Hurricane Katrina Recovery Team Journals: Alison Roy - Disaster Shakti - Multicultural Center for Research and Practice - Antioch University New England

Hurricane Katrina Recovery - Team Journals

Katrina Recovery Team from Antioch
Left to Right: Anders Goranson, Claire Dunnett, Stephanie Miller, Kate Airey, Alison Roy, Vanessa Partridge, Michael Brodeur.

Photo slideshow 1
Photo slideshow 2

March 8, 2006
Katrina Note, Alison Roy

I knew I was nervous about this trip and had reservations from the moment I contacted Anders about it. I had no idea how nervous I was until the night before when my mom discovered I had hives covering my neck and arms. How would we be received? We were a predominately white middle class group of intellectuals from New Hampshire, who could be more removed? How could we really do anything, feel anything, make a difference when we had been so distant before, during, and after the storm? My hope was that this would be a life changing experience for us all in some way. No matter how cliché it sounds, it turns out that’s exactly what it was.

Immediately upon arriving at the Center of Jesus the Lord we began to understand exactly what southern hospitality means. Dawnelle, the woman who runs the retreat part of the Center, was courteous and polite and made sure we knew the history of the retreat, and that we were comfortable before leaving us to explore Bourbon Street. We were able to sample some of the local cuisine favorites such as alligator, poh-boys, catfish, jambalaya, hush puppies, and red beans and rice; we can’t say enough about the food of New Orleans. Just as a side, New Orleans is pronounced Nawlins, got to love to southern accent.

We were happy to absorb the jazz and Mardi Gras culture that seemingly still brought the French Quarter to life. It was like being in a protective bubble; as if someone was saying you just landed in this destroyed city, let us show you what we were made of, let us protect you from the ugly, the sad, and the dead. We had to remind ourselves that the French Quarter was part of the 20% of New Orleans that was not flooded. We were seeing the survivors; the restaurants and bars and souvenir stores that survived Katrina and the levees. What we didn’t know was that the destruction we had seen from the highway driving into N.O. was nothing like what we would be experiencing in the next few days.

March 9, 2006
Katrina Note, Alison Roy

We landed on a Wednesday, and on Thursday we visited Hotel Monte Leone and its people. Hotel Monte Leone is the only family owned hotel left in the nation and it housed some of its employees during Katrina and continues to house them currently. We were able to meet Monique, the head of human resources, and Laekecia, a mental health counselor working with the hotel. They set us up with hotel employees who were willing to tell us their story. We talked to six hotel workers who were of various races, genders, and socioeconomic statuses.

I have a hard time expressing verbally, and with written words, what I heard that day at the hotel, and how it made me feel. Even though it sounds cliché, the experience was eye-opening and life changing and I have made a promise to myself to never use those terms loosely ever again. I have my notes on what the people said - we all do - and we do have video documentation, but no matter how many times I review this information I cannot figure out how to make it understandable for people who weren’t there. I will have to accept that what we experienced as Disaster Shakti will always be a unique experience, not one that is fully shared with friends and loved ones.

There were some overwhelming themes from the day, things that were discussed by more than one person. I think what I would like to do here is to list in a seemingly chaotic way some common themes that kept surfacing.

The people of New Orleans do not want to play the blame game anymore, not with FEMA, not with the federal government, not with the state government. They are fed up in general, especially with their insurance companies. Through this theme of frustration there is one of hope, faith, and empathy. I believe that every person we talked to stated that they did not have it as bad as the next person. I found myself being overwhelmed by the empathy that existed among them. How could an individual, a culture, who had lost everything still feel as though there was someone out there who had it worse? How could they bind together and find their community and their village when so many people in their own country had forgotten about them.

Another common theme was that of faith. I do not consider myself to be religious. I am a protestant, I am an Episcopalian, but I do not consider myself to be overwhelmingly religious, and yet I understood and appreciated and respected their faith because it was just that, a faith. It was a faith in something greater, it was a faith that this was not the end, it was a faith in having their families alive and okay, it was separate from their religion.

One of the themes may help outsiders understand why the people of N.O. didn’t evacuate when they knew the storm was coming. This is the theme of 40 years of storms. These people have endured storms and false alarms for 40 years. This area is always being told that the big one is coming and to evacuate, if they did every time they would spend their lives displaced. They mentioned that they had survived Ivan and Betsy, and they really had no interest in leaving this time. However, now they all say that next time they will leave, no questions asked. Also, very importantly, the people of N.O. consider what happened during Katrina to be a manmade disaster, not a natural disaster. The levees were made by man, the levees were neglected by man, and man’s levees failed.

