In 2009-2010, archaeologists from ESI excavated the remains of a pottery from one of the blocks during the Lafitte Housing Complex renovation along what used to have been the Carondelet “Old Basin” Canal. Archival research links the pottery at City Square 281 to Lucien M. Gex from 1890-1891, enumerated as 253 Carondelet Walk, the walking path that paralleled the shipping canal. Further research unravels that this pottery was likely a salvage venture, stemming from another failed pottery, Porcelain Works, two blocks away. Advertised in 1883 as Porcelain Works, this original pottery purported to manufacture Limoges porcelain manufactured with American clay. However, newspaper articles indicate that Porcelain Works failed after only a year, and then burned to the ground in 1885. The remnants of pottery at the second site, 253 Carondelet Walk, includes hand-worked clay, biscuit ware, irregularly fired pottery sherds, and kiln furniture with a spatial distribution that suggests the site was an active site of pottery production. By 1900, the United States Census enumerates Lucien M. Gex and his family in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, leaving his pottery venture behind.

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The Plessy v. Ferguson (1896) case is well-known in United States history. As the Supreme Court case that established the doctrine of “separate but equal,” it ushered in the Jim Crow era of legal racial segregation and discrimination. By the mid-twentieth century, civil rights activists began to dismantle Jim Crow rule. Most notably, Brown v. Board of Education (1954) overturned Plessy and ruled “separate but equal” unconstitutional, opening the doors for activists to challenge race-based discrimination in the civil rights movement.  Fewer understand that Plessy v. Ferguson is a New Orleans story. The radical crusaders who fought for racial justice in the nineteenth century are often left out of America’s civil rights narrative or, when included, are misunderstood. For example, an image of P.B.S. Pinchback, the first Black governor, is often confused for Homer Plessy, the plaintiff in the landmark case. Artist Ian Wilkerson attempts to clear the confusion in a mural that features both Pinchback and a rendering of Plessy. From the Plessy v. Ferguson historical marker at 700 Homer Plessy Way, the mural is a short walk across the railroad tracks on Royal Street, directly across from Studio Be.  The Plessy case came after a period of many political and social gains for Black Americans following the Civil War. The 13th Amendment abolished slavery, and the 14th and 15th Amendments promised formerly enslaved people equal rights and the right to vote. As a result, Black men became politicians, primarily in the Republican party, and helped shape the laws of a country re-establishing itself during the period known as Reconstruction. Particularly in Louisiana, men of color elected to the state legislature wrote the most radical state constitution in 1868, protecting equal rights for all regardless of race. As such, people of color in Louisiana could vote and utilize integrated public facilities.  In New Orleans, Black Creoles had enjoyed relative privilege for generations. Their multi-ethnic backgrounds included  European, African, Caribbean, and Native American descent, and placed them in a unique racial category. Many were never enslaved and some could pass as white, opening opportunities for acquiring wealth and certain privileges. Those with French ancestry held close ties with the culture, and many spoke the language, spent time in France, and were educated in French schools. Therefore, French principles of equality and democracy shaped Black Creoles' ideas that public rights should protect human dignity, which included integration.  However, the rights that Black Americans and Creoles fought for and sought to maintain soon came under attack. At this period in history, the Democratic Party was devoted to white supremacy. Democrats and white supremacists used violence to intimidate African Americans from exercising their political voice in bloody events such as the Mechanic’s Institute Massacre, the Colfax Massacre, and the Battle of Liberty Place. Racial terror through lynchings steadily increased during Reconstruction, peaking in the 1890s. In addition, a slew of Supreme Court decisions handed down in the 1870s and 1880s limited the power of the federal government to protect Black citizenship rights. By 1877, Reconstruction ended throughout the South, and federal troops left, stripping Black Americans of yet another layer of federal protection.  Despite such setbacks, the  Creoles of color in New Orleans who had exercised freedoms and privileges for decades did not tolerate these infringements on their rights, particularly after the passage of the Separate Car Act (SCA). Passed by the Louisiana state legislature in 1890, the SCA called for separate cars for white and Black passengers traveling by railroad in order “to promote the comfort of passengers on railway trains.” This indignity drove Black Creoles to form the Comité des Citoyens (Citizen’s Committee) and mount a legal challenge to racially discriminatory laws. Through Plessy v. Ferguson, they protested racial discrimination in the American legal landscape before the highest court of the land--the Supreme Court of the United States.  Civil rights activism has deep roots in New Orleans. The Plessy v. Ferguson tour that follows highlights the stories of people and places who were instrumental in challenging the 1890 Louisiana Separate Car Act. 

