New documentary dives deep into gentrification in D.C.

Growing up in D.C. in the early 2000s, stopping by the corner store with groups of friends after school was a time-honored ritual. We’d leave the store with an assortment of staples: Rap Snacks, Mamba candies, pickles, hot sausages, and, of course, sunflower seeds. Walking home or to the bus stop, we’d swap snacks while griping about teachers and gossiping about other students. 

In the opening of a new documentary from photographer and filmmaker Ruth Tedla, we see Emmanuel Massillion walk into a corner store, purchase a bag of sunflower seeds, and carefully separate the seeds from their shells — something he’s clearly mastered since his youth. (Massillion, a visual artist, also uses sunflower seeds in his work to examine issues like food insecurity in U.S. inner cities.)  

“I remember him telling me what it represents, not only in D.C., but with the Black community,” Tedla tells me on a Zoom call from her home in Brooklyn, where she’s lived since 2023. 

Tedla was born in Ethiopia, raised in Botswana, and moved to Seattle when she was 16. She came to D.C. as an undergrad at George Washington University. For her, shells “represent home [and] communities.” So she titled her documentary, which focuses on D.C.’s rapid gentrification and displacement of longtime — often Black — residents, “Cracked Shells.” 

“Although I knew what the problem was, I didn’t want it to come from my voice — not being from D.C.,” Tedla says. 

For the 40-minute film, she interviewed veteran community organizers, activists, and business owners like Tony Lewis Jr., Dominic Moulden, Sabiyha Prince, and Virginia Ali, who speak about the city’s cultural history and its transformation over the years. She also features younger residents like Massillion, artist and community organizer Keyonna Jones, and housing activist Tani’ya Rogers. 

“I wanted to show the multi-generational aspect because there are people who are from D.C. who have lived through these changes for decades, but then there are youth right now who are being affected,” she says. The film, for example, spends significant time with Rogers and her son, who endure increasingly deteriorating housing conditions at their apartment, exemplifying how landlords’ neglect can push longtime tenants out and open the door for market-rate redevelopment.

During our call, Tedla also spoke about how “Cracked Shells” tries to balance the beauty of a place formerly known as Chocolate City with threats that are slowly eroding its cultural identity. 

This interview was lightly edited for length and clarity. 

How would you compare D.C. to other places you've lived?

D.C. is probably the first place that I felt a sense of familiarity that I hadn't experienced anywhere else in the States. And I think it largely had to do with the fact that growing up [in Ethiopia and Botswana], it was the norm that everyone kind of looked like me. And moving to Seattle, Washington, that was quite the culture shock and transition.

I remember visiting D.C. before I went to college and immediately feeling comfortable and at ease. And I think largely it had to do with the fact that not only did people look like me, but they occupied spaces in all parts of society, and it was celebrated. I feel like D.C. was the first place in the States that I was like, okay, I can feel safe and at home.

It’s interesting that you came to D.C. in 2019, which is the same year the city made headlines for having the most intense gentrification in the country. Yet, you still felt like you belonged. 

I think about that as well because although I noticed [signs of gentrification] a little later, it's crazy that you could still feel what D.C. was —  and continues to be. That's something that was important to me — highlighting the culture and the community that still exists in D.C., because it's there. I felt that even as it was transforming and changing.

So when did you first begin to notice signs of gentrification in the city? 

My first few years I was on campus, and that in itself is quite a bubble. You're not really experiencing as much as you would if you lived anywhere else. In my senior year, I moved to NoMa. My apartment building was a high-rise, and across from it, there was a construction site. But then you could see pockets of what was, while you're seeing what's becoming — and it just felt really eerie and weird.

Of course, I knew what gentrification was, but that was the first time I really felt it, and I just continued to ask questions from then on. 

Why did you decide to create a documentary about it? 

My senior year, I was in a photography class, and for our final project, we were asked to capture something visually. I chose to do gentrification in D.C., and that was a truly eye-opening experience in the sense that once you start looking, once you pay attention, it's everywhere. And I just remember being like, ‘Wow, this is bad’ … like you know about it, but to see it and to just be observant, it's everywhere.

And so ever since then, I knew I wanted to do something more. It deserved a conversation beyond just photos. So a couple years later, I decided to make a film, and I knew that this was going to be the topic I wanted to focus on. 

Were there any themes that surprised you during the interviews? Something you didn't know from your research?

Something that stood out to me specifically was with Tani’ya. I think people take for granted being able to live safely and comfortably at home. Maybe you might have an issue here and there with your landlord, but to see Tani’ya, what's happening in her building, and how she's basically dedicated her entire life [to speaking out] against housing injustice was truly sombering. 

Honestly, I was taken aback by how you can be living somewhere and pay rent, but not live safely and comfortably to the point where you have to stay in your car. I knew what was happening — what was changing — but to see who was being impacted was a major takeaway for me. 

Another theme I noticed was the psychological impacts of gentrification. Why was it important for you to get that message in the film?

I've always been fascinated with the idea of homes and the power of homes — I think largely because I've moved around so much and I've felt the power of different places, cultures, and communities. But I wanted to touch on that because there's no way you're not affected psychologically by having to not only leaving your neighborhood, but even having to see it change — seeing the erasure that they talk about [in the film], the names of neighborhoods changing. And the stress that you go through ultimately affects your physical [health], as well.

From what you learned making this documentary, how would you describe the erasure of Black culture in D.C.?  How much would you say has been stripped away, and how much do you feel is still here?

Whether it's policies or how the city is evolving, I think there's definitely been significant changes that make it look like it's being stripped away. But when you really look at it, the culture is the community, and they exist. And that's something that I really love and appreciate about D.C. And I wanted to highlight that everyone who's from there is ride or die about D.C.

And it's so beautiful to see because, yes, there are these changes, but ultimately that's not going to change how people view their home because it is their home. There's so much resilience there still — so much beauty and culture. It’s why we need to have more conversations like this. 

And documentation in itself is so key. If anything, I hope the film serves as a piece of documentation for people to look back and be like, "this is what was happening in 2024, 2025." That in itself can hopefully serve as a tool against the erasure.

What do you think people who are moving to D.C. can do to preserve the city’s culture? 

Support different organizations, become involved with different community boards, pour into Black-owned businesses from D.C. natives … and just move with a sense of humility and awareness that you are entering a space that has long existed before you. There's a level of respect that needs to be there.