Yesterday, at 6 am, I jumped in a car with someone who, at the time, was a random stranger, Justin Tye. Six hours, 3 maps, and a few sighs of frustration later, we arrived in Jena, Louisiana to participate in a protest regarding the Jena 6. To catch yall up on the case, it involves racial tensions in small town Louisiana, culminating in the symbolic hanging of nooses from a tree, a response to the attempted integration by an African American high school student. After the demonstration, fellow protesters mingled and discussed the case, among other things. One woman I spoke with inquired as to my whereabouts and future plans; upon hearing that I hope to return to Nola post-grad, she responded with a striking question: “Why would you want to join a state where people hang nooses from trees?”
What a question. Without thinking, I gave the New Orleanian my heartfelt response: “Welll…. So it doesn’t happen anymore”. I admit, it’s a lofty goal, to hope to reverse discrimination, but, to be honest, my experience with Duke Engage has empowered me to aspire to such impossibilities. The mission of this program is to give us students an opportunity to, quote ““develop the valuable skills and self-knowledge that result from an immersive service experience”, and I believe that this goal has been realized. Thanks to the generosity of our employers, the encouragement of New Orleanians, the guidance of our directors, and the fellowship amongst ourselves, every student here has experienced the desired immersion- not only have we dipped into New Orleans, but also into ourselves. A lot of tough questions, similar to the one posed to me yesterday in Jena, have been presented to us through the course of our stay here, and, to be honest, it hasn’t always been easy to respond. Are we being useful? What is the best contribution we can make to New Orleans? Are we just getting in the way? Is our help and support meaningful? Is rebuilding New Orleans pointless?
Enter wise New Orleans native numero dos. Wearing a hat with the word “Answer” across the top, he approached me and said, as if reading my mind, “I’ll tell you what the answer is. It’s this. It’s us. It’s right here: look around, the answer is here.” While he was immediately referring to the rally gathered in support of the accused, his remark applies to the group assembled here. The answer to the questions we’ve all faced, students and employers alike, is staring straight at us in the community we’ve formed. While the effects of Katrina are still being felt throughout this city, not all of them are negative, I’ve found. From the disaster has sprung an opportunity for people of every possible background to unite in a common cause; as a coworker remarked, “it gives us a good feeling, hope”. Demonstrated here is the strength of the human spirit to perservere, and the potential for inter-personal connection and cooperation, regardless of race, status, or other social dividers. This lesson, among the others we’ve learned, are things that all gathered here can further apply to other aspects and situations in our lives, which is something we all appreciate as being something very special.
To close, I’ll quote one more New Orleans native I’ve encountered (the people here are just brimming with wisdom!). Larry, a Mardi Gras Indian, shared with me that which he has learned through his lifetime here in New Orleans: the greatest joy in life is knowing what life is actually about. New Orleans seems to have a solid grasp on this knowledge: its about people, relationships, and community; its about rebuilding, growing, and changing; its about helping and allowing yourself to be helped. I count ourselves lucky to have been able to glean some of this knowledge from the city, and believe we will all honor our responsibility to share it with those we encounter in our next adventures. Thanks so much to all of you who’ve made it possible- here’s to you, your continued progress, and a swift return to New Orleans !
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Mass Times Velocity. (7/25/07) ~JCW
4 “By the moon, we sport and play; with the night begins our day.”
- Unknown
My head jerked forward; I felt like I had just woken up from a twenty-one-year-long dream. How did I get here? As my eyes focused, I realized that I was sitting in the same place that I was 21 years ago, when the dream started: in a large, freezing, modular trailer. A man, reminiscent of a cross between Doctor Robotnik and Hellraiser, was standing before me. Or, rather, before us: we, the Engaged, were appropriately seated in a Usual Suspects-esque lineup, listening to a speech being made by M. Pfeiffer, officer of the New Orleans Police Department:
“…And the last thing you want is for someone to think their house is livable again, only to go home and find grandma drowned and plastered to the floor underneath her bed,” he was saying. Delicious. He continued:
“So then what happened? Well, they gave the go-ahead against my advice, and someone moved back into the city and found grandma stuck to the floor after their house was inspected three times by the military and marked as clear. Mistakes do happen, people.” He tried using his fingers to visually count off the points he was making, but since there was just one, his arms dropped awkwardly to his sides as he continued to change topics.
Seriously, though, where am I? I have never been this worn out in all my life. My body feels like it’s in pieces, and at this point I cannot remember what cerebral clarity actually ever felt like. It’s not that we go out too hard, because there isn’t such a thing, it’s that there simply are not enough hours in the day. Or night. Cutting out sleep seemed like the logical choice.
My state of delirium, fueled by excruciating exhaustion, crippling hunger, and the incessant thirst for daiquiris, somehow, at that instant, afforded me insight. What are we really trying to accomplish down here? Is it getting the most out of our internship, sometimes at the expense of everything else that New Orleans has to offer? Is it experiencing as much as possible of the city, and the people we meet outside of our jobs? Is it the nightlife? D. All of the above. I have been trying to do everything; I am running out of energy and still running out of time. My brain, rather hypocritically, feels like it’s so close to reaching an answer to this conundrum; is it obvious?
“…It’s obvious what you do with a nuclear bomb," our host continued, "You just close off the city, don’t let anything in, but most importantly, don’t let anything out. You have to figure, everything inside the blast radius is going to die, so just seal the citizens inside and wait it out. Natural disasters, however, are harder.” Perfect. And obvious.
Sometimes, I feel like my life can be defined by moments strung together by a common theme: the people I have been with each time I have been in the Duke gardens, the places I have been when I have heard the song “Amazing Grace,” or my general disposition during each successive reflection session. Somewhere in the middle, I was bit by a New Orleanian vampire; I lost the reflection I used to call my own.
Suddenly, my mind felt like it was stretched like a rubber band and quickly released. I’ve got it! It IS obvious. The answer is thus: that grandma must have been rather senile if she thought she could escape a flood by hiding under the bed.
I closed my eyes again, praying that, when I opened them, they would be staring at a daiquiri bar.
- Unknown
My head jerked forward; I felt like I had just woken up from a twenty-one-year-long dream. How did I get here? As my eyes focused, I realized that I was sitting in the same place that I was 21 years ago, when the dream started: in a large, freezing, modular trailer. A man, reminiscent of a cross between Doctor Robotnik and Hellraiser, was standing before me. Or, rather, before us: we, the Engaged, were appropriately seated in a Usual Suspects-esque lineup, listening to a speech being made by M. Pfeiffer, officer of the New Orleans Police Department:
“…And the last thing you want is for someone to think their house is livable again, only to go home and find grandma drowned and plastered to the floor underneath her bed,” he was saying. Delicious. He continued:
“So then what happened? Well, they gave the go-ahead against my advice, and someone moved back into the city and found grandma stuck to the floor after their house was inspected three times by the military and marked as clear. Mistakes do happen, people.” He tried using his fingers to visually count off the points he was making, but since there was just one, his arms dropped awkwardly to his sides as he continued to change topics.
Seriously, though, where am I? I have never been this worn out in all my life. My body feels like it’s in pieces, and at this point I cannot remember what cerebral clarity actually ever felt like. It’s not that we go out too hard, because there isn’t such a thing, it’s that there simply are not enough hours in the day. Or night. Cutting out sleep seemed like the logical choice.
My state of delirium, fueled by excruciating exhaustion, crippling hunger, and the incessant thirst for daiquiris, somehow, at that instant, afforded me insight. What are we really trying to accomplish down here? Is it getting the most out of our internship, sometimes at the expense of everything else that New Orleans has to offer? Is it experiencing as much as possible of the city, and the people we meet outside of our jobs? Is it the nightlife? D. All of the above. I have been trying to do everything; I am running out of energy and still running out of time. My brain, rather hypocritically, feels like it’s so close to reaching an answer to this conundrum; is it obvious?
“…It’s obvious what you do with a nuclear bomb," our host continued, "You just close off the city, don’t let anything in, but most importantly, don’t let anything out. You have to figure, everything inside the blast radius is going to die, so just seal the citizens inside and wait it out. Natural disasters, however, are harder.” Perfect. And obvious.
Sometimes, I feel like my life can be defined by moments strung together by a common theme: the people I have been with each time I have been in the Duke gardens, the places I have been when I have heard the song “Amazing Grace,” or my general disposition during each successive reflection session. Somewhere in the middle, I was bit by a New Orleanian vampire; I lost the reflection I used to call my own.
Suddenly, my mind felt like it was stretched like a rubber band and quickly released. I’ve got it! It IS obvious. The answer is thus: that grandma must have been rather senile if she thought she could escape a flood by hiding under the bed.
I closed my eyes again, praying that, when I opened them, they would be staring at a daiquiri bar.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
The Kindness of Strangers. (7/13/07) ~JCW
3
”Lovin’ is what I got.”
- Sublime
“You are doing a great job, don’t get me wrong, but keep in mind that you are operating on a punch clock. We would all act differently around here if we were working on a clock running downwards,” Jared said to me. His southern accent was thick, and though he at times had the tendency to mumble, his thoughts were coming in completely clear. He was driving the two of us to 1824 Congress, a Habitat house a few streets off of Musician’s Village, to inspect some subcontracted work. I had no response; should I be offended, or understanding?
“Sometimes I wish I had a punch clock,” he continued.
“Well then, make one,” I threw back at him. We hit a nasty bump in the road, which shifted the lumber in his flatbed and temporarily threw my thoughts off track.
“Decide when you want to leave, and work towards it.”
“It’s not that easy, dude, this is my life. This isn’t a summer for me,” he informed me. We were silent for the remainder of the short ride, but as we got out and Bob Marley’s voice was extinguished, I felt like I had to vouch for myself in some way.
“Well, I don’t look at it like you think I do. So what? It’s eight weeks. It’s two months. It’s nothing, you think- but that’s exactly my point. I only have eight weeks to make a difference down here. I want to help, and I am not giving up. I am not looking at this place and saying ‘Screw it, I am out of here soon, why try to make a difference?’ I refuse to pretend that I cannot do anything.” The last sentence I spat out confused even me, the speaker, for a second, but I think my sincerity came across. So little time is not tantamount to so little progress.
We opened the house, and Jared went inside as I unloaded some lumber into a pile on the side of the house. We were still silent as we hopped back into the truck and drove back onto Habitat’s main site, the location –ultimately – of eighty homes of New Orleans residents. The entire staff of forty or so was in front of the field office, slowly forming a rough circle in the dusty heat of the afternoon. The volunteers had gone home, and we were the only people on site.
“Who wants to go first?” someone called out of the crowd. “Who wants to tell their favorite memory of working at Habitat?”
Was it Friday already? In the busyness of the office, I always forgot the most important things. Today was the last day of the majority of the AmeriCorps volunteers, who had decided last July to make a one-year commitment to work with New Orleans Area Habitat. I had only been there six weeks, and although goodbye’s were frequent, I could tell that they were still unwelcome.
“I will go first,” said Tara, taking a small step into the circle. “I remember, working on the West Bank, when the entire site flooded, and Brian, Dan, and I were stuck in our tool trailer for what seemed like hours.” Everyone cheered as she continued, “there’s even like a ten second video of us in there.”
“When I came,” David, a clean cut, twenty-something-year-old followed, “Kelly was my house leader on my very first day.” It probably felt like it would never end.
“I remember that!” Kelly, a genial blond girl from Colorado exclaimed. “You were wearing that exact same t-shirt!”
“I only own like three!” he shouted back. Everyone laughed, barely holding back tears.
“I think for me, it was the day I realized that we don’t just build homes anymore. Homes were the beginning; we now build neighborhoods,” Ann, a former teacher, continued.
