Broadsheet

GDP projections of Federal Reserve Governors and Reserve Bank presidents, Change in Real GDP¹
Projection Date	2025	2026	2027
Jun 2025	1.2 to 1.5	1.5 to 1.8	1.7 to 2.0
Mar 2025	1.5 to 1.9	1.6 to 1.9	1.6 to 2.0

Unemployment projections of Federal Reserve Governors and Reserve Bank presidents, Unemployment Rate²
Projection Date	2025	2026	2027
Jun 2025	4.4 to 4.5	4.3 to 4.6	4.2 to 4.6
Mar 2025	4.3 to 4.4	4.2 to 4.5	4.1 to 4.4

Inflation projections of Federal Reserve Governors and Reserve Bank presidents, PCE Inflation¹
Projection Date	2025	2026	2027
Jun 2025	2.8 to 3.2	2.3-2.6	2.0 to 2.2
Mar 2025	2.6 to 2.9	2.1 to 2.3	2.0 to 2.1

Core Inflation projections of Federal Reserve Governors and Reserve Bank presidents, Core Inflation¹
Projection Date	2025	2026	2027
Jun 2025	2.9 to 3.4	2.3-2.6	2.0 to 2.2
Mar 2025	2.7 to 3.0	2.1 to 2.4	2.0 to 2.1

This article is part of “Flint Unfiltered: Stories from An American Water Crisis,” a project that DCReport has partnered on with the School of Journalism at Northeastern University. Eight of their enterprising students delved into the story of Flint, Michigan, the site of one of the country’s worst public health crises. As part of our mentoring program, we’re amplifying their efforts by sharing the amazing work produced by their students, as well as personal essays from Flint residents and stakeholders. Please visit the project’s website HERE.

Flint’s Hispanic Community Is Searching for Strength After Feeling Excluded From Officials’ English-Dominated Response to the Crisis

FLINT – Adorned in her usual Sunday hairnet and ruby red kitchen apron, Aurora Sauceda eagerly waved at each family that packed into the bustling San Juan Diego Activity Center following 9 a.m. Spanish Mass.

“I just feel the warmth. . . . Here, everybody comes together,” Sauceda said with a bright smile, surrounded by steaming plates of pupusas and Nopales con Huevo. Amid the giggles of young children in their Sunday best, this is a community that has supported its members despite a water crisis response that failed and continues to fail them.

With roots in Flint, Texas and Mexico, Sauceda serves as the community coordinator and driving force for Latinos United for Flint, or LUF. Formed in 2016, LUF was born out of the water crisis to assist the Hispanic community – both documented and undocumented – with health services, immigration concerns, nutrition and housing. And while it’s been more than 10 years since polluted water flowed through the pipes of this mid-sized city in southern Michigan, the after-effects of what was billed as the state’s worst public health disaster are still felt in the small but tight community of Hispanic residents, many of whom did not speak fluent English at the time. And many of whom continue to feel marginalized by a local government that seems to overlook them.

“They were more vulnerable. It makes me wonder how they are faring now,” said Karen Weaver in a recent interview about the city’s Hispanic community, then and now. She was Flint’s mayor from 2015 to 2019. “Those are some stories that we don’t know if anybody has heard. I haven’t heard them, and I’m right here. So – who has heard their stories?”

The American and Mexican national flags raised outside of the Father Eduardo Lorenzo Educational Center at Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church. Credit: Asher Ben-Dashan

On April 25, 2014, the city of Flint switched the city’s water source from Lake Huron, as supplied by the Detroit Water & Sewerage Department, to the Flint River.

Engineers determined at the time that the city would have to spend $50 million to get the local 1950s-era water treatment plant up to code to make the water safe. Instead, facing a financial crisis, city managers invested only $4 million. The result: Millions of gallons of water with unacceptable levels of sodium, lead and other contaminants were pumped for about 18 months into the homes and businesses of thousands of residents.

