Hurricane Katrina found the city of New Orleans thrust into the limelight. Mistreatment and disregard for marginalized lives were rampant during the aftermath of the catastrophic hurricane. Poor New Orleans residents struggled to come back home, many fighting for their right to return to home in the face of mass demolitions of public housing. But New Orleans public housing had always been the frontlines of these fights; the developments were continuous proof of indifference, and, sometimes, outright disrespect, towards poor black communities. The history of these disputes is long, complicated, and riddled with avoidable mistakes. Time and time again, the city of New Orleans broke its promises to these residents of public housing – incompatible priorities and mismanaged communication, along with serial negligence, only allowed trust between the two entities to deteriorate along with the buildings that were meant to be home. Of these public housing projects, one is perhaps among the most notorious and the most revealing about a fundamental flaw in the popular approach to housing for the poor.

The Beginning

In 1956, fifty years before Hurricane Katrina ravaged the City of New Orleans, the Desire Public Housing Projects were opened, spurred by the Housing Act of 1949, which created a new wave of public housing construction.  Priority was given to slum clearance and subsidized housing restricted to the poor. New Orleans, once heralded as a national leader in public housing for its balconies, quality materials, and split-level apartments, was quick to forgo these “luxuries” to qualify for federal funding that was contingent on the condition that the money be used only to increase the number of residents, not to enhance living conditions.

True to their word, the buildings were not constructed with longevity or comfort in mind. Instead, they were built to achieve minimum standards at the lowest possible cost. Before the first tenants even moved in, Desire was a failure in urban planning.  Structurally unsound buildings lying on top of swampland were expected to hold record amounts of people. There was no cement used under the floors or steps, and poor soil quality led to breaks in the foundation. Gas and sewer lines broke, porches fell away, and the sidewalks cracked.

The location of the projects was determined, not by the quality or practicality of the land, but by the cost per acre. Desire was built on the cheapest land available, removed from employment opportunities and support systems. The area chosen for the development was, essentially, like an island; railroad tracks, canals, trash dumps, and an industrial corridor surrounded the development on all sides. Reliable transportation was unavailable. Residents were told they would have to mow their own lawns and take out their trash, yet no storage spaces for lawn mowers or chutes and dumpsters for trash were provided. Desire quickly became overgrown and overwhelmed with rotting garbage.

“As soon as we built it, we had to dig five feet down and lay shells to build the streets and the sewer (pipes) began popping,” retired HANO manager Waldo White recalled in 1989. Another former manager claimed he didn’t believe the building was “designed for people to live in”. With these details in mind, it comes as no surprise that the Desire projects were open for African American tenants only. The neighboring all-white Florida projects were built a few years earlier on the preferred side of the railroad tracks and included such indulgences as concrete and carpeting.

The Desire projects became their own secluded community. White estimates approximately 10,000 of the projects’ population of 14,000 were under 18. Despite the large apartments that encouraged the influx of large families, there were no daycare or childcare facilities provided. There were, however, two schools – Lockett and Morton – designated specifically for Desire residents. There was no playground. The schools couldn’t even accommodate every child, and so students attended classes in shifts. Children already facing poverty were robbed of the opportunity to learn in a stable and nurturing environment and instead found themselves confined to their already isolated neighborhood by a misguided government attempt to “consolidate the benefits of public housing and public education” as phrased by supervising architect Charles R. Colbert.

When, in the early 1960’s, some previously all-white housing projects began to accept black residents, some Desire residents began to leave in search of better living conditions. But just years later, Hurricane Betsy arrived to wreak havoc. Desire was left under six feet of water as levees along the Industrial Canal were breached, leading to dangerous flood conditions. Sewage rose up through the pavement on Louisa Street and remained for days with no city intervention. The hurricane caused immense displacement and relocation for black residents (though not the diaspora that Katrina created); in the face of these conditions, many black families moved to Desire. In 1970, approximately 11,000 residents were reported to live in the deteriorating buildings.

The Desire Housing Project continued to be isolated from the rest of the city, adding to the economic troubles felt by its tenants. Public transportation was not readily available in the area and emergency vehicles could not easily reach the projects. Crime levels continued to rise.

The Black Panthers Arrive

Elected governments continued to neglect Desire residents, forcing them to live in unsafe and inhumane conditions. A housing project once intended to be among the best in the city now held three radically different superlatives: poorest, largest, and most dangerous.

Robert Tucker, an African-American aide to Mayor Landrieu, conducted an in-depth investigation of living conditions in Desire, including a 3-day stay for himself. When he returned, he reported that it was almost inhabitable. In his own words: “the Desire housing project is a classic study of the worst and a living demonstration of what can happen when deterioration and despair break the confines of mere rhetoric”.

