By . Associated Press Reporter . PUBLISHED: . 03:24 EST, 1 May 2013 . | . UPDATED: . 10:55 EST, 1 May 2013 . Half a mile long and a foot thick, this concrete wall was built to separate black and white families living in the same Detroit neighbourhood in the 1940s. More than 70 years on, the six-foot high wall still stands in Birwood - a chilling reminder of segregated America, and a physical embodiment of racial attitudes the country has long since tried to forget. But despite its dark history, the community has managed to turn the concrete barrier into a symbol of inspiration and hope. Scroll down for video . Division line: The six foot high concrete wall, photographed in 1941, was built to separate homes built for middle-class white people from black people living in the area . Fallen barriers: A section of the half-mile long wall is seen today, covered with colourful murals depicting community life in the area . When Eva Nelson-McClendon first moved . to Detroit's Birwood Street in 1959, she didn't know much about the . wall across the street. Neighbours told her the wall was . built two decades earlier with a simple aim: to separate homes planned . for middle-class whites from blacks who had already built small houses . or owned land with plans to build. 'That . was the division line,' Ms Nelson-McClendon, now 79, says from the . kitchen of her tidy, one-storey home on the city's northwest side. 'Blacks lived on this side, whites was living on the other side. ... That was the way it was.' That's not the way it is anymore, but the . wall remains. Yet slowly, in subtle ways, it is evolving into something else in its community, something unexpected: an inspiration. 'The Wall': While the separation between the black and white communities no longer exists, the wall still stands in Detroit . Progress: Race remains a flashpoint in Detroit, a city beset by an inter-related stew of crime, corruption and high unemployment . It's still a half-mile long, interrupted only by two streets, much as a developer envisioned it in the early 1940s. It couldn't separate people on its . own - people and policies would see to that - but it was enough to . satisfy the Federal Housing Administration to approve and back loans. Aside from the mural that appears at . the wall's midpoint, much of it is easy to miss. In fact, it's . impossible to follow it completely as the wall disappears behind homes . and in spots is overgrown by vegetation. Where it's exposed, it's . whitewashed or a drab earth tone - and sometimes marred by gang . graffiti. On one corner it says, 'Only 8 Mile', referring to the divisive road just yards to the north. The wall never fell, but it didn't . really have to. The area became primarily African-American in the . decades to come, as most whites and even many blacks left. The pattern . was replicated across much of the 139-square-mile city that was built . for two million people but fell to about 700,000 in the 2010 Census. Moving on: People living in Birwood say the wall, which was built to divide, has become something unexpected; an inspiration . Murals: Today sections of the half-mile long wall are covered in colourful murals and slogans . The story of the wall has been . largely lost in larger narratives, such as the 1943 and 1967 race riots . and Eight Mile Road. The wall ends, almost invisible, just shy of the . thoroughfare that serves as the boundary between Detroit and its suburbs . and symbolically represents the divide between black and white. Race remains a flashpoint in a city . beset by an interrelated stew of crime, corruption and high . unemployment. And some accuse the state of further disenfranchising . Detroit's majority black population as Michigan's governor recently . declared a financial emergency in the city and the state took financial . control. Still, the wall is not forgotten. An . artist descended on it several years ago with an army of about 100 . fellow artists and community volunteers to create a vast, eye-popping . mural with images and messages of equality and justice on a section . overlooking a playground. And now, a faith-based nonprofit is giving . work to men who have struggled to keep a job or a home, having them make . sets of coasters that incorporate images from the wall and use . materials from abandoned homes that were razed in the city. Every sale of a $20 set of coasters helps to make something good out of something bad. 