We all looked at the non-Habitat houses across Alvar Street. People were moving back in. Bring homes, bring hope. “People aren’t moving back in everywhere, but they are coming back right around the village.”
“I think, those of us who are leaving, know how much they have done down here,” Terry, a native New Orleanian relatively new to Habitat, explained. “Seriously.”
I looked around; nothing but laughter, tears, and sweat. Good times under the lazy, sun-filled, limitless Louisiana sky.
”Lovin’ is what I got.”
- Sublime
“You are doing a great job, don’t get me wrong, but keep in mind that you are operating on a punch clock. We would all act differently around here if we were working on a clock running downwards,” Jared said to me. His southern accent was thick, and though he at times had the tendency to mumble, his thoughts were coming in completely clear. He was driving the two of us to 1824 Congress, a Habitat house a few streets off of Musician’s Village, to inspect some subcontracted work. I had no response; should I be offended, or understanding?
“Sometimes I wish I had a punch clock,” he continued.
“Well then, make one,” I threw back at him. We hit a nasty bump in the road, which shifted the lumber in his flatbed and temporarily threw my thoughts off track.
“Decide when you want to leave, and work towards it.”
“It’s not that easy, dude, this is my life. This isn’t a summer for me,” he informed me. We were silent for the remainder of the short ride, but as we got out and Bob Marley’s voice was extinguished, I felt like I had to vouch for myself in some way.
“Well, I don’t look at it like you think I do. So what? It’s eight weeks. It’s two months. It’s nothing, you think- but that’s exactly my point. I only have eight weeks to make a difference down here. I want to help, and I am not giving up. I am not looking at this place and saying ‘Screw it, I am out of here soon, why try to make a difference?’ I refuse to pretend that I cannot do anything.” The last sentence I spat out confused even me, the speaker, for a second, but I think my sincerity came across. So little time is not tantamount to so little progress.
We opened the house, and Jared went inside as I unloaded some lumber into a pile on the side of the house. We were still silent as we hopped back into the truck and drove back onto Habitat’s main site, the location –ultimately – of eighty homes of New Orleans residents. The entire staff of forty or so was in front of the field office, slowly forming a rough circle in the dusty heat of the afternoon. The volunteers had gone home, and we were the only people on site.
“Who wants to go first?” someone called out of the crowd. “Who wants to tell their favorite memory of working at Habitat?”
Was it Friday already? In the busyness of the office, I always forgot the most important things. Today was the last day of the majority of the AmeriCorps volunteers, who had decided last July to make a one-year commitment to work with New Orleans Area Habitat. I had only been there six weeks, and although goodbye’s were frequent, I could tell that they were still unwelcome.
“I will go first,” said Tara, taking a small step into the circle. “I remember, working on the West Bank, when the entire site flooded, and Brian, Dan, and I were stuck in our tool trailer for what seemed like hours.” Everyone cheered as she continued, “there’s even like a ten second video of us in there.”
“When I came,” David, a clean cut, twenty-something-year-old followed, “Kelly was my house leader on my very first day.” It probably felt like it would never end.
“I remember that!” Kelly, a genial blond girl from Colorado exclaimed. “You were wearing that exact same t-shirt!”
“I only own like three!” he shouted back. Everyone laughed, barely holding back tears.
“I think for me, it was the day I realized that we don’t just build homes anymore. Homes were the beginning; we now build neighborhoods,” Ann, a former teacher, continued.
We all looked at the non-Habitat houses across Alvar Street. People were moving back in. Bring homes, bring hope. “People aren’t moving back in everywhere, but they are coming back right around the village.”
“I think, those of us who are leaving, know how much they have done down here,” Terry, a native New Orleanian relatively new to Habitat, explained. “Seriously.”
I looked around; nothing but laughter, tears, and sweat. Good times under the lazy, sun-filled, limitless Louisiana sky.
Perspicacity. (6/27/07) ~JCW
2
“Music is my aeroplane.”
-Red Hot Chili Peppers
“Musician’s Village, this is Joseph,” I say into the corded phone.
“Hey Joseph, this is Steve,” a man with a southern accent responds. Steve? Steve… 84 Lumber. We are waiting on purchases for 3058 Law and 3225 North Galvez. He continues: “I am not going to be able to get you all of purchase order X1330 today, but it should be in by the beginning of next week.”
“Fine, we can reconcile it if necessary. Thanks, Steve,” I tell him, and hang up the phone. Before I even feel the phone hitting the receiver, it rings again.
“Hey, this is Roy, over at Ram Tools? Those orders you put in for the 1800 Bartholomew block are under-priced. This steel is coming from China, and the 16-D’s are gonna be more expensive.” 16-D’s. Galvanized Nails used for framing and porch work. My mind races for a solution to a problem without a previously recorded answer.
“Ok, I will contact our purchasing department. In the meantime, keep assembling the packages, you will be hearing from Ed shortly.”
A dangerously heavyset man walks into the trailer as my push-to-talk starts beeping. “Hey, do you have a place I can sit down? I have really high blood pressure, and need to take a break from the heat. Do you have any water in here?”
I stare at him blankly, but the push-to-talk connects and snaps me out of my gaze. “Hey Joseph, it’s Adam. Can you pull out the framing plans for a P5 and read me some dimensions?”
“Sure, give me a second,” I say, as I reach for the only black binder on my desk.
The man, flushed, sunburned, dehydrated and weary, starts to wheeze. Please do not have a heart-attack in our trailer, I don’t have the time.
The phone rings again. “Hello, this is Joseph. How can I help you?”
“Hi, this is Natalie Shelton in 1825 Alvar,” a woman with a deep, raspy voice explains. “Your electrician never came back to fix my house. It’s also got a leak in the roof, and I need a lock for my tool shed. I already signed off on the punchlist-“
“If you signed off,” I interrupt her, “then you need to contact family planning, not construction.”
“Oh, well they won’t get back to me,” she said tempestuously, “and you are not helping either. What I am going to contact is a lawyer.” She hung up. Better her than me, I guess.
I look at the stack of paperwork in my box, and realize that it’s only 10:30. I need to take a break. I jump out of my chair and out the door as the phone starts ringing again. Outside is just as bright as it is hot, but a slight breeze makes the outdoors much better than the office. An overwhelming sense of calm permeated the Habitat construction site.
Behind the field office, people were gathering for a ceremony that had completely slipped my mind. Jim, one of the directors, was standing in the middle house of an entire block of Habitat houses. The houses were just framed, so the only construction above the floor plan was simple, skeletal woodwork. Ten to fifteen people were in the center of each house, eagerly anticipating the event.
“What we are doing here is unprecedented!” he was shouting at the top of his lungs. “Today, we will raise the front walls of seven Habitat homes!” A cheer came up from the crowds both around and inside the houses.
“Count with me! One! Two! Three!” with each number, the group in each house lifted the preconstructed front of the house and nailed it into place. “Four! Five!” An American flag rolled down off of each front as rose to standing vertically. “Six!” These walls are going up fast. I was standing at the center of the block, and the sight was nothing short of surreal. “Seven!” Each group began nailing their walls into place.
“Listen to that sweet music!” Jim yelled, as the hammers pounded away across the entire block. Everyone was cheering. Like I said, surreal. Time felt like it had paused for all of us to enjoy this moment.
“You have to stop and realize the good we are doing here,” someone said. Stephan, a supervisor on site who was also enjoying the show, had walked up next to me without my noticing. “It’s pretty cool, right?”
“It’s pretty cool,” I responded. “It’s really cool.”
“The funny thing is, I didn’t see any of those volunteers glue down those front walls, which means, we are going to have to pull them all out anyway,” he informed me.
I couldn’t help but laugh. My push-to-talk started beeping again.
“Music is my aeroplane.”
-Red Hot Chili Peppers
“Musician’s Village, this is Joseph,” I say into the corded phone.
“Hey Joseph, this is Steve,” a man with a southern accent responds. Steve? Steve… 84 Lumber. We are waiting on purchases for 3058 Law and 3225 North Galvez. He continues: “I am not going to be able to get you all of purchase order X1330 today, but it should be in by the beginning of next week.”
“Fine, we can reconcile it if necessary. Thanks, Steve,” I tell him, and hang up the phone. Before I even feel the phone hitting the receiver, it rings again.
“Hey, this is Roy, over at Ram Tools? Those orders you put in for the 1800 Bartholomew block are under-priced. This steel is coming from China, and the 16-D’s are gonna be more expensive.” 16-D’s. Galvanized Nails used for framing and porch work. My mind races for a solution to a problem without a previously recorded answer.
“Ok, I will contact our purchasing department. In the meantime, keep assembling the packages, you will be hearing from Ed shortly.”
A dangerously heavyset man walks into the trailer as my push-to-talk starts beeping. “Hey, do you have a place I can sit down? I have really high blood pressure, and need to take a break from the heat. Do you have any water in here?”
I stare at him blankly, but the push-to-talk connects and snaps me out of my gaze. “Hey Joseph, it’s Adam. Can you pull out the framing plans for a P5 and read me some dimensions?”
“Sure, give me a second,” I say, as I reach for the only black binder on my desk.
The man, flushed, sunburned, dehydrated and weary, starts to wheeze. Please do not have a heart-attack in our trailer, I don’t have the time.
The phone rings again. “Hello, this is Joseph. How can I help you?”
“Hi, this is Natalie Shelton in 1825 Alvar,” a woman with a deep, raspy voice explains. “Your electrician never came back to fix my house. It’s also got a leak in the roof, and I need a lock for my tool shed. I already signed off on the punchlist-“
“If you signed off,” I interrupt her, “then you need to contact family planning, not construction.”
“Oh, well they won’t get back to me,” she said tempestuously, “and you are not helping either. What I am going to contact is a lawyer.” She hung up. Better her than me, I guess.
I look at the stack of paperwork in my box, and realize that it’s only 10:30. I need to take a break. I jump out of my chair and out the door as the phone starts ringing again. Outside is just as bright as it is hot, but a slight breeze makes the outdoors much better than the office. An overwhelming sense of calm permeated the Habitat construction site.
Behind the field office, people were gathering for a ceremony that had completely slipped my mind. Jim, one of the directors, was standing in the middle house of an entire block of Habitat houses. The houses were just framed, so the only construction above the floor plan was simple, skeletal woodwork. Ten to fifteen people were in the center of each house, eagerly anticipating the event.
“What we are doing here is unprecedented!” he was shouting at the top of his lungs. “Today, we will raise the front walls of seven Habitat homes!” A cheer came up from the crowds both around and inside the houses.
“Count with me! One! Two! Three!” with each number, the group in each house lifted the preconstructed front of the house and nailed it into place. “Four! Five!” An American flag rolled down off of each front as rose to standing vertically. “Six!” These walls are going up fast. I was standing at the center of the block, and the sight was nothing short of surreal. “Seven!” Each group began nailing their walls into place.
“Listen to that sweet music!” Jim yelled, as the hammers pounded away across the entire block. Everyone was cheering. Like I said, surreal. Time felt like it had paused for all of us to enjoy this moment.
“You have to stop and realize the good we are doing here,” someone said. Stephan, a supervisor on site who was also enjoying the show, had walked up next to me without my noticing. “It’s pretty cool, right?”
“It’s pretty cool,” I responded. “It’s really cool.”
“The funny thing is, I didn’t see any of those volunteers glue down those front walls, which means, we are going to have to pull them all out anyway,” he informed me.
I couldn’t help but laugh. My push-to-talk started beeping again.
The Arrival. (6/12/07) ~JCW
1
“Let’s start by making it clear who is the enemy here.”
- Thievery Corporation
The Arrival. (6/17/07)
On June 14, 2007, the first definition of “Katrina” on Urbandictionary.com was: Crazy-assed bitch. When she first arrives, she's wet and wild. When she leaves, she takes the house, car and everything else in a 100 mile radius. The user who posted the message, Aniseed, clarified the definition with the use of the expression in a sample sentence: I ain't paying that bitch Katrina a dime in child support, that's for sure!