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By the 1870s, steamboats carried passengers up and down the Mississippi River, docking in the ports of major cities like New Orleans. Here, in July 1872, Captain John Benson denied Josephine Decuir née Dubuclet entry into the women’s cabin on the steamer Governor Allen explicitly because she was a woman of color, and the women’s cabin was reserved white women only. She was also not allowed to take her meal at a table until all white passengers finished first. Madame Decuir sued Captain Benson for racial discrimination, joining a legacy of women of color who used litigation in the courts to gain rights denied to them during the Reconstruction era. Madame Decuir’s lawsuit against Captain Benson was the first legal case to challenge segregation after the Civil War. Madame Decuir spent the entirety of the American Civil War in France, living in a social environment where she was treated as equal to white women. She came from a family of Black Creoles who spoke French, enslaved others, and owned plantations. Her brother, Antoine Dubuclet, had political influence and served as the Louisiana State Treasurer after the Civil War. In 1866, when she returned home to Louisiana, Decuir boarded the main cabin of the Lafourche, but Captain Barranco denied her access, explaining that segregation was the custom on all steamships. Her prior experiences in France, pride in her family’s status, and Creole identity inspired her to affirm her right to equality. When Madame Decuir boarded the Governor Allen with her lawyers seven years later, she understood the power of them bearing witness to this practice of segregation that directly violated her rights guaranteed under the Louisiana State Constitution of 1868.  Decuir’s legal case began in the New Orleans courts and progressed to the United States Supreme Court (SCOTUS) in 1877, at the end of Reconstruction. Her lawyers argued that Article 13 of Louisiana’s 1868 State Constitution as well as an 1869 statute afforded her equal access to all modes of transportation regardless of race. Madame Decuir never attended court, but her testimony demonstrated a level of intent equal to other women of color who did. Thirty-one women of color, like Madame Decuir, challenged segregation on common carriers from 1855-1914. Decuir relied on her gender and social class to demonstrate that she was a well-respected woman and therefore deserved access to the women’s cabin. At the local courts, other steamship captains testified as witnesses on behalf of Captain Benson to affirm the practice of segregation. In response, Decuir’s case called upon Creole men of color to describe the conditions of the segregated ships. After these testimonies, the judge awarded Decuir $1,000 in damages at which point Captain Benson appealed to the State Supreme Court which upheld the local decision. As a result, Captain Benson’s lawyers requested that SCOTUS add this case to the docket. By the time the case reached SCOTUS, the dynamics had changed. First, Captain Benson died and his widow, Eliza Jane Hall, became the administrator. As a white woman, she represented the institution of segregation that justified racial separation for the protection of white women. The court was more concerned with Decuir’s race than her gender. Additionally, R.H. Marr, a staunch white supremacist who defended the Colfax Massacre and instigated the Battle of Liberty Place, joined as co-counsel for the defense. In Hall v. Decuir (1877), the Supreme Court overturned the Louisiana Supreme Court’s ruling. Even though Decuir’s stint on the Governor Allen remained within the state of Louisiana, the court made a decision on intrastate affairs--because the boat traveled to other states after Decuir disembarked--fell under the jurisdiction of Congress. Therefore, Louisiana’s civil rights laws protecting Black citizens from racial segregation were nullified by federal powers. This ruling demonstrates how SCOTUS intentionally dismantled Black citizenship rights and rolled back federal protections. Hall v. Decuir set the stage for the doctrine of separate but equal by nullifying civil rights laws against segregation. As a Creole woman of color, Decuir’s protest against racially discriminatory practices foreshadowed the arguments of the Comité des Citoyens. Years before the Comité, she fought for public rights to guarantee her dignity and status. Justice Harlan also cited the Hall v. Decuir ruling in his lone dissent in Plessy v. Ferguson. Hall v. Decuir demonstrates how Black women like Decuir were a part of the legacy of defying and challenging the practice of segregation and their involvement in racial justice movements.

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Louis A. Martinet was a key player in the fight for civil rights in New Orleans. Born December 28, 1849, his multiracial identity as the son of a free woman of color and a Belgian man placed him within the community of Creoles of color in Louisiana. Joining other Black men elected to political office during the Reconstruction era, Martinet represented his hometown of St. Martinville in the state legislature at the age of twenty-three. He later earned his law degree from Straight University Law School in 1876 as its first Black graduate, setting a precedent for people of color to follow. 

In 1889, Martinet founded The Crusader newspaper in New Orleans to report on racial violence and civil rights issues in Louisiana. Shortly after the 1890 Separate Car Act (SCA) was introduced in the state legislature, he wrote in protest of the law and vowed a legal challenge. The next year, Martinet, joined by Rodolphe Desdunes and other Creole leaders such as Aristide Mary and C. C. Antoine, and formed the Comité des Citoyens (Citizen’s Committee) to mount the legal challenge to the SCA. The Crusader became the megaphone for the Comité’s politics and ideas about public rights. 

