In 2019, the New Orleans City Council launched a city-wide effort to change the names of streets honoring white supremacists. While the city implemented its renaming efforts, a clear need for an educational component to give context to the changes presented itself. Filling the gap, public history graduate students at the University of New Orleans created projects to illuminate the work of the Street Renaming Commission.

Produced by the Midlo Center for New Orleans Studies, Streets on the Table is a podcast that reflects on the historical relevance of both the old and new street names. Hosted by two UNO graduate students, the podcast highlights the lives and histories unrecognized in the commemorative landscape.

In the second episode, Eddie and Lauren discuss Lost Cause legacies in New Orleans and the renaming of Beauregard Avenue to honor Dr. Sherwood Gagliano.

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In 1948, facing increased public health concerns, the Louisiana State Legislature passed a law prohibiting open-air landfills in highly populated areas. [1] However, New Orleans city officials sidestepped this law to continue operating Agriculture Street Landfill (ASL) by transforming the dump into a so-called "sanitary landfill." At ASL, the implementation of sanitary landfill procedures included spraying the dump with Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane (DDT). [2] DDT, a powerful insecticide, is now infamous for its detrimental environmental impact and carcinogenic capacity.

Before 1956, ASL operators regularly sprayed the chemical Malathion to kill flies. After a particularly intense fly infestation in 1956, the city oversaw “experimental spraying” with Diazinon. [3] In 2009, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) designated Malathion a probable carcinogen. [4] Diazinon is toxic to humans, negatively impacting cardiovascular, respiratory, and nervous systems. In 2004, the EPA outlawed the residential use of Diazinon.

In the 2018 interview featured below, longtime Gordon Plaza resident Shannon Rainey describes discovering toxic chemicals in her backyard.

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For decades, residents of Gordon Plaza engaged (and continue to engage) in political activism to spread public awareness about toxic contamination in their neighborhood. Residents hope to achieve fair and just relocation from their tainted properties. Recently, the New Orleans People's Assembly partnered with Gordon Plaza residents to organize several events to increase public awareness of these injustices.

On September 8th, 2018, the Gordon Plaza neighborhood hosted “RISE for Cancer Alley,” a political rally tying together issues of environmental racism faced by the people of Gordon Plaza and residents living near petrochemical plants along the Mississipi River. Later that day, the rally made its way to St. James where toxic pollutants produced by petrochemical plants are destroying the health and wealth of black homeowners.

On October 26th, 2018, activists staged "Asphyxiated: Exposing Gordon Plaza" in front of St. Louis Cathedral. Some actors coughed and wheezed, while others wore signs with the names of past politicians who turned a blind eye to the injustices faced by residents of Gordon Plaza. Performed in the heart of the French Quarter, this protest demanded residents and visitors alike to recognize the plight of community members residing just three miles away.

In 2024-2025, the City of New Orleans completed a voluntary buyout of residential properties. But for some former residents the fight is still not over. A federal lawsuit, filed in May of 2026 alleges that the city is prioritizing other payments over millions owed in a class-action lawsuit for compensation for emotional distress and property damage.

As of 2025, the houses and buildings of Gordon Plaza no longer exist. They were torn down to make way for a a solar farm. In the videos below, longtime Gordon Plaza resident Shannon Rainey shares her decades of political activism.

To support the residents of Gordon Plaza:

Follow New Orleans People’s Assembly for more details on how to get involved on their website https://gordonplaza.com/

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By 1985, just four years after the first residents moved into Gordon Plaza, state environmentalists recommended testing soil and air in the Gordon Plaza subdivision to determine the extent of hazardous wastes underneath the houses that were built over an old landfill. Testing performed at the site of the new Moton Elementary School in 1983-1984 revealed high levels of toxic chemicals in the soil. Due to their proximity to the contaminated school site, Gordon Plaza residents demanded the testing of their own soil. It was at this point that residents discovered their homes were built on the former Agricultural Street Landfill, where many of the growing industries of New Orleans dumped their toxic chemicals and garbage for over fifty years. [1] A Times-Picayune article from October 3, 1986, states that “residents and local environmentalists were still concerned with the toxic chemicals after Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) officials told them that lead was the only one in over 130 toxic chemicals discovered in levels high enough to generate health concerns.”

Following a sewage leak in 1993, concerns over the toxicity of Gordon Plaza land surfaced once again. Despite earlier assertions that the pollutant levels were not dangerous, the EPA designated the Gordon Plaza subdivision as a Superfund site in 1994. The initial reaction of the community was positive because they believed they would be able to get access to funding for relocation, however, this would not prove to be the result. The EPA encouraged people not to dig in their yards or gardens. Relocation of Gordon Plaza residents was not considered as a solution by the EPA. In 1994, the first class-action lawsuit was filed by Press Park and Gordon Plaza residents against the city of New Orleans, the New Orleans school board, and two unnamed construction companies, for knowingly putting their houses in a contaminated area. In 2001 the EPA oversaw the installation of a layer of topsoil on Gordon Plaza properties to form a barrier from the toxic land. This soil was washed away by flooding during Hurricane Katrina.