If this is a reflection our of nation’s sense of obligation and sympathy for those who lost everything – family and friends, homes, cars, ways of life - in Hurricane Katrina, which I believe it is, then I also believe we are as morally bankrupt as Ken Lay. Uh-oh. Ironically enough, the first night that I was in New Orleans, a woman on the street stopped me with a similar conversation. “Excuse me, sir? Could you help me with something?” She asked. I obviously thought she wanted money, but it was my first night in the city, and I was interested in talking with as many people as possible. We were alone at night on a street that was not well-lit, but even so I could still feel her genuineness.
“Sure, what can I do for you?” I responded. I don’t think she was expecting a response because she was slightly taken back.
“Can you tell me how someone can get back on their feet in this town?” She asked. Now, it was my turn to be taken back. The desperation in her voice reminded me of why I had come here in the first place.
“I had a house, I had everything. But then, this pretty girl came and took it all away from me in a week,” she elaborated.
Unfamiliar with the joke, I fell right into it: “How did she do that?”
“Well, her name was Lady Katrina,” she told me. Ahhhhh, I get it. Wasn’t that clever? If she couldn’t already see the Best of New Orleans guide book under my arm in the darkness, the pace at which I walked, or my clothes, she just found out that I was foreign to this place.
I didn’t have an answer for her, but her condition made me realize, within a few hours, that things were certainly not fine in this city. To be fair, much of Louisiana was plagued with problems pre-Katrina. However, to claim that things are back to where they were is a complete fallacy. The fact that the status of New Orleans and other cities on the Gulf Coast no longer makes headlines because it will no longer sell papers, obtain ratings, or inspire internet readers is unacceptable, but it is a blatant and inevitable reality. If you don’t live it, if you don’t feel it, if you don’t see it, then it doesn’t exist. And I thought I was good at lying.
We have come here to make a difference, and it is both sad and selfishly gratifying that everywhere I go, I am reminded of our purpose. Entire neighborhoods have become ghost towns, uniformly stained with high water lines and marked with spray-painted rescue identification insignias. Infrastructure continues to fail relentlessly in the areas that are the most in need. The city perpetually exudes an overwhelming sense of abandonment.
Is it possible to change things here? To enact the Renaissance that New Orleans deserves, and that the rest of America must think has already happened? Some progress has already been made, and though it is slow, it is definite and it is real. A perfectly destructive girl came and took thousands of homes from some of the poorest neighborhoods in New Orleans, but only time will tell if New Orleans citizens will ever get them back.
“Let’s start by making it clear who is the enemy here.”
- Thievery Corporation
The Arrival. (6/17/07)
On June 14, 2007, the first definition of “Katrina” on Urbandictionary.com was: Crazy-assed bitch. When she first arrives, she's wet and wild. When she leaves, she takes the house, car and everything else in a 100 mile radius. The user who posted the message, Aniseed, clarified the definition with the use of the expression in a sample sentence: I ain't paying that bitch Katrina a dime in child support, that's for sure!
If this is a reflection our of nation’s sense of obligation and sympathy for those who lost everything – family and friends, homes, cars, ways of life - in Hurricane Katrina, which I believe it is, then I also believe we are as morally bankrupt as Ken Lay. Uh-oh. Ironically enough, the first night that I was in New Orleans, a woman on the street stopped me with a similar conversation. “Excuse me, sir? Could you help me with something?” She asked. I obviously thought she wanted money, but it was my first night in the city, and I was interested in talking with as many people as possible. We were alone at night on a street that was not well-lit, but even so I could still feel her genuineness.
“Sure, what can I do for you?” I responded. I don’t think she was expecting a response because she was slightly taken back.
“Can you tell me how someone can get back on their feet in this town?” She asked. Now, it was my turn to be taken back. The desperation in her voice reminded me of why I had come here in the first place.
“I had a house, I had everything. But then, this pretty girl came and took it all away from me in a week,” she elaborated.
Unfamiliar with the joke, I fell right into it: “How did she do that?”
“Well, her name was Lady Katrina,” she told me. Ahhhhh, I get it. Wasn’t that clever? If she couldn’t already see the Best of New Orleans guide book under my arm in the darkness, the pace at which I walked, or my clothes, she just found out that I was foreign to this place.
I didn’t have an answer for her, but her condition made me realize, within a few hours, that things were certainly not fine in this city. To be fair, much of Louisiana was plagued with problems pre-Katrina. However, to claim that things are back to where they were is a complete fallacy. The fact that the status of New Orleans and other cities on the Gulf Coast no longer makes headlines because it will no longer sell papers, obtain ratings, or inspire internet readers is unacceptable, but it is a blatant and inevitable reality. If you don’t live it, if you don’t feel it, if you don’t see it, then it doesn’t exist. And I thought I was good at lying.
We have come here to make a difference, and it is both sad and selfishly gratifying that everywhere I go, I am reminded of our purpose. Entire neighborhoods have become ghost towns, uniformly stained with high water lines and marked with spray-painted rescue identification insignias. Infrastructure continues to fail relentlessly in the areas that are the most in need. The city perpetually exudes an overwhelming sense of abandonment.
Is it possible to change things here? To enact the Renaissance that New Orleans deserves, and that the rest of America must think has already happened? Some progress has already been made, and though it is slow, it is definite and it is real. A perfectly destructive girl came and took thousands of homes from some of the poorest neighborhoods in New Orleans, but only time will tell if New Orleans citizens will ever get them back.
Friday, July 27, 2007
New Orleans Music Video
I found this music video by Old Crow Medicine Show (a favorite band of mine). Thought I'd share it since it's filmed in many places that we now recognize.
-Reid
-Reid
Monday, July 23, 2007
ESPN.com article on New Orleans
Check out this interesting article from ESPN.com about New Orleans:
New Orleans opens arms to ArenaBowl
New Orleans opens arms to ArenaBowl
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Homes - Randy Chen
The shiny white van pulls up by the curb and begins unloading each eager individual, one by one they spill onto the grassy lawn before the empty house. Lively conversation all around and the sound of metal against metal as hammers and crowbars are exchanged between excited hands. Footsteps fill the house and then pounding, crashing, and clamor. One boy bends at the knee to pry a stubborn nail from a floorboard.
Clap the thin aluminum door shut behind you and hold the broom with both hands. Step outside onto the wooden platform, the crest of the plywood staircase that leads up to your trailer that is painted white like gleaming disaster. Sweep the square of wood that you stand on, keep it kempt, keep it tidy. Look out to the blue blue sky and see the gray cloud in the corner bringing raindrops in but a few hours. Turn to the noise next door, grasp the broom with both hands, and watch.
They sling crowbars into the ceiling, splitting the plaster open and then a downward yank and the ceiling comes down in pieces. Falls apart with each new fissure. The air is hot and dusty and the smell of mold sifts down from the rafters. Remnants of the attic spill out with each rupture in the plaster skin. A magazine, three beer cans, and an old sweater. Breathing hard, breathing stale air through styrofoam masks, feeling the sweat linger and refusing to evaporate.
Make sure there is not a stray piece of leaf or trash on this wooden step. Watch the workers ruckus inside the empty shell next door. Hear the sound of dropped tools, the thud of metal hitting wood, the sandy footfall of fiberglass and insulation. Turn inside your home your trailer and pour yourself a glass of iced tea.
One boy stands atop a ladder to remove a ceiling fan. With a gloved hand he pulls with all his strength and it pops loose from its plastic joint, the wires exposed like naked ligaments. With a pair of rusty wire cutters, he severs them with one swift maneuver and carries the wooden fan outside and sets it on the green grass.
Place your glass of tea on the rough wooden banister that lines this step. Rest your elbow on it, look at the workers, watch the workers because there is nothing else to do today but be wary of splinters.
They move the slabs of plaster outside onto the curb to be taken away. They pour the insulation from plastic garbage cans outside onto the curb to be taken away. They shoulder the dislodged beams of wood outside onto the curb to be taken away. The dank entrails of a gutted home, steaming with the scent of dust and mold.
Look the gray corner of the sky has been stretched and it begins to rain.
The crowd hurries to the white van and quickly stashes the tools inside. One by one, they elude the rain, ducking in the door under the drumming of raindrops and pull away from the rubble arrayed on the curb, piled high like humanity.
Clap the thin aluminum door shut behind you and carry the empty glass of tea indoors. Move from the kitchen to your bedroom in one step and lie down on your bed as the sun begins to set. Craft yourself more makeshift idols from the temporal smoke of volunteers and find some way to dream because after all, the comatose world as you know it breathes slower and slower, weaker and frailer with each forgetting.
Clap the thin aluminum door shut behind you and hold the broom with both hands. Step outside onto the wooden platform, the crest of the plywood staircase that leads up to your trailer that is painted white like gleaming disaster. Sweep the square of wood that you stand on, keep it kempt, keep it tidy. Look out to the blue blue sky and see the gray cloud in the corner bringing raindrops in but a few hours. Turn to the noise next door, grasp the broom with both hands, and watch.
They sling crowbars into the ceiling, splitting the plaster open and then a downward yank and the ceiling comes down in pieces. Falls apart with each new fissure. The air is hot and dusty and the smell of mold sifts down from the rafters. Remnants of the attic spill out with each rupture in the plaster skin. A magazine, three beer cans, and an old sweater. Breathing hard, breathing stale air through styrofoam masks, feeling the sweat linger and refusing to evaporate.
Make sure there is not a stray piece of leaf or trash on this wooden step. Watch the workers ruckus inside the empty shell next door. Hear the sound of dropped tools, the thud of metal hitting wood, the sandy footfall of fiberglass and insulation. Turn inside your home your trailer and pour yourself a glass of iced tea.
One boy stands atop a ladder to remove a ceiling fan. With a gloved hand he pulls with all his strength and it pops loose from its plastic joint, the wires exposed like naked ligaments. With a pair of rusty wire cutters, he severs them with one swift maneuver and carries the wooden fan outside and sets it on the green grass.
Place your glass of tea on the rough wooden banister that lines this step. Rest your elbow on it, look at the workers, watch the workers because there is nothing else to do today but be wary of splinters.
They move the slabs of plaster outside onto the curb to be taken away. They pour the insulation from plastic garbage cans outside onto the curb to be taken away. They shoulder the dislodged beams of wood outside onto the curb to be taken away. The dank entrails of a gutted home, steaming with the scent of dust and mold.
Look the gray corner of the sky has been stretched and it begins to rain.
The crowd hurries to the white van and quickly stashes the tools inside. One by one, they elude the rain, ducking in the door under the drumming of raindrops and pull away from the rubble arrayed on the curb, piled high like humanity.
Clap the thin aluminum door shut behind you and carry the empty glass of tea indoors. Move from the kitchen to your bedroom in one step and lie down on your bed as the sun begins to set. Craft yourself more makeshift idols from the temporal smoke of volunteers and find some way to dream because after all, the comatose world as you know it breathes slower and slower, weaker and frailer with each forgetting.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Parking and Providence --Cart Weiland
Every morning at about ten ‘til 9, I drive into downtown on Poydras St., swing a left on Camp, another left on Common, and finish my commute by turning right into the Pere Marquette Parking Garage located a block from my office building. There is nothing ostensibly remarkable about the car park: my coworker and I just happened to stumble upon it on our first morning of work, liked $8 daily rate, and have been going back ever since. In fact, we were never really supposed to park there. Our boss had recommended that we park at a cheaper garage on the 6th floor of some other building we never actually found. A little lost and a little late on our first day of work, we decided we had better cut our losses and park where we could rather than drive around aimlessly and waste the precious few minutes we had until we were due in the office.
