Pastels, Porches, and Projects | Charleston
St. Michael’s Church
To truly grasp Charleston, I decided to run along King Street, from its picturesque southern tip in the opulent South of Broad neighborhood, straight north through North Central, looping back through the historic Eastside via Ansonborough, and then back south again, taking the city’s pulse, mile after revealing mile.
My run started within the postcard-perfect charm everyone associates with Charleston, the one bridesmaids flock to for bridal showers and bachelorette weekends.
Rainbow Row
The South of Broad homes stood regal and proud, their façades painted in pastel hues, soft creams, powder blues, and delicate pinks, capturing the gentle morning sun. Grand porches wrapped around these stately houses like welcoming arms, furnished with plush wicker chairs, gracefully suspended swings, and tables set as though perpetually awaiting afternoon high tea.
South of Broad Homes
Majestic columns rise toward second-story balconies, draped in ornate ironwork that curled elegantly like iron lace. Manicured gardens spread generously, bursting with hydrangeas, camellias, and fragrant jasmine vines climbing brick walls.
Even the shutters were works of art, wooden, perfectly weathered, and painted to accentuate the architecture. This was the Charleston of glossy magazines (hello, Southern Living), timeless and effortlessly graceful.
Southern Living
But as I continued running north along King Street, the city began to shift. The sidewalks became rougher, narrower, and less maintained. The homes and boutiques stores gradually shed their magazine-ready glamour, settling into more modest, comfortable, lived-in realities, faded curtains, old bicycles left mindlessly in the yards, rusted cars parked indefinitely in overgrown, short driveways. I had to watch my footing here. It was charming in a quieter, unpolished way, until, out of nowhere, shiny three-story condos and upscale restaurants like Maison, a fine French spot, appeared, modern, gleaming, and oddly out of sync with the surrounding neighborhood.
They were sprinkled across the city like afterthoughts, as if urban planning had been done with a shrug, or perhaps someone just scored a deal on a house after the previous owner couldn’t keep up with ever-rising property taxes.
Morrison Yard
A sleek high-rise with Pilates studios, polished glass, and rooftop views across the street fom rows of neglected public housing units.
On the northeastern side along Morrison Drive, the contrast intensified dramatically. Shiny, luxury apartment complexes, signaled the ever-expanding city. Across from one of the luxury apartments, Morrison Yard, a sleek high-rise with Pilates studios, polished glass, and rooftop views, looked down, across the street, at rows of neglected public housing units. The “projects” stood low and weary, windows were clouded with grime, and in places, the walls bore the dark smudges of mildew and mold creeping silently through the brick. Some doors were askew, others reinforced with metal screens or makeshift locks. And yet, people live here. Generations of families. Grandmothers raising grandchildren. Fathers coming home from long shifts. Many of them face the quiet health hazards that come with years of unchecked mold, poor ventilation, and crumbling infrastructure.
The Other Side of Town
“Many of them face the quiet health hazards that come with years of unchecked mold, poor ventilation, and crumbling infrastructure.”
Charleston, historically a city with a two-thirds Black majority, has seen that ratio flip entirely, pushing working-class Black communities further northward through rising property values. These changes have not only displaced residents but also diminished the cultural imprint of artisans like famed ironworker Philip Simmons, whose work once defined Charleston’s aesthetic. And the projects, those that remain, sit encircled by recent luxury housing development like islands slowly being swallowed by the tide.
Later, when I asked a local about these stark transformations, she shook her head with a wry smile. “Partly our fault,” she explained candidly. “There was a young Black politician from these streets who warned us, told folks plainly, ‘Pay your grandma’s property taxes; she’s retired now.’ Instead, people bought gold teeth and rims. Before long, grandma’s house was repossessed, bulldozed, and replaced by condos now selling for millions.”
