On Thursday, November 17, 2005 I boarded a plane for New Orleans without the slightest idea of where I was going or what I was doing.  In May, my friend David DuPlantier, the Dean of Christ Church Cathedral had commissioned in memory of his mother a collection of my Holy Land photographs for the cathedral’s bicentennial.  Emily and I had been invited to New Orleans to celebrate this 200th anniversary when the exhibit was to make its debut.  I had planned to work on it during my sabbatical.  However, on August 28th the world of Christ Church Cathedral and the Diocese of Louisiana was permanently altered as Hurricane Katrina swept through New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. 

Watching this devastating storm and its aftermath on CNN World News in Italy, I thought to myself, “There’s goes that exhibit.”  Putting self-interest aside, I immediately wrote an e-mail of support to my friend David saying, “My thoughts and prayers were with you,  your congregation, your city, and your diocese.”  A few weeks later, I wrote again saying that I assumed the bicentennial celebration had been postponed indefinitely and I would return the commission and send the photographs as a gift if and when they wanted to receive them.  David immediately wrote back to me saying that the bicentennial celebration would not be postponed and he would await my photos.  He even gave some shipping instructions.  However, I never got that email.   Weeks later I wrote back again asking for instructions about how to return the check, and David responded saying, “Send the photos and make reservations to come to New Orleans.”  So like a mad woman, I printed into the wee hours of the morning, ran to the framing store and pleaded for a rush order, and made some plane reservations with my frequent flyer miles.   And on Thursday morning we headed off for the land of Katrina.

A middle-aged man was seated next to me on the flight.  He had lost his home and was living during the week in a trailer on the premises of the oil refinery where he had worked for almost thirty years; his wife was staying with family in Houston.   They had just buried her father who had died in the storm.  As we flew over the city, my seat companion pointed to the temporary blue plastic roofs scattered about the landscape and very quietly said, “This is the part of the commute that makes me sick to my stomach.”  The reality of our journey was beginning to sink in. 

We arrived to a half-empty, dimly lit airport with limited flight schedules, closed shops and restaurants, boarded up doors and windows, and dead potted plants.  We were greeted by a hospitable Southern gentleman named Troy who had ridden out the storm in his house and evacuated after the food in his refrigerator spoiled due to lack of power.  Troy graciously drove us through lightly traveled but heavily damaged streets with no stoplights.  We crossed intersections decorated with hand-made signs advertising home demolition; flood clean-up, hot meals, and roof repair services.

We passed by half-empty malls and shopping centers, abandoned houses and apartment buildings, and boarded up stores, motels, restaurants and office complexes. We saw uprooted trees, three-story high piles of garbage and debris, discarded boats and forsaken automobiles in the middle of the road.  We saw both the infamous Convention Center and Superdome as we cruised through a looted, empty and depressed downtown.  It looked like a bomb had exploded, and it felt like the imagined aftermath of a nuclear disaster.  As we drove through the French Quarter, the Garden District, and Uptown things improved with smaller piles of debris, wind-damaged roofs, vacant houses, and empty refrigerators on the sidewalks.  

Eventually, we found our way to Christ Church Cathedral, located in the heart of the Garden District.  What appeared to be a huge yard sale on the front lawn of the cathedral was actually a distribution center giving away everything under the sun. Several hand-made posters announcing “FREE WATER, HYGENE KITS, AND CLEANING SUPPLIES” flanked the traditional “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You.” sign.

  Canon Stephen Roberts, the smiling, suntanned and yet weary looking clergy organizer of this massive relief effort, welcomed and directed us inside to the Dean’s office.

Lining the hallways were boxes upon boxes of more supplies.  It certainly didn’t look like an Episcopal cathedral about to celebrate his 200th anniversary. 

