//// Houses, once Homes, in New Orleans ////

//// Lay Rotting in the Sun ////

//// Bad Levees, Katrina, the Failure of FEMA ////

//// Everywhere Ghost Towns, No One //// 

Okay, maybe if them Good ol’ Boys had just driven their Chevy instead of their Hyundai, the levees would have been dry when New Orleans, like so many other areas in the Gulf Region, got slammed then dunked by last year’s hurricanes.  Or maybe if government officials had heeded the doomsaying engineer’s report that the levee’s design was inherently faulty, history may have taken another course.  Well, that’s all water over the bridge (levee) now.

My daughter, Caroline, invited me to accompany her on a mission-trip to New Orleans that was being sponsored by the Swarthmore Presbyterian Church.  I have a lot of experience in certain areas of construction, so I thought maybe I could make myself useful, plus this trip might serve as a great father-daughter experience that we could share together.  Our group went through all the necessary trip-preparation rituals, but I don’t believe anyone involved actually knew what to expect once we arrived in New Orleans.

I had not heard much, if anything at all, about how the reconstruction of New Orleans or other afflicted areas was proceding (Apparently, I had not been tuning into NPR regularly enough).  I knew that FEMA had been dispatched to bring order in the face of disaster, relieve the basic needs of the victims, and eventually restore these wonderful, historic areas to a close facsimile of their original countenance.  Since last year’s hurricane Katrina is no longer Newsreporter’s Candy, it is not surprising that I incorrectly assumed that reconstruction was in its last phase.  I believed that all that relief money that people around the nation and the world had donated, plus promises to see the reconstruction through from our National Government, must certainly have greatly boosted progress.  Gee Whiz, almost a full year has past by since their brush with Armageddon; No news is good news, right?  Unless you are somehow directly or indirectly affected by a disaster, it is a simple matter to put on blinders for such depressing events, especially when no longer newsworthy.  Luckily, geographical-distance and the struggles of individual daily-agendas help shield a person from the pain and misfortune of others.   Perhaps, only when our soul finally leaves us to join the singularity of all souls do we truly become ubiquitously empathetic.

As we made our descent towards the New Orleans Airport, I noted that many of the houses below had a reflective blue roof.  It appeared to me that these were newly-built houses that FEMA had gratiously provided with a solar-paneled rooftop.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, neither the airport nor the drive to the John Calvin Presbyterian Church in Metairie where we were to stay during our mission trip.  Shortly after arrival, we met our host, Richard Maag, who turned out to be one of those wonderful people you’ll never forget.  He, himself, was a victim of hurricane Katrina, his home destroyed.  Amazingly, he somehow had the physical and spiritual energy to get his own affairs in order, then he dedicated himself to helping others to do the same.  Richard has arranged to have the grand banquet hall that adjoins his congregation’s church appropriated to accomodate mission groups as well as its normal intended usage.  This building includes numerous private rooms adequate for communal sleeping, a full commercial kitchen, and a couple of showers as well.

Early the next morning, we all piled into the three vans we had rented, along with our personal tools, demolition/cleanup equipment, and wheelbarrows perched precariously up on the roof rack.  Richard led us due east towards the “other side of the tracks”.  At the point where you could witness the diligent rebuilding of a levee by the Army Corps of Engineers, the illusion of normalcy quickly vanished.  But it took awhile to really grasp the whole picture of what we were driving through. There was the Pizza Hut that was adorned by various vines growing out of its windows.  Oh! And then there were those memorable scenes where an automobile or boat found some unusual resting place, or a portion of a building was MIA.  Sure there were mountains of construction debris and people’s ruined belongings in front of some of the houses we passed.  There were quite a few of those blue roofs I’d seen in the airplane, which turned out to be huge blue tarpaulins that had been installed as temporary roofing.  But, interestingly, the majority of the houses and businesses we passed by had no apparent damage at all.  We proceded to drive a number of miles toward the first house Richard had prearranged to be gutted.  The main roads we traveled had two lanes with a divider, but, aside from an occasional construction vehicle, these signifcant thoroghfares were completely barren.  Most of the traffic signals were down.  As I was soon to discover, despite all the donated money and government promises and elapsed time, the vast majority of the hardest-hit areas STILL have not had any utility services reinstated: no power, no water, no communication, NOTHING WHATSOEVER!  How on earth does reconstruction commence and restoration occur without the availability of utility services, which are initially helpful to trade contractors and invaluable to the owners?  Last I heard, these services are necessities, not mere conveniances, for both residental and commercial propriety.