I don’t want to invoke the supernatural just yet, but I’ve got to say, I’m pretty glad we happened upon this particular parking garage that first morning five weeks ago. It’s not just the friendly, prompt service the valet staff supplies every day; it’s not just the hard time that one guy gives me every morning I’m running a couple minutes late, and it’s not just that I no longer have to ask for a receipt every afternoon because all the valets know me as “that guy.” No, I’m especially happy with my parking garage because last Friday, it might have just saved my weekend. After a day spent geo-coding data in the office, I walked down
For such a relatively minor inconvenience, the future looked terribly grim. The battery was dead, or the alternator or…something. I thanked my valet friends for trying and was about to pick up my cell phone when I heard that sound…the key turning in the ignition, and the car finally starting! The valet Manuel had the magic touch, and suddenly, my Friday—and most likely, the rest of my weekend—was saved.
Part of me doesn’t want to blow this event out of proportion, but I’m starting to think that appealing to Fate isn’t entirely out of the question. If I had chosen another garage that first day; Who knows? Maybe there wouldn’t have been any jumper cables or friendly valets with magical hands….Really, who knows? I may very well have spent my weekend having to deal with the type of annoying chore that everyone hates. Instead, Manuel started my car, I drove it home, and I had an awesome weekend.
I know I’m taking a while to make my point but here it is:
Coming to
As we were sitting around chomping down pizza the other night, someone in the group asked, “So, could you guys see yourselves coming back to
Interesting question, I thought. If coming back to NOLA is anything like ending up here in the first place, I certainly can’t rule out the possibility. Accidents are meant to happen, and for that, I am very grateful.
impatiently waiting- joseph lanser
So I know its only July, but my experience trying to get a hold of a camera in New Orleans has been reminiscent of Advent, the anticipatory four weeks prior to the celebration of Christmas. Believing (erroneously we would soon learn) that the acquisition of a video camera from Duke/DukeEngage/anyone who would hear my plea would be easy, Sam and I ambitiously wrote a script for and made arrangements to have our jingle about preparing an evacuation kit be performed by third to fifth grade students at the local elementary school. I think we were both impressed by the progress (at least I was). The intensity of Black Friday had nothing on us. We were rhyming machines. Now all we needed was a camera…
Well, when word, in the form of an email, arrived from Joy that the prospect of getting a camera was about as bleak as scoring a Tickle Me Elmo doll circa Winter 1997, I was a bit surprised but certainly not going to give up hope. I had Joy and Dr. Schaad on my side (Mary and Joseph? let’s see how far I can take this…). Alright so this brings us to the second week of Advent/NOLA, which in my mind mine as well be synonymous because they evoke the same feels of joy (hehe Joy…) in me, and putting off the filming of the video another week wouldn’t be the end of the world because there were other projects on the works. By the end of the week, we had a few leads but the chance of getting a video camera was grim. I was growing impatient but had no choice but to resort to Plan B (an actual plan, not the contraceptive). We made arrangements with the media specialist at the government office to film our video and soon afterwards received an email from Joy requesting that we submit a formal camera proposal (Christmas list?) to Eric Mlyn (Santa Claus?), director almighty of DukeEngage. Although the camera would not arrive in time for the filming, we would at least have one at our disposal for future projects (cue sigh of relief). The pink candle was burning brightly in my mind. Christmas was going to be awesome!
Looks like I’ve been a bad boy this year because the request was outright denied. My impatience, which, of late, had turned into anger, was now replaced by painful indifference. Despite our best efforts, we had nothing to show for them, having exhausted every contact and outlet. The filming went relatively smoothly given that we were working with a cameraman essentially oblivious to our vision of how the video was to be filmed. Much to our surprise, we received a phone call from Dr. Schaad soon after the filming telling us that he had acquired a video camera for our use, which we finally received last week.
At a very insignificant level, the frustration I experienced trying to get a camera had similar elements to the frustrations that residents of New Orleans and surrounding parishes have experienced and are still experiencing post-Katrina. Receiving assistance from the government, what they thought was a given, especially after a disaster of this magnitude, has proven to be immensely more convoluted than initially expected. Promises unfulfilled, the public’s dissatisfaction with the government’s response grows daily. Organizations like FEMA are unnecessarily complicating an effort for which it is very easy to feel detached. Their actions thus far are indicative of a gross indifference toward the plight in which residents have been stuck for almost two years now. The last thing New Orleans needs right now is a detached agency in charge of distributing emergency funds to the affected residents. Sadly, I don’t think there is much the public can do to rectify the situation. Only so much can be accomplished with the resources at their disposable. They can fight. They can complain. They can recount their sad tales. They can try to move on with their lives, but without government assistance it’s all in vain. This city needs a Santa Claus-and soon.
Well, when word, in the form of an email, arrived from Joy that the prospect of getting a camera was about as bleak as scoring a Tickle Me Elmo doll circa Winter 1997, I was a bit surprised but certainly not going to give up hope. I had Joy and Dr. Schaad on my side (Mary and Joseph? let’s see how far I can take this…). Alright so this brings us to the second week of Advent/NOLA, which in my mind mine as well be synonymous because they evoke the same feels of joy (hehe Joy…) in me, and putting off the filming of the video another week wouldn’t be the end of the world because there were other projects on the works. By the end of the week, we had a few leads but the chance of getting a video camera was grim. I was growing impatient but had no choice but to resort to Plan B (an actual plan, not the contraceptive). We made arrangements with the media specialist at the government office to film our video and soon afterwards received an email from Joy requesting that we submit a formal camera proposal (Christmas list?) to Eric Mlyn (Santa Claus?), director almighty of DukeEngage. Although the camera would not arrive in time for the filming, we would at least have one at our disposal for future projects (cue sigh of relief). The pink candle was burning brightly in my mind. Christmas was going to be awesome!
Looks like I’ve been a bad boy this year because the request was outright denied. My impatience, which, of late, had turned into anger, was now replaced by painful indifference. Despite our best efforts, we had nothing to show for them, having exhausted every contact and outlet. The filming went relatively smoothly given that we were working with a cameraman essentially oblivious to our vision of how the video was to be filmed. Much to our surprise, we received a phone call from Dr. Schaad soon after the filming telling us that he had acquired a video camera for our use, which we finally received last week.
At a very insignificant level, the frustration I experienced trying to get a camera had similar elements to the frustrations that residents of New Orleans and surrounding parishes have experienced and are still experiencing post-Katrina. Receiving assistance from the government, what they thought was a given, especially after a disaster of this magnitude, has proven to be immensely more convoluted than initially expected. Promises unfulfilled, the public’s dissatisfaction with the government’s response grows daily. Organizations like FEMA are unnecessarily complicating an effort for which it is very easy to feel detached. Their actions thus far are indicative of a gross indifference toward the plight in which residents have been stuck for almost two years now. The last thing New Orleans needs right now is a detached agency in charge of distributing emergency funds to the affected residents. Sadly, I don’t think there is much the public can do to rectify the situation. Only so much can be accomplished with the resources at their disposable. They can fight. They can complain. They can recount their sad tales. They can try to move on with their lives, but without government assistance it’s all in vain. This city needs a Santa Claus-and soon.
Monday, July 16, 2007
The Entertainer- Jenny Heffernan
A weekend of New Orleans-style debauchery inevitably leads to a necessary re-evaluation of one’s personal merit and purpose as a member of the human race, as well as a reality check as to why one is actually in Nola for the summer (Bourbon Street and hand grenades aside). Through the haze that characterizes weeknight/end “noches”, I find it easy to lose sight of the reason for which I sit from 9-5 at my makeshift desk in city hall, apart from using the time to plan for the next set of after-5 activities. Duke Engage could hardly have been created with the intent of filling an entertainment role in our lives- or had it?
Undoubtedly, the work I am doing in the New Orleans Health Department is valuable. Fingers crossed, the grant I am currently applying for will be won, and I will leave a tangible legacy in New Orleans, in the form of an HIV education and prevention program, to be implemented on HBCU campuses. However, it is also possible that the grant will not be won, my hard work is rendered useless, and I have nothing to show for my time here. With all of this running through my head, I subjected my co-worker, Tucker, to my rants, to which he offered some consolation: even if we don’t end up winning the much-needed thousands of dollars for the department, at least we provided our co-workers with some entertainment.
Although it took a few minutes, I came to realize that my sage friend just might be right. Thinking over my hours spent in the NOHD, I concluded that I have logged just as many hours dancing the Cupid Shuffle (hottest dance to hit the US since the Macarena, fyi) with Valrita, joking with Dr. Franklin, and having lengthy conversations with Ro as I have spent actually drafting my grant proposal. While some may argue that my little quips and office banter aren’t exactly the kind of post-Katrina relief this city is looking for, I disagree. My office, as I’m sure is characteristic of many in New Orleans, is a breeding ground for stress; tensions are high and, at times, progress seems almost nonexistent. Additional funds, obviously, would help to alleviate some of the financial burden facing the department and its programs; however, a brief smile or laugh would just as effectively lift the cloud of anxiety that so often hinders productivity here.
The outcome of my efforts spent in the NOHD, then, is only somewhat unknown. Perhaps my lofty aspirations of “leaving my mark” will actually be realized, in which case I can pat myself on the back and self-servingly add the accomplishment to my resume and grad school applications. However, if the only mark I’ve managed to leave in New Orleans is in Val or Ro’s memory, as that “wacky, friendly, intern from Duke”, I won’t be disappointed; with the reality of post-Katrina New Orleans as a backdrop, perhaps the most valuable thing I can offer is a distraction.
Undoubtedly, the work I am doing in the New Orleans Health Department is valuable. Fingers crossed, the grant I am currently applying for will be won, and I will leave a tangible legacy in New Orleans, in the form of an HIV education and prevention program, to be implemented on HBCU campuses. However, it is also possible that the grant will not be won, my hard work is rendered useless, and I have nothing to show for my time here. With all of this running through my head, I subjected my co-worker, Tucker, to my rants, to which he offered some consolation: even if we don’t end up winning the much-needed thousands of dollars for the department, at least we provided our co-workers with some entertainment.
Although it took a few minutes, I came to realize that my sage friend just might be right. Thinking over my hours spent in the NOHD, I concluded that I have logged just as many hours dancing the Cupid Shuffle (hottest dance to hit the US since the Macarena, fyi) with Valrita, joking with Dr. Franklin, and having lengthy conversations with Ro as I have spent actually drafting my grant proposal. While some may argue that my little quips and office banter aren’t exactly the kind of post-Katrina relief this city is looking for, I disagree. My office, as I’m sure is characteristic of many in New Orleans, is a breeding ground for stress; tensions are high and, at times, progress seems almost nonexistent. Additional funds, obviously, would help to alleviate some of the financial burden facing the department and its programs; however, a brief smile or laugh would just as effectively lift the cloud of anxiety that so often hinders productivity here.
The outcome of my efforts spent in the NOHD, then, is only somewhat unknown. Perhaps my lofty aspirations of “leaving my mark” will actually be realized, in which case I can pat myself on the back and self-servingly add the accomplishment to my resume and grad school applications. However, if the only mark I’ve managed to leave in New Orleans is in Val or Ro’s memory, as that “wacky, friendly, intern from Duke”, I won’t be disappointed; with the reality of post-Katrina New Orleans as a backdrop, perhaps the most valuable thing I can offer is a distraction.