My friend David was sitting at his desk in blue jeans and a t-shirt simultaneously answering phone calls, text messaging on his Blackberry, signing hand-written thank you notes, and talking with reporters from the Episcopal News Service.  Also in his office were officials from Episcopal Relief and Development preparing to announce to the media a $3.1 million grant for the Diocese raised from the generous donations of Episcopalians around the country.  We hugged David’s neck and handed over additional checks, including one from Trinity Cathedral.

 

As we were talking, a weary but gracious bishop walked into the Dean’s office, sat down, and exclaimed:  “We got into the 9th Ward today.”  He then proceeded to tell us about what he had seen and heard in that devastated part of the city.  More news reporters interrupted us.

That evening, Emily and I sat in the second row for one of the most amazing concerts I have ever heard in my life.  Irvin Mayfield, the acclaimed trumpeter, cultural ambassador, and founding artistic director of the New Orleans Jazz Orchestra, had been commissioned by the Cathedral to compose and perform “All the Saints,” a jazz tribute in honor of New Orleans.

  This amazing composition, written in the aftermath of Katrina, consisted of nine movements presented in three parts:  a jazz funeral, a memorial service, and a celebratory procession that took the city from death to rebirth.  The cathedral was packed, and the concert was being recorded for future broadcast.  People wept as Irvin and his best friend played a horn and piano duet of “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” in honor of his father who was still missing from the storm; his father was confirmed dead a few days later.  The audience clapped their hands as they listened to the “Ninth Ward Blues” and nodded in affirmation as the musicians chanted, “People of the City, better get to higher ground.”  The crowd rose to its feet waving handkerchiefs in the air as the performance culminated in the traditional second line parade.  This group of displaced musicians played their hearts out for a city of displaced persons.  And the foundations of the cathedral rocked and swayed to the healing sound of traditional New Orleans jazz.

The next morning, Emily and I were escorted on a “Katrina” tour by Roger Allen, a newly ordained priest in the diocese whose own home had been destroyed by the floodwaters.  Explaining what we were seeing and answering all of our questions with first-hand knowledge, Roger drove us for four solid hours through his devastated city.   

Stopping in front of a typical, suburban ranch house in an abandoned middle-class neighborhood, Roger asked, “Would you like to see the inside of my home?”  He then handed us facemasks and we walked into a house that had been flooded up to the ceilings.  There were all of his and his wife’s earthly belongings rotting in piles of mold and mildew.  Everything had floated everywhere.  Looking up, Roger explained, “I had eight feet of water in here, and I only have eight foot ceilings.” 

When we walked into his study, he glanced around the room and said, “Somewhere in here are my diplomas and ordination certificates, and I think my seminary hood is in that pile.”  I looked down on the floor and found a seminary graduation photo of Roger and his wife.

  I picked it up and handed it to him, and he whispered, “I think I’ll save it with a few other things,” and gingerly placing in on the kitchen shelf next to a few broken ceramic bowls.   

We then walked into their bedroom and he said, “This is my wife’s closet.”  Emily looked inside at all the rotting clothes and started to cry thinking that this was like coming home after the funeral.  Leaving the house, Roger pointed at a wall and observed, “You know I never noticed all the interesting colors and beautiful shapes of mold.”  One of us asked about insurance, and Roger replied, “We were renting with an option to buy so we had a tenant’s policy.  They gave us $1000 for the contents of our refrigerator.  The rest was flood damage and was not covered by insurance.  We never expected our house to flood.  We’ve not in a flood zone, but the canal wall broke and…” and his voice trailed off. 

As we washed our hands with the ever-present Purell, Roger headed across the street to talk with his neighbor who was returning home for the first time.  He and his grown sons were emptying out the belongings in their destroyed house.   Roger got back in the car and said, “We’re really all right.  All we lost was stuff.” 

“What are you doing everyday?”  I asked.  Roger responded, that he drives around in his car wearing blue jeans, a clergy shirt and collar, and a straw hat and his trunk filled with bottles of water.  He stops to visit to neighbors, workers, and anyone who looks like he or she might want to talk and some who look like they’re unable to speak.  In the morning he opens his church (which was not flooded), says Morning Prayer, and then greets neighbors who come by to use clean bathrooms and get supplies.

