Heirs’ Property
Three generations of the Natavia family live in this modest two-bedroom, one-bath home, passed down as Heirs’ Property. Jacksonville, located in Duval County, has the highest concentration of Heirs’ Property parcels in the United States, with over 10,000 such properties within the city. As descendants of the Gullah Geechee people, the Natavia family represents a vital link to the cultural and historical legacy of this community. Jacksonville, the southernmost point of the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor, is home to one of the largest concentrations of historic-age buildings associated with Gullah Geechee heritage, particularly in the Eastside neighborhood. This photograph reflects the intersection of familial legacy, cultural heritage, and systemic land challenges in the American South.
This condemned property, now abandoned, sits on the East Side of Jacksonville. Flowers blooming in the front yard serve as a poignant reminder of the family who once lived here and cared for this home across generations. In Duval County alone, approximately $2.5 billion in housing market value remains entangled in legal limbo as Heirs’ Property. This image captures the fragility of familial and community legacies threatened by systemic disenfranchisement, underscoring the broader impact of unresolved property claims.
An empty lot on Jacksonville’s Eastside holds a single remaining palm tree, a quiet testament to what once stood here. Since the 1990s, much of the historic building stock in the Eastside neighborhood has been lost to demolition. In the adjacent lot, a small home with a rusted metal roof offers a glimpse of the modest structures that once defined this community. This photograph reflects the erasure of historic neighborhoods and the enduring traces of lives and homes that shaped the area’s identity.
A small palm tree and a towering oak overshadow the modest family home on Louise Street in Jacksonville’s Eastside. This neighborhood, dating back to the post-Civil War era, is recognized as Jacksonville’s last remaining 19th-century historically Black community. The home and its surroundings reflect the resilience of a neighborhood that has endured through generations, despite the challenges of systemic neglect and modernization.
Home for rent — in a historically Black neighborhood where developers are targeting previously owner-occupied and heirs’ properties.
Portrait of Natalia and her daughter, who will inherit the home someday. Three generations of Natavia's family live in this modest home, passed down as Heirs’ Property. As descendants of the Gullah Geechee people, Natavia's family represents a vital link to this community's cultural and historical legacy. Jacksonville, the southernmost point of the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor, is home to one of the largest concentrations of historic-age buildings associated with Gullah Geechee heritage, particularly in the Eastside neighborhood.
A large magnolia tree stands as a silent witness to the tragic events of 1923 when white mobs descended on the Black community of Rosewood, Florida. Over several days, the attackers murdered residents, destroyed homes, and razed this small yet thriving mill town that was home to approximately 200 Black people. These magnolia trees, discussed by archaeologist and historian Edward González-Tennant, mark the locations of the original homes, serving as living connections to a past that was violently erased. This photograph captures the resilience of memory and the enduring significance of witness trees in preserving history.
Construction of I-95 in Miami caused the forcible relocation of over 12,000 residents — nearly 100% of them black. In the 1960s, the government used eminent domain to seize buildings across the heart of Miami's black community in Overtown to build the highway.
This empty lot, recently cleared, is framed by magnolia trees planted by the original Black residents of Rosewood. These trees remain as quiet markers of a thriving Black community destroyed during the 1923 Rosewood Massacre when white mobs murdered residents and burned all Black-owned homes to the ground. Though the town's structures were erased, the magnolias stand as enduring witnesses to a history nearly forgotten, holding space for memory amidst loss.
Timber developer Terry Toggle forced the sale of the Lewis family's 400 acres in Lisbon that had been in the family for over 100 years — displacing generations of the family living on the land.
In Jacksonville's historic Eastside neighborhood, a family home sits nestled between an overgrown empty lot, where another house once stood, and a condemned home. Dating back to the post-Civil War era, the Eastside is recognized as Jacksonville’s last remaining 19th-century historically Black community. Since the 1990s, a significant portion of the neighborhood’s historic building stock has been lost to demolition, erasing pieces of its heritage. This image captures the persistence of family homes amid the encroaching signs of neglect and displacement in a community fighting to retain its legacy.
