My favorite part of traveling has always been the people watching. More specifically, observing how the locals make sense of the world around them. On this trip to New Orleans, I got the opportunity to interact with two men, born and raised in the same city, with two entirely different perspectives.
It was noon on a Sunday. Our group went to visit the 9th Ward. Driving through the neighborhood gave me mixed emotions. It was filled with former homes, boarded up and falling apart. Some had large white X’s sprayed painted across the façade. Each quadrant of the X provided information about the house: dead bodies to be found inside, possible left behind pets, the date of abandonment, and the relocation of its former inhabitants.
In between every two or three of these sights though, there were re-built homes defying Hurricane Katrina. In a way saying, “This is our city. We won’t leave!” Some of these houses literally stood tall on wooden platforms, raised several feet in the air. These homes seemed proud.
We meet Wayne in front of what use to be his house. For the most part, the house is still structurally intact not considering the giant, hole in the middle of the roof. The house is uninhabitable though having been covered in mold following the days of Katrina.
Wayne tells us his Katrina story, “I remember drinking with my brother in the house. We were getting real smashed when my friend came by and told us that the city was being evacuated because of the storm. I told him, “I don’t give **** about no storm. I am staying right here!’
And that is exactly what Wayne did. His brother and him stay behind. Wayne claims, in a matter of fact tone, to have heard explosions right before the levies burst and flooded the neighborhood. Most people from the Lower 9th Ward will tell you without hesitation the government blew up the levies in order to redirect the flood towards this poor area and save the richer neighborhoods. I’m unsure.
As the water begins to flood Wayne’s house, he and his brother start stacking all their possessions, specifically trying to get the TV as high as possible. All of a sudden though, the water begins to enter the house faster and faster. Before Wayne realizes, they are in danger of drowning in their own home.
Wayne tells us, “I was able to get out of the house through the front door, but the water pressure was getting so strong. I couldn’t keep the door open for my brother.” He begins to tear up a bit. “I tried to get the door open but nothing was working. I knew he couldn’t be in there too long ‘cause he’d lose his breath. I went to a side window of the house and kicked it in. My brother barely made it out, breathing hard. We climbed to the roof.”
Wayne and his brother sit on their roof for two fearful days of strong currents flooding the street. The water filled with dead bodies drifting along. At one point, the brothers become so hungry that they broke a hole through the roof. Wayne tied an electrical chord around his waste, and his brother hung on to the other end. Wayne went through the hole and swam to their kitchen, frantically grabbing any canned foods in reach. Barely making his way out of the house before suffocating, Wayne gasps for air, knowing he bought himself and his brother a little more time. That night, they eat uncooked Vienna sausages straight from the can, hoping and praying this isn’t their last meal.
Eventually, the currents slow down, and the brothers are able to grab on to telephone lines and swim their way to safety. Several years after the destruction of Katrina, Wayne is still feeling the lingering effects. His brother has the occasional epileptic fit. The family hasn’t begun to start replacing the items the lost in the storm- specifically the jewelry his working class mother had worked so hard her whole life to acquire. Wayne remains unemployed, unable to find any construction jobs. He tells us, “I ain’t going to work at no McDonald for $7 an hour when my skill set had me making $25.”
Instead, he spends his days meandering and drinking, although he seems somewhat self-conscious about it. “I’m not an alcoholic. I just like to drink, you know,” he tells us several times during our conversation.
Later on that night, I meet up with a friend from the area, who promises to show me the real New Orleans. After meeting with Wayne, I wasn’t sure how much more authentic of an experience it could get.
I met Billy at small dinner party serving andouille sausages and crayfish boudin. Billy, a middle-aged man, has spent his whole life in New Orleans in a house in Mid-City. He is decked head-to-toe in Saints gear and reeks of bourbon.
I tell the table about my experience during the day in the 9th Ward. Everyone politely listens, but when I decide to ask for opinions on the supposed explosions by the levee, Billy explodes.
In his thick Cajun accent, “I am so sick and tired of hearing about the 9th Ward. It was a crap place before the storm, and it’s a crap place after the storm.”
The frankness of his comment takes me aback. Billy continues, “The place was a breading ground for drugs and violence. We were all devastated, but all the attention goes to the 9th Ward and rumors about bull•••• explosions.”
Billy was hit particularly hard by the storm. The house he had grown up in for over 40 years flooded. His mother went met missing the day the floods started. He returned a month after the storm to claim his mother’s body and put her to rest.
“You know, I had to rebuild my momma’s home basically from scratch. I lived in a trailer outside the house for 6 months,” Billy is referring to the infamous FEMA trailers that were used as temporary housing until homes could be renovated back to livable standards. “I ripped out the walls and floors. Cleaned out all the mold and got the house back to shape.”
Billy lives across the street from the party I am at. The house is still boarded up, but Billy swears it is nice on the inside. In the months following the storm, Billy with the help of a friend put down new floors, replaced the walls, fixed his roof, and cleaned all the debris out with the money given to him by the government. However, Billy isn’t ready to replace the windows just yet as he has run out of money. The government checks have stopped coming in, and like Wayne and many in the city, Billy is also unemployed.
“Brad Pitt building those monstrosities in the 9th Ward. You don’t see anyone helping me,” Billy complains about the housing/architectural projects Brad Pitt is working on in the 9th Ward. “They never should have built houses in that hell hole to begin with, and they shouldn't now.”
Billy explains to me about how the 9th Ward is drastically below-sea level. “It was just a dumb idea. And now they are trying to rebuild! They are just asking for it to happen again.”
Historically, the places that flooded the worst were those that were left undeveloped a 100 years ago. It was understood that these parts had a risk of being flooded, but as modern technology advanced, many felt it could be safe if a modern levy system was installed. New Orleans was desperate for more housing, and so the city decided to start building in these areas. Coincidentally, these areas that were once known for being susceptible to flooding will now be forever remembered for flooding.
Billy doesn’t want me to misunderstand though, “I feel bad for all ‘em people, but I just want people to know there is more to the story.”
This was my first full day in New Orleans.
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