The news today will be the movies for tomorrow - Tucker Page
Obstinacy is the hallmark of post-disaster planning. Immediately after the September 11 terrorist attacks destroyed the World Trade Center New York City , but it took people some time to realize that “rebuilding” does not have to mean “replacing” – New York City had the opportunity to build something better than the World Trade Center
Why is this relevant? Because faced with the daunting prospect of rebuilding,New Orleans New Orleans New Orleans
New Orleans
The Health Department’s inability to address underlying social issues certainly is not for lack of trying. Everyone here would love to delve deeper into the root causes ofNew Orleans New Orleans New Orleans
Why is this relevant? Because faced with the daunting prospect of rebuilding,
The Health Department’s inability to address underlying social issues certainly is not for lack of trying. Everyone here would love to delve deeper into the root causes of
Too Much of a Gamble? - Reid Cater
While living in the NOLA area this summer I have been continually surprised by the prevalence of gambling. From other trips I remembered some small casinos along the water, but as the weeks have gone by I have noticed video poker in nearly every restaurant and bar as well as Harrah's Casino, a new and extravagant casino right beside the French Quarter. Even more surprisingly most of the people gambling seem to be locals. The NYT article here draws interesting insights into why gambling has become so popular for locals after Katrina.
First the obvious: insurance money and higher wages have given people money to spend.
Second: Katrina destroyed not only housing, health care, and public service infrastructure but also local entertainment options.
People who would have once spent free nights in a bowling alley or at a local bar now turn to the casinos as the only available form of entertainment. This combination of factors seems likely to lead to tragedy for those who let gambling go past entertainment and leave their only chance to rebuild sitting on a roulette table.
(Full article here)
First the obvious: insurance money and higher wages have given people money to spend.
Second: Katrina destroyed not only housing, health care, and public service infrastructure but also local entertainment options.
People who would have once spent free nights in a bowling alley or at a local bar now turn to the casinos as the only available form of entertainment. This combination of factors seems likely to lead to tragedy for those who let gambling go past entertainment and leave their only chance to rebuild sitting on a roulette table.
Casinos Boom in Katrina's Wake
BILOXI, Miss. — This seaside gambling resort along a stretch of the Gulf Coast, sometimes called the “redneck Riviera,” has 40 percent fewer hotel rooms and only two-thirds as many slot machines as it did before Hurricane Katrina. A major bridge that connects the casinos in this popular tourist destination to Alabama, the Florida Panhandle and other points east remains closed, and Mayor A. J. Holloway estimates that as many as 15 percent of the city’s pre-Katrina residents still have not returned.
Yet business in the gambling halls of Biloxi has reached all-time highs in recent months, so much so that Larry Gregory, the executive director of the Mississippi Gaming Commission, has half-jokingly barred his staff from uttering the phrase “record-setting” because “it was becoming too redundant.”
A similar story has been unfolding in New Orleans, where tourism is still in the doldrums and only 60 percent of the pre-Katrina population has returned nearly two years after the hurricane and flooding devastated the area.
Indeed, the casinos there seem to be faring even better than their Gulf Coast cousins.
Harrah’s New Orleans, the largest casino in the city, is on pace for its best year ever: gambling revenue is up 13.6 percent through the first five months of 2007 compared with the same period in 2005, pre-Katrina.
The casinos in this region are generating more revenue — from significantly fewer players — in large part because of the extra money that many area residents have in their pockets and fewer alternatives on where to spend it, casino executives and others in the region say.
(Full article here)
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Road Blocks - New York Times
There was a really interesting article on those stranded away from New Orleans in the New York Times today.
Source: New York Times (Full Article, No Registration Required)
Submitted by Nader Mohyuddin
Road to New Life After Katrina Is Closed to Many
By SHAILA DEWAN
CONVENT, La. — This was not how Cindy Cole pictured her life at 26: living in a mobile home park called Sugar Hill, wedged amid the refineries and cane fields of tiny St. James Parish, 18 miles from the nearest supermarket. Sustaining three small children on nothing but food stamps, with no playground, no security guards and nowhere to go.
No, Ms. Cole was supposed to be paying $275 a month for a two-bedroom house in the Lower Ninth Ward — next door to her mother, across the street from her aunt, with a child care network that extended the length and breadth of her large New Orleans family. With her house destroyed and no job or savings, however, her chances of recreating that old reality are slim.
For thousands of evacuees like Ms. Cole, going home to New Orleans has become a vague and receding dream. Living in bleak circumstances, they cannot afford to go back, or have nothing to go back to. Over the two years since Hurricane Katrina hit, the shock of evacuation has hardened into the grim limbo of exile.
“We in storage,” said Ann Picard, 49, cocking her arm toward the blind white cracker box of a house she shares with Ms. Cole, her niece, and Ms. Cole’s three children. “We just in storage.”
Source: New York Times (Full Article, No Registration Required)
Submitted by Nader Mohyuddin
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Crossing Cultures (Poorly) -- Randy Chen
I suppose I learned today that being American doesn't always matter. But I learned other stuff too.
I was finishing my day at Benjamin Franklin Elementary School, sitting on the steps where the kids board their buses to go home. I appreciated the moment of repose—it was a long day trekking from museum to museum in the French Quarter trying to keep an eye on all 25 children who were all clearly exhilarated to be out of the classroom.
And then I saw a boy, about ten, teasing a smaller boy, about seven, heckling him and shoving him around. The larger boy stood up tall to maximize the height difference, puffed out his chest, and pulled his backpack up his back by the straps with his elbows out, and jutted his bottom lip out in one impressive picture of intimidation and to all this, the smaller boy slunk away.
Feeling the wisdom of the twenty one years in me rise up, I decided to address this. I barked at the older boy who was smirking and proudly relishing his newly acquired power wrought from pushing down someone weaker. I chastised his inconsideration of feelings and admonished him for bullying someone smaller than him.
And to all this he stared at me, considering me for a minute before replying with nothing but a sneer and a quip: “You Chinese,” delivered with the warped inflection of a mimicked accent. Oh, and, of course, he concluded with a requisite mock kung-fu pose with one open palm outstretched facing downward somewhat reminiscent (or so I’m told) of a crane.
Obviously, this is an unfortunate happenstance of cultural insensitivity. I should be angry about having the accent which my own parents speak in mocked with a sing-song tone of condescending derision, I should be livid that all I was to this kid was some misconceived extension that he had gleaned from kung-fu movies and that anything I had to say was null, void, and silly in light of this ancestral caricature of presumed heritage.
So I opened my mouth to say something in response and that’s when words failed me. What could I say? A harsh retort would only make him more hostile. A firm explanation of why what he said was wrong would only make him more resentful (and he only had a few minutes before he caught his bus—hardly the time to bring up a conversation about racism, especially with a ten year old). Understanding, it seemed, couldn’t possibly be squeezed into today’s agenda.
I ended up saying something vague around the lines of, “You can’t say those things,” to which the kid just stared at me indignantly and turned around to board his bus. Clearly, I didn’t get through.
It’s funny when situations in life rise up and you know exactly, at that instant, what the right thing to do is, but within the context of the strict contract between morals and their execution, the closest action to being right is simply nothing.
And it’s frustrating to no end.
I was finishing my day at Benjamin Franklin Elementary School, sitting on the steps where the kids board their buses to go home. I appreciated the moment of repose—it was a long day trekking from museum to museum in the French Quarter trying to keep an eye on all 25 children who were all clearly exhilarated to be out of the classroom.
And then I saw a boy, about ten, teasing a smaller boy, about seven, heckling him and shoving him around. The larger boy stood up tall to maximize the height difference, puffed out his chest, and pulled his backpack up his back by the straps with his elbows out, and jutted his bottom lip out in one impressive picture of intimidation and to all this, the smaller boy slunk away.
Feeling the wisdom of the twenty one years in me rise up, I decided to address this. I barked at the older boy who was smirking and proudly relishing his newly acquired power wrought from pushing down someone weaker. I chastised his inconsideration of feelings and admonished him for bullying someone smaller than him.
And to all this he stared at me, considering me for a minute before replying with nothing but a sneer and a quip: “You Chinese,” delivered with the warped inflection of a mimicked accent. Oh, and, of course, he concluded with a requisite mock kung-fu pose with one open palm outstretched facing downward somewhat reminiscent (or so I’m told) of a crane.
Obviously, this is an unfortunate happenstance of cultural insensitivity. I should be angry about having the accent which my own parents speak in mocked with a sing-song tone of condescending derision, I should be livid that all I was to this kid was some misconceived extension that he had gleaned from kung-fu movies and that anything I had to say was null, void, and silly in light of this ancestral caricature of presumed heritage.
So I opened my mouth to say something in response and that’s when words failed me. What could I say? A harsh retort would only make him more hostile. A firm explanation of why what he said was wrong would only make him more resentful (and he only had a few minutes before he caught his bus—hardly the time to bring up a conversation about racism, especially with a ten year old). Understanding, it seemed, couldn’t possibly be squeezed into today’s agenda.
I ended up saying something vague around the lines of, “You can’t say those things,” to which the kid just stared at me indignantly and turned around to board his bus. Clearly, I didn’t get through.
It’s funny when situations in life rise up and you know exactly, at that instant, what the right thing to do is, but within the context of the strict contract between morals and their execution, the closest action to being right is simply nothing.
And it’s frustrating to no end.
Take a Wish- Alicia Zelek
I love fountains. As a child I vividly remember begging my parents for quarters and tossing them into the fountain while making a wish. Hearing the sound of the coin dropping in the water and watching where it lands was a thrilling experience. I would put a lot of effort into making the perfect wish and whenever I failed to come up with just the right one I would beg for another coin. Standing by them listening to the sound of the water falling and feeling the splashes is a comforting experience. I feel closer to nature and distanced from everything else around.
On my last week working with the children at Ben Franklin Elementary we took them on a field trip to the Wax Museum and the Cabildo. While walking around the French Quarter through Jackson Square, the kids noticed a fountain and of course stopped to play in it. While I was immersed in my own thoughts, I failed to notice 8 of the younger kids were practically throwing themselves in the water. They were not throwing coins in but rather were reaching in to fetch the coins out of the water. They were collecting them in their hands and holding onto them. Some threw them back into the fountain while others I’m sure kept them. The other teacher I work with, a humorous Southern respected lady, yelled “Demons put those back, you do not want to have bad luck for the rest of your life.” However, the kids did not pay a bit of attention either because they did not understand English or pretended not to. It took us about 15 minutes to get all the kids out of the water. The teacher later told me she had never seen a sight such as this and I had to agree with her. Neither had I.
This experience struck me for several reasons. Working with underprivileged minorities in New Orleans made me realize the obvious, there are many things I often take for granted. However, it also demonstrated to me the mentality with which many of these underprivileged children in NOLA are raised. At our meeting on Sunday Sister Beth likened post-Katrina New Orleans to the California Gold Rush. People come to make as much money as possible and then get out. Many of the families I work with, especially those of Hispanic descent, recently came to the New Orleans for economic reasons because of the increase in job openings after the hurricane. Many of them have moved to NOLA temporarily and have indefinite plans to move elsewhere. Their children are raised with the guiding notion they need to do everything in their power to survive and they go about doing so whichever way they can.
Now as I pass by fountains, particularly the one in Jackson Square, I cannot help but imagine 16 arms dangling in the water and 16 feet dangling out taking wishes from all circumferences of the fountain. My image of fountains has changed but my outlook on life has bettered. While I have no regrets that my childhood was guided by the Disney fairytale notion of making a wish, I am open to this new alternative; I hope one of them took my wish.
On my last week working with the children at Ben Franklin Elementary we took them on a field trip to the Wax Museum and the Cabildo. While walking around the French Quarter through Jackson Square, the kids noticed a fountain and of course stopped to play in it. While I was immersed in my own thoughts, I failed to notice 8 of the younger kids were practically throwing themselves in the water. They were not throwing coins in but rather were reaching in to fetch the coins out of the water. They were collecting them in their hands and holding onto them. Some threw them back into the fountain while others I’m sure kept them. The other teacher I work with, a humorous Southern respected lady, yelled “Demons put those back, you do not want to have bad luck for the rest of your life.” However, the kids did not pay a bit of attention either because they did not understand English or pretended not to. It took us about 15 minutes to get all the kids out of the water. The teacher later told me she had never seen a sight such as this and I had to agree with her. Neither had I.
