A Philadelphia Inquirer article today reported that Untied States Military Veterans comprise 25% of America's homeless population. That makes me sick. Have we really that little heart to reach out to these who have stepped up to serve, then have to live alone in suffering? Think what you will about politics, war, etc, these men and women deserve our respect and our assistance.
I watched the move "Jarhead" the other day. While I can't recommend it for everyone because of explicit language and sexual content, I get the impression from some former Marines that it paints an accurate picture. If you're interested to see WHY so many veterans find themselves so lost when they return to civilian status, I believe this movie provides some answers.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Back to Basics
Forget everything I wrote yesterday. Well, it was all true, but I was way too concerned about fitting the word "listless" into my post. In the last 24 hours I've screwed up a lot and have been led back to the fact that all this is simply about following Jesus. That's it. I seek to follow Jesus. I do a lousy job of it, but that is what I seek to do and that is the task at hand that I need to remember. "A life in non-fiction" sounds sexy, but really I just need to follow Jesus. So, scratch what I said. I want to live a life that follows Jesus. Donald Miller is right. It really is that easy. As the wise Matt Spainhour once said, "Life is simple."
Monday, November 5, 2007
Life in Non-Fiction
I'm through with the vanities of Amory Blaine. The protagonist in F. Scott Fitzgerald's (remember reading The Great Gatsby in high school? same author) first successful novel This Side of Paradise, Blaine spends his days chasing hopeless romance and selfish ambition, leaving him lost and alone. The novel ends as he adjusts to the realization that his intellectualism is bankrupt: "He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. 'I know myself,' he cried, 'but that is all-'"
I have decided to know more than myself, more than the comforts that surround me, more than the affluence I'm blessed to receive. The life of Amory Blaine was a life of fiction, and I mean that in a far deeper way than the simple fact he was a character in a novel. He choose to capitalize on the corruption of a culture that Fitzgerald wrote, was "a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken." I see a lot of this blinded view of reality in America today, in its Church, and in myself. We choose to see the world through fictional lenses, stained with security few in the world know.
I want to live a life of non-fiction.
I've been throwing this idea around in my head for a while. Lost in a sea of stress and errands and preparation to leave the country last minute for a disaster response trip to Nicaragua a few weeks ago, I said to myself that I was at the time lost in non-fiction, burdened with the realities of the world to a point at which I longed to escape. It was then that I picked up Fitzgerald's novel off the shelf, seeking to self-medicate with stories of Amory Blaine's attempts to woo various women in a fictional paradise.
It didn't take me long after reaching the hurricane ravished, rural village of Tuara, Nicaragua, to despise the vanities of Amory Blaine, and more so my desire to allow my own life to drift into such listless realms. Somewhere in a woman's story of loosing her 23 year old son at sea during Hurricane Felix, or a mother's explanation that her beautiful 10 year old girl had been raped when she was 7, I realized that life rarely exists in the world middle to upper class Americans have created for themselves. It was in a moment walking to the well to retrieve water to bathe when I saw the before mentioned 10 year old girl scrubbing the laundry of her family that I resigned myself to break the American mold and live a life of non-fiction.
The world simply isn't safe, comfortable, warm, with riches and a full belly for most of those who live in it. I live the simple life as an individual born into the upper 1%. I believe there is a place here, and good I can accomplish, so I have no intentions of simply disposing my blessings. However, I must keep my life's relation to the rest of humanity in focus, and I must keep the picture clear. My life must be one of non-fiction.
I have decided to know more than myself, more than the comforts that surround me, more than the affluence I'm blessed to receive. The life of Amory Blaine was a life of fiction, and I mean that in a far deeper way than the simple fact he was a character in a novel. He choose to capitalize on the corruption of a culture that Fitzgerald wrote, was "a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken." I see a lot of this blinded view of reality in America today, in its Church, and in myself. We choose to see the world through fictional lenses, stained with security few in the world know.