Albion Tourgée, a white northerner, learned about the SCA and the work of the Comité by reading Black newspapers including The Crusader. Tourgée had dedicated his life to civil rights as a lawyer, legislator, and writer, specifically using his writing to advocate for Black rights. In his column, A Bystander’s Notes, he criticized the SCA as a violation of the 14th amendment and praised Martinet and the Comité for their protests. Martinet offered Tourgée the entire Comité’s fund of $1,412.70 to take the case to the United States Supreme Court (SCOTUS), but Tourgée refused to take the funds and offered his legal services pro bono. 

In their correspondence, Tourgée and Martinet devised a legal strategy. Originally, Tourgée proposed that a woman of color who could pass as white board a train car reserved for white travelers. He deliberately wanted a white-passing person to highlight the arbitrary nature of racial classifications because the SCA allowed train conductors to determine a person’s race to enforce the law. Martinet, however, worried that the local context of racial fluidity in New Orleans might foil the plan. “People of tolerably fair complexion, even if unmistakably colored, enjoy here a large degree of immunity from the accursed prejudice,” Martinet wrote Tourgée. Nevertheless, he agreed to Tourgée’s plan and enacted a first attempt that failed after Judge John Ferguson ruled the SCA did not apply to interstate travel. For the second attempt, he selected Homer Plessy, a shoemaker of a fraction of African descent, to board a train traveling within Louisiana. Martinet also convinced the railroad company to cooperate with the plan and hired a private investigator to ensure Plessy’s safe arrest within the racial tensions and violence in Louisiana. 

The strategy succeeded, and Plessy was arrested on June 7, 1892 for violating the SCA. Judge Ferguson upheld his conviction in the New Orleans court, and the Comité’s lawyers appealed the case through the Louisiana Supreme Court, housed in the Cabildo where you are standing, until it reached the U.S. Supreme Court in 1896. A miscommunication caused Martinet to miss the oral arguments in Washington D.C., but his influence was evident in Tourgée’s radical argument. He asserted that the 14th Amendment extended citizenship, guaranteed due process and equal protection under the law, and nullified states’ legal authority to define citizenship. His arguments also emphasized that racial categories are arbitrary and therefore cannot be a sound reason for legal discrimination. Finally, Tourgée asked the justices how they would feel as Black people subject to the SCA: “What humiliation, what rage would then fill the judicial mind!” Through these comments, Tourgée reflected the ideas of dignity central to public rights and citizenship that Martinet and Desnudes held and expressed in The Crusader. 

In a 7-1 decision, the Supreme Court upheld precedents established during the last three decades that narrowed the scope of federal protections of the rights of Black citizens. It ruled that citizenship and racial segregation fell under the authority of the state, ultimately deciding that segregation was legal as long as the accommodations were equal, codifying the doctrine of “separate but equal” that ushered in an era of Jim Crow rule. After this decision, the Comité dissolved and Martinet closed The Crusader offices for lack of funding that same year, turning to a career in medicine. 

The blow to civil rights in Plessy v. Ferguson did not end racial activism or Martinet’s influence, however. The sole dissent by Justice John Marshall Harlan asserted that the U.S. Constitution was “color-blind,” providing activists with judicial backing to work toward federal civil rights protections. Today, a group of African American attorneys make up the Greater New Orleans Louis A. Martinet Legal Society, devoted to honoring Martinet’s legacy through support for Black lawyers, pro bono work, and community service. Martinet understood the long-term impacts of his efforts and that it was up to those who followed him to continue fighting for civil rights. Writing to Tourgée in 1893, he said, “you may not live to see the fruit of your labors and sacrifice, or to receive the gratitude of those benefitted by them. It will be reserved to future generations to properly and justly estimate them.” 

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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. Listeners will learn about artists, self-liberating people, educators, scientists, and many others underrepresented in street signs, public memorials, and historical narratives.

Episodes were released on a rolling basis throughout the summer of 2022. Scroll to the bottom of the media list to listen to the introduction episode. 

For more resources, visit From Robert E. Lee to Mama D.

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The excavations at the Cabildo represented a rare opportunity to recover archaeological evidence of Colonial era governance, particularly in the realm of punishment. Modern conceptions of the prison as a place of confinement and correction were still developing in this era, and serious offenses were likely to be considered a direct affront to the sovereign, and thus to be punished corporally. The evidence from the Cabildo suggests that, even at a comparatively early date, prison labor was being exploited in manufacturing, a pattern that would be developed through the nineteenth century and into the modern era. It shows the poor sanitation within the prison, but it also demonstrates the ways in which those confined maintained some degree of autonomy within those conditions.