I would like to include the words of the people we talked to, this is the only way I can begin to portray what we saw and heard.

“I cursed the grass all summer, but now I miss having grass to mow”

“I have to sit to take a shower, and my feet hang off the end of my bed in my FEMA trailer but I don’t care because that trailer gives me my independence back.”

“Everything was dead. The trees were dead. The grass was dead. There was this smell…”

“I remember being in my neighborhood right after and having 2 hours to pick out what was most important to me, how do you pick out what is most important to you in 2 hours? Then going outside after and seeing everyone’s possessions lining the street, 2 to 3 blocks long, things just lined up, everything you have accumulated.”

“Y’all get to see it and turn it off, but we live it.”

“It is starting over from A-Z; from q-tips to your most valued possessions.”

“You spend 30 years of on time payments for mortgage and insurance but now they say they can’t help you. You are never secure, not in America, not with insurance.”

“You are now starting to see ice cream and bananas in the grocery stores and it begins to dawn on you that you haven’t had ice cream or bananas in months.”

“I remember standing in line for bread and thinking this is America, this is the greatest country in the world and we can’t even get bread down here to our own people?”

March 10, 2006
Katrina Note, Alison Roy

On Friday we became a part of Common Ground, a grassroots organization who is helping to do demo work and clean-up in the upper and lower 9th wards. This organization is mostly run and fueled by college undergraduate students who work during breaks or by taking some time off from school. Driving to Common Ground we began to get a better idea of the extent of the devastation which we still had not seen (The hotel was also in the French Quarter/Financial District). The upper and lower 9th wards are approximately 30-40 city blocks each and 80-90% are houses that were owned by the occupant, most of which were African Americans. The upper 9th ward houses were mostly still standing but had been filled with approximately 4 feet of water for a significant amount of time. This made the whole area smell of mold and decay. It was overwhelming to drive block after block and see houses that were skeletons of their former self. I talked to one woman who was working in one of the souvenir shops and she put it so well, &lquo;Its like a funeral with an open casket, you don’t want to remember the person dead, you want to remember them alive and well and full of life and memories, but you have no choice but to stare at the corpse. This is how I felt when I saw my house, life I was staring at a corpse, there was no life there.”

We arrived at Common Ground and attended their daily morning meeting and then we were split into groups. Disaster Shakti got its own group and leader and quickly moved on to getting suited up. I remember laughing when I read the requirements for equipment for house demo before coming down to N.O. A respirator, honestly what would I need that for? Little did I know that I would be fitted for my very own respirator, tyvex hasmat suit, two layers of work gloves, goggles, and knee high rubber boots. All this equipment was fun and entertaining for the first 15 minutes (see pictures) but when we got into the house and doing work in the 85 degree 100% humidity weather it was no longer fun. We found we had a hard time breathing and a hard time seeing through the goggles. Demo was hard work, and there was no electricity and no running water so going to the bathroom during demo was hard work too. What was hardest though was complaining while doing it knowing that the people you were doing it for had been through so much, including going days without being able to go to the bathroom in sanitary conditions.

The home owner was a Black woman approximately in her 60’s. Thelma was right there with us trying to remove what she could from the house and instructing us to “just get rid of it all, it’s all ruined”. As one team member observed, she had already said her goodbyes. At one point Thelma left the clean up and walked over to her church, “I’ve still got to serve my church community dinner”. I was amazed that someone who had gone through so much and had every right to be selfish was taking time to serve others. Like most homeowners, Thelma was not living in her house now but instead with friends nearby. She came by when she could to work with relief workers to clean out her property. We learned that most residents, who work during the week as far away as Texas and other displacement areas, come back to N.O. during the weekend to do what they can on their houses.

Inside the house we could see the water line which was about at my shoulders. From the water line down there was a thick thick mold that had just taken over in the heat and humidity. It was an amazing display of blues and greens and black and stood about a half inch off the wall surface. There was still stagnant water in some of the cabinets, and the carpets were still wet. We little by little took out flooring, removed molding, busted through drywall, and got down to only the outside walls.

