“The New Orleans I knew ain't no more.” – Micheal Davis.
This rings true for citizens of New Orleans, Louisiana post-Hurricane Katrina. A few years ago, my mother, a decorative painter who owns and runs the Decorative Painting Apprenticeship Program, took on a project in City Park in New Orleans. City Park is 1000 acres. Every part of the park had damage. There were trees that were over 100 years old that were just uprooted, gone. Every building had upwards of six feet of water.
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| wearing the mask I bought in the French Quarter |
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| at Cafe Beignet |
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| city skyline with my sister |
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| my sister and I with Jane's daughter |
As with the beginning of every project, my mom had to go look at the place so she could begin to plan. She invited my sister and I to come along. Upon our arrival, we went straight to City Park, where she met with the CFO of the park. My sister and I sat together outside of the merry-go-round in shocked silence caused by the devastation surrounding us. Mr. Hopper then led us around the park so we could see the project. It became clear the amount of damage the park had sustained. After City Park, mom’s friend Jane picked us up and drove us around the city. It was then that I saw the Lower Ninth Ward for the first time. It was eerie, to say the least. After talking with Jane, it occurred to us that the only way we could help was to support the economy, so we decided to go out for dinner. That night, in true southern style, Jane opened her home to us. The next morning, we explored the French Quarter, experiencing the wonderful taste of beignets for the first time and doing some tourist shopping in an effort to try to help.
Although the trip was short-lived, it changed the way in which I view the world. It made me realize that it is nearly impossible to experience something until you actually experience it. I had seen the news, read the articles, and heard the stories post-Katrina. None of that prepared me for driving through the Lower Ninth Ward. All I could see were foundations of houses and the occasional still-standing home with encircled numbers spray painted on the front door representing the date of inspection, the number of survivors, and the number of people found dead inside. The people who lived there feared. They feared the government, that if they abandoned their homes for the shimmering hope of survival in the distance, that no one would help them when they returned. At one point while driving through the Ninth Ward, we got out of the car. I stood on the stoop of what once was a home. I felt the desperation; I could smell it. Being there showed me, a then-naïve-sixteen-year-old-private-school girl, to be aware of the bad things in the world and be extra-grateful for the good.
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| a destroyed home in New Orleans |
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| a FEMA trailer |
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| a rare still-standing home in the Lower Ninth Ward |
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| closeup of the plea for help on the home above |
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| a building with its roof torn off |
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| broken dreams |