 The New Orleans Committee to Combat Fascism (NCFF), an offshoot of the Black Panther Party, arrived to bridge a gap between rhetoric and action. They provided resources that the community desperately needed, and the community offered support in return. This is something that city administration had long been unable to accomplish.  

 Before their move to Piety Street, the Panthers had set up office near the St. Thomas Housing Project, which was largely black, though originally all-white, and located closer to the city. In June 1970, the Panthers were evicted. Criminal District Court judge Bernard J. Bagert owned the house they were in, and, when questioned about the eviction had the following to say: “I’m only glad I don’t live in the project… we ought to take a bulldozer [to the buildings] and start over”. 

In mid-July, the Panthers decided to relocate to Piety Street near Desire.

City administration was prominently against the Black Panther Party; Police Chief Joseph Giarrusso wrote many memos to Mayor Landrieu voicing his suspicions of the free breakfast program. In one such memo, he writes:

“The breakfast program is used, primarily, to reach young children with their hate philosophy. This tactic may be more dangerous than the attacks on law enforcement. It is easy to see the far-reaching effects of continually propagandizing children with a hate philosophy that poisons the mind against all established authority, and especially the white race”.

Rather than respond to resident needs themselves, the city instead abandoned Desire while plotting to eradicate Black Panther influence within the housing projects. The New Orleans Police Department stopped patrolling Desire after answering a report of fighting and instead finding a mocking crowd. Two black patrolmen were left, one of whom was from Desire and accused of being too tough by the Panthers, while the other patrolmen stayed on the outside.

September 15,1970 saw the first of many shootings between the city police department and the Black Panther Party. It led to twelve arrests; there were no deaths during the shooting, but a young man - most likely an innocent bystander -was killed in the aftermath. Despite these arrests, programs set in place by the Panthers continued, supported mostly by women involved in the movement. On October 25th, the new offices moved into the actual Desire Projects upon express invitation by Desire Residents. In November, tensions exploded.

Two hundred and fifty heavily armed police officers arrived to the apartments to evict the Black Panthers on November 19th. Desire residents stood between members of the party and police officers until the police turned around and left. Almost a week later, many Black Panther members attempted to leave the area and were subsequently arrested. The next day, police disguised as priests and postal workers arrested more members at the Black Panther headquarters. Twelve of these members were found innocent of attempted murder after eleven months in prison.

Although the last of the Black Panthers were arrested on Thanksgiving of 1971, their presence was still a call for the city to reclaim its responsibility for the Desire projects. Several programs were instituted after the standoff between Panthers and the police; the Welfare Rights Organization was founded, municipal services increased, and the city improved it policing and maintenance of the area. All residents, however, did not meet these changes with approval. One official claimed that the programs put in place by the city were nothing but a stunt that benefited those in charge more than those in need. However, other residents believed that it was a clear mark of responsiveness from city administration.

Nineteen seventy-one saw a HANO plan to rehabilitate the complex, but it was decided to be too costly. Eventually, HANA used HUD funds to do some repairs and necessary maintenance in 1975. In the 1980s, HUD funds for public housing were cut by more than 80%, leading to even more dramatic deterioration of Desire buildings. The outward migration continued throughout the 70s and 80s, the outflow being attributed to high crime rates and terrible conditions.

Through the 80’s, the Reagan administration cut funding for The United States Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) by 76%; congress passed controversial language requiring a one-for-one stipulation, which mandated that for each unit torn down, one must replace it. This desperate attempt to keep public housing alive despite the absence of funding was largely unsuccessful, creating nothing more than a stalemate that facilitated the continued neglect of projects like Desire.  In 1991, a plan to raze some buildings and renovate others was declared, but start dates were moved by the city, eventually settling on beginning “soon”. Aside from some asbestos removal, the plan to refurbish or rebuild up to 1,150 units was continuously set aside. New Orleans had a 2,000 name long waiting list for public housing, yet Desire remained largely vacant due to deteriorated conditions and crime. That is, until the city of New Orleans was awarded  $44.2 million dollars under the newly conceived HOPE VI in 1994.

Introduction of HOPE VI

The HOPE VI redevelopment program was a government program meant to revitalize “severely distressed” public housing projects into mixed-income communities. Under the first award of the grant, the city planned to convert the Desire projects to 800 townhouse style single-family homes. When demolition began in 1995, there was optimism in the air. Although not every unit would be converted, it seemed that there would be enough to accommodate the residents who already lived there. 