We were all struck by the thought, “should this house even be saved?” We quickly realized that the studs and outside walls had experienced the water rot as well. Termites and cockroaches fell from the plaster with every sledgehammer hit. But I had to look beyond the destruction, beyond the mold and see the beauty of the house, the beauty of Thelma’s house. The original fire places in every room, the French doors, the cathedral ceilings, and the chandelier that Thelma had made herself. I am still divided in how I feel about house demo and whether or not they should completely take down the houses and start over, but at least I know Thelma’s story, and her house’s story to form a more educated opinion.

March 11, 2006
Katrina Note, Alison Roy

On Saturday we were accompanied by Dr. Z, a local psychologist to the lower 9th ward. This is the area that was widely shown on television because this is where a barge broke loose and damaged the levee wall causing an 8 foot tidal wave to come down on the neighborhood. The lower 9th ward is also made of predominately African Americans, 80-90% of which owned their homes. We drove down into some of the worst areas and then we all wanted to get a closer more in depth look so we decided to make it a walking tour. When we got out of the van we realized that we couldn’t go any further for about 15 minutes because there was a rescue team working about 100 feet from us with cadaver dogs. Yes, they are still looking for bodies. Yes, there are still 500 people missing just from the lower 9th area, they think more than 1,000 total. Yes, this is in America.

As we walked around Gargi and Dr. Z stayed on the streets dialoguing about the former lower 9th community. The rest of Disaster Shakti and I walked among the ruble and destruction silently, using our cameras to talk. Mike, armed with the video camera, was the most in depth of the team and actually saw what it was like inside what was left of the homes. As we walked along the ruins we could get an idea of what life was like in these homes. We each saw something that was particularly heart breaking; for some it was a musical instrument, others a cat’s food dish, still others a child’s big wheels, but for me it was a play station controller. It made me think of my brother and brought home the idea that these people may have been a different race or SES or ethnicity but they were humans, they were Americans, and this tragedy could happen anywhere. I no longer felt like the removed New Hampshire intellectual I felt like when I landed, I felt immersed. During our exploration the sound of the pile driver putting a Band-Aid on the levee made a sort of death march that only contributed to the bleak, dark, disorganized movie that was playing out in front of us. That is what it felt like, a movie, a theme ride at an amusement park, a simulated disaster meant for training purposes. This was not our country, our red white and blue. I didn’t feel pride or unity or free, I felt shame and guilt and most of all ignorance.

The homes in the upper 9th may have been skeletons, but in the lower 9th they were bodies that had been hit by land mines. There would be a front walkway and then nothing. There would be front steps framed by only blue sky. There was a metal gate with a mailbox and silk flowers hanging from it but no fence and no home to protect. The homes that were left were for the most part not on their foundations, collapsed, and collided into one another. There were houses on top of cars and cars on top of houses. I kept expecting to see the wicked witch of the east’s legs to be sticking out from under a displaced house; it was a scene from the wizard of oz, but this was no Kansas.

That night Dr. Z took us to his favorite internet café on Magazine Street so we could email pictures and letters to our loved ones and classmates back home. At one point Anders and Stephanie decided that they were going to get some air and take a walk. When they returned they were adorned with beads and bracelets and hats all for St. Patrick’s Day. We had just missed the parade celebrating the holiday and there were still beads blanketing the street. All eight of us (yes even Gargi) decided to make a competition out of it, who could find the rarest and most interesting beads. We looked like fools searching for the ones with the biggest pendants hanging from them but it was a great team building activity and a good laugh after an emotionally challenging day. In case curiosity is your vice, Kate won the bead competition and I suggest asking her what her fabulous set of beads consists of.

March 13, 2006
Katrina Note, Alison Roy

Monday morning we set out from N.O. and headed to Pass Christian Mississippi. We had decided that we were going to stay at the icare village in Waveland Mississippi, normally about 15 minutes from Pass, but a bridge was still out from Katrina. The icare village was basically a few large tents that were divided into rooms and a mess hall. We were sleeping four to a room in two sets of bunk beds, and we were being fed three meals a day. The minute we arrived in Waveland and opened the van doors we realized that the Mississippi coast line was in its gnat season. We were being swarmed by these tiny little flies that slightly resembled our native black flies. This is not a good sign when you know you are going to have to be sleeping in an open air environment.