I want to live a life of non-fiction.
I've been throwing this idea around in my head for a while. Lost in a sea of stress and errands and preparation to leave the country last minute for a disaster response trip to Nicaragua a few weeks ago, I said to myself that I was at the time lost in non-fiction, burdened with the realities of the world to a point at which I longed to escape. It was then that I picked up Fitzgerald's novel off the shelf, seeking to self-medicate with stories of Amory Blaine's attempts to woo various women in a fictional paradise.
It didn't take me long after reaching the hurricane ravished, rural village of Tuara, Nicaragua, to despise the vanities of Amory Blaine, and more so my desire to allow my own life to drift into such listless realms. Somewhere in a woman's story of loosing her 23 year old son at sea during Hurricane Felix, or a mother's explanation that her beautiful 10 year old girl had been raped when she was 7, I realized that life rarely exists in the world middle to upper class Americans have created for themselves. It was in a moment walking to the well to retrieve water to bathe when I saw the before mentioned 10 year old girl scrubbing the laundry of her family that I resigned myself to break the American mold and live a life of non-fiction.
The world simply isn't safe, comfortable, warm, with riches and a full belly for most of those who live in it. I live the simple life as an individual born into the upper 1%. I believe there is a place here, and good I can accomplish, so I have no intentions of simply disposing my blessings. However, I must keep my life's relation to the rest of humanity in focus, and I must keep the picture clear. My life must be one of non-fiction.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Jimmy Eat World Does it Again
With the announcement of a new album, I wondered if Jimmy Eat World could once again pull off a flawless album. After Clarity, Bleed American, Futures, and a few solid EP's, they have secured their position in my permanent top five favorite bands. But can Chase This Light live up to the others? Yes. Yes it can. Chase this light is a solid new album with brilliant lyrics and songs that build in masterful progression (see the epic last track, "Dizzy"). Buy it today. Love it forever. This sounds way too much like an add, but I swear they didn't pay me to write it. Jimmy Eat World has simply done it again.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Back From Nicaragua
I made it home from Nicaragua late last night and although I'm still getting over the intense food poisoning I came down with the last day, it was an amazing trip. There are those rare moments in life where you can honestly stop and say you know you are doing exactly what the Lord would have you do. My time in Nicaragua was filled with these moments. My feelings are hard to express as Nicaragua is an extremely impoverished nation also hit by a Cat. 5 Hurricane, so the contrast between what I saw there and the comforts of my home has me speechless at the moment. I spent twice the average yearly salary of a Nicaraguan on new tires and maintenance for my truck today. I'm more than a little ashamed. I'm mostly humbled that God has chosen to give me these opportunities. Two international disaster responses in as many months? Why me? Where does this all lead? It was a blessing to serve. More stories to follow as I readjust.Sunday, October 21, 2007
Nicaragua Disaster Response
I'm headed to Nicaragua in the morning with a disaster medical team in the wake of Cat. 5 Hurricane Felix that struck the Eastern coast in September. Please keep me in your prayers.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Doubting the Dream...
Tonight I had my first official meeting at the Philadelphia Fire Academy to discuss my possible employment in the near future. It wasn't just me, but an orientation for myself and about 60 others to explain the final steps in the hiring process for the next class they plan to put together for February. On Sunday I stumbled upon the fire pictured above and was reminded about my love for firefighting, but in the excitement of these developments I confess I still possess a great deal of doubt about my current path. I've spent the last two years trying to get this job, and now that's its within reach I find myself asking if its really what I want. I've been blessed lately and I've been developing other passions and making progress in jobs an organizations, and the the thought of starting all over again tires me.But its ok. If the Lord has other plans He'll lead me to them. Right now this is the path I am pursuing and I intend on following one day at a time. Its difficult at times to truly let Him lead, but easy when faith is properly understood. Give me faith to understand faith...