Henry Scott inherited his house with his brothers as Heirs’ property - the title has now been cleared with help from community groups. He hopes to pass the home to his niece, who lives with him, though he struggles with what he can leave his daughter if he doesn't leave her this home. He now has concerns about the changes to the river that he fears could cause local flooding basic upkeep and maintenance are also large concerns.
In the shadow of a church — a home on Jacksonville's East Side being prepared for redevelopment is cleared of its contents.
Turpentine production was once a thriving industry in Rosewood, with trees like these playing a central role in the local economy. During the 1923 Rosewood Massacre, as mobs attacked Black residents and razed the town, many fled to the surrounding forests and swamps, seeking refuge and survival. These trees stand not only as remnants of the town’s industrial past but also as witnesses to the resilience and struggle of those who sought safety beneath their canopy.
Modest Home, Lemon City (Now Little Haiti), Florida Nestled among trees near Biscayne Bay, this modest home reflects the legacy of Lemon City, founded in 1869. Once a thriving community of African Americans and Bahamians, it predated Miami’s incorporation by decades, contributing schools, churches, and businesses. By the 1930s, demographic shifts led many families to relocate, and the area evolved into today’s Little Haiti, shaped by Haitian refugees in the 1970s and 1980s.
In 1906, Jacob Loud, a formerly enslaved man, acquired 160 acres through the Homestead Act, intending it to be a legacy for his family. Decades later, the land was targeted by a timber company that exploited its vulnerability, forcing a partition sale despite the family’s refusal to sell. This deliberate act severed over 100 years of family history and connection to the land. Black land ownership in the U.S. peaked at 16 million acres in 1910 but has since plummeted to just 1 million acres. As Fred Wardlaw, Loud’s great-great-grandson, reflects, “It hurt a lot of us.”
This well-maintained historic home in Liberty City sits near the remnants of the segregation wall, a barrier built in the 1940s to divide Black and white communities as African Americans moved north of Overtown. Liberty City, one of Miami’s most historically significant Black neighborhoods, was shaped during the Great Depression with the creation of Liberty Square, the South’s first public housing project. Though Liberty Square initially attracted upwardly mobile African American families, the segregation wall and subsequent white flight highlight the systemic racism that defined the neighborhood. Today, the home stands as a testament to resilience and community pride amid a complex history.
A grass-filled Vacant lot, where a home once stood, sits beside an heirs' property home in Jacksonville's historically Black East Side. Since the 1990s, much of the neighborhood’s historic building stock has been demolished, leaving behind vacant spaces that hint at the community’s once-thriving past.
Yellow wildflowers bloom in a vacant lot on Jacksonville’s East Side, where a home once stood. An RV is parked at the rear, surrounded by trees and dense foliage, hinting at the area’s past as a vibrant residential neighborhood.
A distant plume of smoke rises over a grassy field in Rosewood, FL, recalling the tragic events of the 1923 massacre. During this violent attack, white mobs burned the homes of Black residents to the ground, murdering anyone they could find, and forcing families to flee or perish. The smoke in the distance serves as a stark reminder of the destruction and loss endured by this once-thriving community.
A small redeveloped home sits in the shadow of heavy industry near the St. Johns River. In Jacksonville’s historically Black neighborhoods, developers have been rapidly flipping homes, selling them to outsiders for more than double their previous value, and displacing long-time Black families in the process.
Tropicana Field stands where Tampa’s historic Gas Plant neighborhood once thrived. This predominantly Black community, a cultural hub and safe haven during the Jim Crow era, was demolished in the 1980s to make way for the stadium. The city’s pursuit of a Major League Baseball team displaced hundreds of residents, erasing a vibrant chapter of local history.
Construction of I-95 in Miami caused the forcible relocation of over 12,000 residents — nearly 100% of them black. In the 1960s, the government used eminent domain to seize buildings across the heart of Miami's black community in Overtown to build the highway.
A modest family home, built in 1949 and inhabited by multiple generations, sits in need of repairs. The street, lined with a mix of well-maintained homes, vacant lots, and empty houses, reflects the state of Richmond Heights. Established in 1946 as the first private development in Miami-Dade County for African-American WWII veterans, the community was created during segregation when housing inequities were legal and supported by redlining. By 1951, it had grown into a self-sufficient neighborhood of over 450 homes. Today, Richmond Heights stands as a symbol of resilience, preserving the legacy of the veterans and families who built it.