On the way into Waveland we began to understand more fully the strength of Katrina. N.O. had been hit by the outer lying winds of Katrina, Mississippi had sustained the eye of the storm for -more than 12 hours. There was little debris in Mississippi, mostly there were just cement slabs where some building used to be. If it was a commercial building you could tell what it was from the large sign that was out front such as Days Inn or McDonalds. Even these heavy metal signs were frequently bent close to the ground. I found the McDonalds to be particularly striking. That fast food chain is one of the great American icons. There are McDonalds everywhere and they always symbolize a small reminder of home when one is traveling, even abroad. To see such a huge icon so destroyed really drove the point home. Okay, I thought to myself, I’m beginning to get this now.

The houses were frequently marked by a foundation as well. In lieu of the big metal sign there was often a piece of particle board with the homeowner’s name and address on it. Sometimes they had even put where to contact them now, one read Days Inn in Houston TX. Some of these boards even went on to list the homeowner’s insurance number followed by “please help us Statefarm”. One of the hotel workers had mentioned the Statefarm motto “Like a good neighbor, Statefarm is there” and how ironic it sounded to him now. I’m sure many residents in Mississippi would agree.

Where we were in Mississippi is an area of land that runs from Pass Christian to Biloxi or about 600 miles. This piece of land resembles the Florida Keys in that it is attached to the mainland of Mississippi by only small pieces of land and bridges. On both sides are the Gulf Coast ocean waters, so when Katrina hit it sent tidal waves from both sides. This created a swimming pool of approximately 40 feet of water that was then allowed to whirlpool around for 12 to 13 hours while the storm was raging. When the waters finally did recede they carried with them much of the debris, often leaving no trace of people’s houses and personal belongings. We found many more sea shells than household items.

Monday afternoon we met with a local psychologist who had also lost her house during Katrina. She was living and working out of her FEMA trailer that was stationed on her front lawn. While we were talking with her, her house debris was being removed from her property leaving only her brick front steps (see picture). Talking with the local psychologist and some other residents of Pass Christian made us realize that Katrina had no discrimination for race or SES, Pass Christian was an upper middle class predominately white neighborhood that was completely wiped out during the storm.

One woman told us about viewing her house for the first time after the storm and walking right by it. Her husband had to help her to see the place where she had once raised her young son. This woman and her family were staying just 6 miles north of their house, what a difference a few miles can make.

Another resident told us that she was building a new home right before Katrina hit, and was building it up to the new hurricane code. The house was going to be so many feet above sea level and was built on rebar pillars that were surrounded by cement. After Katrina the only thing left was the rebar and that was bent flat against the ground. Katrina reminded us of the mighty power of water.

The psychologist invited us to attend a case workers meeting for the county on Tuesday morning so we could witness how mental health workers were going to attempt the massive task of taking care of their neighbors.

After arriving at the icare village we got dinner and some of us decided to take a walk along the Gulf Coast right across the street. We began to discuss how uncomfortable we were in the icare village which consisted mostly of undergraduate students who were on their spring break. The community bathrooms were very dirty and overcrowded. Our sleeping corridors were cramped. Not to mention the insect factor. Gargi held a meeting that night because she could sense that we were just not right. We decided it was past due that we discuss our emotions and feelings connected with what we had seen, heard, smelled, and absorbed.

Some were saddened and overwhelmed, others numb. Most shed tears of sadness, frustration, and anger. I found myself finally being able to identify the emotion that had been slowly moving in since we began to experience Katrina’s aftermath, it was anger. I was angry that this could happen in the greatest country in the world. I was angry that it had been six months and seemingly very little had been done. I was angry that more politicians had not seen the real destruction or even paused to hear people’ stories. I was angry that the media had done such a poor job at reporting the truth, I was angry that we could build hospitals and schools and police stations in countries that didn’t necessarily want the United States intruding, and yet so blatantly neglect our fellow citizens. I was angry, and I did not like being an angry person.

Part of me wanted to go back in time to the day before the trip when ignorance was bliss. I vividly remember telling someone before I left “I don’t know if we’ll even get to see any destruction, I don’t think there’s that much left”. Part of me wanted to go back to being the girl that made that statement, and yet part of me was proud to be able to go back to New England and be part of a small group of people who could rightfully talk about the state of N.O. and Mississippi and make my own educated opinions. During the meeting we made the decision that we would only stay in Mississippi Monday night and we would return to N.O. on Tuesday evening.

We attended the case workers meeting the next day and then we decided to drive home along route 90, which runs right along the gulf coast, from Long Beach, Mississippi all the way back to Pass Christian. We tried to imagine the sights and sounds that used to fill the air of this tourist area; the casinos and hotels and water parks and beaches, and most of all the family homes.