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Back from Peru
I have made it safely back from Peru and I really appreciate everyone's prayers and support. My time there passed quickly with days filled by assessing various damagaed towns for refugee health issues, levels of damage, housing issues, and trying to make local contacts. We could have gotten more done than we did but it was a productive trip on the whole. I'll be writing about it soon.Saturday, August 25, 2007
Off to Peru
In response to last week's devestating 7.9 magnitude earthquake in Peru, I am headed there this monday for a week with a disaster medical team. Conditions are such that I have little idea where I'll be or what I'll be doing, but please keep me in your prayers.Thursday, August 2, 2007
The Joy of Work
For the past two months I have been unemployed and generally lacking in direction for life. After moving to Philly after school, I've looked in vain for employment while I await my chance at joining the ranks of the Philadelphia Fire Department. This has been a difficult time for me, as I've battled frustration, depression, doubt and a whole other host of emotions. People have often looked at me with a "What do you mean you're unemployed" look, insinuating that it should be easy, or that I should have marched myself down to the local Starbucks from day one. To them I have always responded that I feel I have a set of gifts, gifts I have worked hard to attain, that I would like to see put to work. To do otherwise would be foolish. I have wondered amidst these thoughts if my motives were selfish, simply trying to gorge my desire to never work an "odd job."
Today, however, I know that I was right, and that faith has once again proved victor over my doubt and general duplicity. This week I began working at the Montgomery County Fire Academy as an assistant instructor for an EMT class. The class will finish up next week, but what a joy it was for me to work 10 hours, teaching something I love and sharing my skill and passion with others. It was a long day, but I loved every minute of it. Next week I will begin working in the ER at Abington Hospital, another opportunity that I feel will use and enhance my skill sets. No folks, I think I was right to hold out on this one. I felt the joy of work today, the joy of using my God given talents to their fullest - and I loved it. They say if you do a job you love you'll never work a day in your life. I never intend to work.
Today, however, I know that I was right, and that faith has once again proved victor over my doubt and general duplicity. This week I began working at the Montgomery County Fire Academy as an assistant instructor for an EMT class. The class will finish up next week, but what a joy it was for me to work 10 hours, teaching something I love and sharing my skill and passion with others. It was a long day, but I loved every minute of it. Next week I will begin working in the ER at Abington Hospital, another opportunity that I feel will use and enhance my skill sets. No folks, I think I was right to hold out on this one. I felt the joy of work today, the joy of using my God given talents to their fullest - and I loved it. They say if you do a job you love you'll never work a day in your life. I never intend to work.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Happy Birthday, Ah, Death?
This week, the famed AK-47 assault rifle turned sixty years old. Happy birthday AK! Wait, ah, anything wrong with this? There are an estimated 100,000,000 million AKs in the world today and it is the clear winner for most recognizable weapon ever made. The rifle's birthday was celebrated in Russia this week, with noted guests providing testimonies about the weapon's impact on their lives. The Defence Minister of Zimbabwe, a nation with a distinctive history of civil war, commented poetically, "In the AK, I see freedom. I see justice. I see democracy. I see self-determination. I see nationhood. I see a peace broker." His list was missing some the the more notable AK associations, however, including Child Soldiery, Terrorism, Civil War, oh, don't forget death. Should we really be celebrating the birthday of one of the most recognizable products of our depravity?
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Most Hopeful Moment in News
Nightly News has always had a stunning musical score accompanying the evening broadcast. The evening news always begins with the lower themes and ends with the climax of their very own theme song composed by the renowned John Williams (also composed themes to Jaws, Star Wars, Jurassic Park, Olympic Games,...) It may be his theme that has made NBC my choice for world news.
Following the September 11 attacks, NBC stopped using his theme for several months. Where the show used to end with an aeriel view of New York City with Williams' resounding trumpets in the background, there was now a steady shot across the Hudson River, Ground Zero still smouldering, and some melancholy tune of sadness in accompaniment. This went for some months.