In the videos below, longtime Gordon Plaza resident Shannon Rainey discusses the impact that toxic chemicals buried underneath Gordon Plaza have had on her, her family, and her neighbors.

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In the 1970s, under the administrations of Mayors “Moon” Landrieu and his successor “Dutch” Morial, the city planned and built housing for elderly and low-income families on the former site of Agriculture Street Landfill (ASL).

The city of New Orleans was able to fund this development with federal money available through the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) via Community Development Block Grant Program (CDBG/CD Grant) under the auspices of improving Desire Community Housing, a public housing complex build near ASL in the 1950s. Throughout the nation, low-income public housing complexes like Desire were created by the federal government beginning in the 1930s. Although they alleviated the housing shortage created by the depression economy, these complexes were segregated by design, ushering in a new era of systematic racial segregation in the United States. [1]

Federal policies of developing segregated housing while simultaneously refusing to ensure home mortgages in racially mixed areas, a policy known as redlining, made rentals in public housing like Desire Projects one of few options for African-American households until the Fair Housing Act of 1968. [2] By 1975, Press Park and Gordon Plaza Apartments for the Elderly expanded these public housing options. Gordon Plaza was designed as a residential development for low-income homebuyers in areas directly adjacent to Desire Housing Project, which, because of the segregated history of public housing, was primarily African-American.

Construction of single-family homes, apartments in Press Park, and the Senior Center in Gordon Plaza began in 1978. On August 26, 1979, an advertisement listed in the Times Picayune alerted the public that “applications are now being accepted for 128 units of Gordon Plaza Elderly and Handicapped Complex… All apartments will be under the Section 8 Subsidy Programs.” Advertisements for Gordon Plaza properties clearly targeted low-income families and senior citizens. By 1981, residents begin to move into the Gordon Plaza neighborhood.

Soon after the development opened, city officials began to receive complaints concerning deficiencies at Gordon Plaza and Press Park. In a letter to the mayor's office and Community Improvement Agency dated June 26, 1980, Philip C. Ciaccio, Councilman of District E, stated:

"I attended a ceremony at the Gordon Plaza Apartments for the Elderly at the end of May and observed that the meeting room was extremely warm because several of the air-conditioning units were inoperative...I took the time to discuss the existence of various deficiencies in the building...I am particularly disturbed by the apparent run-around they are getting, particular the brand new air-conditioning units that are inoperable." [3] Enclosed with this letter was a list of complaints about the development, five pages long.

In the videos below, longtime Gordon Plaza resident Shannon Rainey shares her experiences purchasing a home in Gordon Plaza.

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Throughout the 1950s, the local community suffered from horrible stenches, pest infestations, and smoke emanating from Agriculture Street Landfill (ASL). Spontaneous combustion commonly occurred at the site when incompatible wastes came in contact underground, garnering ASL the nickname “Dante’s Inferno.” [1] In October of 1950, police guided motorists through the streets surrounding ASL at 10 miles per hour due to low visibility caused by smoke emanating from the landfill. [2] In October of 1956, eight public schools stopped serving hot lunches due to a severe fly infestation at the dump. [3]Residents near ASL began to make public complaints and eventually organized legal and political action against the landfill. One resident quoted in a local newspaper article said “the cost in depreciation of land in the close proximity of this landfill has been tremendous.” [4] In 1951, neighborhood residents made a failed attempt to sue the City for its negligent operation of the landfill. [5] In 1955, residents of the Eighth and Ninth Wards picketed the landfill. Residents quoted in local media coverage of the protest condemned ASL's "menacing operations" and "the deplorable conditions it inflicted upon the neighborhood." [6] City officials responded to these protests with a plan to construct a supposedly odorless and smokeless incinerator on Florida Avenue just ten blocks from ASL. [7] Community members, outraged that the incinerator would remain so close to their homes, circulated a petition to bar its construction. [8]  In 1957, the City closed the landfill because it could not accommodate any more trash. City officials celebrated the closure of ASL and called for the redevelopment of the blighted site. Councilman Glenn P. Clasen asserted that the land would be “restored and developed to provide additional housing within a very few years,” aiding in the “progress and growth [of] the rest of our city.” [9] While overlooking mounds of rubbish during a landfill inspection, Councilman Victor H. Shiro proclaimed: “I’d like to see the day when this is a beautiful subdivision.” [10] In September of 1965, following the destruction wrought by Hurricane Betsy, the City temporarily reopened ASL to accommodate excess trash produced by the storm. [11] The City did not place any restrictions on these deposits and every day trucks delivered 300 loads of hurricane debris and trash to ASL. Much of this refuse contained high levels of toxic lead and arsenic. [12] Though sanitation officials stated that “emergency burning of garbage in long-unused landfill locations [would] cease as soon as practicable,” ASL did not close again until the summer of 1966. [13]