While people complained about dirty water and illnesses almost immediately, the state, under former Gov. Rick Snyder, didn’t declare a state of emergency until Jan. 5, 2016. Afterward, in an attempt to mitigate the damage and deliver water to thousands of ailing and angry residents, water distribution centers were set up.

But to ensure “it was just Flint people that were getting services,” a form of state-issued identification was required to obtain water, said Jim Ananich, former minority leader of the Michigan Senate and current board member of the International Center of Greater Flint, an organization that offers support services to Flint’s cultural communities.

This decision marked one of the first blows to the Hispanic, non-English-speaking and undocumented population in Flint, Ananich said, as it illustrated a disregard for their welfare.

The first problem was many of these residents were afraid to present their IDs for fear of being detained and deported. So, they couldn’t collect water at the centers.

Secondly, more than 270 Guardsmen along with the American Red Cross and local law enforcement delivered water and filters to over 22,000 homes. Despite good intentions, aid-canvassing while dressed in military garb and badges did not serve as an effective response. For the undocumented community especially, this emergency response again generated fear.

“It’s unsettling to have this military presence coming up to your door, or law enforcement coming up to your door, when there’s just that whole history for people of color in the country,” said Asa Zuccaro, a Flint local and executive director of the Latinx Technology and Community Center on the city’s eastside.

These fears fell against the backdrop of the Obama administration that had already deported millions of people from the U.S. In fact, just two weekends before, the administration announced a nationwide, concerted effort for the deportation of Central American immigrant families, including mothers and children.

When two weeks later Michigan Guardsmen arrived at the doorsteps of immigrant families with a knock and carrying cases of water, “some of them would not answer the door. . . . They were afraid,” Sauceda said.

Because of these factors, an entire segment of the population “that just is under the radar and also needs it” was largely missed, Ananich said.

Seen But Unheard

The exterior signage of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, located just outside of Flint in Beecher, Michigan. Credit: Asher Ben-Dashan

Recent U.S. Census numbers put Hispanics in Flint at 4.5% of the population, or about 3,600 people. If water was the crisis point for them a decade ago, today’s fears, like so many across the nation, center on government hostility and neglect for their welfare.

In the absence of trusting government for help and protection, many among Flint’s Hispanic population have turned away from official channels to community centers such as Our Lady of Guadelupe Catholic Church and the Latinx Center. For example, in 2018, when the state-funded water distribution centers were closed down, local foundations such as the Community Foundation of Greater Flint sponsored water hubs. And in 2019, Our Lady of Guadalupe received $10,000 from the United Way to purchase and distribute water to the Hispanic community on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays from 4 to 6 p.m. On one day alone that summer, Our Lady dispensed 486 24-packs of water to 133 families.

The larger community was not always supportive of targeted efforts such as these. “People found out and they said we were discriminating because we were not handing out water to other community people,” Sauceda said. “They were making comments that it was just because ‘we’re not Hispanic and we don’t speak Spanish.’ . . . Can you believe that?”

Beyond concerns over deportation and water distribution sites themselves, the Hispanic community was facing another issue: the barrier of language accessibility. Nearly all public communications related to the crisis at the time were delivered in English.

“Our Spanish-speaking and undocumented communities were really in the dark for a long time before they found out about the water crisis,” said Sauceda. “The English speakers were aware of it, but the Spanish speakers weren’t aware of it because they didn’t know what was going on. We had a case of a young lady who was pregnant while that happened. And her baby was affected by it.”

Some did not learn of the potentially lethal water contamination until April of 2016, two years after the switch from the Detroit Water and Sewerage Department to the Flint River and three months following Snyder’s declaration of a State of Emergency.

“There was no policy maker that was concerned about, ‘do we need to translate things into Spanish?’ That all had to happen through grassroots advocacy,” said Emily Feuerherm, a linguistics professor at the University of Michigan-Flint. “This idea that this city is American, this city is English-speaking with some white people. It totally erased this entire other population and group of those with an immigrant background, multilingual background.”

bottled water flyers in Flint — Bottled water maintenance flyers from the Genesee County Health Department are offered in the lobby of City Hall, printed in English. Credit: Asher Ben-Dashan

Beyond the Hispanic community, 2.9% of Genesee County speaks languages other than English and Spanish in the home, such as Asian and Pacific Islander, Indo-European and other languages.