Today, the Cabildo is a facility of the Louisiana State Museum, but the courtyard of the Cabildo was the location of a city prison complex for nearly two hundred years, across French, Spanish, and American rule. Constructed in 1730, the prison and police station were some of the city’s earliest administrative structures. In 1769, following the transition from French to Spanish rule, Spanish officials demolished the existing structure and built a Cabildo, or town hall: a complex with a military prison, a civil prison, police station, jailer’s quarters, and government chambers. The Great Fire of 1788 damaged this Cabildo and another fire in 1794 destroyed other parts of the complex. In 1799, the second Cabildo was completed, and this is the structure you see today.

In the early 1830s, the City Council authorized plans for enlarging the prison to deal with its notorious overcrowding, but the city also built a new Orleans Parish Prison behind what is today the Municipal Auditorium near Louis Armstrong Park. After the construction of the new prison finished in 1839, the old prison was abandoned and subsequently torn down. Throughout the Spanish and American periods of its operation, government officials and visitors commented on the poor condition of the facility, from lack of food and clothing to rat infestations.

In May of 1988, the third story of the Cabildo, by then a part of the Louisiana State Museum, caught fire. Following the fire, the museum hired Earth Search, Inc., led by Dr. Jill-Karen Yakubik, to excavate the Cabildo courtyard prior to the construction of a new water line in the vicinity.

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Today, the Cabildo is a facility of the Louisiana State Museum, but the courtyard of the Cabildo was the location of a city prison complex for nearly two hundred years, across French, Spanish, and American rule. Constructed in 1730, the prison and police station were some of the city’s earliest administrative structures. In 1769, following the transition from French to Spanish rule, Spanish officials demolished the existing structure and built a Cabildo, or town hall: a complex with a military prison, a civil prison, police station, jailer’s quarters, and government chambers. The Great Fire of 1788 damaged this Cabildo and another fire in 1794 destroyed other parts of the complex. In 1799, the second Cabildo was completed, and this is the structure you see today.

In the early 1830s, the City Council authorized plans for enlarging the prison to deal with its notorious overcrowding, but the city also built a new Orleans Parish Prison behind what is today the Municipal Auditorium near Louis Armstrong Park. After the construction of the new prison finished in 1839, the old prison was abandoned and subsequently torn down. Throughout the Spanish and American periods of its operation, government officials and visitors commented on the poor condition of the facility, from lack of food and clothing to rat infestations.

In May of 1988, the third story of the Cabildo, by then a part of the Louisiana State Museum, caught fire. Following the fire, the museum hired Earth Search, Inc., led by Dr. Jill-Karen Yakubik, to excavate the Cabildo courtyard prior to the construction of a new water line in the vicinity.

For more information about archeaology at The Cabildo, please visit the Archaeology of the Cabildo tour.

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In the 1920s and 1930s, the second floor of 1001 Canal Street was home to the Arcadia and Alamo Dance Halls. These dance halls served as a space for thirsty men in New Orleans to cut loose at the height of Prohibition. Prohibition, enacted in January 1920 by the 18th Amendment, made the manufacture and sale of alcohol federally illegal throughout the United States, but nowhere housed more scofflaws than New Orleans. When Izzy Einstein, a famous 1920s customs agent, traveled to New Orleans to enforce Prohibition, he remarked that it took only thirty-five seconds to find alcohol. The driver of a taxi that Einstein hailed at the train station offered a swig of liquor from a bottle stashed beneath a seat. [2]

One of sixty-three dance halls in New Orleans, the Arcadia was known as a ‘closed,’ or ‘nickel-a-dance’ hall, primarily catering to single men without dates who would pay for dances from the women employed by the establishment. [3] The women working in these closed halls were known as ‘hostesses’ and club owners encouraged them to dance, drink, and converse with the male clientele. [4] In 1924, New Orleans Item journalist Dorothy Day went undercover as a hostess in the Arcadia dance hall. Day's first-hand account of dance hall goings-on gives us an in-depth glimpse into New Orleans nightlife in the 1920s. Day describes the diverse clientele of the Arcadia as “transients, salesmen, sailors and boys from the army and navy, [and] high school boys out seeing life.” [5] Alcohol consumption was everywhere, especially in the practice of ‘B-drinking’, a scheme wherein women wokring at the dance hall would convince gullible male suitors to buy them the most expensive drinks. Police officers frequented the dance hall and often overlooked the sale of alcohol - for a fee. [6] Like most music venues in the city, jazz was the music of choice for the dance halls at 1001 Canal. The dance halls hosted a variety of jazz acts, including The Fischbein-Williams Syncopators and the world-famous banjoist/guitarist, Danny Barker. [7, 8]

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Soon after Union forces seized New Orleans from the Confederacy in 1862, calls for equality reverberated among free people of color. Hundreds assembled at frequent mass meetings and rallies at Economy Hall in the heart of Faubourg Tremé. There, boisterous crowds listened to speakers advocate for racial democracy and the enfranchisement of all men of African descent. The newspapers L’Union, and later the New Orleans Tribune, frequently promoted and reported on these dramatic gatherings. “Grande Assemblée à L’Économie, Immense Enthousiasme,” recounted L’Union in 1863. [1] “A vast and enthusiastic assemblage met last evening at Economy Hall,” reported the Tribune in 1864. [2] “One of the most largely attended assemblies ever held in this city met last night at Economy Hall,” declared the Tribune in 1865.