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In 1909, Agriculture Street Landfill (ASL) opened to accommodate trash produced by half of New Orleans residents. ASL occupied 95 acres of previously undeveloped swampland surrounded by Abundance Street, Industry Street, and the Northeastern Railroad Company tracks. The new landfill received trash via train cars. Employees either burned the deposits in open fires or buried them underground. [1, 2] By 1912, employees began freely using toxic disinfectants to treat infestations and stenches permeating from the landfill. [3] In 1914, landfill operators oversaw the erection of an incinerator. [4] Through the 1930s, the amount of waste produced in New Orleans dramatically increased. Trash deposits overloaded the ASL incinerator and employees once again burned excess garbage in the open air. In 1939, the Works Progress Administration refurbished the incinerator, tripling its daily capacity. [5, 6]  

City officials did not enforce sanitary regulations at ASL. In 1957, City Sanitation Director George M. Rittiner said it was "only necessary to use six- to 10- inch cover" when remediating the landfill’s trash laden soil, even though he acknowledged the regulations recommended two feet of cover. [7] As garbage mounted at ASL, residents of the surrounding neighborhood expressed growing dissatisfaction with the landfill’s unsanitary conditions.

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"Ten thousand Micks/They Swung their picks/To dig th’ New Canawl, But the choleray was stronger’n they/And twice it killed them awl"

And with that ditty, published in the Times-Picayune of July 18, 1937, the lore was born that thousands upon thousands of Irish died in New Orleans digging the New Basin Canal (NBC) in the 1830s.

As with many stories in New Orleans, this one, too, is a mix of truth and fiction. The facts are that in 1831, the New Orleans Canal and Banking company raised funds to build a new canal connecting the “American Sector” (CBD) with Lake Pontchartrain. Compared to other canals, the NBC was modest, only 6 miles long and completed in fewer than four years. As with most building projects, the number of laborers varied throughout its construction.

So how did this grim myth come about? Notably, none of the contemporary newspaper contained reports of such a catastrophe. Moreover, the city’s population in the 1830s and the short building period, defy these numbers: there were simply not enough Irish in, or coming to, the city for such numbers to die in only 4 years. Most likely, the myth was nourished by the devastating cholera epidemic of 1832-33 which killed several thousand New Orleanians, including Irish canal workers.

Rather than mass Irish deaths, the press, instead, reported Irish actions on wage disputes and breaches of contractual promises. For instance, Irish workers published their grievances in an open letter in the Louisiana Advertiser, demonstrating their solidarity and proto-union organization when confronting unacceptable work conditions. Among other complaints, the letter accused their contractors, of “having sold them as redemptioners” and protested the excessive prices at the company store. Moreover, the striking Irish laborers objected to the contractor describing them as “a turbulent and disobedient set of men, because we do not tamely submit to the numberless acts of injustice.” Their own characterization as ‘not tamely submit[ting]’ makes it virtually impossible that the Irish would have remained silent about tens of thousands of deaths during the canal’s construction.

Instead of a story of tragedy, the NBC is testimony to Irish strength and defiance. Many of the canal workers soon became their own construction bosses in New Orleans, directing many of the city’s projects during this heyday of building. Furthermore, employment conditions in the antebellum were training grounds for the Irish men and women who later dominated the leadership ranks of the local and national unions in the latter 19th and 20th century.

The story of the New Basin Street Canal is story of defiance and triumph, not victimhood. It should be commemorated as such.

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Between 1796 and 1893, no fewer than 35 yellow fever epidemics struck New Orleans. The Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1878 caused over 800 deaths in just one month. After 1878, In an attempt to quell the spread of disease, of which the cause was unknown, foreign ships entering the port of New Orleans became subject to more uniform and strict forms of medical quarantine. While these methods were somewhat effective at reducing disease fatalities, the procedures increasingly focused less on preventing the spread of disease and more preventing the entry of “undesirable peoples” believed to have spread the disease. By 1945, quarantine procedure was awash with racist sentiments as immigrants were increasingly detained based on origin rather than illness.

At the 1905 Quarantine and Immigration Conference, officials from all over the South met to discuss measures regarding quarantine and immigration processes. As officials saw it, the two were synonymous. Their fear was that persons entering the United States, specifically from Eastern Europe, carried with them diseases that would infect Americans. This baseless fear increased as more and more immigrants made their way to the United States.

