Exclusion

The residential hotel, precarious and democratic, stands as a temporal refuge- an architecture of transient permanence, pushing back against the exclusionary systems embedded in the city’s rigid frameworks.​​

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The history of Chicago is marked by a persistent theme of exclusion, where systemic forces have continually marginalized various communities. Starting with the Great Migration in the early 20th century, African Americans1 fled the oppressive Jim Crow South, only to encounter informal and formal segregationist practices in Chicago, such as racial restrictive covenants2 that confined them to specific neighborhoods. These exclusionary practices were further entrenched by redlining in the 1930s, which denied minority neighborhoods access to mortgage loans, perpetuating economic segregation and limiting upward mobility. By the late 1940s, over 220 subdivisions in Cook County had implemented such covenants, effectively restricting African American residential expansion3. The post-WWII era saw urban renewal programs that aimed to revitalize cities but resulted in the displacement of minority communities, particularly in the Black and impoverished neighborhoods. In Chicago, approximately 23,000 families, of which 64% were families of color, faced displacement due to urban renewal projects between 1950 and 1966.4 The destruction of these communities was often justified under the guise of clearing “blighted” areas, yet they disproportionately affected Black families and exacerbated the issue of marginalization.5 Despite the legislative advancements of the Civil Rights Movement, such as the Fair Housing Act of 19686, the legacy of historical marginalization persists, with Chicago remaining one of the most segregated cities in America. Throughout this enduring pattern of exclusion, spaces like residential hotels emerged as critical lifelines for those relegated to the periphery: transient workers, single mothers, immigrants, and the elderly. Catering to a transient workforce, residential hotels ranged from municipal lodging houses to flophouses, offering bare-minimum shelter and shared facilities. They blurred the boundaries between public and private, permanence and temporality, individuality and collectivity. Yet, their openness also made them vulnerable to systemic erasure.

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The institutionalization of vagrancy in late 19th-century Chicago marked a significant shift in how the city dealt with its most vulnerable populations. Poverty, once seen as an unfortunate byproduct of industrialization, became criminalized under vagrancy laws that aimed to seize, control, assist, and re-integrate the ‘unfits’. The Chicago Municipal Lodging House became emblematic of this dynamic. Ostensibly created to provide shelter, it functioned less as a refuge and more as a transactional model of charity. This transactional charity stripped residents of autonomy under the guise of “help.” By dictating how the economically vulnerable existed within the city, these spaces reinforced social hierarchies under the facade of aid. Although it provided basic shelter, its primary function was not to reintegrate the homeless into society but to maintain order and control, often by categorizing and confining them to specific societal norms. The Bridewell Prison offers an even starker example of how architecture could enforce vagrancy laws. Designed with rigid corridors, austere cells, and centralized monitoring, it embodied Michel Foucault’s concept of “disciplinary societies,” where space itself became a tool for surveillance and control. The prison’s architecture not only confined but categorized its occupants, reducing them to docile bodies subject to reformation. This dehumanization was central to the era’s strategy of managing the urban poor: to render them invisible and compliant. Yet, these spaces also held a paradoxical role. For many, they were the last barrier against total destitution.​

 

Single Room Occupancy (SRO) hotels, often pejoratively referred to as “cage hotels,” epitomize marginalization through minimal architectural provisions. The thin chicken wire ceilings, lack of windows, and inadequate space denote a hierarchy of worth; these “cages” were engineered to be inhospitable, enforcing the notion that those who couldn’t afford better housing were somehow lesser. The degradation of private space into something barely functional illustrates an architectural language of containment, where even the structure physically enforces social exclusion and reflects a punitive mindset. The characteristic feature of these spaces was the chicken wire ceilings to allow air to circulate because most of the rooms were without windows, an abnormality that was almost meant for these (excluded) abnormal members of society lending many of the SROs the name Cage hotels. Inside, the fifty square feet wire mesh topped cubicles embodied what Giorgio Agamben termed bare life: a mode of existence reduced to the threshold of survival. Yet, within these stark walls, the residents carved out fragile lives, where a dim light bulb and a steel-framed cot became symbols of endurance.​

 

From the late 19th century through the mid-20th century, SROs served as a vital component of the housing landscape, offering temporary shelter to those who could not afford longterm leases or traditional housing arrangements. However, a combination of economic, social, and policy-driven factors led to their decline. Economic downturns, urban renewal projects, and changing societal attitudes towards poverty contributed to the marginalization of these establishments. By the 1970s, SROs began to be viewed as undesirable and associated with societal issues such as crime and substance abuse, which reinforced negative perceptions and furthered their decay. By the late 20th century, many SROs were left in states of disrepair, their minimalistic designs ill-suited to the rising expectations of urban housing. The very features that had made these hotels accessible—shared facilities, small cubicles, and low rents—were now viewed as symbols of urban blight. Policy interventions often labeled as “slum clearance” further targeted these buildings, framing their erasure as necessary for urban progress. Yet, this narrative masked the deeper intent: the removal of a typology that sheltered the city’s most vulnerable populations. Redeveloped SROs like the Wilson Club and Found Hotel symbolize a calculated erasure of affordable housing under the guise of “urban improvement.” The shift from low-cost housing to highpriced rentals isn’t an accidental byproduct of economic growth but a deliberate strategy to expunge the city of “undesirable”