The language barrier persisted past the Hispanic community’s discovery of the crisis, as there was an additional burden in receiving financial benefits from the state.

On Feb. 24, 2016, Snyder announced the Michigan State Legislature’s approval of a $30 million aid package that included a provision to pay back a portion of people’s water bills, as well as pay back for the significant cost of buying water for drinking, cooking and bathing. But once again, residents only received information about applying for these mitigations as part of their utility bills. Those instructions were only explained in English.

“They would have to call in and leave a message and because they were leaving a Spanish-speaking message, they didn’t understand it [in the office], so nobody would get back to them,” Sauceda said.

Similarly, a month later, seven affected families filed a class action lawsuit, claiming that government officials were aware of the increasingly dangerous levels of lead in the water. Following defendants’ attempts to dismiss the suit, the Michigan Supreme Court ruled in July of 2021 that plaintiffs could continue with the litigation. This culminated in an approval of a $626.25 million settlement in November 2021 with more than 90,000 claims within the city of Flint.

In order to become a claimant of the settlement, residents had to apply with supporting documentation by June 30, 2022.

However, “all the applications were in English,” Sauceda said. “So, they didn’t know how to fill them out. . . . I would say that hardly any of our undocumented, our Spanish people, got to even apply for the lawsuit.”

And again, the same happened with applications for the Flint Registry, a community tool created to connect those affected by the water crisis to necessary resources. Applications were in English. An interested participant had to call the registry to request a Spanish version.

“And I will be very honest, a lot of that is a funding situation in that sending a letter with all of the translations is a significant weight,” said Felicia Eshragh, program manager of the Flint Registry. “If you would like it to be translated, we can go from there.”

Of the 22,259 registrants within the program as of January 2025, 4.4% or an approximate 979 identify as Latinx or Hispanic, marking a potential impression upon the community but certainly not in its entirety.

Also, English as a Second Language (ESL) services within the city reflect what some call dwindling attention and indifference. In 2015, Feuerherm spearheaded an ESL mapping project of the county, documenting a total of nine ESL programs within and around Flint. Of those nine, four no longer offer programs.

“There was absolute invisibility,” said Feuerherm, who is also a member of the International Center of Greater Flint. After conducting the assessment, Feuerherm came to understand first-hand the neglect people feel.

“People would come up to me [and say] ‘Thank you so much for talking to me. I have wanted to share ideas but haven’t ever had the opportunity,’” she repeated. “’Nobody seems interested.’”

‘Maybe We’ll Do Better’

There has been good news too. The city of Flint now has four “navigators” in the Office of Public Health who are tasked with bilingual services. This mitigation was established in 2020.

“The public health navigator position was established within the city of Flint’s Office of Public Health as a direct response to the multifaceted challenges that emerged from the Flint water crisis,” said Shana Rowser, communications manager for the city, in an email. She went on to acknowledge that the Hispanic community faced “unique challenges” during the crisis when “language barriers and fears related to immigration status led to reduced access to vital information and resources.” The new navigators are all fluent in Spanish to help with official communications. Also, the city no longer requires documentation to access resources as a way to assure residents they can ask for help “without fear,” said Rowser.

Despite this effort, Spanish speakers are still skeptical of their government and instead have redirected their focus to within their own community.

“Systems will fail you, they can fail you,” Zuccaro said. “Instead of waiting for a system to understand how to service and learn how to service, maybe we’ll do better. Just by serving ourselves and trying to create our own systems.”

And this is just what Zuccaro and his colleagues at Latinx strive to do.