'It's recycling, giving jobs to . people who are having a tough time with unemployment and, at the same . time, creating a very nice piece of art that could and should lead to . some great discussions about race in the city of Detroit and in our . country,' says Faith Fowler, director of Cass Community Social Services . and its Green Industries program. Tightly clustered one-story homes . dominate the neighborhood around the wall, which still has well-kept . houses like Nelson-McClendon's but also suffers from a rising number of . vacant, gutted structures. More tear-downs in the making. And, perhaps, . more wood for the coasters. The homes on Birwood end at Alfonso Wells Memorial Playground, where the eye is immediately drawn to the massive mural. It's impossible to take it all in at . once, but certain images pop out in a slow pan: Rosa Parks boarding the . bus that would make her a household name in the civil rights struggle, . followed by a man carrying a sign that says, 'Fair Housing'. 'Only 8 mile': Graffiti references the Detroit road that was a physical and cultural dividing line between the wealthier, predominantly white northern suburbs and the poorer, predominantly black city . Landmark: Some call the structure 'Detroit's Wailing Wall', others 'Birwood Wall', while to many it is simply 'The Wall' Positive outcomes: A non-profit organisation in the city is putting people to work making coasters that incorporate images from the wall . Green Industries: Jason Garland cleans glass that will be used for one of the coasters at the faith-based organisation in Detroit . Industry: Montaze Frye stains boxes made out of wood reclaimed from razed houses to hold the coaster sets . Houses and more houses of all colours. A group of men singing a capella under a streetlight. Children blowing bubbles that pop up throughout the wall and contain various things, including an auto plant and words like 'peace' and 'flowers'. 'Bubbles are a form of creation. Children's imaginations create the future,' says Chazz Miller, the artist who designed the mural and teamed up with the Motor City Blight Busters in 2006 on the community project. 'Also, bubbles capture images and distort them and give you a new perspective.' Competition for housing and jobs between white and blacks was widespread in the city's boom years. Many blacks had moved into the area in the 1920s and 1930s because there was so much vacant land - a far cry from the overcrowded, unpleasant conditions in the two black enclaves near the city center. But a lot of white housing developments started spreading north as well and 'pushing up against this black enclave on the far edge of the city,' says Jeff Horner, a lecturer in Wayne State University's Department of Urban Studies and Planning. By 1940, the gap had closed. A developer of a proposed all-white subdivision managed to hammer out a compromise with federal housing officials: The loans and mortgage guarantees would come in exchange for constructing a wall. 'This is the closest thing Detroit has to the segregated fountains or to the white-only swimming pools of the Deep South,' Horner says. Nobody had to tell Nelson-McClendon, who moved to Michigan from Alabama in 1951. 'It was the same thing,' she says. 'Separation.' In an old warehouse a few miles to the southeast, several men are busy working at Green Industries. Among them is Jason Garland, who says he does 'mostly everything' related to making the coaster sets. Garland, 26, had been out of work for a year before coming to work for Green Industries in January. He says he had 'gotten lazy at one point,' but in his new job he often comes in early and on days off. The former automotive worker says he and his co-workers look out for each other, and he never wants to leave. Cass launched Green Industries in 2007, after some clients couldn't get jobs anymore because of the worsening economy and lack of reliable mass transportation. The nonprofit started with welcome mats made from illegally dumped tires, then added a paper-shredding operation employing people with developmental disabilities. When it comes to the wall, Eva Nelson-McClendon knows about perseverance. For her, it was and remains the only option. 'Did it make me angry to see that wall up there? It was something you grow accustomed to seeing, you know, although you don't like it. Getting angry over it is not going to solve anything,' McClendon says. 'What was important to me was bringing up my kids and getting them to get an education so they wouldn't have to be bothered with things like that in the future.' She thinks about progress, and acknowledges some. But she knows there are still neighborhoods, mostly in the suburbs now, where African-Americans can move but they aren't welcomed with open arms. But on this day, she takes solace that people didn't stay in place. Even if the wall did. 'It all depends on the people, the individual, the heart,' she says. 'You're not going to stop progress, don't care how hard you try.'
The 6ft high wall was erected in 1940 in Birwood, Detroit, U.S.