This experience struck me for several reasons. Working with underprivileged minorities in New Orleans made me realize the obvious, there are many things I often take for granted. However, it also demonstrated to me the mentality with which many of these underprivileged children in NOLA are raised. At our meeting on Sunday Sister Beth likened post-Katrina New Orleans to the California Gold Rush. People come to make as much money as possible and then get out. Many of the families I work with, especially those of Hispanic descent, recently came to the New Orleans for economic reasons because of the increase in job openings after the hurricane. Many of them have moved to NOLA temporarily and have indefinite plans to move elsewhere. Their children are raised with the guiding notion they need to do everything in their power to survive and they go about doing so whichever way they can.
Now as I pass by fountains, particularly the one in Jackson Square, I cannot help but imagine 16 arms dangling in the water and 16 feet dangling out taking wishes from all circumferences of the fountain. My image of fountains has changed but my outlook on life has bettered. While I have no regrets that my childhood was guided by the Disney fairytale notion of making a wish, I am open to this new alternative; I hope one of them took my wish.
Mom, Dad, and Sam Know Best- Jenny Heffernan
A very wise man (or woman) once remarked on the beauty of a child’s innocence. A presumably equally wise person commented on the importance of experience. My mom and dad, perhaps the wisest of all, have told me to forget what other people have said, and figure it out on my own.
And… figure it out I did. At the very least, I am attempting the task, using an interesting combination of intuition, deduction, and random valuation skills picked up along my academic career at our beloved Duke. Revealing the oft-mentioned “nerd within” that is said to dwell in each Duke student, my confusion surrounding the merit of naiveté has taken the form of an internal cost-benefit analysis, known to us Public Policy majors by the ever cool abbreviation, CBA. With each experience in Nola, my own personal innocence is made strikingly obvious, and I resultantly alter my CBA to reflect my observations.
At work, for example, I have found my lack of experience somewhat hindering. Upon arrival at the NOHD, I anticipated a summer of changing the world- or, at the very least, New Orleans. Taking in the busy office, I envisioned myself re-opening the multiple health clinics still closed due to Katrina, single-handedly. I was going to be able to practically run this office come August. Then, however, came reality, aka my first staff meeting. There, I became painfully aware of the foolishness of my thinking. Did I really think I could simply just re-open a clinic? Clearly, there are political, financial, and logistical barriers to that which I thought manageable. Why had I thought that I, an undergraduate student with relatively no experience, would be able to accomplish that which the bevy of degreed professionals in the Health Department had not? An entry for the “costs” category was made.
Taking the form of a counter-argument strong enough to get any academic’s heart racing, the benefits of innocence have been equally convincing. On the 4th of July, this benefit took the shape of Sam, a precocious 11 year-old reveler at the St. Bernard Parish festival. Speaking candidly with me about the storm, Sam remarked, “Things were really messed up. But they’re better now. They’re great. I’m always going to live in New Orleans; who’d want to miss out on this?” Ignoring, or perhaps simply unaware, of all of the issues plaguing the adults regarding Nola’s future, Sam maintained an unshakeable optimism for, and love of, his home. His attitude, while perhaps ignorant of important issues, provides him, and those like him, the ability to continue into the future; while it may contain things unknown, Sam knows it contains great things. Mark one of the benefits.
While my tally is still developing, I find myself leaning towards Sam’s point of view. Realism may be handy in tackling technical issues, but nothing can be accomplished without some sort of faith that the goal is actually achievable. For now, therefore, my rose-tinted glasses will stay put, for, as a wise man (or boy) once said, “who’d want to miss out on this?”
And… figure it out I did. At the very least, I am attempting the task, using an interesting combination of intuition, deduction, and random valuation skills picked up along my academic career at our beloved Duke. Revealing the oft-mentioned “nerd within” that is said to dwell in each Duke student, my confusion surrounding the merit of naiveté has taken the form of an internal cost-benefit analysis, known to us Public Policy majors by the ever cool abbreviation, CBA. With each experience in Nola, my own personal innocence is made strikingly obvious, and I resultantly alter my CBA to reflect my observations.
At work, for example, I have found my lack of experience somewhat hindering. Upon arrival at the NOHD, I anticipated a summer of changing the world- or, at the very least, New Orleans. Taking in the busy office, I envisioned myself re-opening the multiple health clinics still closed due to Katrina, single-handedly. I was going to be able to practically run this office come August. Then, however, came reality, aka my first staff meeting. There, I became painfully aware of the foolishness of my thinking. Did I really think I could simply just re-open a clinic? Clearly, there are political, financial, and logistical barriers to that which I thought manageable. Why had I thought that I, an undergraduate student with relatively no experience, would be able to accomplish that which the bevy of degreed professionals in the Health Department had not? An entry for the “costs” category was made.
Taking the form of a counter-argument strong enough to get any academic’s heart racing, the benefits of innocence have been equally convincing. On the 4th of July, this benefit took the shape of Sam, a precocious 11 year-old reveler at the St. Bernard Parish festival. Speaking candidly with me about the storm, Sam remarked, “Things were really messed up. But they’re better now. They’re great. I’m always going to live in New Orleans; who’d want to miss out on this?” Ignoring, or perhaps simply unaware, of all of the issues plaguing the adults regarding Nola’s future, Sam maintained an unshakeable optimism for, and love of, his home. His attitude, while perhaps ignorant of important issues, provides him, and those like him, the ability to continue into the future; while it may contain things unknown, Sam knows it contains great things. Mark one of the benefits.
While my tally is still developing, I find myself leaning towards Sam’s point of view. Realism may be handy in tackling technical issues, but nothing can be accomplished without some sort of faith that the goal is actually achievable. For now, therefore, my rose-tinted glasses will stay put, for, as a wise man (or boy) once said, “who’d want to miss out on this?”
Chickens and The Wild West - Nader Mohyuddin
Balloon Festival in Albuquerque; French Quarter, New Orleans
Sometimes you don't really know a place until you leave it.
And leave New Orleans I did.
I spent my 4th of July "weekend" in what seems a virtual opposite of New Orleans today, despite sharing a variety of similarities. Albuquerque--my destination--and New Orleans are both cities with deep roots in history, with a well-preserved Old Town and French Quarter, respectively, keeping the traditions rich, colorful, and alive. Catholicism plays a role in both cities, though far moreso in New Orleans. Both are diverse cities with traditional race relations turning a new page with growing immigrant communities. Both are ridiculously hot in July.
But for every gutted house and FEMA trailer in New Orleans, there is a brand new, trendy housing development or office building going up in Albuquerque. While New Orleans' death rate skyrockets, Albuquerque's quality of life gets accolades from publications. Just this past year, Forbes ranked the city as the best in the country for business, with good scores across the board and the lowest cost of business in the country. High tech companies like Intel, and smaller boutique firms doing everything from genetics work to the first mainstream production of electric cars, to private jet design.
Even the landscapes are vastly different: where New Orleans is hugged by a mighty river, Albuquerque is built in the foothills of a gigantic mountain. And sometimes, it's the smallest of touches that make all the difference: where New Orleans roads are full of gigantic pot holes, complex mazes of one way streets, and parked cars on every curb, the usually boring-but-efficient interstate in Albuquerque has Native American artwork lining rocky median (there's not much grass around), stone lane dividers painted in an adobe and blue scheme to mimic the desert and the sky, and roads smooth as fresh butter.
Moonrise over Albuquerque and Sandia Mountain
I say this not to make New Orleans sound bad. It isn't. But it does highlight the tremendous challenges that lay ahead of this city, and what it needs to revitalize. Housing is certainly a big part of the puzzle. But in order to catalyze the renewal of New Orleans, better efforts must be made to attract business. Not many companies were attracted to the city before Katrina. It had little competitive advantage over other cities, and a variety of negatives (including a struggling public school system) that put it behind the rest of the pack.
But with the influx of federal money being pumped into this area (albeit mired in federal, state, and local bureaucracy), there is certainly money that can be spent on economic revitalization. Many local businesses, boutiques, and restaurants have re-opened, which is a beautiful sight to both a native New Orleanian and a free-market capitalist alike. But New Orleans could certainly take a page from Albuquerque's book to attract big businesses, which could give jobs to many, attract thousands to return home to New Orleans, and pump millions of dollars into the local economy. Tax holidays, fee and permit waivers, incentive programs, and selective land-grants could all work together to make New Orleans better than ever.
Like ABQ (an abbreviation people of all ages use, unlike ATL), New Orleans is a city without a tremendous amount of endemic resources that would attract business. Combine that with the disastrous effects of Katrina, and the comparisons to a developing country/economy are all the more apt. And just as post-colonial Latin America reacted to its export pessimism with the development of ISI strategy, so too could New Orleans help develop its "domestic" (local) economy through its specific policies. While this temporarily limits free-trade, it ultimately generates far more income mobility (if not equality), and an overall stronger economy with more jobs.
Central Business District during Katrina Flooding
A big hurdle to this is poultry. But instead of a chicken and an egg and an existential quandary regarding their temporal relation, theres about a thousand chickens and a thousand eggs, no one knows who came first, no one knows which egg belongs to whom (perhaps the other way around), and the resources with which to figure out this dilemma are available, but hoarded by a fat, slow farmer with whom everyone is frustrated, even the normally docile, mute eggs who have no means with which to even feel frustrated, but are frustrated no less.
Housing. Jobs. Schools. Infrastructure. City government. Environmental issues. Planning for the next hurricane. Crime. Clean up. Restoration. Revitalization.
You get the idea. But what comes first?
Developing affordable housing for New Orleans.
Despite my desire to use economics and the marketplace to restore New Orleans, I'm glad I'm doing housing development. Sure, it's part of the same puzzle, a feather on the chicken. But given all that coming home means to the people of this city--the people of any city--it's perhaps one of the most important steps in the whole process. Homes, porches, and evening conversations in the sunset wake all mean a lot to this place. Getting back to work and putting kids through school are no doubt hugely important, but having four walls and a roof make all the rest much easier.
Jackson Square and Saint Louis Cathedral, New Orleans
I thought I knew New Orleans pretty well in my month here. And I was amazed at the progress the city itself had made. Granted, Gentilly and Lakeview are still in shambles, and some areas of the Ninth Ward are in complete ruin. Those are enormous issues. But the flavor of the city, the jambalya mix of sweat, sin, and jazz that dances in the thick bayou air like smoke from a late-night cigarette, is already filling the lungs of New Orleanians throughout the city. I thought I had caught a whiff of it in my time here.
And maybe I did.
But leaving the city and seeing the progress other areas have made, and are still making, really throws into sharp relief the challenges facing New Orleans, the challenges everyone talks about but perhaps few actually have a real feel for, let alone solutions.
It is my hope, however, that come August, when we're moving out of our rooms and trekking back to our comfortable homes throughout the country and the world, that we'll leave with more answers than questions, with more solutions than problems, and with more conviction than hope.
Took My Chances on a Big Jet Plane - Michael Koler
The Dilemma
IN the scatter storm that was spring semester 2007, I found myself, along with the vast majority of the junior class, precariously balancing an exhaustive internship search along with the normal academic workload. The Public Policy Studies degree (my major) actually requires an internship to be filled in the government or non-profit sector. I was (fortunately) disqualified from any financial or business-related internship – the i-banking/consulting recruiting blitzkrieg that storms Duke in late January is a beast all of its own... At any rate, I had a relatively specific sector to which my internship search would be targeted. This, in essence, meant that I was carpet-bombing my résumé into the office of every think tank, government office, and 501(c) in Washington. Because I’m on financial aid, non-paid internships were out of the question. I would find a paid internship!