Asa Zuccaro pushes for change within Flint’s east side as executive director of the Latinx Technology and Community Center. Credit: Asher Ben-Dashan

On March 14, the Latinx Center broke ground on its Bilingual Early Education Center while its first interpreter training program (TICT) session kicked off on April 14. Just last year, the center translated over 268 hours of material and 169,604 words while also distributing 14,252 gallons of water to the culturally diverse Latin community that visits.

Beyond translational services, last year, the center oversaw 34 new LLCs from the Hispanic community and over 68 people became fully employed. “I think the exciting part is not only maybe staying in that labor force but now taking agency and becoming the business owner in that labor force,” Zuccaro said.

A spot of pride for the center is the over 20 competitive applications they have received for the Youth Leadership program, which enlists local youth to beautify the east side, encouraging reinvestment within the Hispanic and immigrant communities.

And that revitalization takes shape in the form of new arrivals, as the city’s east side now crackles with sanguinity these 10 years later. In the face of the general population’s 1.6% decline in 2021, Genesee County’s immigrant population jumped to approximately 11,269 with most journeying from Cuba, Mexico, India, Iraq and Venezuela. Much of the community is attracted to the low property values and cost of living within the county and specifically in Flint, which is a remnant of the crisis.

“When they come here, it’s warm for them. They feel like family members too,” said Devianise Padilla Borgos, the advancement coordinator for the Latinx Center. “If they’re new in the community, they know this is the first spot.”

A similar thread of communal ambition and advancement dances about the mosaics of stained glass and the worn wooden pews of Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church.

For long-time Flint resident and one of the hands who helped build this Latin church from the ground, 84 year-old Lucia Pacheco sees attending as a matter of survival.

“The church is keeping the Mexican, the Spanish-speaking people together. Otherwise, we wouldn’t see, we wouldn’t see a thing,” said Pacheco with a contagious force in her voice. Despite her diagnosis with stiff person syndrome, a rare neurological disorder that causes intense muscle spasms, she and her husband Vincent walk through the doors of the church every Sunday.

Even more than 10 years on, the halls of the San Juan Diego Activity Center are still overflowing with food donations and volunteers continue to distribute free bananas, milk and most importantly, cases of water to a sidelined but tenacious community.

“I just feel that we all have a purpose in life,” Sauceda said, her face softening at the sound of a beautiful mélange of Spanish and English. “And it can’t be just sitting on your hands and doing nothing.”

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An Oral History of Identity, Endurance and Adaptation

FLINT – The water crisis didn’t just poison bodies. It rerouted lives, upended routines and redefined identities. It turned parents into protesters. Scientists into whistleblowers. Neighbors into warriors. Artists into organizers. Flint is not just a story about contamination, it’s a story about adaptation.

The crisis began in 2014, when Flint’s drinking water source was switched from Detroit’s system to the Flint River in a cost-cutting move while the city was under state-appointed emergency management. The river water wasn’t properly treated, allowing lead from aging pipes to leach into the community’s drinking water. Residents quickly noticed the difference – brown water, rashes, strange smells – but for over a year, officials dismissed their concerns. By the time the government acknowledged the problem, thousands of people had been exposed to lead and other contaminants. Trust in public institutions collapsed and, in its place, a network of ordinary people stepped up to do what officials would not.

The following roles don’t define the people who took them on, but they reveal new dimensions of them. For some, it meant filing FOIAs, collecting samples and raising the alarm. For others, it meant listening harder, asking questions, refusing to be reassured. When trust in the system dissolved, what emerged was something fierce and unrelenting. Not because people wanted to be watchdogs – but because they didn’t have a choice.

The Water Watchers

Some people never stopped focusing on the water itself. Whether tracking what comes out of the tap, pushing for better infrastructure, or continuing to ask basic questions about safety, for them the water crisis didn’t end, even when it stopped being news.

Flint water tower

Elin Betanzo

Elin Betanzo is a water engineer with firsthand knowledge of what happens when corrosive water is pumped through old lead pipes. A former EPA official, she lived through the Washington, D.C. lead crisis in the early 2000s, where thousands of residents were exposed to dangerous lead levels due to similar regulatory failures. So when Flint made the decision in 2014 to switch its water supply to the Flint River without implementing proper corrosion control, Betanzo recognized the risk immediately.