Then one night, as the news came to a close and Tom Brokaw signed off, back came John Williams' trumpets. Chills fell down my spine and tears welled in my eyes, as the New York skyline once again soared across with triumphant music that cried "We Will Survive!" I will never forget that moment as it was the most hopeful expression of patriotism and resolve I have ever felt, the most hopeful moment in news.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
What Love Is This
It hit me while sitting in Thursday Night Worship earlier this year, this bi-weekly low key praise and worship time led by three of my very musically gifted friends. I was sitting there, singing and thinking, when suddenly I realized there must have been this moment when God looked down at us from heaven, turned to Jesus and said, "You do realize I'm going to have to kill you to save them, right?" And Jesus looked at God and said, "I do, and I am totally OK with that." Clearly, it probably didn't happen in such a simplistic way, God being omniscient and all, but in concept that is exactly what took place. It was Christ's joy to die for us. Who does that?
Sunday, July 8, 2007
A Story from New Orleans
Margaret Sayles wants me to find her house. It is November 29th, exactly three months after Katrina ravaged the Gulf Coast and flooded New Orleans. Margaret has not seen her house because no one, other than the military, police, or rescue teams, has been allowed into the area of New Orleans where Margaret lived. The Lower 9th Ward. Late in the morning I set out to find a home that may no longer exist, to gain access to a place that is inaccessible.
I had never met Margaret Sayles. She had gotten my number through a team that had worked with me for a time and then returned their home church, Pear Orchard PCA in Ridgeland, Mississippi, about one hundred miles north of New Orleans. Margaret had relatives in Ridgeland and relocated there after the storm. There she waited, like thousands of other New Orleans residents, for news of what had become of her home. When no news arrived, except the knowledge that Lower 9th Ward residents were not going to be allowed into the remains of the community for some time, she resorted to other options, contacting me to see if my limited “Disaster Response” credentials might enable me to produce some information she had been unable to come by.
The devastated Lower 9th Ward was the most notorious victim of the New Orleans levee breaks. There were several reasons for this, some warranted, some engineered. The ward was the most heavily damaged due to its position by the Industrial Canal, one of New Orleans’ largest waterways, whose levee breach was the largest and most volumous breach in the city. The result was catastrophic, leveling at least the first four blocks around the breach and piling the remains on top of whatever structures were left standing. The houses with the least flooding were filled with five feet of water, the worst covered in over fifteen. And not once, but twice. The Army Corps of Engineers patched the breach and controlled the flooding just in time for Hurricane Rita to arrive and produce storm surge that breached the Industrial Canal a second time.
What has added controversy and notoriety to this area of New Orleans has been the racial issues raised concerning the occupants of this mostly Black lower class community. The coincidence that the hardest hit section of the city was also the poorest convinced many it was not a coincidence at all. A looming barge came to rest just inside the breach of the levee which some claim to have been rigged with explosives by the corrupt city government to intentionally blow up the levee and flood the poorest of the poor to protect other more viable parts of the city. Though an outlandish theory, it was a tale that arose out of historical fact. In the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927, the Caernarvon levee south of New Orleans was intentionally dynamited by the Corps of Engineers in an attempt to prevent wide scale flooding of the city itself. The resulting flow flooded St. Bernard’s Parish. In addition, the Industrial Canal levee failed in two locations during the monstrous Hurricane Betsy in 1965. Many then alleged it too was dynamited.
Amid this controversy and confusion, Margaret charged me the task of locating her home, reporting on its condition, and gutting it if possible. I was skeptical of what I could accomplish, but promised her I would try my best.
I have only been by the Lower 9th Ward once as it is an area of such controversy, devastation, and security I have no business going there. Besides, it is mostly destroyed so there is no work for Church volunteers. But today I have business going there and I arrive in the area with apprehension and caution. I park my truck just over the canal bridge at an intersection that has become the command post of sorts for all business inside the Lower 9th. I assume this much as least because every street in barricaded with the exception of this one, and it produces a steady stream of police, military, or other official vehicles flowing in and out of the destruction.