In 1913, The Algiers Immigration Station opened for operation. Government officials placed sanctions on many immigrant groups to prevent their entry into the country and control their movements. Officials barred Italian immigrants, from moving outside of designated districts within the state. Quarantine enforcement measures in New Orleans included shotgun-wielding guards on public roads.

When officials detained immigrants, the staff of the Algiers Immigration Station was responsible for communicating necessary information and procedures to immigrants. This communication was not always clear and officials often could not speak with new arrivals due to language barriers. Quarantined immigrants, deemed “intolerable,” were subjected to uncomfortable and dangerous protocol. New Orleans fumigation units exposed newly arrived immigrants to hydrocyanic gas as part of the disinfection process. At the time, farmers used this chemical as a crop pesticide.

The site of the Algiers Immigration Station served as a camp to house enemies during World War II. The New Orleans Parish School Board owned the property. In the 18th and 19th centuries, Algiers was home to another immigration/migration detention center, though it was located further downriver.

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The Washington Artillery, now known as the 141st Field Artillery Regiment, is Louisiana's most historic military unit. Jackson Barracks has been its home since 1923. Part of the post-storm construction was a new and improved readiness center. Unless they are on federal overseas duty, the soldiers of the 141st drill monthly at the Barracks and mobilize for local emergencies, often in support of NOPD and by assisting citizens with commodity distribution.

The 139th Regional Support Group is also headquartered on site. It consists of a variety of support units including transportation, intelligence, military police, medical, and other functions.

Major General Glenn Curtis commands the Louisiana National Guard through emergencies and day to day activities from his office at Jackson Barracks.

After Katrina, some questioned if the barracks should be rebuilt. Since then, however, the facility has proven essential for the Southeast portion of the state during several disasters, including the Gulf Oil Spill, the river flood of 2011, the marsh fires of 2011, and Hurricane Isaac in 2012.

Since it has been a National Guard facility, Jackson Barracks has played an important role in the New Orleans community as an emergency response and military support center, and a job creator.

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The current Post Headquarters buildings were built in the early 20th century and are deemed historic structures. They housed various offices over the years. Units headquartered in these buildings have included the 108th Cavalry, the 141st Field Artillery Regiment, and the 156th Infantry Regiment. Once memorialized as Deshotels Hall and Dayries Hall after former Louisiana Guard officers, they became known for their building numbers, "Building 36" and "Building 37."

Immediately after Hurricane Katrina, they were the only two buildings functioning until late 2007. White, wood-frame structures, they both contrast and complement the red brick of the other official post buildings. Building 36, now numbered 2011, functioned as the post HQ for years after Katrina. After remodeling it will become the center of operations for the State Military Department and its sister building, Building 2055 (formerly #37), will be Post HQ.

The red brick building in the middle of the two structures described above is currently Building 2033. "Building 35", its pre-Katrina numeric designation, was the center point of activity as Katrina flooded the post in 2005. Civilians rescued from nearby homes were taken there for refuge in the immediate aftermath of the storm.

Building 2033 was built in the 1990s as the State Area Command (STARC) Armory. Remodeled since Katrina, it is now intended to be Jackson Barracks' Education Center and Special Staff Offices. Upper Iowa University has a mini-campus in the building. Its mission is to aid soldiers in achieving their higher education goals. Starbase is a U.S. Military outreach program, aimed at middle school children, to nurture interest in science and technology. A daycare center is also present in the building.

Special staff offices include Inspector General, Chaplain, Staff Judge Advocate, and other soldier support operations.

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The Carville cemetery is the only stop on the tour where you may exit your vehicle and take photographs. Just beyond the cemetery is a hospital incinerator with a driving ramp and tower built in the 1920s to dispose of all waste. Remember that nothing was allowed to leave the grounds.

This is the second patient cemetery and was established in 1922 by the federal government. About 750 patients are buried here. These stones were provided by the federal government and resemble markers you might see in a military cemetery. Each stone is engraved with a patient's hospital ID number and either their real or false name. Some patients purchased their own ornamental markers.

In many cases, a patient chose to be buried using his “Carville name” to hide identity even in death. Several times a month, families come to Carville in search of a “long lost” relative. In cases like this, the Medical Records Department can make a positive identification by using old medical charts. The museum offers a schematic of the cemetery to help searching families locate a stone.

Carville’s first patient cemetery is located in the front quad of the patients' dorms. Because the first cemetery isn’t accessible to the public, the 40 & 8, a veterans’ organization and patients' benefactors since the 1940s, produced a memorial stone with the names of the first 137 patients to die and be buried here. It is the large grey marble marker to your right, at about 4 o’clock. When you examine the names, you will notice that some of these earlier patients were buried using a first name or initials only. One obvious pseudonym is “George Washington.”

32 veterans are buried here--from the Spanish American War to the Vietnam war— and each of these graves is marked with an American Legion star.