 

demographics. By pricing out the original residents—often low-income workers, immigrants, and other marginalized communities—these developments enforce socio-economic segregation. This exclusion, rebranded as progress, reflects a political move to push marginalized people further to the city’s edges or even out of it. This language of “redevelopment” often conceals deliberate socio-economic cleansing. Once considered lifelines for transient and economically vulnerable populations, these spaces have been systematically eliminated under the guise of urban improvement. The rates in their original forms were accessible, often as low as 75 cents per night during the early 20th century, equivalent to approximately $15 today when adjusted for inflation. In stark contrast, the refurbished units— rebranded as boutique apartments or upscale hotels—demand rents averaging $1,200 to $1,800 monthly, effectively excluding the original residents they once served.

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In this context, urban redevelopment becomes a polite term for displacement. Henri Lefebvre’s theory of “the right to the city” suggests that urban spaces should be accessible to all inhabitants, allowing them to shape their environment rather than being shaped by it. By removing affordable housing under the guise of “progress,” urban policy becomes exclusionary, rejecting those who don’t fit the economic mold of “ideal” residents. Gentrification, masked by the rhetoric of redevelopment, perpetuates socio-economic stratification by replacing accessible housing with properties tailored for affluence. The result is a controlled urban ecosystem, carefully cultivated to appeal to the affluent, in which diversity, both economic and social, is purged in favor of sanitized uniformity. Urban policy not only sanctions but often incentivizes this exclusionary redevelopment. Through financial incentives, developers are encouraged to turn former SROs into luxury housing, reinforcing a system that favors capital accumulation over communal welfare.

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The story of residential hotels is not simply one of decay, exclusion, and gentrification but also one of resilience and complexity. These structures, while deeply imperfect, offered vital lifelines to populations marginalized by a city unwilling to accommodate their presence elsewhere. They represented a fragile balance between shelter and social control, between anonymity and isolation, and between protection and erasure. Their facades, interiors, and eventual decline are architectural artifacts that encapsulate the broader tensions of urban life—of who belongs, who thrives, and who is left behind. As cities grapple with affordable housing crises and increasing socioeconomic divides, the legacy of residential hotels urges us to rethink the potential of such spaces. Could their essence—shared facilities, affordability, and openness—be reimagined for modern needs without succumbing to exclusionary redevelopment? They are reminders of the possibility of collective living, where resources are shared, and survival is a communal act. Their failures are worth understanding, not only as cautionary tales but as opportunities to address the persistent question: how can architecture serve everyone, not just the privileged few? These spaces do not merely house the poor; they reintegrate them into society by normalizing their existence. With their shared facilities and accessibility, they offer a blueprint for collective living that challenges the rigid norms of ownership and privacy central to contemporary housing models. If reimagined thoughtfully, their essence—affordability, adaptability, and openness—could inform new housing typologies suited to the crises of our times: from affordable housing shortages to the alienation of urban living. As urban redevelopment continues to reshape cities, these spaces remain a potent reminder of the invisible residents of a city that prefers to forget them —compelling us to reconsider the very architecture of exclusion, redefining what it means to live together, and who gets to belong.​

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Endnotes

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1. Zachary Leiter. “Chicago’s 250 Year History of Segregation - The Chicago Reporter.” The Chicago Reporter, August 30, 2023. http://www.chicagoreporter.com/chicagos-250-year-history-of-segregation/.​

 

2. “Restrictive Covenants · Racial Restriction and Housing Discrimination in the Chicagoland Area · Digital Chicago.” digitalchicagohistory.org, December 2, 2024. https://digitalchicagohistory.org/exhibits/show/restricted-chicago/restrictive_covenants.

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3. “Restrictive Covenants · Racial Restriction and Housing Discrimination in the Chicagoland Area · Digital Chicago.” digitalchicagohistory.org, December 2, 2024. https://digitalchicagohistory.org/exhibits/show/restricted-chicago/restrictive_covenants.
 

4. “About 3 — The City Beyond the White City.” The City Beyond the White City, December 2, 2024. https://www.beyondthewhitecity.org/urban-renewal-and-bronzeville.

 

5. “Urban Renewal on the Northside of Chicago: Influence of Nonviolent and Violent Protest.” The Nonviolence Project, March 3, 2023. https://thenonviolenceproject.wisc.edu
/2023/03/03/urban-renewal-on-the-northside-of-chicago-influence-of-nonviolent-and-violent-protest/.

 

6. Zachary Leiter. “Chicago’s 250 Year History of Segregation - The Chicago Reporter.” The Chicago Reporter, August 30, 2023. http://www.chicagoreporter.com/chicagos-250-year-history-of-segregation/.