Separated homes built for middle-class whites from black families .
Racial dividing lines no longer exist, but the wall still stands .
By . Associated Press Reporter . PUBLISHED: . 03:24 EST, 1 May 2013 . | . UPDATED: . 10:55 EST, 1 May 2013 . Half a mile long and a foot thick, this concrete wall was built to separate black and white families living in the same Detroit neighbourhood in the 1940s. More than 70 years on, the six-foot high wall still stands in Birwood - a chilling reminder of segregated America, and a physical embodiment of racial attitudes the country has long since tried to forget. But despite its dark history, the community has managed to turn the concrete barrier into a symbol of inspiration and hope. Scroll down for video . Division line: The six foot high concrete wall, photographed in 1941, was built to separate homes built for middle-class white people from black people living in the area . Fallen barriers: A section of the half-mile long wall is seen today, covered with colourful murals depicting community life in the area . When Eva Nelson-McClendon first moved . to Detroit's Birwood Street in 1959, she didn't know much about the . wall across the street. Neighbours told her the wall was . built two decades earlier with a simple aim: to separate homes planned . for middle-class whites from blacks who had already built small houses . or owned land with plans to build. 'That . was the division line,' Ms Nelson-McClendon, now 79, says from the . kitchen of her tidy, one-storey home on the city's northwest side. 'Blacks lived on this side, whites was living on the other side. ... That was the way it was.' That's not the way it is anymore, but the . wall remains. Yet slowly, in subtle ways, it is evolving into something else in its community, something unexpected: an inspiration. 'The Wall': While the separation between the black and white communities no longer exists, the wall still stands in Detroit . Progress: Race remains a flashpoint in Detroit, a city beset by an inter-related stew of crime, corruption and high unemployment . It's still a half-mile long, interrupted only by two streets, much as a developer envisioned it in the early 1940s. It couldn't separate people on its . own - people and policies would see to that - but it was enough to . satisfy the Federal Housing Administration to approve and back loans. Aside from the mural that appears at . the wall's midpoint, much of it is easy to miss. In fact, it's . impossible to follow it completely as the wall disappears behind homes . and in spots is overgrown by vegetation. Where it's exposed, it's . whitewashed or a drab earth tone - and sometimes marred by gang . graffiti. On one corner it says, 'Only 8 Mile', referring to the divisive road just yards to the north. The wall never fell, but it didn't . really have to. The area became primarily African-American in the . decades to come, as most whites and even many blacks left. The pattern . was replicated across much of the 139-square-mile city that was built . for two million people but fell to about 700,000 in the 2010 Census. Moving on: People living in Birwood say the wall, which was built to divide, has become something unexpected; an inspiration . Murals: Today sections of the half-mile long wall are covered in colourful murals and slogans . The story of the wall has been . largely lost in larger narratives, such as the 1943 and 1967 race riots . and Eight Mile Road. The wall ends, almost invisible, just shy of the . thoroughfare that serves as the boundary between Detroit and its suburbs . and symbolically represents the divide between black and white. Race remains a flashpoint in a city . beset by an interrelated stew of crime, corruption and high . unemployment. And some accuse the state of further disenfranchising . Detroit's majority black population as Michigan's governor recently . declared a financial emergency in the city and the state took financial . control. Still, the wall is not forgotten. An . artist descended on it several years ago with an army of about 100 . fellow artists and community volunteers to create a vast, eye-popping . mural with images and messages of equality and justice on a section . overlooking a playground. And now, a faith-based nonprofit is giving . work to men who have struggled to keep a job or a home, having them make . sets of coasters that incorporate images from the wall and use . materials from abandoned homes that were razed in the city. Every sale of a $20 set of coasters helps to make something good out of something bad. 