“The second they switched the water in Flint is when I thought – there’s potential for a problem.”

But she wasn’t in Flint. At the time, Betanzo was living on the other end of the state, watching from afar as warning signs appeared and were dismissed. She reconnected with her old friend Dr. Mona Hanna-Attisha, a Flint pediatrician, and encouraged her to analyze blood-lead data in children.

“Everything I experienced was as an outsider, with enough knowledge to know what’s happening, but no connections. Just completely frustrated. What can I do to make someone pay attention to the tragedy unfolding here?”

In the years since, Betanzo has dedicated herself to national reform efforts, advocating for stronger federal rules and helping cities build the technical capacity to safely replace lead lines. Flint may have ignited a national conversation but, as she emphasizes, technical fixes alone aren’t enough. The crisis was as much about governance as it was about infrastructure.

Scott Dungee

As the water plant supervisor in Flint, Scott Dungee lived through the crisis from the inside. He was there when the city, under a state-appointed emergency manager, switched its water supply in 2014 from Detroit’s Lake Huron-fed system to the long-defunct Flint River plant, a facility that had sat idle for years and required at least $50 million in upgrades to be safely operational. Instead, the state allocated just $4 million. The plant reopened anyway.

Dungee and his team were given 30 days to begin delivering water from a source that was known to be chemically unstable and they were largely untrained for what they were being asked to do.

“It’s heart-dropping. When you know you’ve got to make water in 30 days, and you’re scared to, but you’ve got no choice. So, you either quit… or you make the water.”

What followed became the national scandal: improperly treated water corroded aging pipes, leaching lead into thousands of homes. Trust in the water system collapsed. Now, years later, Dungee is still at the plant, helping to rebuild both the infrastructure and the public’s faith. His team continues work to recoat and restore damaged pipes, and he’s personally led efforts to bring residents back into the process.

“A lot of them still don’t trust us, but at least try. Ever since 2017 we put that open door policy out there… I’ve had a few that totally don’t trust it and within a year’s time I’ve tested their water four or five times and they’re on my side now. So I have made some headway.”

Karen Weaver

Karen Weaver became mayor of Flint in 2015, at the height of the water crisis. A clinical psychologist by training, Weaver had no political background, but ran on a platform of transparency and accountability and won, becoming the first woman to hold the office. One of her top priorities was replacing the city’s lead service lines. But for Weaver, the work that needed to be done was a chance to repair trust with the community.

“The first $30 million that we got, we hired three companies. Two were from Flint, one was from Genesee County… It was 2016, you know, Flint is a predominantly Black city—and it was the first time that a Black company had ever gotten a multimillion-dollar contract from the city of Flint.”

To Weaver, rebuilding the water system meant ensuring that the people most affected by the crisis had a role in repairing the damage. Her administration launched the Fast Start program, aimed at jumpstarting pipe replacement efforts quickly while hiring local contractors and workers.

“We said we need to hire people right from Flint, we need to see people that we know doing this and give people in Flint an opportunity, because that was going to be part of our healing too was taking care of ourselves.”

The Relentless

In the long aftermath of the water crisis, some people found themselves stepping into the spotlight – giving testimony, leading protests and grabbing headlines. For others, the response was more local and constant. Neighbors who stayed, city workers who held the line and teachers who kept things going, experiencing the crisis at home but still showing up for their community.

Their work held the community together, and when the cameras packed up and moved on, this strength didn’t fade, it remained relentless.

Water under overpass in Flint

Claudia Perkins

For Claudia Perkins, leader of the bargaining unit of the United All Workers organization for nearly 30 years, fighting for justice isn’t new. So when the Flint water crisis began, she didn’t wait to act.

“We had rashes in our face, on our legs, hair falling out, all of those things. And so we knew we had to do something. So we all came together and we met and we talked and we formed the group, Democracy Defense League.”