Jean Baptiste Roudanez (1815-1895), a free man of color, served as publisher of L’Union, the South’s first black newspaper, and the New Orleans Tribune, America’s first black daily newspaper. Dr. Louis Charles Roudanez, the Tribune’s founder, was Jean Baptiste’s younger brother. Jean Baptiste Roudanez’s home still stands on Dumaine Street in the Faubourg Tremé. 

On July 30, 1866, black Republicans attempted to reconvene the Louisiana constitutional convention in an effort to secure voting rights. Held at the Mechanics' Institute, a large crowd of black spectators was present as well. The gathering was attacked by an angry white mob that included police and firemen. [1] According to the Tribune, "black men were assassinated by scores. They fell inside of the hall, outside of the building, in the neighboring streets, and even in distant parts of the city, where they were tracked like dogs." [2] Tribune editor Jean-Charles Houzeau witnessed the bloodbath and heard the assassins shout "To the Tribune!" He claimed the newspaper was saved by a detail of black soldiers. [3]

In November 1866, the Tribune moved from its offices on Conti Street to 122-124 Exchange Alley. These new digs were in the shadow of the St. Louis Hotel (site now occupied by the Omni Royal Orleans Hotel). The St. Louis Hotel housed a large antebellum slave exchange. As free men of color, the men of the Tribune had witnessed the horror and degradation of the city's many slave pens and auction blocks, where over the years over 100,000 souls were stored, assigned a price, and sold as living property.

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You are standing in front of the L’Union and the New Orleans Tribune building, the birthplace of civil rights history in the Crescent City. Here, surrounded by the howling madness of the Civil War, these two radical journals condemned slavery and fought for the rights of all of African descent. The black community rallied around the Tribune and organized one of the most important freedom movements in American history. The Tribune’s crusade led to black enfranchisement, integrated public schools, the creation of a groundbreaking state constitution with strong equal rights provisions, and the election of many black state representatives.

The New Orleans Tribune (la Tribune de la Nouvelle Orléans) proclaimed itself an “organ of the oppressed” and defiantly vowed to “spare no means at our command” to promote equality for all people of African descent. [1] Bravely challenging the very foundations of white supremacy, the Tribune was in the vanguard of a monumental struggle for racial democracy. 

Both newspapers were founded by Dr. Louis Charles Roudanez, a free man of color. L’Union was unleashed in 1862 soon after Union forces seized the city. The New Orleans Tribune debuted on July 21, 1864. Publishing over 1,300 issues in the five years of its existence, the Tribune concentrated on matters of central importance to all of African descent: suffrage; an equitable labor and land system to replace slavery; the condition of the emancipated; the creation of integrated public transportation and school systems; the black military; Union policies of accommodation with planters; Louisiana’s constitutional conventions; local and national elections; Reconstruction politics and legislation; and much more. 

The Tribune arose from les gens de couleur libres, the community of free people of color who lived in the Vieux Carré and the Faubourgs Tremé and Marigny. Racially mixed, French-speaking, and Catholic, this prosperous, politically astute and assertive group was one of the largest of its kind in the United States. [2] Of African, Caribbean, European and First Nations ancestries, free people of color resulted from unlawful but tolerated inter-racial relationships during the colonial and antebellum periods. Their very existence contradicted the foundational idea of slave society, that racial inferiority was part of the natural order. Moreover, white elites worried that free people of color offered the enslaved hope for their own liberation.

The Tribune was bilingual from the start, two pages in English and two in French. The English-language section was a strategic effort to expand the journal’s message outside of the francophone community of free people of color that had been served by the newspaper’s predecessor, L’Union. That new audience grew to include those who had been enslaved, with whom the Tribune identified. “They are of us, and we love them as we do ourselves. We are the organ of the oppressed, without distinction.” [3]

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On March 13, 1872, the National Republican reflected upon the importance of the nation’s first Black executive officer, Lieutenant. Governor Oscar James Dunn, some four months after his untimely death writing, “He was to them [Black Americans], their great preservative, their leader, the embodiment of their hopes, the real Moses…. who, as they fainted and famished in the struggle to reach the goal of acknowledged manhood, smote the rock of adversity till it gushed forth the cheering waters of hope. It was Oscar J. Dunn who led his people from the land of oppression and bondage…”

Oscar was born enslaved in 1822, the property of George P. Bowers, a commission merchant who resided in the Vieux Carre. On February 5, 1831, Oscar was purchased by his stepfather James Dunn, a free black stage carpenter who had migrated to New Orleans from Petersburg, Virginia.