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In 1940, the patient population was between 400 and 450 and a massive renovation was underway. The improved hospital created individual rooms for 450 patients and the 13” thick concrete walls made the buildings as fireproof as possible. Fire was always a concern.

Here’s a list of what was built in 1940:

• 17 two-story dormitories

• 20,000 square-foot recreation building with library, theater, canteen and ballroom

• Over two miles of two-story corridors that link all patient buildings together

• Facilities' engineering building

• Staff dining hall

• Residence for Daughters of Charity, a Catholic nursing order

All of these improvements cost around 4 million dollars.

To your right, the two-story buildings with the orange metal awnings are female patients’ dorms. The dormitories are arranged in two quadrangles connected via covered corridors. This provided patients, many in wheelchairs, access to all buildings. Creating a fireproof hospital was a major aim of the last renovation, so even the patients’ room furnishings were metal instead of wood.

Every dorm had 30 individual rooms--each with an oscillating fan and radiated heat for winter. Each floor had shared bathrooms and a common parlor. The original design provided men and women with separate dorms. Later on, when patient couples ran away and returned married, they developed a thriving “suburbia” of homemade cottages towards the rear of the facility so that they could live together.

A Carville “date” often involved a hot-plate in the woman’s room, a card table across the threshold with the man sitting in the hall. In the 1960s, one of the dormitories was remodeled into apartments to allow for the cohabitation of couples. Each apartment had a private kitchen and bathroom.

Dormitory #24 was designated the “Carville Mall,” where free enterprise thrived. A patient could open her own shop to provide goods or services to fellow patients.

Some popular patient-run businesses included a radio repair service, a barber shop, a bicycle repair shop, a beauty parlor, a photography shop, and even a dry cleaner's.

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The present-day location of Circle Food Store at the corner of St. Bernard and Claiborne Avenues, first played host to a market in 1854. Then called St. Bernard Market, this grocery was one of several dozen public markets operated by the city of New Orleans between 1830 and 1940. At one point the city-owned 36 public food markets, including the famous French Market and newly restored St. Roch Market. Following the economic devastation of the Great Depression, many of these markets were sold to private investors.

The iconic Circle Foods Store building that stands empty today was constructed in 1931 by architect Same Stone Junior. Circle Food Store took the place of St. Bernard Market when it was incorporated in 1938. Circle Food Store has been referred to as the first black-owned and operated grocery in New Orleans. The market got its name from the traffic circle that stood at this intersection prior to the construction of the raised interstate highway, now looming above. The construction of the interstate bulldozed much of the beautiful homes and thriving black-owned businesses on this once tree-lined commercial district. While some local businesses faltered following the interstate project, Circle Food Store remained a vibrant community hub and essential location for food shopping. Circle Food Store traded hands several times but continued to provide services to its neighbors.

Circle Food Store sustained serious damages during hurricane Katrina that prevented it from reopening in the years following the storm. Then owner Dwayne Boudreaux, with the support of community members and organizations, made numerous attempts to garner public support and funding to repair and reopen the iconic market. Circle Food Store reopened in 2014. Unfortunately, Circle Food Store closed just 4 years later following damages from severe flooding in the summer of 2018.

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In an era when urban planners tout streetcars as engines of urban redevelopment, it is good to remember how dangerous these urban railroads could be.

In the oral history below, the late journalist and historian Charles "Pie" Dufour, in what may have been his last formal interview, describes the maiming of a child on the Dryades Line in the early 1920s.

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Mrs. Newcomb bought this house across from the Washington Avenue campus for a residence hall for the growing school in 1894. The original Josephine Louise House was managed by Alice Bowman, who was charged with both running the household and managing the girls who lived there. Shortly after opening, the new dormitory had some dozen boarders and, on occasion, Mrs. Newcomb herself.

Potential disaster struck in 1896, when a fire broke out in the Josephine Louise dormitory, and Mrs. Newcomb believed that one of the girls had intentionally set it. The interior of the dormitory was damaged, and many students lost possessions, but no one was hurt in the blaze. President Dixon himself allowed many girls to reside in his own home, and they set up a makeshift dormitory, often crowding five girls into one room.

Mrs. Newcomb's interest in the College waned until the cause of the fire was discovered. It was not the result of a firebug, but of a firecracker from a political parade entering the building through one of the attic windows. After the discovery, Mrs. Newcomb decided to donate money to build the much needed connection between the Academy and the main building, "the Arcade."

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On the evening of November 18, 1926, a railcar of the Orleans-Kenner Traction Co. (popularly called the "O-K Line") was traveling through Southport when it was hit by the rear end of a Louisiana Railway & Navigation Co. train. An L. R. & N. engine was backing a string of boxcars toward the river on one of its switch tracks and collided with the O-K car, which had not yet cleared the crossing.