In addition to the lives, homes, and community lost in the 1923 race massacre, the Black families of Rosewood also lost their farmland. Black farmers once owned roughly 19 million acres, but today only 1.5 million acres remain in Black hands. This loss, valued at $326 billion, represents nearly 90% of the land once owned. In 1910, Black farmers made up 14% of U.S. farmers; today, that number is just 1 in 100. This decline is due to forced sales, discrimination, lack of investment, and systemic violence, profoundly impacting agriculture and wealth-building in Black communities. In a twist of dark irony, the photo displays a melancholic vista of farmland, with a small "No Trespassing" sign in the distance. The prevalence of private property signs on the violently stolen land of Rosewood underscores the ongoing erasure of Black ownership, a silent testament to the history of dispossession.
A century-old home with its original metal roof stands, now rusted and surrounded by trees beneath massive power lines. Water plays a significant role in the struggles of heirs’ property; while a metal roof can last a century, rust compromises its ability to keep out rain, leading to water damage and mold, which can have serious health effects. For heirs’ property owners, unable to borrow against their homes, necessary repairs often remain out of reach, leaving these homes vulnerable to further deterioration.
The slab of a demolished family home remains in the shadow of downtown Miami's ever-expanding development. A small house with a large yard once sheltered a Black family, as the mango tree they planted stands in quiet reverie. Miami’s Historic Overtown, once known as “Colored Town,” was created due to segregation laws that confined Black residents to living just northwest of downtown. In the early 20th century, Black workers who helped build Miami’s railroads and hotels settled here. By the 1930s to the 1950s, Overtown had become known as the “Harlem of the South,” with a thriving cultural scene, successful businesses, and a robust Black middle class. In the 1960s, the city used eminent domain to construct I95 through the heart of Overtown, displacing 20,000 Black residents. Today, as gentrification takes hold and downtown Miami grows, Overtown faces the final insult — pushing its remaining Black residents to the brink as new construction overwhelms what remains of the neighborhood.
Terry Toggle, a timber developer, forced the sale of the Lewis family's 400 acres in Lisbon, Louisiana, that had been in the family for over 100 years — displacing generations of the family living on the land and destroying the natural ecosystems.
31. “Notification of Sheriff's Sale
14-19
SHERIFF'S SALE
No. 41262 In the Second Judicial District Court of Louisiana.
JAMES TERRY TOGGLE, ET UX
VS
SONYA LEWIS, ET AL
"By virtue of a COMMISSION TO SELL IMMOVABLE PROPERTY FOR PARTITION BY LICITATION to me directed from the Honorable Second Judicial District Court of Claiborne Parish, Louisiana, in the above numbered and entitled cause. I have seized and will sell at Public Auction for cash according to law. WiTHouT benefit of appraisement, at the Lobby of the Sheriffs Office of Claiborne Parish, Louisiana, during the legal hours of sales on WEDNESDAY, MARCH 13, 2019.
TRACT A-Northwest Quarter of Northeast Quarter of Northeast Quarter (NW/4 of NE/4 of NE/4) of Sec..."
“Jacob Loud acquired 160 acres from a land grant by the government (1906) [through] the Homestead Act. A former slave and now a landowner. … It has rivers, little creeks. This was going to be property left in the family. And, you know, we done lost it, less than a hundred years later. And it hurt. It hurt a lot of us.” Fred Wardlaw, 53, Jacob Louds great-great grandson, Castor LA.
Heirs’ Property is a photographic body of work I have been researching since 2022, inspired by the story of Jacob Loud. The project documents the economic violence inflicted on Black families through systemic land dispossession, particularly via ongoing discriminatory legal practices and eminent domain. Focusing on the enduring legacy of Heirs' Property laws, this work reveals how these laws—modern manifestations of the economic violence of white supremacy—disproportionately impact Black landowners in the United States, systematically stripping generations of their land, wealth, and stability. Heirs’ Property directly examines the aftermaths of 1492 and 1619, tracing how colonial land theft and the economic exploitation of slavery created enduring systems that continue to strip Black families of their land, wealth, and autonomy.