James paid $800 to purchase his wife, Maria, and his two-year-old daughter, Jane. On December 13, 1832, he emancipated his family before the city’s Police Jury, officially making them free people of color. After his emancipation, Oscar adopted both his stepfather’s first and last names, becoming Oscar James Dunn.

Now free, Oscar could attend school, a privilege denied to the state’s enslaved population. Despite his academic excellence, at fourteen he was withdrawn and apprenticed to a master

plasterer.

After an argument with his employer, Dunn deserted his employment, inducing the plasterer to post advertisements calling for his apprehension and return in local papers. After the war, Dunn opened an information office where he wrote and negotiated labor contracts for freedmen. A leader among the Prince Hall Freemasons and within the African Methodist Episcopal church, Dunn joined the executive committee of the “Friends of Universal Suffrage,” which advocated for civil and voting rights for people of color in Louisiana.

Dunn was among the first black men appointed to political office within Louisiana’s Reconstruction government. In 1867, he was appointed to the Assistant Board of Aldermen and installed as the Assistant Recorder of the city’s Second District Court, becoming the first Black person to serve in a judicial capacity in the state.

The following year, he became the nation’s first Black executive officer when he was elected Lieutenant Governor of Louisiana.

In office, Dunn opposed the de-facto re-enslavement of black children through agricultural apprenticeships, and also helped to form “The Bakery for the People,” a collective designed to foster economic independence.

A fierce defender of civil rights, Dunn argued that the Black citizens merely required “an equal chance in the race of life; an equal opportunity of supporting our families, of educating our children and of becoming worthy citizens of this Government.” Following the passage of a bill to integrate public schools, Dunn and his wife, Ellen Boyd Dunn, enrolled their daughters and a niece in New Orleans public schools.

On September 26, 1868, Governor Henry C. Warmoth vetoed the Civil Rights Act of 1866, creating a schism within Louisiana’s Republican party. Dunn helped lead the faction which sought to remove Warmoth. By 1871, they had mustered enough support to impeach the governor. Before Warmoth’s trial, Dunn became violently ill and quickly died, leading many to speculate that he had been poisoned. The day of Dunn‘s funeral, November 23, 1871, was declared a day of mourning, and all the offices of city government were closed. Benevolent societies, military and police units, and other organizations formed the largest recorded funeral procession in the city’s history.

The legislature established the Oscar J. Dunn Monument Association of Louisiana for the purpose of erecting a fitting monument in honor of the late lieutenant-governor. Though monies were dedicated, the proposed monument was never erected.

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“Weeds, snakes, and a contaminated lake.”

These were the swimming conditions that New Orleans provided for African Americans prior to the opening of Lincoln Beach. In 1938, Sam Zemurray, president of United Fruit Company, deeded a 2.3-acre tract of land to the city. The following year, the Orleans Parish Levee Board purchased the land. The tract was along the lakefront in the Little Woods section of New Orleans East. The city asserted that Little Woods was a ‘separate but equal’ recreational area, in compliance with the standard established in Plessy v. Ferguson. However, many African-Americans recall a 12-mile trip on an unpaved road that was followed by crossing active railroad tracks, and waste from nearby fishing camps which polluted the swimming water.

African-Americans continued to seek out other options so they could stay cool in the tropical summers. Some visited the nearby Seabrook in spite of police harassment and the city’s refusal to provide lighting or lifeguards. The most impactful tragedy at Seabrook occurred in 1931 when a group of six family members all drowned together due to a sinkhole in the lake. Such drownings became increasingly common as structural improvements were made along the North Shore of the lake. Real estate investments increased the value of homes in burgeoning white communities. Additionally, the white sand that was imported for the newly constructed and segregated Pontchartrain Beach eroded the South Shore.

After 25 years of struggle for recreational equality and environmental racism, the Orleans Levee Board invested $500,000 in building a lakeside amusement park for African-American citizens, who comprised about 200,000 — or 32% — of the city’s population in 1950. More extensively developed than the park designated in 1939, Lincoln Beach was a better-equipped site. Some remember tickets for free admission to Lincoln Beach that came in Sunbeam Bread. There was a Midway with rides, a ferris wheel, rollercoaster, and games of chance. Patrons dined at the Carver House Restaurant, and danced atop its terrace.