The impact flipped the streetcar on its side and derailed two of the L. R. & N. boxcars. Though one passenger was hurled through one of the windows and others were trampled in the overturned car, no deaths or serious injuries resulted. The sturdy steel construction of the O-K car was credited with saving the lives of all passengers on board. The L. R. & N. Railroad was blamed for the accident because they were reportedly operating without lights.

The accident occurred just west of the Orleans/Jefferson Parish line along present-day Jefferson Highway, which developed along the O-K tracks in the 1920s and immediately contributed to the line's decline.

Due to the industrial character of the Southport area, the O-K Line had to cross numerous railroad tracks upon entering Jefferson Parish. In addition to the L. R. & N., the factories and warehouses of Southport were served by the the Illinois Central (I. C.), Yazoo & Mississippi Valley (Y. & M. V.), and New Orleans Public Belt (N. O. P. B.) Railroads, among others. A few switch tracks and remnants of industry from this area remain and can be seen along Jefferson Highway in Southport.

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Now known as the historic Lower Ninth Ward, this area orginated as a cypress swamp featuring many bayous. In this rural setting, residents enjoyed ready access to fishing grounds and grew okra and other vegetables. In the mid- 1800's, working-class African Americans and immigrant laborers from Ireland, Germany, and Italy seeking affordable housing migrated to the area. The Ninth Ward grew into a unique neighborhood with intergenerational and familial relationships across decades.

In 1923, the 5.5 mile long Industrial Canal (Inner Harbor Navigation Canal) opened, connecting Lake Pontchartrain to the Mississippi River. Equipped with a massive lock, the canal allows large cargo ships and barges access to river wharves. The canal is 30 feet deep and 300 feet wide at its lake end and about 150 feet at its lock end.

The Industrial Canal separates eastern New Orleans from the rest of the city and the Lower 9th Ward neighborhood from the Upper 9th Ward. Approximately half of the waterway's length, from the Industrial Lock on the Mississippi River to a point north of the Florida Avenue Bridge, is confluent with the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway (GIWW).

Brisk industrial development along the canal in the 1930s created considerable employment due to wharves alongside both banks and dry docks north of the GIWW. These employment opportunities were in addition to employment on wharves along the Mississippi River. During the same decade, the city installed numerous components of an improved drainage system. Better drainage combined with good employment caused many people to settle in the Lower Ninth Ward.

In the late 1950s, a bridge connecting the City and the Lower Ninth Ward, the Judge William Seeber Bridge (a.k.a. the Claiborne Avenue Bridge) was built across the canal at Claiborne Avenue. This spurred retail and commercial development throughout the neighborhood.

In September 1965, Hurricane Betsy pushed storm surge into the Industrial Canal and the east side canal wall breached in the same general area where it would breach again 40 years later during Hurricane Katrina. Eighty percent of the Lower Ninth Ward area went under water and hundreds of people lost their lives; the city reported an official count of eighty–one deaths.

The following year, Congress passed the Demonstration Cities and Metropolitan Development Act. Through the Act, employment in the Lower Ninth Ward increased and neighborhood revitalization occurred as new agencies were established. Until its devastation in 2005, the Lower Ninth Ward retained its heterogeneous population, including socio-economically disadvantaged and middle class residents, predominately African Americans.

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Pre-Katrina, the area immediately in front of the east breaches of the Inner Harbor Navigation Canal (a.k.a. the Industrial Canal) was a dense, thriving neighborhood of primarily African American lower- to middle-class homeowners. Houses in this neighborhood, called the Lower Ninth Ward, were built right up to the canal walls and were shaded by huge oaks, cypresses, and pecans.

On August 29, 2005, at about 5 a.m., a section of the I-wall south of the Florida Avenue bridge began to breach. At this time, the water level was still below the top of the floodwalls. This first breach occurred not far from a Sewerage and Water Board drainage pump station (PS#5). Station operators elsewhere in the city listened to the PS#5 operators describe the problem and beg for help. More than one post-Katrina study determined this particular failure was due to water seeping beneath the canal walls which caused the wall to move and fail.

At about 7:45 a.m., a second breach occurred about six blocks to the south and eventually widened into a 1,000 foot gap. Floodwaters from the two breaches combined to submerge the city's entire Lower Ninth Ward, killing hundreds (directly and indirectly) and destroying commercial buildings, homes and infrastructure. Eighty-four bodies were recovered from areas directly flooded by the breach this breach of the Industrial Canal.

The water from the two east breaches also flowed into the cities of Arabi and Chalmette in adjacent St. Bernard Parish. Floodwaters from two breaches on the western side of the Industrial Canal combined with floodwaters released from the 17th Street and London Avenue Canals to flood most of the City's main basin.