The process of revitalization through HOPE VI is meant to include provisions that allow residents of the projects to participate and give suggestions throughout the process of demolishing and renovating the structures. When pre-planning was taking place in 1994, the Desire Area Residents Council planned to focus on job creation and resident involvement as their priority in the process. However, in May of 2001, president of the Desire Area Residents Council President Deborah Davis created a document outlining the wishes of Desire residents and the ways they felt they were not being taken into account in the process. Residents opposed relocating without Community Supportive Services, a sound design, and construction scheduled in place prior to relocation any of Desire residents. She also claimed that residents were in dire need of preventive maintenance but HANO chose to wait for HOPE VI funding. Approximately 830 residents left the projects between the years of 1996 and 2001 to other minority neighborhoods or public housing projects.  At an on-site town hall meeting with about 200 residents in attendance, most asked for maintenance problems to be resolved. However, nothing came of this request. The document also addressed promises broken by HANO about relocation plans and other steps in the process of revitalizing the Desire Projects.  Residents opposed a revised relocation plan that would remove all residents off site prior to the construction of any new units.

Without this supportive services component of the plan intact, residents who moved did not have the resources to deal with the physical and mental stress of relocation. This was especially a problem for residents who had accepted Section 8 vouchers, which are meant to allow for low-income tenants to rent apartments on the private market, and now felt unwelcome in ‘middle-class’ neighborhoods.

Residents of Desire were also involved in a lawsuit against HANO for their right to return to the development post-HOPE VI construction. On September 17, 2001 residents of Desire filed a class action lawsuit through the Desire Area Residents Council. Residents claimed that they were not able to effectively negotiate and that there were not enough public housing units included in the plans for the new development. The number of low-income units was apparently reduced from 1200 to 400, ensuring that all the original residents would not be accommodated.  The lawsuit made allegations that a plan developed by HANO and other officials purposefully moved residents from the community they lived in since birth to similar neighborhoods and projects in order to facilitate the movement of middle-class African Americans and Whites to create wealthier neighborhoods. Desire Area Residents Council vs. HANO resulted in residents who were displaced due to renovations between 1995-2001 being able to return to Desire.

In 2003, the renovated plan was for 283 public housing units, 142 with renters with a low-income housing tax credit, and another 150 under a new affordable homeownership program. By this time, the entire development had been demolished with the exception of two buildings, which were saved for historical purposes.

Construction was still underway when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans in August of 2005.

After the Storm

Hurricane Katrina was one of the most deadly hurricanes in American history, and no city was a direly affected as New Orleans. Much analysis has been done with regards to the response to the storm, and the way that racism and negligence factored in to the aftermath. Residents of low-lying areas of the city, mostly poor and African-American, were subject to the most catastrophic of flooding, unable to evacuate due to a lack of funds and transportation, and, if rescued from their homes, shuffled to the Louisiana Superdome, which quickly became uninhabitable because of a lack of proper sanitation, air conditioning, and basic necessities like food and water. These most desperate of residents were then bussed to other temporary places to stay.

But what happened when they came back, if at all? For those who had lived in public housing, they returned to find that plans were being made to demolish all public housing, not just projects like Desire that had already been gutted for HOPE VI renovation. The city administration and federal agencies saw a chance to turn a forced displacement of public housing residents into an opportunity to advance their own agenda – in this case, the construction of mixed-income developments. What followed were years of protest and negotiation for residents to return to the communities they called home. In some cases, they won, but the overall damage had been done.

But these mixed-income developments have lead to a dramatic decrease in the units available to those who need them most. Throughout the city, available housing has been slashed. The Desire projects originally had 1,860 units. The replacement development, The Estates/Abundance Square, boasts 283. And these new developments only account for 9% of Housing Authority of New Orleans (HANO) households. Of the other 91%, many opted to choose the Section 8 voucher program. But rents in New Orleans went up by 35% the first year after the hurricane, residents would have to pay for their own utilities, and 85% of landlords refuse to accept Section 8 vouchers. The program, then, has led to new clusters, as most of the residents end up in low-income black neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. Many current and former public housing residents view the government as using the hurricane to further their own agendas for the city, quickly and easily discarding their needs and doing little to ease transitions.

Thoughts for the Future

Desire is a classic illustration of missed opportunity. So many spaces for effective communication between residents and the city were lost due to misrepresented intentions, and, in the case of the city, pure ignorance and negligence. Is it not the role of the city to protect its most vulnerable? Or is it meant only to advance the priorities of the relatively powerful?

Every attempt to impact Desire was mired in a base level of ignorance and arrogance – even when residents were involved in the processes, their needs were secondary to the needs of the city. Initiatives were couched in language that expressed a desire for better conditions for residents, but implementation rarely did the same. Often, the city reacted with policies that have perpetuated structures of racism and poverty instead of breaking those cycles. Often these decisions were made without or despite community protest. Even the best of intentions, which it seemed were rarely present, meant nothing in the face of poor planning and disregard for the short and long term needs of residents.

If the disconnect between poor communities and the governments that are meant to serve them persists, we face another century of circular reform – a constant cycle of minor improvement that, unsurprisingly, fails to bring about major change. Good intentions mean little when not backed up by good implementation. And if we cannot, as a society, reevaluate the fundamental incompatibilities betweent cities and their residents, then there is little hope for long-lasting meaningful change.