There were two swimming pools with a lifeguard corps and a swimming teacher, Edward X. Dunn. One of the pools was named in honor of Capt. Nolan McNeal, a former slave and fighter for black progress. Highlights at Lincoln Beach included bathing beauty contests and diving expositions. It was also the site of the annual Negro State Fairs. Musical artists included Fats Domino, Irma Thomas, Earl King, The Neville Brothers, Nat King Cole, The Ink Spots, Ernie K-Doe, Dr. John, and many others.

Despite marked improvements, most African-Americans recognized that Lincoln Beach was a park of lesser quality than the Whites-only Pontchartrain Beach. Lincoln Beach was a quarter-mile in length in contrast to Pontchartrain Beach’s half-mile, and it was difficult to arrive at, but it was a place where African-Americans produced culture through their bodies. And as many have said, “It was a place where I felt safe.”

Since its closure following the desegregation of public accommodations under the Civil Rights Act of 1964, Lincoln Beach has become dilapidated. It barely shows the skeleton of what it once was. As soon as Pontchartrain desegregated, the Orleans Levee Board abandoned caring for the beach. And once Pontchartrain Beach integrated, owner Harry Batt disinvested in his own property. White violence was initially enacted against African-Americans that began to integrate Pontchartrain. Eventually, whites stopped attending the park at all.

Mr. Leon A. Waters [researcher, author, and native of New Orleans] took me [storyteller Danielle Abrams] to Lincoln Beach in the summer of 2018. We stood on the levee looking down into a forest that blanketed the beach. Mr. Waters said to me, “They let that forest grow so we’d forget it [segregation] ever happened.”

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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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Built in 1896, this Moorish-influenced Richardsonian style building was built on the site of the former Duverje plantation, which was completely destroyed, along with approximately 200 other homes and businesses, on the night of October 20th, 1895.

Barthelemy Duverje purchased the land that we now know as Algiers Point from Martial Le Boeuf, on August 9th, 1805, for $18,000. The title is traced back to Louis Borepo, who acquired it February 3rd, 1770, by a grant from Don Alexander O’Reilly, Governor of the province of Louisiana, who then represented the crown of Castile under Charles III. The Duverje plantation home was built circa 1812-15 and was a splendid, strongly built, brick structure. Plantations and orange groves lined the river at this time, which was later to be replaced by sugar cane.

Barthelemy died in 1820, and his widow in 1839. The estate was divided among the heirs and Mrs. Evelina Duverje-Olivier, the widow’s daughter, received the fine old mansion, together with her share of the land adjoining. Over the years following, the plantation home went into a state of disrepair, at one point being used to house cattle.

The Police Jury Report of November 5th, 1866, mentions a proposition that the parish should buy the building, which was then being used as a school, known as St. George’s Academy. A week later, a committee suggested the building was “well fitted for Court House Offices and other requirements of the Parish.” The local jail was also situated there. Although the building was sound, it was in need of roof repairs.

The former Duverje mansion became the seat of justice of the right bank on March 13th, 1869. It was annexed to the City on March 14th, 1870, and designated as the Fifth District.

The present Courthouse is the third oldest continuously used courthouse in the State of Louisiana. Marriages, property assessments and small claims are now its everyday business. If open, go in and take a look at the old Courtroom upstairs and check out the view of the City across the river.

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John Thompson had a sharp wit and irreverent humor. John Thompson was a proud New Orleanian who cursed the dysfunction of his city every day. John Thompson loved his wife, his family, and his friends. John Thompson was an exoneree, a death-penalty abolitionist, an orator, and an idealist. The injustice he suffered was a New Orleans story, but John Thompson became a national icon whose name now stands for the impunity with which prosecutors may disregard the life and rights of a young Black man.

John was wrongly arrested for an armed robbery and unrelated murder in 1984. Prosecutors intentionally hid all the evidence that he was innocent of both, including blood evidence showing he was not the armed robber, at his trials. He was promptly convicted and sentenced to death in 1985. Arriving at Angola Prison, he was put in the cell of a man who’d been executed days before; the man’s possessions were still there. In the summer of 1985, Louisiana had executed eight men at Angola. John knew 12 more men who were executed there.

In 1999, less than a month before his execution date (scheduled the day before his eldest son was to graduate high school), a defense investigator found the blood evidence that proved him innocent of the robbery. The armed robbery conviction was thrown out and he was taken off death row. Then, in 2002, the murder conviction was thrown out. At his retrial in 2003, a New Orleans jury took 35 minutes to acquit him of the murder for which he had almost been executed. He walked out of the courtroom at Tulane Avenue and Broad Street and began a life of hard, often thankless, work of helping others returning from prison.