We turned onto a side residential road, where many of the front yards were adorned with massive heaps of debris, then finally pulled up to our designated house.  It was one of those houses, like so many of those we had passed on the way in, that outwardly appeared to have weathered out the storm pretty well.  Other than a couple of guys working on the roof next door, there wasn’t a person in sight. This area made me think of both Dresden and a ghost town, all in one.  The front of each house had been spray-painted with a large X and notations within each quadrant.  Richard explained to us that this was the handywork of FEMA, and it symbolized the inspection date, inspector identification, and both the number of dead people and their pets that they had discovered during their initial inspection.  I didn’t require Richard’s knowledge to interpret the huge blood-red message the neighbor across the street had spray-painted on his garage overhead door:  “Looters will be shot on sight.”   I’ll bet in the darkness of night, this place could give anyone the creeps!

Once we entered our designated house, I immediately retracted my preconceived notion that many of the homes had somehow escaped the wrath of the storm.  Perhaps, not even a bit of lamb’s blood applied to your front door would have allowed the raging storm and the deluge of floodwaters to pass over.  All of the interior finishes were still damp from their soaking nearly a year prior and were heavily blackened by mold.  Another mission group had previously initiated the work on this house, so few of the owner’s personal belongings were still inside.  But what remained told the story: the extended soaking and subsequent mold infestation not only completely ruined walls, ceilings, floors, and electrical systems, but also rendered personal items, furniture, and appliances unsalvagable.  The second and the third house that our group worked on provided us with a better sense of the personal losses suffered by their owners.  These houses were still virgin, the rotting furniture and personal items strewn about like flotsam and jetsom, layed to rest.  Caroline had us all chip in, and she purchased a photo-album, which she gave to the owners of the second house so that they could start a new collection of memories.  They accepted it with teary eyes, and took a group photograph of us to be displayed on its first page.

So what happened to all the displaced residents of this vast ravaged region they still consider home?  Some found family outside of the area to take them in; some had an insurance company that actually did more than look for loopholes to avoid compensating their policy-holders; some were lucky enough to receive a trailer from FEMA for temporary-housing, though apparently that promise from the government was quietly dropped to provide more funding for our imperialistic political-agendas in Iraq (it is no wonder tee-shirts for sale in the French Quarter sport slogans like “FEMA: a new four-letter curse word” and “FEMA: make levees, not war”); and, last, there are those left and forgotten.  One afternoon,while driving with Richard out to the first worksite to retrieve the wheelbarrows, we had chosen an alternate route that brought us by a sizeable complex of Section-Eight housing.  The most unusual aspect of this was that, within this virtual ghost town, there were actually residents present outside the entrance to this housing complex, standing on the median-strip and passively demonstrating something.  Richard filled me in; these individuals were evicted from this Section-Eight housing complex because of storm damage, and they were simply plying the government to allow them back in so they would at least have a roof over their heads.  I suppose that these individuals certainly fall into the last category, those left and forgotten.  Hey! But at least we got Bin La…..Ooops, Sadam!

