Growing Pains: The Changing Landscape of Richmond

by Fayeruz Regan 03.2024

My family questioned my desire to move to Richmond in the mid-nineties. “Are you sure?” they asked through wide eyes. “There’s a lot of crime there.” This was coming from people who lived in the DC area; the nation’s “murder capital” in 1992. The surrounding years weren’t great either.

The move was a pragmatic decision. I was rejected from NYU so I opted to stay in-state for college, since I’d be paying for it. VCU had an urban campus – which I needed. One drive through the Fan District, and I was in love. We drove down Grove Avenue admiring the historic row houses. Front porches were spotted with young men wearing baseball caps and khaki shorts that said “preppy,” but barefoot and drinking Sam Adams, which said, “also fun.” Dave Matthews wafted through the air as if piped in via hidden speakers.

I loved the walkability, the architecture, the neighborhood diners with ornate tin ceilings, wooden booths and that stale beer smell. We rode our bikes to the Byrd Theatre. On sweltering days, we’d drag kiddie pools onto our balconies. On cold days, we huddled at Bogart’s (RIP) for burgers and gossip.

This isn’t to say my parents were wrong about the crime. Shots rang out at night. Where upscale brunch spots line Broad Street, there were once prostitutes. My friends and I would drive past slowly, ogling them. We traveled in packs to buy groceries at the now-closed Farmer John’s, where even the parking lot was treacherous. The stretch of Broad Street that ran alongside the campus consisted of abandoned buildings; massive, dark structures that hid secrets.

I moved to Los Angeles after graduation and stayed for well over a decade. But whenever I flew home, I’d beg my parents for the car keys. I promised it would only be a quick jaunt to Richmond. Then I hit my thirties, the financially exorbitant decade of weddings. Every time my husband and I attended nuptials, there would be something new to marvel at. The Siegel Center! Crime is down! Broad Street revitalization! Jackson Ward as an arts district?

Blame it on L.A. housing costs, or the fact that we had just seen A Prairie Home Companion live at the Hollywood Bowl. At the event, the fantasy of a simple life hung in the air for everyone attending – many of whom came from small towns. But Richmond was starting to grow on my husband. After a lunch at O’Toole’s followed by a dip with friends at Texas Beach, he turned to me in the James and asked, “Why don’t we live here?”

By the time we arrived, Richmond pride hit fever pitch. RVA stickers were on all the cars. No one could even be bothered to hate NoVA anymore—we were too cool to care. What I didn’t notice is that we were part of a new influx of outsiders coming in. Waves of new arrivals were flowing in from San Francisco, Austin, and most notably, NoVA. Between 2020-2023, Richmond welcomed over 40,000 new residents.

I know many aren’t pleased. Like me, they love the big city culture without the big city problems, like traffic and skyrocketing housing costs. I left L.A. for balance. I was burnt out from saying “yes” to everything, since the whiff of possibility was everywhere. It was electric, exhausting. I assumed Richmond would give me the simple life I was longing for. The hard-earned lesson here? We all create the lives we want. My ambition, job choices, and desire to start a family kept the treadmill on high. To quote Taylor Swift, “I’m the problem, it’s me.”

My question is, can Richmond currently handle the influx? The local government is barely holding it together. You’ll wait a minimum of two hours if you call the DPU. Potholes grow so neglected, people defiantly convert them into art installations. With vertical apartment buildings filling the sky along Arthur Ashe, they decided it would be a good idea to knock nearby Brook Road down to one lane, for bicycles.

Luckily, I sometimes catch glimpses of small-town life. A wave to friends through restaurant windows. My next door neighbors read North of the James and made an off-color joke about my piece on Onancock, simply by removing the “n” in the middle of that word. We had a good laugh and I thought, neighbors talking with me about my column in a local magazine? That’s something that would’ve happened in Lake Wobegone. It was my own little Prairie Home Companion moment.