City backs away from confrontation with Martineztown January 13th, 2025 ↩︎
https://www.nps.gov/places/martineztown.htm#:~:text=In%201970%2C%20the%20City’s%20Urban,protested%20the%20Urban%20Renewal%20Condemnation. ↩︎
https://www.krqe.com/news/albuquerque-metro/downtown-albuquerque-neighbors-worry-about-possible-3-story-rehabilitation-center-development/ ↩︎
https://www.mrcog-nm.gov/285/Traffic-Monitoring ↩︎
https://letselevatenm.org/initiatives/ ↩︎
https://www.cnu.org/publicsquare/2024/04/17/using-neighborhood-dna-catalyze-urban-regeneration ↩︎
https://www.abqjournal.com/business/with-griegos-farms-jay-rembe-brings-cottage-court-concept-to-life-in-abq-s-north/article_797b1504-9174-11ef-9ae5-f3894546b7b5.html ↩︎
Brené Brown, Rising Strong, 2015 ↩︎
Downtown Albuquerque News, Annual walking tour jamboree returns; will include new events in Nob Hill area / Lomas and Broadway properties could develop faster April 17th, 2024 ↩︎

Reimagining Albuquerque