There’s a strange beauty in the idea that cities are layered palimpsests—each building, street, and sidewalk concealing centuries of human activity beneath its surface. But how often do we stop to consider what lies buried under our feet? In Salem, Oregon, Kimberli Fitzgerald isn’t just an archaeologist; she’s a guardian of the city’s hidden past, and her work raises a question that’s rarely discussed: What if the most valuable stories of a place aren’t the ones we see, but the ones we dig for? Personal note: I’ve always found it fascinating how cities like Salem treat their underground histories. It’s easy to romanticize the past, but Fitzgerald’s work reminds us that preservation isn’t about nostalgia—it’s about confronting the messy, often uncomfortable truths that shape who we are today.
Let’s talk about the scale of what Fitzgerald faces. Salem has over 250 known archaeological sites under its streets, a number that feels staggering when you consider how many cities overlook such details entirely. But here’s the kicker: Until recently, Salem was the only city in Oregon with a full-time archaeologist. That’s not just a bureaucratic quirk—it’s a testament to Fitzgerald’s unique position. From my perspective, this highlights a systemic gap in urban planning. How many other cities are unknowingly trampling over their own history because they lack someone like Fitzgerald? It’s a sobering thought. The fact that Portland Metro now models its archaeology program after hers suggests a shift, but it also underscores how long it took for such a role to be recognized as essential.
What makes Fitzgerald’s work particularly compelling is her ability to blend technical rigor with community engagement. Take the Chinese shrine she uncovered in Pioneer Cemetery. That discovery didn’t just add another artifact to a catalog—it became the foundation for an annual Qing Ming Festival, a cultural event that bridges historical memory with living tradition. I find this especially interesting because it shows how archaeology can be more than an academic exercise. It’s a way to create dialogue between the past and present. But let’s not forget the challenges: When a public works crew once held up artifacts on social media, it exposed how unprepared Salem was to handle such finds. Fitzgerald’s response? Going back to school. That’s not just dedication—it’s a statement about the evolving nature of the field. She didn’t just adapt; she redefined what it means to be an archaeologist in a modern city.
Here’s a detail that’s often overlooked: The sheer logistical burden of Fitzgerald’s job. Think about the lab tools—soil ovens, nitrogen vacuum sealers, and the meticulous process of cataloging thousands of artifacts. This isn’t just about preserving objects; it’s about creating a narrative. Every ceramic shard or leather fragment tells a story, and Fitzgerald’s team turns those fragments into biographies. But this raises a deeper question: Why do we so often undervalue the labor of preservation? It’s easy to dismiss archaeology as a niche pursuit, but Fitzgerald’s work with tribal leaders—like the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde—shows how deeply intertwined these efforts are with issues of justice and identity. The Lee house project, for example, wasn’t just about bricks and foundations; it was about acknowledging the Kalapuyan people’s connection to the land. That’s where the real power of her work lies: in making history feel urgent and relevant.
And let’s not ignore the economic angle. Fitzgerald’s presence saves the city time and money by avoiding costly delays and consultant fees. When she recovered 2,000 artifacts in three hours near Marion and Church streets, it wasn’t just about efficiency—it was about proving that proactive preservation can be both practical and profitable. Yet, I can’t help but wonder: How many cities are still stuck in the mindset that development and preservation are at odds? Fitzgerald’s approach challenges that notion, showing that with the right expertise, the two can coexist. Her work with developers, property owners, and even private landowners suggests a model that’s replicable—but only if cities are willing to invest in people like her.
Looking ahead, the cultural resource rules set to take effect in 2027 will likely force more cities to confront these issues. Fitzgerald’s role as a mentor to Portland Metro and Albany hints at a broader trend: the recognition that cultural preservation isn’t a luxury, but a necessity. However, there’s a risk here. If cities rush to comply without understanding the human element—without people like Fitzgerald who can navigate both the technical and the political—it could lead to hollow compliance. The real lesson from Salem isn’t just about archaeology; it’s about leadership. Fitzgerald’s success hinges on her ability to bridge disciplines, from planning to tribal consultation, and that’s a skill few possess. As other cities look to emulate her model, they’ll need more than policies—they’ll need visionaries willing to dig deeper than the surface.