Heirs’ Property refers to land passed down without a will, resulting in fragmented ownership among many descendants and creating a "tangled title." Originating post-emancipation, these laws have caused significant land transfers out of Black families' hands and persist in most states today, with half of all Black-owned land in the U.S. held as heirs’ property. Black land ownership in the United States peaked in 1910 at 16 million acres; today, it is reduced to less than 1 million acres. Since 1920, the loss of Black owned farmland has resulted in over $326 billion in lost wealth for Black farmers and their families. This drastic decline underscores the pervasive racial discrimination and economic inequality embedded in U.S. history and policy.
I began this work searching for the lost Loud family land in rural northern Louisiana, taken by timber developers who targeted the family and forced an all-cash partition sale on the steps of the local courthouse. From there, the project expanded as I witnessed the devastating effects of Heirs’ Property laws. Families face the constant threat of losing land and homes—property that has been in their families for generations—due to the complexities of unclear titles and the aggressive tactics of developers and local governments. The emotional toll is profound; these families are not just losing property but being severed from their histories, memories, and sense of identity.
In 2024, I began my documentation of Black land loss in the South, working in Louisiana, traveling to New Orleans, Shreveport, Baton Rouge, Castor, and Lisbon, and Florida, going to Rosewood, Tampa, Jacksonville, and Miami. In each of these places, I work closely with community groups and lawyers fighting to keep families in their homes. In Jacksonville, LISC appointed me as their first artist-in-residence. It allowed me to connect directly with their heirs’ property families, welcoming me into their homes and listening to their stories and struggles. I have also collaborated with civil rights lawyers in New Orleans and attended conferences at Harvard and Boston College on heirs’ property and Black land loss, learning from MacArthur fellow Thomas Mitchell and research teams dedicated to uncovering these issues' history and ongoing impact.
This project is both grounded in research and deeply personal. Initially, I focused on the economic ramifications of land dispossession; however, as the work evolved, I realized that these stories resonated with my own experiences of loss and instability. As a child, home was never a place of long-term stability; it was a source of loss—of possessions, memories, and a sense of place, having moved 18 times due to my family’s legal and economic disenfranchisement. This history informs my understanding of what it means to lose a home that has been in a family for generations—a loss that extends far beyond economics, eroding identity, stability, and legacy. As I listen to families who are fighting to keep their homes, it underscores the profound power and struggle involved in preserving even the most modest of dwellings within a family. This is exemplified by the invisible legacy of a family home on Jacksonville's East Side with its original tin roof from 1910, constructed by ancestors of the young man I spoke to on his front lawn, who lamented that it no longer keeps out the rain.
As an artist, I use analog large-format photography to create images that speak to both presence and absence—what remains and what has been taken away. The time-intensive process of setting up each shot allows for deliberate engagement with the landscape and the people whose lives are rooted in these contested spaces. The slow pace of this method enables meaningful conversations, builds trust, and allows those I work with to share their stories on their terms. This approach humanizes and dignifies those affected by Heirs’ Property laws and land loss, offering a counter-narrative to the dominant stories of urban renewal and rural economic stimulation that often obscure the harsh realities of racial disenfranchisement.
At its core, Heirs’ Property is about more than land; it is about legacy, memory, and the fight for a future where the societal value of a home is understood more deeply than the potential profits of corporations.
Rachel Loischild is a Boston based artist and photographer whose works bring together history, geography, and ephemera to examine race, class, gender, capitalism, climate change, and colonialism, using photography and archival materials to (re)contextualize our understanding of the world.
Rachel earned her MFA in photography from Pratt Institute and her BA from Clark University. Loischild has been awarded a Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship in Photography and multiple grants from the City of Boston Opportunity Fund. Her work has been featured at the Filter Photo Festival in Chicago, the Danforth Museum of Art, the Monmouth Museum, the Cosmos Arles Books Festival in France, and in solo exhibitions at the Griffin Museum of Photography and the Jeonju Photo Festival in Korea. Loischild’s work has been featured and published both in print and online and is held in Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, the Fitchburg Art Museum collection, and the Magenta Foundation. Rachel is currently teaching photography at Boston University when she is not traveling to take new photos.