We drove and drove and drove and it was all the same, all dead. The mood in the car got increasingly sullen and we became quiet. The radio began to play Johnny Cash’s rendition of a NIN song and we had to stop the van and get out to walk around once more; emotion overcame us. I believe that most striking scene from this walking tour was a set of brick steps that had a piece of particle board leaning up against it that read “Please don’t remove our steps”. The “our” in that statement made the steps come alive with the people who had crossed them a million times a day and sat on them on a cool summer evening. They belonged to someone, some family, and even though they were just another set of lonely steps to us, they were everything to someone else.

There’s No Place like Home, There’s No Place like Home
March 20, 2006

Thursday night we returned home to our respective cities, knowing that we would have to explain our journey to many people. How do you explain something that can only be experienced in person? How do you explain something that people don’t want to hear? How do you tell those people that you love and respect that their country is failing? How do you make them understand?

The group was feeling particularly anxious about having to face our classmates. Thirty people asking you what you did, how you felt was daunting. This was especially true because we had not even fully processed what had happened to us. We were still trying to figure out for ourselves what we had been through and how it was going to change us as Americans, as human beings.

While driving home from Logan I kept expecting to see destruction - mobile homes and cars turned upside down in ditches, debris, and cement foundations. I know my fellow team mates had similar experiences upon arriving in Boston. We had become accustomed to looking at turmoil and devastation. We were also all exhausted and made sure to try to get plenty of sleep prior to going back to school.

Unfortunately we were also all plagued with nightmares. Nightmares of being unsafe, of our homes being destroyed, and of dark foreboding themes in general. We had seen mass devastation in our own country that we were used to only seeing on TV, and our bodies were telling us that we needed to take care of ourselves.

One of my classmates asked me if I felt removed from N.O. again now that I was home. I told him that I don’t. I will always have a connection with N.O. and Mississippi and what happened to them during and after Katrina. Disaster Shakti and I will always be a part of a small group of people from the northeast that actually understand what its like down there, and can make informed decisions and opinions about that area. I know more of the facts. I know some residents. I know the destruction. I know the truth and how that truth makes me feel.

The first few days home were very surreal. One of the Shakti members described it as we were now in an organized environment and that the structure and security was foreign to us. My biggest challenge since I’ve been home has been not only answering questions and explaining myself, but also watching media on the Iraq War.

This morning I was watching Good Morning America and they were doing a story about how the media does not cover the good things that are going on during the war. What about the good things that went on during Katrina? What about covering Katrina cleanup at all? All I could think about was the Iraq War was now going to get even more coverage, and how frustrating that was for me to hear.

Then GMA interviewed some Iraqis who were agitated that the media was also not showing how they didn’t have running or drinkable water, electricity, or neighborhood security. I immediately thought of my new friends in N.O. and Mississippi and how they also didn’t have any of those basic necessities. Maybe the media should look south for answers, but then again maybe people just want domestic problems to disappear. We are the greatest country in the world, how dare you insinuate that we can’t even take care of our own.

I had never thought of comparing the destruction of Katrina to what happened on September 11, 2001 but is that so far fetched? Both happened on America soil to American citizens. Both completely wiped out city blocks and lost lives. But then I thought, September 11th destroyed two city blocks, Katrina thousands.

Yes what happened to NYC was a terrible act but we never forgot about that. The cleanup is complete and the rebuilding has begun. I was mad at myself; I had shed tears for the people that were affected by September 11th but I too had forgotten about the people of Katrina.

The people of NYC had lost their jobs and those they loved but at the end of the day they had a home to go. They had a place to call their own. They had pictures and memories. They could remain New Yorkers. Is it because NYC was an act of terrorism? Is it because we had someone to blame and could go to war with?

Disaster Shakti and I went to New Orleans and Mississippi to bear witness to resident’s stories. These residents, who had lost everything, were incredibly grateful that we were doing just that. They were not begging us to turn back on their electricity or running water, they were appreciative that we were just listening and bringing their story back to an area of the country that has seemingly forgotten Katrina had even happened. My hope is that our work will bring more attention to what is going on in our country. I am blessed and forever in debt to the people and the culture that taught me there is more to life than material possessions and to have faith. I believe that I will be more resilient because of my journey through New Orleans and Mississippi.