Approaching a young soldier with a look of boredom on his face and an M-16 across his back, I explain that I need access to the ward to locate a house, dropping as many official “Disaster Response” titles as I can think up. He does not threaten to shoot me or shut me down immediately which is a good sign, and directs me to a Red Cross Official apparently overseeing admissions to the disaster zone. He, too, does not shut me down but defers to the highest authority in the entire region of the city, Marine Colonel Sneed. “What have I gotten myself into” I think as I watch the Red Cross guy approach a sturdy, well built man probably in his early fifty’s who, though not in fatigues, I immediately identify as the man matching the description of “Marine Colonel.” Sneed approaches and without identifying his name or level of authority asks my intentions. I explain my undertaking and much to my surprise he responds, “OK, I’ll take you back, but you’ll have to wait a minute for me to finish what I am doing.”
Sneed disappears and I am left standing with the Red Cross representative, speechless over the ease with which I am passing through the numerous roadblocks. Chatting with the Red Cross guy, I learn that Sneed has come out of retirement to fill this leadership position. The prevalence of volunteers, churches, Red Cross types and guys like Sneed is the only thing keeping the Gulf Coast afloat after the storm. Apparently the Red Cross has devised a system to let homeowners back into the ward to see their homes, or what is left of them, but only see. “We take them around in a bus and let them look, but they can’t get out,” the Red Cross guy tells me. “We may be letting them back in on their own in a few weeks, but most everything in the ward is devastated.”
Sneed reappears and leads me to his large black Ford Excursion. “You know the address?” he asks. “There are no road signs left here so we’ll have to check it first and remember how many turns to make.” We check his large laminated table map before we leave, pinpointing where we think Margaret’s house is at 6415 Nina Street and set off. “I have to be at a meeting at the city E.O.C. (Emergency Operations Center) at 14:00, but we should have plenty of time.” I check my watch. That gives us at least an hour and a half. We start driving.
As I witness the devastation of the Lower 9th Ward for the first time I realize that it lives up to the reputation it has received. The destruction is tremendous with prevalent structural collapse, cars on top of houses, and obvious extensive flood damage to every structure. Trying to take advantage of the fact that I was getting a tour of the most controversial area of the Katrina story from a level-headed outsider in the know, I ask Colonel Sneed a few questions. He did not need much of a prompt to start talking.
“These homeowners have lost everything. They are going to have to come back to this crap dealing with a city that won’t make up its mind about rebuilding, levees, or anything. People question why they are all staying in their new cities. I wonder why they would ever come back? If you start a new life for yourself and you’re happy, stay where you are. I certainly want blame you. What’s wrong with a new life?”
Learning I work for the church, he continues his thoughts.
“You know, religion is what’s keeping these people going down here, it’s what’s getting them through. I mean it. Its not bull shit, it’s deep. These people have faith and I respect that.”
“Who were those troops I passed on the way in and what’s the role of the military here?” I ask.
“Those guys were from the Army Reserve, and I’ll tell you they’re starting to get pissed. They’re working overtime at boring jobs, not getting paid much to stand around with a rifle. These kids signed up to help their country in times of war, not stand around in some city that can’t police itself. They signed up to make a difference, not this shit. Pretty soon they’re going to get bored and quit, then we’ll have a real problem. If you’re going to make guys leave their jobs and their families, which are the sacrifices Reserve troops make, it better be for a good cause. The NOPD (New Orleans Police Department) should be handling this, but they’re so beat up and incompetent no one’s willing to step up and take over. This whole city government doesn’t have a clue. It’s a shame really.”
