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.