'It's recycling, giving jobs to . people who are having a tough time with unemployment and, at the same . time, creating a very nice piece of art that could and should lead to . some great discussions about race in the city of Detroit and in our . country,' says Faith Fowler, director of Cass Community Social Services . and its Green Industries program. Tightly clustered one-story homes . dominate the neighborhood around the wall, which still has well-kept . houses like Nelson-McClendon's but also suffers from a rising number of . vacant, gutted structures. More tear-downs in the making. And, perhaps, . more wood for the coasters. The homes on Birwood end at Alfonso Wells Memorial Playground, where the eye is immediately drawn to the massive mural. It's impossible to take it all in at . once, but certain images pop out in a slow pan: Rosa Parks boarding the . bus that would make her a household name in the civil rights struggle, . followed by a man carrying a sign that says, 'Fair Housing'. 'Only 8 mile': Graffiti references the Detroit road that was a physical and cultural dividing line between the wealthier, predominantly white northern suburbs and the poorer, predominantly black city . Landmark: Some call the structure 'Detroit's Wailing Wall', others 'Birwood Wall', while to many it is simply 'The Wall' Positive outcomes: A non-profit organisation in the city is putting people to work making coasters that incorporate images from the wall . Green Industries: Jason Garland cleans glass that will be used for one of the coasters at the faith-based organisation in Detroit . Industry: Montaze Frye stains boxes made out of wood reclaimed from razed houses to hold the coaster sets . Houses and more houses of all colours. A group of men singing a capella under a streetlight. Children blowing bubbles that pop up throughout the wall and contain various things, including an auto plant and words like 'peace' and 'flowers'. 'Bubbles are a form of creation. Children's imaginations create the future,' says Chazz Miller, the artist who designed the mural and teamed up with the Motor City Blight Busters in 2006 on the community project. 'Also, bubbles capture images and distort them and give you a new perspective.' Competition for housing and jobs between white and blacks was widespread in the city's boom years. Many blacks had moved into the area in the 1920s and 1930s because there was so much vacant land - a far cry from the overcrowded, unpleasant conditions in the two black enclaves near the city center. But a lot of white housing developments started spreading north as well and 'pushing up against this black enclave on the far edge of the city,' says Jeff Horner, a lecturer in Wayne State University's Department of Urban Studies and Planning. By 1940, the gap had closed. A developer of a proposed all-white subdivision managed to hammer out a compromise with federal housing officials: The loans and mortgage guarantees would come in exchange for constructing a wall. 'This is the closest thing Detroit has to the segregated fountains or to the white-only swimming pools of the Deep South,' Horner says. Nobody had to tell Nelson-McClendon, who moved to Michigan from Alabama in 1951. 'It was the same thing,' she says. 'Separation.' In an old warehouse a few miles to the southeast, several men are busy working at Green Industries. Among them is Jason Garland, who says he does 'mostly everything' related to making the coaster sets. Garland, 26, had been out of work for a year before coming to work for Green Industries in January. He says he had 'gotten lazy at one point,' but in his new job he often comes in early and on days off. The former automotive worker says he and his co-workers look out for each other, and he never wants to leave. Cass launched Green Industries in 2007, after some clients couldn't get jobs anymore because of the worsening economy and lack of reliable mass transportation. The nonprofit started with welcome mats made from illegally dumped tires, then added a paper-shredding operation employing people with developmental disabilities. When it comes to the wall, Eva Nelson-McClendon knows about perseverance. For her, it was and remains the only option. 'Did it make me angry to see that wall up there? It was something you grow accustomed to seeing, you know, although you don't like it. Getting angry over it is not going to solve anything,' McClendon says. 'What was important to me was bringing up my kids and getting them to get an education so they wouldn't have to be bothered with things like that in the future.' She thinks about progress, and acknowledges some. But she knows there are still neighborhoods, mostly in the suburbs now, where African-Americans can move but they aren't welcomed with open arms. But on this day, she takes solace that people didn't stay in place. Even if the wall did. 'It all depends on the people, the individual, the heart,' she says. 'You're not going to stop progress, don't care how hard you try.'
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