Aftermath

Last weekend, I met up with some old friends in New Orleans. Our "mancation" in the French Quarter was filled with the level of debauchery we expected of ourselves, and yet, I can't say that I left town with completely positive feelings.

Our New Orleans friends had asked about taking us on a "Katrina tour". I was reluctant, remembering all those asshole disaster tourists who flocked to the World Trade Center site after 9/11 to snap photos and pose in front of the epicenter of the worst event of my lifetime. But it was important to my local friends, so off we went.

First off, let me say that I had been through the Lower 9 ^th Ward before Katrina, and was never impressed with its aesthetic. To say that it looks worse now is a horrendous understatement. It used to look like a poor neighborhood and had sections that were stereotypically "ghetto". Today that would be a vast improvement.

As bad as the Lower 9^th was and is, at least the media has done an adequate job of reporting on the area. What I had not heard anything about was an area in which several of my friends lived – just east of the 9 ^th in St. Bernard Parish.

My friends lived in a town called Chalmette, only 8 miles or so from downtown New Orleans. It was a middle- to upper-middle class neighborhood. Homes sold for $175 - $400,000, which in that part of the country, equates to a lot more than it does within 10 miles of most major American cities.

Today, the neighborhood looks worse than any place I've seen in my limited travels through the Third World. Most homes are empty, many are gutted, nearly all are for sale (asking price $30-$45,000). Contractors are charging 10 times their pre-Katrina rates, and the few people who are trying to rebuild on their own live in FEMA trailers parked on the front lawn. About 1 in 20 houses have been rebuilt, and it is incredibly disarming to see a beautiful home and landscaped yard surrounded by run down messes, weeds and the absence of life or activity.

I saw a home in which the garage had collapsed on itself, with the family car still inside. A year and a half after the storm, and this station wagon hasn't been touched – except by whomever shattered the back window to grab whatever could be found inside.

We drove past a beautiful long wall with antique features and wrought iron fencing that was to serve as the border for a new gated community. Only the model had been built and it was gorgeous – large but modest, extravagant but tasteful – with the entire property bordering one of the levees. Needless to say, no construction has taken place since the storm. The fence and model still stand strong, mocking the desolation of the hundreds of bare acres that surround them.

As bad as it was, things have gotten better recently. My friend told me that large piles on debris (two stories high and spread out over a plot or two of land) had been removed just this month, finally helping some of the stench to clear. Most of the worst and most physically dangerous properties had finally been demolished. And yet, most folks haven't gotten more than $4,500 (from the government or insurance companies) to rebuild their lives.

After the storm, my friends let me know that they were all OK and I was never truly concerned about them again. Not only did they fail to tell me about their house being destroyed, but they also didn't tell me about the aftermath. Last weekend, they told me (and showed photos) about their "commandeering" of a boat and riding it up and down the streets ferrying people to shelters and supplies back into town. They told me about the guns pointed at their heads, and the guns they had to point at other people. They told me about the woman with MS who could not be moved, so they flew emergency flags that were ignored by dozens of passing helicopters. They told me about the guy who trudged around in a chef's coat for three days because he had no other clothes. They told me about siphoning gasoline from any source to help keep their boat powered as long as possible.

Needless to say, I was floored.

I hadn't been able to talk, write or really think about everything I saw until this minute – five days after my "tour". It is bad down there – still…and I don't know how anyone could hold onto any optimism. But somehow they do. I asked my friend's dad what one thing people need – not a billion dollars, but something tangible – and he said "nails". Their community is gone, and he wants nails?!? Can you imagine?

You have to drive down the street in this "good neighborhood" with your doors locked AND gun chambered in your lap. There were FOUR policemen working last Thursday in one of the towns. The streets are riddled with potholes – and those are the good blocks.

I don't know who is doing anything, and I don't know what I expect this rant to do. I simply needed to write down what I saw and remind people that we all share a responsibility to care. I've never seen anything worse (I still refuse to visit Ground Zero) and would selfishly hope I never have to again…except such sights are a fact of life for people I care about.

Something has to be done. Any ideas?