For generations of Black New Orleanians, Lincoln Beach wasn’t just a place to cool off — it was a sanctuary in a segregated city. From the 1930s to the mid-1960s, this stretch of Lake Pontchartrain shoreline offered families joy, music, and a rare sense of belonging. But Lincoln Beach was born out of exclusion. And its closure, abandonment, and now delayed revival speak volumes about how New Orleans has treated — and continues to treat — its Black communities.
A Beach Built on Jim Crow
Lincoln Beach opened in 1939 during the height of Jim Crow segregation. It was created as the designated “Negro beach,” meant to provide a separate facility for Black residents who were banned from swimming at the whites-only Pontchartrain Beach, just five miles away. The land, initially deeded to the city by United Fruit Company president Sam Zemurray, was part of a larger system of “separate but unequal” public spaces (New Orleans Historical).
Despite its origin in discrimination, Lincoln Beach became a cherished place of community life. In the 1950s, major improvements turned it into a bustling amusement park — complete with a roller rink, Ferris wheel, swimming pool, food stands, and a stage for live music. It wasn’t just a beach; it was a cultural center.
Fats Domino, Ray Charles, Irma Thomas, and Nat King Cole all performed at Lincoln Beach. Black families from across the region would pack into buses, cars, and boats just to spend a summer day there. It was a safe haven during an unsafe time.
Closure and Decline After Desegregation
The Civil Rights Act of 1964 outlawed segregation in public spaces, allowing Black New Orleanians to access Pontchartrain Beach. But rather than integrate Lincoln Beach into a broader vision of equitable recreation, the city closed it in 1965. Officials cited maintenance costs and duplication of services. The truth? The moment it no longer served as a tool of segregation, it was discarded.
For nearly six decades, Lincoln Beach sat abandoned. Fences rusted. Nature reclaimed the boardwalks. Concrete crumbled. Generations grew up never knowing the place that once offered joy, relief, and freedom to their parents and grandparents.
A Grassroots Revival
Official city plans to restore Lincoln Beach have come and gone over the years, but it wasn’t until local residents stepped in that momentum truly began to build. In 2020, artist and activist Reggie Ford began organizing community cleanups. Volunteers removed overgrowth, picked up trash, and demanded that the city prioritize Lincoln Beach’s return.
Their work caught attention. In 2023, the City of New Orleans signed a contract with Sasaki Associates to develop a master plan for revitalization. Over $24 million in city and federal funds were committed to reopening the beach, with renderings later released showing ambitious features like pedestrian bridges, a skate park, rooftop pool, drive-in movie theater, and fishing piers.
City officials also announced plans to add Lincoln Beach to the National Register of Historic Places, honoring its cultural and historical significance.
Delays and Community Concerns
But as of April 2025, the project is behind schedule — again. City officials recently confirmed that the anticipated partial reopening has been postponed, and the beach will likely remain closed through at least 2026.
The announcement sparked frustration from community members and activists who have spent years cleaning, advocating, and waiting. Tricia “Blyss” Wallace, who leads the mayor’s community advisory committee for Lincoln Beach, expressed disappointment with the city’s communication and called for renewed urgency and transparency.
To address community concerns, the city recently hosted a “Voices of Lincoln Beach” memory collection event to document personal stories, aiming to center the legacy of the beach in the ongoing planning process. Still, many worry that the delays and lack of clarity may jeopardize the momentum and trust built through years of grassroots organizing.
A Return, But On Whose Terms?
Lincoln Beach tells the story of New Orleans — of who gets access, who gets pushed aside, and who has to fight to be remembered. It was built on exclusion, became a refuge through resilience, and was shuttered the moment equality became law.
Now, with more than $26 million committed and community voices demanding real inclusion, the question isn’t just when Lincoln Beach will return. It’s for whom.
Because this time, it must belong to the people who kept its memory alive.
