Or maybe that's just me. Hard to tell.
The council president calls the meeting to order, and they work through routine business first.
My attention drifts. I'm thinking about Seamus's emails, the ones I still haven't opened. Wondering if he's saying anything that would make a difference.
"Next item," the council president announces, and I snap back to attention. "Heritage Street historical landmark designation application. We have representatives from the Historical Preservation Committee, the applicant, and several interested parties who've requested time to speak."
A woman I don't recognize approaches the podium—mid-fifties, sensible suit, reading glasses on a chain.
She introduces herself as Dr. Patricia Vince from the Historical Preservation Committee and launches into an explanation of why the Heritage Street storefront meets the criteria for landmark designation.
It's a good presentation. Thorough, well-researched, hitting all the technical criteria.
But I can see the council members' faces, and they're not moved.
This is just another application to them, another preservation request that will create an administrative burden without obvious political benefit.
When Dr. Vince finishes, the council opens the floor to questions. Council Member Harrison—a man in his sixties who I vaguely remember from news coverage about budget fights—leans forward with an expression that telegraphs where this is going.
"Dr. Vince, I appreciate the committee's thorough review. But I have to ask about the practical implications here. What's the administrative cost to the city if we approve this designation?"
Dr. Vince adjusts her glasses, and I see her shoulders tense slightly. "Landmark designation does require ongoing monitoring and review of any proposed modifications. The committee would need to evaluate renovation plans, exterior changes, and—"
"In terms of dollars," Harrison interrupts. "What does this cost the city annually?"
"The committee operates on a limited budget. We estimate approximately fifteen to twenty thousand dollars in annual administrative costs for monitoring and compliance review."
The number hangs in the air, and I watch several council members exchange looks. Twenty thousand dollars isn't much in a city budget of hundreds of millions, but I know how this game works. Every dollar allocated to preservation is a dollar that could go to something with more visible political benefit—road repairs, parks, programs with constituencies that vote in large blocks.
"And what about enforcement?" Another council member—Williams, I think—chimes in. "If the building is designated and a property owner wants to make changes, what's our liability if we don't properly monitor compliance?"
Dr. Vince starts to answer, but I can already see how this is going to end. They're building a case for denial based on budget constraints and administrative burden. They're going to express sympathy for the historical significance while ultimately deciding that the city can't afford to take on the responsibility of protecting it.
Luna leans over and whispers, "You need to speak. They're about to bury this under bureaucratic excuses, and someone needs to remind them what's actually at stake."
"I don't know what to say," I whisper back. "They're talking about money and liability. How do I compete with that?"
"You tell them why it matters. Not the architecture or the administrative details—the human story. That's what you're good at, Rosie. Making people care about things they were ready to ignore."
The council continues asking questions about designation criteria, review processes, precedent from other landmark approvals.
The developers' representatives make their case—the Heritage Street building is unremarkable, the historical significance is overstated, the neighborhood would benefit more from modern development than from preserving outdated structures.
I should stand up. Should request time to speak. Should use the three minutes they allocate to public comment to talk about community and beauty and the importance of preserving spaces that matter to real people.
But I can't make myself move.
Can't make myself believe that my words would change anything when corporate lawyers with polished presentations couldn't.
Finally, Council President Morrison calls for a preliminary vote on whether to advance the designation application to full review or to table it indefinitely. It's not a final decision, but everyone in the room understands what it really is—a test vote to see if there's any appetite for actually protecting the building.
"All in favor of advancing to full review?"
Three hands go up. Three out of nine.
"All opposed?"
Five hands. One abstention.