The Democracy Defense League quickly became one of the loudest grassroots voices holding officials accountable. Made up of local residents and labor organizers, the group’s members organized protests, attended public hearings and ensured that Flint stayed in the national spotlight.

“I’m not missing one court hearing. We’re there in full force… we go, we listen, if we have to testify, we do that. We fight to win.”

colorful building in Flint, Michigan

Lily Wilson

The Flint water crisis exposed more than 30,000 children to elevated levels of lead, a neurotoxin that can cause developmental delays, learning disabilities, behavioral issues and problems with memory and attention. Researchers have documented spikes in special education enrollment and a rise in anxiety and emotional dysregulation among Flint’s youth in the years following the switch to contaminated water. Like many educators in the city, Lily Wilson carries the weight of a crisis that began outside the classroom but shows up inside it every day.

“When the kids come to school and they have an issue, we’re there to help in any way, shape or form. And what we can’t do, we go to the next person that can help. So it’s all about outreach and stretching and making sure that the need is met.”

Wilson says her role goes far beyond teaching, supporting students not just academically but emotionally and physically. The community’s trust in institutions was shaken, but schools remained one of the few reliable spaces where families could turn for help.

“It shifted the identity of the community…it takes a village to raise that kind of hope back to get it back to where it needs to be and to bring something new…I feel like I became much more resilient.”

Fire engine in Flint

Christian Perkins

For Christian Perkins, a firefighter and safety training officer with the Flint Fire Department, the water crisis reshaped every aspect of life.

“I’m dealing with the water crisis personally. And then I go to work and it is the biggest thing – not fires, not EMS costs – the biggest thing that we were dealing with at that point was the water crisis.”

Fires and medical calls didn’t change much, but as lead levels in the water became a national scandal, the fire stations transformed into logistical hubs for emergency response. The city’s firehouses were repurposed as water distribution centers, and local firefighters were asked to help coordinate with outside agencies to serve thousands of residents in urgent need of clean water. During the peak of the crisis, when federal resources were deployed to assist in distributing bottled water and filters, the fire stations became key access points for that effort.

“They brought in the National Guard and the National Guard used our stations as a point of delivery to the citizens. Go outside and you’d have hundreds of cars lined up to come and get water.”

And when the aid left and the cameras turned away, it was Flint residents like Firefighter Perkins who continued to carry the community forward.

“It felt like everybody just packed up their tents and left. And we were left to deal with it as we’ve always had to deal with things – just trying to come together as a community and work it out amongst ourselves.”

The Messengers

As advisors and advocates, the crisis pushed some outward, turning local pain into national purpose.

Amber Hasan

For Amber Hasan, an artist and advocate, the crisis changed her work and focus.

“When the water crisis happened, it opened my eyes to so many of the environmental injustices and how they intersect with race and gender and socioeconomics. How easy it is in the first world to end up without the resources necessary to live just a regular life. And it happened to my community. My eyes were opened to how it was happening in so many other communities in the United States.”

As she watched the fallout unfold, Hasan began drawing connections between Flint and other-income communities across the U.S. where water access, environmental neglect and institutional failure often collided. Her response was to create and to organize. In 2016, Hasan co-founded The Sister Tour, a traveling artist collective and media platform dedicated to connecting and lifting up the stories of marginalized women and communities through performance, workshops, mutual aid and digital storytelling. What started as a creative collaboration quickly evolved into a national network of artists and organizers, using art to speak truth and build solidarity across geographies.

“I think that the role of artists is to tell the truth…you use whatever tools you have” … for us with the sister tour, it is our network. It’s the people that we know and who know us and who trust us to do the work that we do. It is being able to have a voice through being an artist and being able to speak to people in a different way.”

Elin Betanzo

The Flint water crisis became a turning point in how the country talks about drinking water. Since her role in exposing the crisis, Elin Betanzo has become a leading voice in national water policy and lead line replacement efforts.