Not surprisingly, K Street disagreed. I received decline after decline. By mid March, prospects were grim.
Eventually, by way of a rerouted e-mail, I learned about the DukeEngage New Orleans program at just about the same time I cheated and applied to a for-profit, private corporation that had managed to fall under the PPS internship umbrella, as a “government sector” job. The corporation? The military contractor, Raytheon International. While lacking the notoriety of a DynCorp or the shadow-factor of the Carlyle Group, Raytheon certainly does its fair share of arms dealing.
Telling people I was interviewing with a defense contractor typically drew two different responses: trigger-happy gung ho praise, especially from Halo obsessed slackers and most of my male friends; and mildly veiled disappointment from some of my more idealistically attuned peers who thought that at the tender age of twenty-one I was already selling out to help make war machines. As finals approached, I had narrowed my options down to DukeEngage NOLA and Raytheon.
It actually turned out to be quite an ironic choice dilemma, given that my summer options could essentially be delineated as 1. sell missiles; or 2. help people. (It would probably be fair to say that Raytheon was also paying, as well.) Of course, nothing is quite as black and white as 1 and 2, and so for a two week period I debating the pros and cons of both choices. I made it through the 2nd round at Raytheon and had my final interview scheduled a few days after my last exam. Amid research papers and final presentations, I debated what I had slowly managed to construe as one of the most important choices of my young life (Destroy or create! Profit or non-profit!) I started to add unnecessary weight and meaning to the decision. And so with oh so serious alacrity, I set about seeking advice from my family and friends.
I asked my roommate what he thought. “Financial security, Michael. Don’t think that you have a guaranteed job out of college. Don’t think that 30k in loans will be a cute little capuchin monkey on your back. It’ll be a fat and pissy half ton gorilla.”
I asked another one of my friends. “Spending a summer picking up trash so you can feel good about yourself is pretty odd, Mike. What difference are you going to make, anyway? But you still got to ask yourself: you trying to get yours first?
My sister disagreed. “If any place needs people, it’s New Orleans. Don’t you want to have an edifying summer experience helping people? Do you think you’ll get that in Duke in DC?
I asked my father. “Never been to New Orleans. Sounds pretty neat. Although I’ve been doing a little research Raytheon. That’s the kind of company you’d want to find a job at after you graduate.”
My mother, as usual, made a concerted effort to hide her real opinion and suggested I do whatever sounded best. I finally turned to my brother, to whom in times of crisis I typically genuflect and ask. He had originally been very much in favor of Raytheon, but he called me later during finals week to express his ultimate opinion.
In a few words, he swung a red state blue.
“Mike, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in an office. Don’t be in such a rush to put on a suit. I’m sure you’ll be in DC sometime in the future. But I’m not so sure you’ll ever get a chance to be in New Orleans.”
It made a lot of sense. My brother took the business route after college, bouncing between Chicago, Boston, and Connecticut along a path to “financial security.” Perhaps he is jaded on the suit and tie culture, but I grant him the wisdom of a brother five years my senior. And I’m not bull-headed enough to ignore that.
I call Raytheon the next day and cancel my interview.
***
And so for a summer, I say no to the private sector; no to a suit; no to the imagined prestige I associate with big corporations and government. I pull an about-face and say hello to an ill-planned and oddly placed trading post on the Mississippi River.
Let’s take our chances with that jet plane over there, with the fleur-di-lis emblazoned on the wing. I think Dulles can wait.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Bringing Light to St. Bernard - Clark Daniel
Pretty noble sounding title, right? I like to joke around with myself and imagine that my job is much more grand than it actually is. When I arrived down the way in St. Bernard Parish I had no idea or expectations about what I would be doing. You probably have not heard of
The title does hold some relevance to my job, however. No, I’m not speaking of political light or even bringing the light of God down here to the parish (believe me, they have that here in spades); I am speaking of literal light. My job is to oversee the repair and installation of streetlight poles destroyed by the Hurricane. But I don’t ever have any physical contact with these broken streetlight poles- we have contractors who do that, and I don’t even have to supervise the repairs- we have monitors to make sure the repairs are being done according to the contract. My job is made possible by the wonderful government entity known as FEMA. I have to prove to FEMA that all the damage recorded on my endless list of destroyed light poles is not only accurate, but also that it was caused by Katrina and not by some other infinite list of possibilities. Not to pat my own back, but this process had already failed three times before I came on the job so to have FEMA finally approve and sign off on the validation gave me a pretty big sense of accomplishment. Of course it wasn’t until today that they tell me I have to show precedence for how new items are added to the expanding list and also give evidence stating how broken streetlights were repaired before the storm. Arghhh….
But now I reach the point where I will be met with some (and by some, I mean a lot) of contention from residents of
Comments, hatred, libel gladly accepted below or in email form.
- Clark Daniel
Cd21@duke.edu
Gone Fishin' -- Cart Weiland
Mosquitoes be warned, I thought; we had come prepared. I drenched myself in Off, grabbed the cooler, and hiked up the levee that stood before us. I wasn’t really sure where we were or what small waterway we had found, but I really didn’t care. It was a beautiful, balmy night in the
As I sat in the long grass on top of the levee and gulped down my Turbodog, I watched one in our legion assemble a fishing pole that he had brought along. He baited his hook with some shrimp he had just purchased at the local tackle shop (also known as Whole Foods Market) and then wandered down the levee to the edge of the water. This night was about fishing,
As I finished my Turbodog and switched to Haze, I gazed out over the moonlit marshy water, and I suddenly realized that this night—this fishing and this levee—perfectly symbolized my summer in
In less than four weeks, I will return home from
I may be leaving
Gut Instinct- Dana Stefanczyk
I sit and work in an office all day. As much faith as I have that what I am doing is helping the city of New Orleans in some way, I don’t always have concrete evidence of my accomplishments or any real instant gratification I find myself craving. So when Reid asked if anyone would be interested in some construction work the coming Saturday, I volunteered to help, thinking I would enjoy getting my hands dirty. Gutting, he told us, is what we would be doing.
I realized, after committing, that I really didn’t know what gutting is. So, I did what any resourceful Duke student would do and googled it: Wikipedia does not even have a page. I had some vague ideas about it, of course, hearing the word flung around whenever the subjects of Katrina, housing, and weekend plans came up. I knew it involved tools and hard physical labor, and I knew that people cringed when they heard it, as if the name Voldemort had been spoken. My mom did not like the idea. “Dana, are you sure? I’m worried you’ll get hurt.” I had expected praise for my efforts, for working hard to help rebuild, and instead found fear and caution. What was I getting myself into?
We arrived at Catholic Charities early Saturday morning. Still fazed by drowsiness, I sat quietly while we were briefed. Then we got in cars and drove the short ride to the house we would be gutting. I watched as someone in charge walked into what remained of a house and spoke to a woman I assumed to be the owner. After a few minutes the owner left and went into her trailer on the side of the house. I wondered what she did for the rest of the day. Did she go about her business, numbed by months of waiting, simply wanting to get this done? Or did she watch us as we took crowbars and hammers to the casket of her memories?
I removed nails, tore down ceilings, took a sledgehammer to a railing, and in doing so sweated out anything I could feel. Need to relieve some stress? Try smashing a wall.
After a day of sweat, fiberglass, and exhaustion, Wikipedia, maybe I can now help you out. Gutting: stripping a house down to its bare stud walls and floors. Destroying and removing the heart and soul and traces of life, leaving a skeleton. I understand why it is called gutting.
Later that night (after a shower and nap, of course) a group of us went to a place called the Howlin’ Wolf to hear Trombone Shorty play. Though nothing spectacular on the outside, walking in I immediately felt alive. The animated notes from the trombone and saxophone begged me for a dance, and once again I found myself face to face with that spirit of NOLA that everyone knows about but no one can seem to define. With the next song, everyone was invited up on stage. I stood next to a girl I had just met, the music consuming us. “Now this is the heart and soul of New Orleans,” she remarked. And no matter how much gutting is done, I don’t think that can ever be stripped away.
I realized, after committing, that I really didn’t know what gutting is. So, I did what any resourceful Duke student would do and googled it: Wikipedia does not even have a page. I had some vague ideas about it, of course, hearing the word flung around whenever the subjects of Katrina, housing, and weekend plans came up. I knew it involved tools and hard physical labor, and I knew that people cringed when they heard it, as if the name Voldemort had been spoken. My mom did not like the idea. “Dana, are you sure? I’m worried you’ll get hurt.” I had expected praise for my efforts, for working hard to help rebuild, and instead found fear and caution. What was I getting myself into?
We arrived at Catholic Charities early Saturday morning. Still fazed by drowsiness, I sat quietly while we were briefed. Then we got in cars and drove the short ride to the house we would be gutting. I watched as someone in charge walked into what remained of a house and spoke to a woman I assumed to be the owner. After a few minutes the owner left and went into her trailer on the side of the house. I wondered what she did for the rest of the day. Did she go about her business, numbed by months of waiting, simply wanting to get this done? Or did she watch us as we took crowbars and hammers to the casket of her memories?
I removed nails, tore down ceilings, took a sledgehammer to a railing, and in doing so sweated out anything I could feel. Need to relieve some stress? Try smashing a wall.
After a day of sweat, fiberglass, and exhaustion, Wikipedia, maybe I can now help you out. Gutting: stripping a house down to its bare stud walls and floors. Destroying and removing the heart and soul and traces of life, leaving a skeleton. I understand why it is called gutting.
Later that night (after a shower and nap, of course) a group of us went to a place called the Howlin’ Wolf to hear Trombone Shorty play. Though nothing spectacular on the outside, walking in I immediately felt alive. The animated notes from the trombone and saxophone begged me for a dance, and once again I found myself face to face with that spirit of NOLA that everyone knows about but no one can seem to define. With the next song, everyone was invited up on stage. I stood next to a girl I had just met, the music consuming us. “Now this is the heart and soul of New Orleans,” she remarked. And no matter how much gutting is done, I don’t think that can ever be stripped away.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Back to the Future - Andy Winslow
“If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.”
-Marty McFly in “Back to the Future”
As I sit trying to reflect upon another week in New Orleans, trying to bring together in a cogent way any sort of themes or build upon morals and values I have learned during the first four weeks here, the only thing that has come to mind since I began writing with “Back to the Future” on in the background is that New Orleans could use a flux capacitor. In fact, most things in life would be simplified with the ability to go back to reconsider alternative ways and approaches to situations or decisions, a theme not particularly unique to New Orleans and hurricane Katrina. One thing, however, I should credit to Dr. Brown and Marty McFly is a look back in time to my thoughts and opinions of DukeEngage in NOLA at the start of the experience.
At a reflection session held last week, I took in the thoughts and voices of my fellow DukeEngagees and heard an idea that really struck me. The idea pertained to the very enthusiasm and desire to produce change in NOLA all of us had the moment we stepped off the planes and out of our cars. A healthy level of this enthusiasm is a necessary component, I would argue, in many of the volunteers who are down here for the summer. Two problems, however, can arise when this level of enthusiasm becomes overbearing: it sets unrealistic expectations about the experience for the volunteer, and the citizens may themselves be less receptive to help from volunteers as was originally thought. I will first address the latter of the two problems, something that I have no firsthand experience with.
I can only imagine the types of emotions that go through the heads of families and individuals that have lost the homes, businesses, possessions, and sometimes loved ones that comprise their lives. A disaster of this scope is enough to cause any person to lose a fair amount of faith, helping explain a suicide rate that has almost tripled in New Orleans since the disaster and the myriad of cases of Katrina-related post-traumatic stress disorder in the two years following. For those that have escaped either of these two phenomena, it would be an understatement to say that they are still affected in some sort of way. Perhaps they know friends who lost everything, perhaps they have horrifying mental imagery left over of looting and violence in the weeks and months that followed the disaster, or perhaps they just had to find a new place of work. Whatever the case, it is a very reasonable thing for many of the people tied to Katrina in any of these fashions to be less receptive to the help volunteers are providing.