On Friday, he was waiting for a trailer to arrive from some Good Samaritan in Pennsylvania.  He was going to put it and his FEMA trailer up next to the church so that returning folks could stay there while they cleaned out their homes.  He was also in conversation with the near-by University of New Orleans about getting some housing for volunteers to help with the clean up.

Talking about what outsiders could do, Roger said, “We’re not ready to receive volunteers because we don’t have housing for them.  And, don’t send us more stuff right now.  We have no place to put it, and the people aren’t here to receive it.”  He then told us a sad but funny store about a box that arrived with clothes, food and a $5,000 check.  Unfortunately, the package contained a bottle of beets that had broken and ruined the clothes and smeared the check so badly that they couldn’t cash it and couldn’t tell where it came from.  So much for well-intended efforts to help.

Driving around, we kept seeing spray-painted X’s indicating the details of search and rescue team visits to every house in the city.  There was a number in the lower quadrant of the X that indicated how many persons had died in the house.  Roger’s X was painted on his roof since everything else was below the water line.  Holes had been cut in some roofs to pull out bodies (dead or alive, I’m not sure).  As we passed a nearby Baptist Church where the X indicated that two people had died, Roger got very quiet and his eyes started to tear.  He said that this was the most painful place for him.  

We passed tent cities in parks, RV’s in front yards, FEMA trailer camps, and mile after mile of abandoned neighborhoods.  And then, we would go a few blocks in the opposite direction (on the other side of the canals) and it looked like nothing more than major storm damage had occurred.

When we got to the infamous Ninth Ward, the situation got even more distressed.  Streets were closed off, and there were few signs of life except one or two relief centers, empty chairs sitting in front barricades, and some military presence.  Every once in a while we’d see a family quietly cleaning out their house or going through the piles of rubbish on the street. Eventually, we could go no further as a police blockade stopped us from entering the Lower Ninth Ward.

Around three in the afternoon, Roger left us off downtown at the famous Mother’s Restaurant.  While eating lunch, we got to talking with two longtime employees, one black and one white, one urban and one suburban, one a member of the owners’ family and one being treated like family.  Both of these women – Lydia and Betty – were exhausted.  Betty told us that she missed her children whom she had left with family in Mississippi.  Lydia said that she was so depressed that she didn’t really want to come to work.   Betty had lost everything but insisted that she was “better off than a lot of people.”  She was living in a trailer behind the restaurant, which had been acquired by her boss.  “God is good,” she said.  “All the time,” I replied.   Lydia burst out that she was so angry because this wasn’t an act of God; it was a breach by man.  “The levees, the canals and the flood walls failed because of years of neglect and corruption,” she said. 

Noticing my clergy collar, Betty asked me if I was a minister.  When I said yes, she quietly asked me to keep her in my prayers.  When I promised that I would, she hugged me and cried.  As we got ready to leave, they shouted, “Tell your people up north not to forget New Orleans.”  On our way walking back to the Cathedral, we stopped at a newly re-opened florist and bought Betty a plant for her trailer.  We asked if it could be delivered to the trailer behind Mother’s Restaurant.  They responded with a smile, “Today or tomorrow.”

On Friday night, the Cathedral celebrated its bicentennial with a glorious Choral Evensong attended by Episcopalians from around the Diocese.  At the reception that followed, my Holy Land Exhibit was introduced.

Throughout the evening, I meant numerous Episcopalians who had lost their homes and were still there to celebrate.  Late that night, I watched as folks continued to stop by the front lawn of the cathedral and drop-off clothes and pick out clothes.  One man was looking for a sweater.  It was getting cold.

We left the next  morning and drove to the airport with a cabdriver who couldn’t stop talking.  He said, “I think I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress.”  I smiled and thought to myself, “Join the crowd.”  Eventually, we boarded the plane and ended home.

Tracey Lind, November 2005