- Tension: We claim to value community, but we treat shared public spaces as afterthoughts—revamping them only when they’re in decay.
- Noise: Progress narratives and beautification campaigns often obscure the quiet erosion of communal life and belonging.
- Direct Message: A plaza isn’t just concrete and benches—it’s the emotional infrastructure of a neighborhood, and how we treat it reflects how we relate to each other.
Read more about our approach → The Direct Message Methodology
There’s a particular hour on late Sunday afternoons — after the farmers pack their stalls, after the last pretzel gets sold, when parents corral their kids and the old men finish their second coffee — that Giddings Plaza feels like it’s catching its breath. That in-between silence is where you notice what the plaza really is: not just a location, but a rhythm. A neighborhood heartbeat disguised as a courtyard.
Most people will call this renovation a win. And in many ways, it is.
New pavement. Upgraded seating. ADA compliance.
Landscaping that promises something closer to elegance than the usual wilted planter boxes. City officials and small business owners are right to feel hopeful. But there’s something else underneath—something quieter.
Why is it that we only tend to these places when they become problems?
When the bricks loosen, the benches splinter, the trees look tired? Why do we forget that places like this hold more than foot traffic and lunch breaks—they hold memory?
We tell ourselves public spaces are neutral. Utilitarian.
That they’re for “everyone,” which often means no one in particular. But sit on a bench long enough and you’ll see: these places are mirrors. They reflect the stories we’re telling about ourselves—who we think belongs, who we think matters, and whether we believe in shared life anymore.
The Giddings Plaza renovation wasn’t supposed to start this early. That decision came only after local businesses pushed back against the August disruption.
So now, thanks to their efforts and Alderman Matt Martin’s compromise, it will begin earlier, in colder months. Construction crews are optimistic. The Chamber of Commerce is optimistic. Everyone, it seems, is optimistic.
And yet: optimism often smooths over what renovation can’t fix.
There’s no line item in the budget for the elderly woman who reads the Tribune there every morning, even in winter, cupping a paper cup of coffee like it’s holy. No mention in the press release of the teenagers who linger after school, elbows resting on the brick ledge, spinning dreams and lollipops. No measurement for how many first dates began on the east side of the fountain.
We talk about return on investment. But what is the ROI of presence?
We live in a culture that rewards movement over stillness. Efficiency over gathering. Renovations are praised when they cause “minimal disruption,” as if disruption is always a bad thing. As if pausing to wonder what this plaza meant—before the planters, before the stages, before the formal coordination—would only slow progress down.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Because the danger isn’t bad planning. It’s forgetting that the plaza itself is a kind of living memory. When we remove the imperfections, we sometimes erase the traces of belonging. We trade rough edges for polished ones and lose something more vital: the intimacy of shared time.
The direct message
A plaza isn’t just concrete and benches—it’s the emotional infrastructure of a neighborhood, and how we treat it reflects how we relate to each other.
Progress is good. Function matters. But what if beauty isn’t always in the upgrade? What if it’s in the continuity?
In Lincoln Square, community members pushed back—not because they were against change, but because they understood what was at stake. A sandwich shop owner. A bakery founder. The people who live here. They spoke not just as business owners, but as witnesses. And their advocacy altered the timeline, protected the flow of daily life, honored the plaza’s quieter role as a connector, as a keeper.
Still, we like to pretend these are just logistics. As if city life can be engineered without sentiment. As if the people who gather in a space don’t make it sacred by showing up, again and again.
The irony is that this renovation, in its best form, isn’t about aesthetics. It’s about recognition. Acknowledging that benches and trees and pathways are not neutral — that they hold grief, flirtation, laughter, loneliness. That every square foot of communal space is a kind of emotional registry.
We say we miss real community. But maybe we just forget how to see it—especially when it hides in plain sight, beneath the fading paint of a concrete plaza.
So yes, make the fountain side new. Yes, add trash cans. Yes, comply with ADA. But don’t call it “just a renovation.”
Call it what it is: a recommitment.
Not just to appearances, but to the ordinary magic of proximity. To the belief that sharing space still matters. To the hope that something as simple as a plaza can still hold a neighborhood together — even as the world pulls us apart.
