The Lower Ninth Ward at Sunset

This shot was taken about three blocks from the levee right where it broke during Hurricaine Katrina in the Lower 9th ward in New Orleans. The thing about the Lower 9th is that it's a historically very poor part of an already poor town, so the rebuild has been slow, and in most cases, non-existant. These people don't have the money, or ability, to rebuild what they've lost, and even today, there's almost nothing left down there. Everything's been demolished, and few will rebuild. During the storm, a barge that had been abandoned and improperly fastened, had broken loose of it's mooring and smashed through the levee, rushing with the water from the industrial canal, into the lower 9th, bashing into posts, mowing over houses, crushing everything in it's path, and finally coming to rest when the waters finally receded, right near that big house in the middle of the picture, 1800 Deslonde St. which had later been rebuilt and now houses most of the volunteers down at Common Ground.


Double click on the photo to enlarge it so you can really see the picture.

I think of all the pictures I've taken, this picture best captured the range of emotions I'd felt while volunteering down there: The Claiborne Bridge, which loomed above us, out of commission half of the time, due to repairs that never seemed to actually take place, the utter desolation of an area, which had been teeming with houses just a few year ago, still reduced to near empty square blocks close to three years after the storm, a light bulb cross and American Flag in front of a trailer housing a man whose Mother and Niece were killed by drowning in the flood, and above all of that, in the midst of that, a breathtakingly beautiful sunset over the levee.

(This, by the way, is the Levee by day)


As I sat on the porch of 1800 Deslonde one night, looking over the 9th from the reverse angle of the picture, I found myself overwhelmed with anger and sadness, frustration at the situation, and humiliation at my own self-indulgent, over-privileged sorrow. As upset as I was, I was only a tourist. I may have decided to stay down there for a week or so and do what I could to help, but when I looked over at that trailer and its American flag, back lit by an electric memorial, and proudly waving, I saw the evidence of a man who'd not only lived through this, but continued to struggle with it, everyday, since it had happened. He'd gone back in, and defiantly set up his new home, even though this area, and these people, had been so horribly devastated and left to fester, even years after the storm. The resilience and pride of that man, to come back, and hoist the flag that many felt had abandoned them, reduced me to tears. And it wouldn't be the only time.

There were more than a few occasions when I would go off from everyone, after dinner, down by the levee and the industrial canal, and just sit and cry. And I am NOT what I consider to be an abnormally emotional person. There was just so much welling up inside of me: anger, blame, helplessness; and not just headed in one direction either. It was my own, the people down there, the volunteers, the government. Nobody was working, and everything was broken, and even those that were supposedly there to help, were many times, totally fucking useless. It was then that I decided, though, that no matter how difficult, seemingly impossible or futile it seemed, I was going to find one real thing I could do, and I was going to get it done.


Ms. Flo, (That's her up top) the woman John, Andy and I'd been helping out, had lots of problems with her house. We'd helped to build her steps, get railings on the porch, (That's us up on it) hook up her washer and dryer, and put up tile in her bathroom, but she still couldn't take a hot shower in her own house because her crooked contractor had run off halfway through the job and taken all of her bathroom fixtures with him. We hadn't been able to do anything about it up to that point, because none of us were plumbers, and there were a million stupid reasons why nobody'd been able to finish it. I decided though, that night out there, taking turns crying and being utterly pissed off at myself, the town, and everybody in it, that I could figure out how to do it, and I simply wasn't going to leave that fucking town until Miss Flo could take a hot bath in her own house.

I spent the next two days driving back and forth to Home Depot, getting parts, trying to figure out how to work with half a rough in from a missing set, failing miserably, and repeatedly. The frustration and hopelessness was really getting to me, but I kept telling myself, I know I can figure out a solution. I'd asked the only guy around the place who knew anything about plumbing, a guy named Tank, if he thought he could help me, but he was always too busy with other projects, and could never quite find the time to come take a look. So finally, the solution crystalized and presented itself like the inner illumination of a Zen Koan, I took Tank aside one evening after dinner and said, "Listen, if you can find the time to help me do this, there's a 12-pack of beer in it for ya." By the next day, with Tank's help, we got two showers and baths up and running. The very next day, I left for Austin.

But not before cutting new table legs out of a found 2x10 for Ms. Flo's living room table. I thought the two different woods reminded me of the old Hooper heirlooms from the family farm in Maine, where everything useful was reused and all the furniture was hobbled together with whatever pieces of wood were handy. I told her somebody oughta stain the new legs so they'd match the rest of the table, but that I couldn't, because I had to head out for Texas. But Ms. Flo said no, she liked the two different color woods and thought it looked pretty just the way it was. I guess I'd have to kind of agree.

She was so happy and grateful that I couldn't manage to take off right away, and instead spent the next half hour or so, just helping her hang pictures, of her family, and Jesus, and paintings of waterfalls and so on. The funny thing was, even after all the other things we'd done, all the plumbing and painting, and caulking and cutting, what had really seemed to set her mind at ease, and make her feel she'd begun to get her home back, was when we'd just spent a little time pulling out all her things that had been stacked in piles, and putting her pictures back up on her walls.


I think back to these times often, and compare somehow, to whatever things are going on in my life in this day. It's hard to reconcile the two, and find either one to be any realer than the other, today, or then. Two totally different places and times. But both real.