As he finishes his thoughts on the New Orleans government we pull up to Nina Street, or what appears to be Nina Street. The remaining telephone poles at the corners of the various roads have the street names spray painted down their flanks. We can not find 6415 so we back track. “We must have been one street over,” he says. Pulling up in front of a one storey red brick house we reach 6415. “Brick houses are a tough call. Some of them are at least still structurally sound so they may be rebuildable. It’s up to the insurance companies to decide,” Sneed says as we step around the couch lying sideways across the front walk. I snap a picture of the exterior. Apparently this house was searched by Florida Urban Search and Rescue Task Force One on September 18th based on the markings painted on the garage door. Accordingly, this house was probably underwater until then or shortly before, leaving it with three weeks of stagnant water damage.
If there are any success stories from the Hurricane Katrina federal response they lie with the U.S. Coast Guard and the FEMA Urban Search and Rescue (US&R) teams. Deployed several days prior to Katrina’s landfall, these specially trained federally funded rescue teams were searching within ours of Katrina passing overhead. There are twenty eight teams nationally, and for the first time in the US&R program’s history all twenty eight teams were deployed for a single incident. They worked tirelessly, rescuing many in New Orleans and Mississippi. The scale of the disaster was such that every structure for over one hundred miles of coast from Biloxi, Mississippi, through New Orleans, Louisiana, had to be searched for either survivors or bodies. The task was overwhelming and their work did not get the praise it deserved.
Likewise, the U.S. Coast Guard threw out every rule in the book in an effort to rescue those trapped on rooftops and other precarious locations throughout New Orleans. Helicopter pilots flew multiple sixteen plus hour missions, refusing to abide by the rules so that they could continue rescues. The Washington Post would call U.S. Coast Guard operations Katrina’s silver lining.
To my surprise, Sneed invites me to enter the house to take pictures. As we enter I am greeted by the familiar stench of stale mold, only worse than most of the houses I have been in because this home has not been opened up more than twice since the storm three months prior. I wish I had brought my mask, but the smell has little effect on Colonel Sneed so I would have been embarrassed to wear it anyway. The house is for all intents and purposes turned upside down. The ceiling has collapsed, the kitchen is the dinning room, and the dinning room is in the kitchen. The couches are overturned. Clothes are strewn across every room. All is lost. Margaret’s house still stands, but she has lost everything.
Driving back through the ward I decide to take a chance on Colonel Sneed’s generosity. “Is there any access to see the Levee Break?” The 9th ward levee break is by far the most infamous. I know I will never get another chance to view it, much less while guided by the man in charge.
“No, there’s not, but I’ll drive you over to take a look at it.” As we make our way the damage to the structures gets worse and worse. With each progressing street, houses are becoming piles, and piles are becoming piles with houses on top of piles. “We’re still finding bodies in these more demolished sections. Rescue teams searched all the standing structures, now we’re sending cadaver dogs to the general locations of individuals still on the missing person’s lists. Usually we get a hit right away.”
Eventually the houses and piles disappear and turn into a barren area about the size of two or three football fields. Straight ahead is the levee, a benign looking ridge of gravel with workmen and their equipment on top. It appears plain enough, but what surrounds me suggests that perhaps the ridge of gravel is much more. To my right I see a field of concrete cinder blocks, twisted chain link fence, and overturned cars scattered about the remains of driveways and front steps missing their garages and living rooms. To my left the ominous shadow emerges of the barge that crashed through the industrial canal levee break. The damage surrounding me rivals that of the Mississippi coast where no structures are left standing. The force of the water that flowed through this break must have rivaled that of the ocean itself where Katrina made landfall, a humbling thought.
“People claim New Orleans blew up this levee. Trust me, it’s not blown up. I’ve seen things get blown up, and this levee wasn’t one of them. New Orleans would be too stupid to blow up this canal anyway. They don’t have much of a clue, but even they aren’t stupid enough to blow up this levee. The point is they aren’t doing anything to help. They should really be doing more.”