Our group’s nineteen individuals, fifteen teenagers and four adults, worked very hard to make a difference in the lives of just four victims.  All were very greatful for our efforts; it’s not like we rebuilt their homes and jumpstarted their former lives, but I think that simply clearing their homes of all those black, rotting memories gave them a fresh start, psycologically purging the depression inherent with having your life turned upside-down.  Despite everything these fellow Americans had gone through, they were universally in high spirits.  Inexplicably, there is still hope to be found in New Orleans.  God, amongst many other things, gave us extremes such as high and low, hot and cold, happy and sad, good and evil, and everything in between.  Without an opposing extreme, how can we appreciate anything?  Even when despair reigns, God is still omnipresent, maybe seemingly more so than when everything is cushy and comfortable.

Each evening at the church, we held a group session that included time for individuals to share their personal reflections on any given topic regarding our mission trip.  During our final evening’s group session, when prompted with the question, “Why did we come here to do this work?”, following a numerous series of positive responses, one astute young woman brought us all back to reality (paraphrased) : “Despite all of our efforts, we only bared the insides of two houses, and cleared the furnishings and appliances from a third house.  It’s not like we restored their home for them or anything.  And there are a kajillion more houses out there that still haven’t been touched yet.  FEMA has dropped the ball, and now only the churches are working towards restoration.  Students, like us, can only come to help out when we don’t have school, and parents are working all the time and don’t have a ton of money, so it’s not like they’re jumping on a plane to come down here and donate their time anytime soon.  To tell you the truth, it feels like what we did was essentially worthless, don’t you agree?”  Granted, reality like this can be tough stuff, especially after having just expended every ounce of energy we could muster to complete our designated assignments on time. After our group session, now having had time to digest her retort, I confronted her.  I responded to her query by first accepting the truth of her words, then rebounded with something like “Although the work that we accomplished was, justifiably, merely a drop in an oversize bucket, it IS a drop nevertheless.  Albeit it takes a lot of drops to fill this bucket, it’s better to have a few than none at all.  Better a bucket half-full than half-empty; one person feels assured that it will continue to fill until full because they have faith that others will respond to the call as well, whereas another person might tend put the enormity of the task upon their own shoulders and simply become depressed by the futility of it all.  Your choice.”  I think this helped a little?

During group session the day prior, another thought-provoking question came up, “What does this trip do for you personally?”  The responses generally centered around the warm feeling or brief adrenaline rush that one tends to have after being exalted by admiring parents, friends, and the victims themselves for our uncompensated labors.  Note that not only did we receive heartful appreciation from the owners of the houses we worked on, but also from more than a few local citizens of Metairie who, after seeing us at the end of a work day, tarred and feathered by sweat, crumbly construction crud, and moldy muck, stepped forward to give us a verbal pat on the back.  No one can deny the truth of this point of view, but I had more to add when it came my turn to contribute to this discussion.  I believe that any personal benefit derived from other people’s favorable reaction to our direct or indirect contributions toward those in need of help, falls in shadow to a much larger theme.  Our world was gifted to us, not pasteurized and homogenized, but richly abundant in variety, both good and bad. One person is fortunate that she is born to a loving family in a country benefitted by a bounty of natural resources, where another has the misfortune that he is born to a family beseiged by AIDS in a country deprived of natural resources and without any foreseeble hope for a better future; a wonderful, well-loved person is suddenly and inexplicably taken from us, yet another, who harbors evil towards others, is left untouched; without divine intervention, it seems improbable that anyone could ever rise above the wrath of fortune’s roulette-wheel.  I believe that, although we are all different because of our nationality, our standard of living, our beliefs, and our personal preferences, we are all still members of a unified-whole, mystical and nebulous in nature, but somehow distinctly real.  Regardless of our origin or state-of-affairs, life both allows situations where we are in need of something and are hopeful for help, and, conversely, allows opportunities to give back to the unified whole, whether it be a gift of gold from an overendowed king’s chest or the pleasure of music from a poor boy’s drum.  Personal pleasure that is derived from other people’s appreciation of our good deeds is not the main issue at all, but simply a pleasant side-effect of our inherent duty to give something back to the unified-whole.  I feel that this obligation is in line with God’s Will, and when I am given the opportunity to give something back, my pleasure gained by helping satisfy one of God’s interests far exceeds anything gained corporeally.  I did not always see things this way…

