Before there was Fort Lauderdale Beach, there was only the colored beach.
Dr. Von D. Mizell-Eula Johnson State Park, once known as "the Negro beach," was the only beach in all of Broward County where Black residents were legally allowed to swim, sunbathe, and access the ocean. And even then, they had to arrive by boat. There was no road, no paved access, and no intention by county officials to make it easy.
That didn’t happen by accident. It was by design.
Living Behind the Tracks
In Jim Crow-era Broward, geography was segregation's strongest tool. Black people were legally and socially restricted to living west of the railroad tracks. Cities like Fort Lauderdale, Hollywood, and Pompano Beach had clearly defined lines: east of the tracks was white. West of the tracks was Black.
This was more than just social policy—it was enforced by zoning laws, intimidation, and violence. Real estate deeds explicitly forbade selling to anyone not of the "Caucasian race." The government redlined entire communities, denying them access to loans and infrastructure.
If you were Black in Broward in the 1940s or 50s, your options were limited to neighborhoods like Sistrunk, Liberia, Carver Ranches, and Washington Park. You couldn’t buy property on the east side. You couldn’t send your children to white schools. You couldn’t enjoy the public beaches, libraries, or theaters your tax dollars helped fund.
And yet, we survived. We organized. We resisted.
The Fight for the Beach
In 1946, a group of Black leaders—including Dr. Von D. Mizell and Eula Johnson—began challenging the county's racist restrictions. They launched the "wade-ins," a direct-action protest where Black residents simply walked into the whites-only beach and refused to leave.
The backlash was swift and hostile. But the protests continued. And in 1954, after nearly a decade of activism, Broward County designated a small, isolated parcel of land as a colored beach. Even then, it wasn’t accessible by car. Black families had to take boats through the mangroves to reach the shoreline.
It wasn’t until 1965—after years of litigation and pressure—that segregation at Broward beaches officially ended. Today, that same strip of beach stands as a state park named after Dr. Mizell and Eula Johnson. But how many people know its history?
Why It Still Matters
We cannot talk about progress without acknowledging the policies that intentionally tried to erase us.
The reason so many Black families in Broward don’t own coastal property today isn’t because they didn’t want to—it’s because they weren’t allowed to. Generational wealth was stunted. Opportunities were denied. And now, those same once-forbidden areas are filled with luxury condos and multi-million dollar developments.
This is why education is power. This is why local history matters.
Because when we understand how deeply racism shaped our cities, our schools, and our neighborhoods, we can stop buying into the lie that we simply didn’t work hard enough. We did. The system just worked harder to keep us out.
Our Resilience is Our Legacy
The story of Broward isn’t just about racism—it’s about resilience. It’s about the elders who built homes with their bare hands. The teachers who educated generations out of one-room schoolhouses. The churches that fed entire blocks. The youth who marched, sat-in, waded-in, and said, "Not anymore."
We must honor them by continuing to fight.
By preserving our history. By buying back the block. By advocating for affordable housing. By demanding equitable development. By teaching our children what really happened here.
So the next time you walk on that beach or cross those tracks, remember: we weren’t always welcome there. But we’re here now. And we’re not leaving.
escapeXempower is committed to keeping this history alive.
Because when we know where we come from, we know what we’re owed.