Try this example. Imagine a crew of ten workers with whom you have no previous engagements coming into your decrepit house—still painfully full with memories you and your family left behind—to tear away the very investment you have worked your entire life to earn. Imagine the crew, many of whom are seeking instruction for the first time, swinging with all of their might to knock down a ceiling or tear apart a floorboard to which they have no personal attachment. Being on the other end of a charitable donation or volunteer work, for many of these citizens, is an understandably difficult type of step to take. Although everyone I have talked to from New Orleans seems genuinely grateful of the work that is being done, some of the very and direct acts of charity might bring out vastly different opinions. Simply considering that the sentiment is not universal, or rather that there such a strong personal tie to a great deal of volunteer work, is an idea that volunteers hyped on enthusiasm might not necessarily carry with them when they trek down to New Orleans or out to other volunteer endeavors across the world.
Secondly, coming in with a gung-ho, change-all attitude is problematic in that the expectation for this type of revolutionary opportunity would be crushed in many cases as this opportunity is not allotted by the workplace. As I have not actively partaken in volunteering and civic engagement prior to coming to NOLA, my enthusiasm for the experience, I felt, was especially pronounced. What I may have been expecting was to walk into New Orleans and be told by my boss, “Andy, we brought you in to make a difference. Go at it.” I was to walk in and be embraced by the open-armed citizens of New Orleans, and to be immediately placed in a position to fix the city during my sojourn. And as I left New Orleans, I could take home a wealth of visual pictures accounting for the change I have directly caused.
In reality, much of the work I have done so far doesn’t provide me the tangible, visual evidence I expected that I have made a difference. It wasn’t until yesterday, in fact, that I actually got my hands dirty (I worked with a bunch of other DukeEngagees and a Catholic charity in New Orleans in gutting a house) and saw the impact of my work in the houses or on the streets of New Orleans. Due to these expectations of mine, it took a little time for me to come to terms with the fact that my work, as indirect, and in some cases unrelated to the hurricane as it is, still offers the city of New Orleans a service it is grateful for. Co-workers of mine and citizens of New Orleans have done, for the most part, a great job at providing me this type of validation I had longed for via a passing comment about the help I am doing or even a “Thank you.” But there is only so much that can be said about getting the most out of an experience by actively seeking or passively receiving approval and validation from officemates or passersby. At a certain point, the validation has to come from within. It took me time, but achieving this humble realization has allowed me to maximize my experience thus far in New Orleans.
So, all in all, when I look back in time, I could have come into New Orleans with slightly adjusted expectation and with a more open and empathetic approach. Maybe the best thing I can do is to apply these values to future situations. Or perhaps I shall spend the brunt of my final week in New Orleans working to generate 1.21 jigawatts of electricity to run the flux capacitor and go back in time to re-engineer the levees. We’ll just have to see.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Coming to America - Reid Cater
Baseball+ gigantic hot dogs+fireworks+hot summer night = an idyllic American experience. On the night before the Fourth of July I felt like I was sitting right in the schmaltzy, cracker-jack filled heart of Americantown, USA. I could have been sitting in a hundred other American cities having the exact same blissful experience. Except this night the home team was not the Mobile Bay Bears or the Toledo Mudhens, but the New Orleans Zephyrs.
So far our posts (mine included) have focused how culture, climate, and Katrina make New Orleans radically different from our hometowns. Yet, going out to Metarie to see a minor league baseball game reminded me that New Orleans is after all just another American city.
The issue of Americaness for New Orleans and its residents is significant. In the wake of Katrina many of the cries for help focused on how the government could let something like this happen in America to Americans. Our country and our citizens often reach out to others in need around the world, but the priority has always been to help our own first and foremost. This is the reason that the aftermath of Katrina looms larger for most Americans than that of the tsunami which devastated South East Asia. It is also the reason that many were so outraged at the lack of a coordinated response to Katrina.
I do not seek to open the argument on whether Americans are more or less morally obligated to help other Americans in need but I do want to point out that while we all face challenges in relating to the survivors of Katrina, we also have many advantages. We are working with other Americans; people that share our national culture and values. I think that at times we give ourselves too little credit for what we do understand about the people that live here and concentrate too much on the differences. Even something minor like following the same sports is a significant cultural asset. While here I have had the opportunity open several conversations locals on the topic of SEC football. This would be possible were I working Indonesia.
The uniqueness of New Orleans can at times be enchanting, puzzling, depressing, or threatening (sometimes all at once) but I think that we should remember that the sameness of the Crescent City ties us more closely to its citizens than we realize.
So far our posts (mine included) have focused how culture, climate, and Katrina make New Orleans radically different from our hometowns. Yet, going out to Metarie to see a minor league baseball game reminded me that New Orleans is after all just another American city.
The issue of Americaness for New Orleans and its residents is significant. In the wake of Katrina many of the cries for help focused on how the government could let something like this happen in America to Americans. Our country and our citizens often reach out to others in need around the world, but the priority has always been to help our own first and foremost. This is the reason that the aftermath of Katrina looms larger for most Americans than that of the tsunami which devastated South East Asia. It is also the reason that many were so outraged at the lack of a coordinated response to Katrina.
I do not seek to open the argument on whether Americans are more or less morally obligated to help other Americans in need but I do want to point out that while we all face challenges in relating to the survivors of Katrina, we also have many advantages. We are working with other Americans; people that share our national culture and values. I think that at times we give ourselves too little credit for what we do understand about the people that live here and concentrate too much on the differences. Even something minor like following the same sports is a significant cultural asset. While here I have had the opportunity open several conversations locals on the topic of SEC football. This would be possible were I working Indonesia.
The uniqueness of New Orleans can at times be enchanting, puzzling, depressing, or threatening (sometimes all at once) but I think that we should remember that the sameness of the Crescent City ties us more closely to its citizens than we realize.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Stay atop the toilets --Cart Weiland
“Hi there, maam, my name is Cart Weiland. I work for a
Yes, the toilets, maam. It’s kind of urgent.
And so began another day in the office. The firm I work for is engaged in a high-profile “green” building project, and I have been assigned to do the bulk of the research regarding eco-friendly building materials that the work requires. Dual-flush toilets apparently use significantly less water than normal ones. Who knew?
But dual-flush toilets and green building supplies in general, I have learned, are considerably more expensive than your everyday, run-of-the-mill ones. And herein lies the problem. As I asked folks about their toilets, my mind wandered. Are we really worrying about the right things here in NOLA? I mean…toilets? Do displaced residents really care if their toilet conserves water? Is the extra money and extra time people are spending on finding solar energy panels, reclaimed lumber, and green roofing really worth the effort? Do long-run benefits really exceed costs?
My first three weeks have taught me that
That’s when the second-guessing started. Eighteen Duke students and I are down here for the summer, but are we accomplishing anything? Should we be down here? We have already fallen into daily and weekly routines (work, work out, eat, go out, sleep), so it is tempting to lose sight of why we are here. I am an intern, and some of the work I do is pretty basic. I make phone calls, build spreadsheets, carry out research, and try to contribute in as many meaningful ways as possible. But I can’t escape the fact that what I do in the office doesn’t feel like anything more than a little three letter word that isn’t particularly noble: a J-O-B.
Before I came down here, I subconsciously said to myself, “I’m going to
I’d like to think that most of us down here are still idealists. “Saving the world” (and New Orleans, specifically) hasn’t yet become an impossible dream of naiveté, but simply a more abstract idea with a million layers of complexity. I will leave
“Hi there, maam, my name is Cart Weiland. I work for a
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Diane- By Dana Stefanczyk
I was starving.
It was Monday, it had been a busy day, and I was ready for lunch. Despite the ominous skies, I decided to run across the street to get something to eat, and planned to bring it back to the office to eat. Yet of course I had just ordered when the heavens opened up, something I have now learned to expect from NOLA. Well, I was starving, and since I didn’t feel like an afternoon shower, I sat down by myself in the crowded café.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
A woman stood in front of me, tray in hand.
“Nope, not waiting for anyone.”
She sat down. She told me that she had planned on taking lunch to go and eating at her desk, but didn’t want to go out in the rain either. I smiled, told her I had planned to do the same, and went back to concentrating on my food, content to get lost in my own thoughts. As we sat there in the slightly uncomfortable silence, one thought persisted: “This is DukeEngage...am I engaged?” I chose to engage myself.
“So what do you do?”
I learned that Diane works in a nearby LSU clinic, and is a New Orleans native. She was here during the storm, but soon evacuated to stay with relatives in Texas. She came back five weeks later when she had power again, and has stayed because of her job and her husband’s job. I was surprised by her pessimism-as soon as her husband retires, Diane plans to leave the city. As a health care worker, she had spoken to many people who had left during Katrina, found a better life somewhere else, and decided there wasn’t enough here for them to return to. There isn’t enough for Diane to stay.
Two years after Katrina, the city is far from fixed. And the sad reality is that before the storm, things weren’t perfect either. In a meeting last week, the health department discussed problems in the city that lead to problems in health care. The long list included issues such as transportation, education, and “voter apathy.” With such basic infrastructure in disarray, how can there be any hope?
I had heard somewhere that after Katrina there was the question of whether it was even worth it to rebuild, and sometimes I still ask myself that question. Many have found better lives elsewhere, and if another hurricane comes, who knows what state the city will be left in? I have seen many sides of NOLA- it’s beauty, history, spirit, destitution, poverty. Something made people come back. Somehow, for some reason, they came back. Diane, though reluctantly, came back. And after living here, I know that at some point in my life, I too will come back.
It was Monday, it had been a busy day, and I was ready for lunch. Despite the ominous skies, I decided to run across the street to get something to eat, and planned to bring it back to the office to eat. Yet of course I had just ordered when the heavens opened up, something I have now learned to expect from NOLA. Well, I was starving, and since I didn’t feel like an afternoon shower, I sat down by myself in the crowded café.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
A woman stood in front of me, tray in hand.
“Nope, not waiting for anyone.”
She sat down. She told me that she had planned on taking lunch to go and eating at her desk, but didn’t want to go out in the rain either. I smiled, told her I had planned to do the same, and went back to concentrating on my food, content to get lost in my own thoughts. As we sat there in the slightly uncomfortable silence, one thought persisted: “This is DukeEngage...am I engaged?” I chose to engage myself.
“So what do you do?”
I learned that Diane works in a nearby LSU clinic, and is a New Orleans native. She was here during the storm, but soon evacuated to stay with relatives in Texas. She came back five weeks later when she had power again, and has stayed because of her job and her husband’s job. I was surprised by her pessimism-as soon as her husband retires, Diane plans to leave the city. As a health care worker, she had spoken to many people who had left during Katrina, found a better life somewhere else, and decided there wasn’t enough here for them to return to. There isn’t enough for Diane to stay.
Two years after Katrina, the city is far from fixed. And the sad reality is that before the storm, things weren’t perfect either. In a meeting last week, the health department discussed problems in the city that lead to problems in health care. The long list included issues such as transportation, education, and “voter apathy.” With such basic infrastructure in disarray, how can there be any hope?
I had heard somewhere that after Katrina there was the question of whether it was even worth it to rebuild, and sometimes I still ask myself that question. Many have found better lives elsewhere, and if another hurricane comes, who knows what state the city will be left in? I have seen many sides of NOLA- it’s beauty, history, spirit, destitution, poverty. Something made people come back. Somehow, for some reason, they came back. Diane, though reluctantly, came back. And after living here, I know that at some point in my life, I too will come back.
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