As a teenager, I balked anytime I was asked to contribute something of myself unless there had been provision for some sort of compensation or trade-off.  My metamorphosis of thought in this regard began on a shivering cold New Year’s Eve when I was nineteen years old.  My good friend, Nick, and I were traveling up New Jersey Interstate I-295, just after twilight, in search of some reknowned nightclub that Nick had been to once before and believed would provide a great place for us to celebrate the holiday.  All was going smoothly until, suddenly, Nick had to contend with a car gone runamuck.  One of his car’s tires had blown out, then, almost immediately, was torn away from its rim.  Nick had been driving about 75 miles-an-hour, but somehow he fought the car’s apparent desire to both flip and spin, and he safely delivered us to shoulder of the road.  We popped open the trunk only to find that his recently-aquired used car had a jack, but neither a tire-iron nor a spare tire.  We had no cell phone and only enough money to cover a few gallons of gas, the nightclub’s cover-charge, and a couple bottles of beer.  And by the complete lack of light emminating from the surounding countryside, we were obviously somewhere between Podunk and Nowhere.  Maybe because this was a holiday, not one of the cars whizzing by us turned out to be a state trooper’s car, so by around nine-oclock we’d pretty much given up hope and were prepared to sleep in the car, with plans to occasionally turn on the engine to help thwart the wickedly cold temperature outside.  Interestingly, it was just at that point where we gave up pursuing the possibility of getting out of there that evening that an old junker car diverted off the highway and eased up behind Nick’s car.  Inside were a middle-aged, comical-looking couple: the driver was obviously a very tall man, thin as a rail, and his wife beside him was short and, I’m pretty sure, wider than tall.  They asked if they could be of assistance, and we were quick to accept.  We asked if, perhaps, they could lend us their tire-iron, then give us a lift to the next exit so that we might be able to find a gas station and purchase a new tire.  They insisted that they see us through our ordeal.  We traveled for countless miles searching exits off of the highway for an open service-station, but had no luck.  Nick and I suggested that they drop us off anywhere so that they could get on with their evening together, but their resolve to do whatever they could to to help us was very strong, and, admittedly, we had no clue where we were at this point.  Unbeknownst to us, sometime during our drive, through what I am pretty sure was a fair-sized portion of eastern New Jersey, the Ball was dropped in New York City.  Later, about an hour into the New Year, we found a service-station that was open on the New Jersey Turnpike, and they actually had a tire that would fit the rim we’d been hauling all over the place.  The only problem was that, since they were not tire-dealers and only kept tires for emergency situations, the cost of the tire was about twice that offered somewhere else, so it turned out that our combined money was grossly insufficient.  Our two ‘Strangels’ briefly confered, then announced not to worry; they would cover the balance, which turned out to be more than half the cost of the tire.  They refueled their car while we waited for the new tire to be installed.  Soon we were all on our way, and we reached Nick’s car somewhere between two and three in the morning.  They again shared their tire-iron so that we could reinstall the tire.  At this point, we didn’t even know what to say; these people had given up their entire night together to drive two complete strangers around for over five hours at their own cost, then paid the balance of the new tire’s cost as well.  Before they left, we insisted that we’d like to exchange phone numbers and addresses so that we could pay them back, at least for their expenses anyway.  The tall man replied, “Repayment is not neccessary.  But the next time you see someone or know of someone who would truly benifit from your assistance, pass this same good will over to them, then ask them to pass it on, as well.  And with that they both got back into their car wearing angelic smiles and drove away.  For the next thirty years or so, opportunities did in fact present themselves on numerous occasions where I was able to come to the assistance of distressed persons and give something back to the unified whole of the human spirit.  Take those damn blinders off and pass it on, just keep passing it on! 

Well, that evening at group session, needless to say, I delivered a much shorter version of this story.  I think they liked it. You throw mud at the wall; sometimes it sticks, but sometimes it doesn’t.  Most importantly though, sometimes it does.