The horizontal silhouette peers above the hills just south of Nedrow as you approach the city limits and traverse along Interstate 81 on the eastern border of the Onondaga Nation. Melted snow uncovers deep potholes. Rusted steel and elevated curving roads layer each other as you wind through the grey and beige exterior of a city once known for its manufacturing. Underneath the mega structure are the remnants of a formerly thriving neighborhood that now serves as housing projects occupied almost entirely by black residents. When the manufacturing left, so did the jobs. The people stayed. They weathered wave after wave of disaster years, presidents, and promises. Keep driving. South side, west side, north side, doesn’t matter. Squat duplexes with porch steps, some boarded up, some burned out, some I can’t tell if people reside there or if it’s abandoned. Near west side, a set of houses off Geddes Street has eviction notices stapled to the doors. Someone painted a stick figure family under the sun and sky on the wooden boards that cover the windows. The next house has “GAS CUT” spray painted on the siding. Kids play basketball in the street on a hoop without a net. The house across from them has a large American flag hanging on the porch above the steps, forcing you to duck in order to reach the door. An Oldsmobile Alero sits on a jack in the front yard. 

Smoke billows from the paper mill behind the former steel juggernaut, Crucible. Once the largest producer of Crucible Steel in the United States, layoffs and bankruptcies plagued the company since its heyday during the mid-century. Only 158 workers remain. In late 2024, Crucible filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy for the second time in just fifteen years. I’m driving to meet rapper “Mugga” at a recording studio in a small rural town outside of the city. He’s wearing a backpack and lighting a blunt as he records a new song. “I’m fighting a case right now,” he tells me. Gun and drug possession. His friends who are also artists walk in and out and ask me to photograph them. Fino has a tattoo on his neck of his daughter’s name, Da’Siyah. I’m crouched down leaning against soundproofing foam in the corner of the room that has just enough space for a chair, a display screen, and a mic. There are purple string lights lining the ceiling. “I come to this studio the most because they let me smoke in the booth. How else am I gonna catch a vibe?” He invites me to his neighborhood which he refers to as the trenches and gives me a look as if to hint that it may be at my own risk. I ask if he’s got me. He replies “I got you.” 

The sun is finally out and reflecting off the numerous vacant apartment buildings on James Street. White fluorescent lighting bounces off the white walls. Crooked framed pictures line the room containing info on suicide prevention. A Jamaican accent reverberates throughout the waiting room. A man with a limp wearing a Yankees hat and a grey cardigan is singing a song he wrote. His name is James. He shows a picture of himself when he was young to a woman standing nearby as she says “you were handsome.” He replies “I still am, they take good care of me here.” Two young black women and their mother wait for family therapy. The mother has bright red hair and her daughters are both wearing sunglasses and tight acid wash jeans. Long braids line one of the girl's backs. Liberty Resources provides healthcare services pertaining to mental health, substance abuse, housing support, and juvenile justice and child welfare. Down James Street, a man in front of a building cleans out an apartment of a tenant who recently passed away. A broken mirror lies on the ground on top of a rug. He drags it onto his trailer and drives off. I light a cigarette and immediately I’m asked for one by a passer by who is missing most of her teeth. I oblige and light it for her. She continues walking towards the food pantry around the corner where people hang out front until sunset. “United We Stand” reads a mural painted on the side of an abandoned bottle return facility. “For lease will divide” reads the front. The parking lot is cracking like a sheet of ice under immense pressure. Fault lines emerge that run deep into the pavement. The gutted sign bears no resemblance of the business that once existed.

Number 3 shows promise as he pulls up for a three pointer and knocks it down. All net. It’s 27-7 with four minutes left in the second quarter. Banners cover the walls of the white cinder block gymnasium representing local and state championship years. The wooden court hasn’t been renovated since it was first laid and bears a yellow tint as if it’s been refinished over and over and over again. There’s a large sign on the wall that reads “Ham” across an image of a bulldog. Coaches yelling out plays and parents, too. The orange paint is chipping from the massive ventilation system on the ceiling that keeps the room warm during the frigid days of January. The weight room doubles as the home team locker room. The head coach tells me most of these kids play to keep off the streets. The highest percentage of crime in the city is gang related. Median household incomes are below half the national average and child poverty is among the highest in the nation. 

The city will soon give way to spring. As each day passes, more people sit on their porches and walk the streets. Music blares from rolled down windows and car speakers. Basketball is being played on local courts. Today it’s 60 degrees, tomorrow there’s a chance of snow. The volatility of our weather system strikes again as our position among lakes demands irregularity. I pass through every neighborhood, by every small Baptist church and Catholic Cathedral, hoping for resolve and an understanding of where I come from and who we are. How does this land and environment shape me? Who does it serve and who does it abandon? I look no further than the systems that have been imposed on us. At the next traffic light, a man on the street holds a cardboard sign that reads “hungry, homeless, hopeful.” The light turns green and I continue on.