“It’s changed the fundamental conversation…it’s the first time ever we have $15 billion to fund replacement of lead service lines, under the Biden administration that was the first time a single dollar had been allocated for getting rid of lead service lines. So from that perspective Flint has changed everything about how we talk about prioritizing the issue of lead and drinking water.”

But while the funding is a big step forward, implementation remains a challenge. An estimated 9 million lead service lines are still in use across the United States, many of them concentrated in older, low-income and majority-minority communities. Replacing them is a massive logistical and financial undertaking. The Environmental Protection Agency has set a goal of removing all lead service lines within 10 years, but many experts and advocates believe that without stronger oversight and coordination, the timeline could stretch much longer.

“Collaborations and partnerships are critical to making any progress with this, ‘cause there is no way to fight against the establishment alone…we are up against the industry, we are up against the whole establishment of those who are supposed to be providing public health and protection and are fighting against it every day.”

Karen Weaver

Even after leaving office in 2019, Weaver has remained a vocal advocate.

“The story of Flint needs to stay in the national spotlight, because this is bigger than Flint.”

What happened in Flint can, and does, happen elsewhere. And the most powerful tool communities have, she says, is their voice.

“We’re fighters and we’re proud of it…our voice has been our greatest asset because we don’t go away and we continue to talk about it.”

The Builders

Sometimes waiting for things to be fixed isn’t an option or takes too long. For many in Flint, they kept building anyway. Painting murals. Opening studios. Starting businesses. They’re not denying what happened, they’re just refusing to let that be the only story.

Kelly Martin

For Kelly Martin, a tattoo artist who recently opened a studio in downtown Flint, her city is so much more than the water crisis.

“Anywhere I go that’s the only thing they want to talk about. There’s just, how’s the water? Is it kind of like, are you kidding? We’re like, ‘no, it’s not fixed.’ It’s broken here, we’re all, like, still struggling. But that’s just one thing out of the, like, things that’s happened…I’m more like, look at this city rising…that’s what’s really important to us”

Her friend and fellow artist, Pauly Everett, agrees.

Pauly Everett

Everett, a Flint-born street artist and muralist, has been painting long before the water crisis. His work, often vibrant and community-focused, is part of a broader creative movement that’s taken root in Flint over the past two decades: artists reclaiming walls, alleys and abandoned spaces to tell a different story about their city.

“We all just get together and help each other out…People look out for each other and we both do tough times and help each other out.”

As a street artist, Pauly was active before, during and after the water crisis.

“When Flint comes up in a conversation, we want them to think of the art we’re making. You know, I mean, the cool thing we’re doing, the creative things we’re doing. Yeah. From rocking to throwing gallery shows. I mean, we’re traveling the world and making art.”

James Moore

James Moore, a Flint resident and entrepreneur, sees opportunity where others see decline. His message is simple: don’t wait for someone else to fix it – build it yourself.

“I’m an entrepreneur. I really stress on we have to make things happen for ourselves.”

For Moore, revitalization doesn’t depend on looking back and wishing the past had gone differently, it’s about building a new future with what the community has now.

“If the big companies won’t come, then we got to do grassroots and go Fortune 500 from within. We can’t hide behind excuses on why we can’t do it. We got to come up there. We can do it. We used to build carriages and wagons here and we started building cars and trucks and we’re moving on even more into the future. So we got to do more thinking outside of the box on things that we can do.”

Flint never disappeared. It’s just been underestimated.

“A lot people say Flint will never come back. I said, Flint never left. It is always here. We didn’t cut the lights off.”

The story of Flint is not over. In a city where trust was broken, what endures is not just resilience, but reinvention and people who refuse to let one disaster define them. The stories are not neat and are not resolved, but they demonstrate what happens when ordinary people are asked to carry extraordinary weight and how, in the face of failure, they keep finding ways to build, to push and to stay. In Flint, the future is still unfolding – in classrooms, on sidewalks, in council chambers and tattoo shops – one conversation, one mural, one water test at a time.

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