Before the storm, an empty barge owned by Ingram Marine had been moored across from the area that would become one of the breach sites. At some point, it came loose, and after Katrina's winds and the eye had passed into Mississippi, the barge was pushed across the Industrial Canal. It then floated through the southeast breach and was deposited in the Lower Ninth Ward.

Post-Katrina studies concluded that the southeast I-wall and the northwest I-wall were overtopped by floodwaters. Failures occurred when the water level was estimated to be 1.7 feet above the tops of the floodwalls and levees.

Studies also determined that earthen levees without I-walls all around the city, including the southwest breach, were overtopped by a storm surge. Out of the 50 estimated levee breaches system-wide, the majority can be attributed to overtopping and erosion. In other words, the water scoured away soil from the land-side and washed it away, causing the I-wall to fail.

Today, the adjacent land is largely vacant of homes and buildings. Many foundations or slabs where homes once stood are all that remain. All trees have been removed either due to the initial flooding or due to removal by governmental agencies post-Katrina.

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In 1965, Hurricane Betsy demonstrated that a major hurricane could overtop the earthen levees of the London Avenue Canal. So the Army Corps of Engineers recommended two plans -- raising the height of the canal walls using concrete-capped steel sheet pilings (I-walls) or installing floodgates at the canal's mouth at the lakefront. The Corps felt both alternatives provided equally sufficient storm surge protection.

Since raising the heights of the walls was three times more expensive than the floodgates plan, the Corps recommended the latter. The Corps believed it was following its congressional mandate. Unlike the ones built post-Katrina, these original gates did not include auxiliary pumps.

Meanwhile, the Orleans Levee Board (OLB) and the Sewerage and Water Board (S&WB) legitimately feared that the cheaper gates-only plan was incompatible with their interior drainage responsibilities. So, in 1991, in full transparency, the OLB, backed by the New Orleans City Council, the S&WB, and neighboring communities, asked the state congressional delegation for authorization for the much more expensive higher flood walls plan. They succeeded, and the corps installed the new I-walls.

Before the 2005 flood, the adjacent area to the breach site was a thriving mixed neighborhood of white and African American homeowners. Homes were shaded by oak, cypress and pecan trees.

On August 29, 2005, at about 9:30 a.m, two monoliths (30-foot long sections of concrete floodwall) failed, sending torrents of water and sand into New Orleans's Gentilly neighborhood. The location was the 4900 block of Warrington Drive. At failure, the water level in the canal was about 5 feet lower than the top of the wall. Storm surge water poured through the gap, killing hundreds (directly and indirectly), destroying hundreds of residences, and causing millions of dollars in property damage.

Today, the adjacent land is largely vacant of homes, buildings and trees. Many foundations or slabs where homes once stood are all that remain. The repaired breach site now consists of a different sturdier design called a T-wall. Three times more expensive to build, the new wall is easily differentiated because of its different texture and color.

Post-disaster studies concluded that the breach occurred due to steel sheet pilings driven to depths that were too shallow. Sadly, in recommending the I-walls with such short sheet pilings, the Corps had relied upon a poorly executed and misinterpreted study it had conducted near Morgan City in 1988. At a savings of $100,000,000, the Corps wrongly concluded it could "short-sheet" the steel pilings of the 17th Street Canal driving them to depths of not more than 17 feet instead of between 31 and 46.

In January 2008, Federal Judge Stanwood Duval, of the US District Court for Eastern Louisiana, held the US Army Corps of Engineers responsible for defects in the design of the concrete floodwalls constructed in the levees of the London Avenue Canal; however, the agency could not be held financially liable due to sovereign immunity provided in the Flood Control Act of 1928.

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In 1965, Hurricane Betsy demonstrated that a major hurricane could overtop the earthen levees of the 17th Street Canal. So the Army Corps of Engineers recommended two cost-effective plans which were 1) raising the height of the canal walls or 2) installing floodgates at the canal's mouth at the lakefront. The Corps felt both could provide reliable hurricane surge protection.

Since the cost for both approaches was about the same, the Corps ultimately elected to raise the canal walls using I-walls (concrete capped steel sheet pilings). The Corps did this partly because the local sponsors (Orleans Levee Board and the Sewage and Water Board) preferred it. The OLB and SWB viewed the floodgates plan as incompatible with their interior drainage responsibilities. (Note the gates plan did not include auxiliary pumps like those in place today.)

On August 29, 2005 at about 9:45 a.m, a monolith (30-foot long section of the concrete floodwall) failed sending torrents of water into New Orleans's Lakeview neighborhood. The water level in the Canal at the time of failure was about 5 feet lower than the top of the wall. The breach quickly expanded into a 450 foot wide gap through which storm surge water poured, killing hundreds (directly and indirectly), destroying hundreds of residences, and causing millions of dollars in property damage. Thirty-one (31) bodies were recovered from areas directly flooded.