John became a tireless advocate, social worker and mentor. He sold his brilliant vision for fellow exonerees helping each other upon return from prison and set up the first holistic, exoneree-run, reentry program in the country: Resurrection After Exoneration. But because John knew people should not console themselves with his happy ending, he increasingly used his story as a galvanizing cry. He sued the prosecutors who nearly had him killed, saying prosecutors’ offices should have standards to stop the terrible injustice that happened to him. He wanted longtime New Orleans DA, Harry Connick Sr., to pay because he did not care to have such standards, and as a result, John was ripped from his 6 and 4-year old sons, thrown into solitary confinement for 14 years to await execution for a murder he knew he did not do, survived 7 execution dates and lost 18 years of his life. He asked for help and for the justice any of us would ask for if — God forbid — we had been in his shoes and survived. He and his lawyers persuaded a New Orleans judge and jury that John’s life mattered enough that those prosecutors should pay. But in 2011 in the case of Connick v. Thompson, five justices of the United States Supreme Court took it away, saying the law is not the way to hold prosecutors accountable, and that if district attorneys chose not to train their staff to guard against such an injustice, they would not be liable.

The four men in the majority of the Supreme Court were mistaken and morally wrong. To John, and many others, the Supreme Court said his Black life did not matter enough for the White men who nearly killed him to be held accountable.

John died early of a heart attack in 2017. Meanwhile in 2018, the lawyer who argued to reverse John Thompson’s jury verdict in the Supreme Court was sworn in as a judge for the Court of Appeals for much of the former confederacy: Louisiana, Mississippi and Texas. John’s legacy should speed all of America’s realization that its society—as reflected in its courts—does not value Black lives as it does White lives.

John spent his life asking hard questions. He asked the hardest question of the highest court in the country: does my life matter enough? He showed the country the answer, and left us to do something about it. He rests in power.

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Dorothy Mae Taylor was the first Black woman elected to Louisiana State Legislature in 1971, with Oretha Castle Haley managing her campaign. Taylor served as an advocate for children, mothers, and the incarcerated, and was the builder of a network of ambitious Black political aides who would later go into public service themselves. After leaving the legislature, Taylor served as president of Total Community Action, Inc's Central City Neighborhood Health Clinic, before becoming the first Black woman elected to New Orleans City Council in 1986. Taylor became council president in 1987 and opposed many policies of conservative mayor Sidney Barthelemy. However, Taylor will best be remembered for her tireless work to force Mardi Gras krewes to cease discriminating against Black people, women, the disabled, and LGBT people, beginning in 1992.

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On September 9, 1960, seven local university students staged a sit-in at Woolworth’s department store located at 1031 Canal Street to protest the store’s refusal to serve Black people at the lunch counter. According to The New Orleans States Item, this protest was “the first organized demonstration of its kind in New Orleans.” [1] The New Orleans chapter of Congress on Racial Equality (CORE) organized the protest and all seven protestors were CORE members. 

Protesters included five Black students and two white students--Jerome Smith of Southern University, Ruth Despenza of Southern University, Joyce Taylor of Xavier University, William Harper of University of New Orleans, Hugh Murray Jr. of Tulane University, William Harrell of Tulane University, and Archie Allen of Dillard University. Woolworth’s employees refused to serve the students when they sat down together at the lunch counter. The students remained seated at the counter while waitresses continued to serve white patrons. [1]

Crowds gathered to watch the protest. Store officials closed and barricaded the lunch counter, but the student protestors remained. Meanwhile, over forty police officers patrolled the store and surrounding area. District Attorney Richard A. Dowling ordered the students to leave the lunch counter, but they refused, and Dowling ordered their arrest. New Orleans Police Officers, under the direction of Superintendent Joseph I. Giarruso, arrested all seven protestors. Newspaper coverage of the arrests detailed the protestors’ names, age, school affiliation, and home address. [1]

Following the protest at Woolworth’s, Mayor Chep Morrison declared that sit-ins and picketing demonstrations were not permitted and directed the police department to prohibit the demonstrations through enforcement of Act 70 and Act 80 passed by the 1960 State Legislature. Under these new laws, demonstrators could be arrested for disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, or obstructing public sidewalks. [2] However, civil rights activists continued to hold protests and boycotts against Woolworth’s and other stores on Canal Street. In addition to calling for racially integrated services, protestors demanded stores employ Black people. 

In a 2017 interview, Dr. Raphael Cassimere reflected on his participation in the Canal Street protests. At the time of the protests, Cassimere was a student at the University of New Orleans (then LSUNO) and president of the local chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) Youth Council. Cassimere stated that he never expected the protests to last so long, but it was not until 1965 (when the Civil Rights Act of 1964 went into effect) that Canal Street retailers finally yielded to protestors’ demands. [3] For more of Dr. Cassimere’s reflections on the Canal Street protests, see the video segments below.

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