Today, the adjacent land is vacant of homes, buildings and trees. Many foundations or slabs where homes once stood are all that remain. The repaired breach site now consists of a different sturdier design called a T-wall. Three times more expensive to build, the new wall is easily differentiated because of its different texture and different color. It is also two feet thicker.

Post-disaster studies conclude that the breach was due to steel sheet pilings driven to depths that were too shallow. Sadly, in recommending the I-walls with such short sheet pilings, the Corps had relied upon a poorly executed and misinterpreted study it had conducted near Morgan City in 1988. At a savings of $100,000,000, the Corps wrongly concluded it could short-sheet the steel pilings of the 17th Street Canal driving them to depths of not more than 17 feet instead of between 31 and 46.

In January of 2008, Federal Judge Stanwood Duval, of the US District Court for Eastern Louisiana, held the US Army Corps of Engineers responsible for defects in the design of the concrete floodwalls constructed in the levees of the 17th Street Canal; however, the agency could not be held financially liable due to sovereign immunity provided in the Flood Control Act of 1928.

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Continue on the path in the direction you have been traveling, along the Olmsted lagoon. Soon you arrive at one end of the Foucher alley of oaks, planted in the eighteenth century. Scores of exposition visitors remarked on their beauty and noted the Spanish moss hanging from them. The trees are also replete with "Resurrection fern" that is brown in dry weather but becomes green when it rains. Live oak trees can live hundreds of years; a few here are named and registered with the Live Oak Society.

On this end of these oaks, the Cotton Centennial's Art Hall stood. Even if the work was fine but not acclaimed, imagine standing before art for the first time, as many visitors did. Natural light poured in through the building's many skylights, and electric lights enhanced the view.

On the far end of this alley stood the glass-framed Horticultural Hall, the only exposition building intended to be permanent. The city of New Orleans funded its construction for $100,000. During the fair, it housed produce and exotic plants brought in by various countries, including fascinating succulents from Honduras and Mexico. Over time, small plants became huge ones, and Horticultural Hall was beloved as a botanical marvel by the citizens of New Orleans until the hurricane of 1915 demolished it.

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While termites have lived and thrived in the world for over two hundred million years, the truly destructive subterranean Formosan termites did not arrive in New Orleans until after World War II, probably on a ship traveling from Asia. Formosan termites have damaged millions of dollars' worth of property in New Orleans. Experts estimate that 20-25% of the trees in the city are infected with these insects. While Formosan termites live underground, they have also adapted to urban environments by nesting in trees, homes, and buildings. They burrow through trees and wooden construction materials alike, eating the wood from the inside out and causing structural damage.

While you are walking through the city, you may notice evenly-spaced green plastic or metal circles in front of certain properties, or small, gray, plastic plugs in the trunks of trees. These are termite bait traps. The termites eat the poisoned bait and then return to their nests to infect and kill their neighbors. It is estimated that the city of New Orleans spends over $100 million a year on termite control; and yet, many historic homes have been ravaged by these pests.

The French Quarter is the hardest hit of all New Orleans neighborhoods. In 2001, the U.S. Department of Agricultural instituted "Operation Full Stop" in order to reduce the Formosan termite's numbers while also reducing the amount of money the city and private citizens would have to spend to repair termite property damage. The Cabildo, which stands next to St. Louis Cathedral and was the location of the signing of the Louisiana Purchase in 1803, was one of the first buildings to be treated by the termite bait unit system.

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In the 1830s, Irish and German immigrants dug the New Basin Canal as a link between New Orleans and Lake Pontchartrain. The lake end of the canal featured the New Canal Lighthouse, originally an octagonal, wooden tower resting on pilings driven into the lake bottom. Built by Francis D. Gott in 1838 for $4,500, the tower's lower timbers rotted within four years, causing it to lean.

Originally, the lighthouse stood approximately 1,000 feet offshore. Landfill projects in the early 1900s slowly brought the shore closer to the lighthouse, creating what is now Lakefront Drive. After the original lighthouse was torn down, a second square-shaped, one-story iron piling was completed in 1855.

During the American Civil War, the Confederate forces kept the lighthouse active until New Orleans fell to Union forces in April 1862.

The lighthouse remained active from the end of the Civil War in 1865 until August 2005, when Hurricane Katrina damaged the lighthouse beyond repair. In 2007, the Lake Pontchartrain Basin Foundation dismantled the remains and salvaged as many historic materials as possible.

The lighthouse re-opened in 2013 as the New Canal Lighthouse Museum and Education Center. The lighthouse contains exhibits on the history, ecology, and preservation of the lake and lighthouse, as well as views of the lake from the outdoor deck. At night, the lighthouse's beacon is still in operation to guide boats passing through the lake.

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