Sneed stops to let me take a few more pictures and then we make our way back to the command center. I thank him and get on my way. My time in the Lower 9th could not have been more than twenty minutes, but I saw more in that time and learned more from Colonel Sneed than I had in my entire time in New Orleans.
Colonel Sneed did such an excellent job managing the Lower 9th Ward after Katrina that the City of New Orleans hired him on to direct their Office of Emergency Preparedness. In a recent National Public Radio interview, Sneed described the new system in place to evacuate and account for the entire New Orleans population should a category 3 storm take aim, at which time the city would enforce a mandatory evacuation. The plan includes methods to transport special needs residents from the city, track them, and return them, along with provisions for the security of the city itself. Sneed seemed confident the plan will work. Hopefully we will never find out.
Later in the day with the thoughts of what I have seen in the Lower 9th fresh in my mind I stop by another job site referred to me by the Pear Orchard guys to assess the work. I only have a few more days and a lot of jobs so I am not sure if I can get to this one. It turns out, however, that upon my arrival the homeowners are there preparing to gutt the drywall from their home. I talk with them about the job and my scheduling concerns, only to discover that they are related to Margaret Sayles and that she is in fact sitting outside in their van. I had actually walked right by her coming into the house. I have not yet planned what I am going to say to her, but I did not expect it to be in person, much less so soon. What should I say to someone who has lost absolutely everything but does not know it yet?
As I approach the passenger side of a white minivan I catch my first glimpse of Margaret Sayles. Margaret is a heavy set woman in her late 70’s or early 80’s. There is a walker by her door, indicating her elderly condition, but from my first words with her I can sense she is spunky. I introduce myself and she immediately remembers me having spoken to me the previous day. At first I do not tell her about my visit to her home. I want to feel things out first. On her own initiative she begins telling me her story.
“My home was flooded twice by the industrial canal breaches. It wasn’t much, but I’ve lived there a really long time and I’ve taken good care of it. All of my clothing and valuables are in there, if only I could get to those few valuables. Maybe they are still there. I bought homeowners and flood insurance, but some insurance man told me he looked at the house and it’s reparable. They only gave me a thousand dollars.”
This insurance guy probably only looked at it from a bus window. As she continues telling her story, Margaret begins to cry. I tell her that I was able to get into her house just a few hours ago. She quickly looks up, but I tell her that what I saw is not pleasant.
“Its pretty bad,” I say. “The house is still standing but it was heavily damaged by the water.” I do not want to use much detail, hoping she will want to see the pictures and they will speak for themselves. “Are you sure you want to see them?”
“Yes,” she responds without much thought. “They will give me some closure.”
I walk to my truck to retrieve my camera, heart racing, eyes wide with emotion, fear, and awe at the surrealistic nature of the day’s events. I am about to show a woman I just met the proof that she has lost everything. How have I found myself here?
I return, clutching my camera and reviewing the photos.
“Here they are, a red brick house, right?”
“No,” she says, “My house is blue with siding.”
I went to the wrong house. Sneed and I were on the wrong unmarked road at the wrong 6415.
“No, that’s not mine, but I’d still like to see the pictures.”
As I show her the photos of a flooded house that is not hers a thousand emotions fly through my head. Anger at wasting Colonel Sneed’s time. Frustration at the amount of effort it took for me to get into the Lower 9th Ward, knowing that I will not be able to pull off such a smooth entrance again. Shame at raising Margaret’s hopes for closure then leaving the door open. She responds graciously, however, expressing thankfulness for my assistance to her as she continues to cry.
“I don’t know what I am going to do. The only real option for an old lady like me is to go into a home. I can’t deal with all of this and I don’t have the money to rebuild. But you know what? It will be ok, because the Lord does not forsake the righteous. I know that, and He will not forsake me.”
On the brink of tears myself, I offer Margaret the only thing I can give her. “May I pray with you before I go?” I ask. Her face lights up and she offers me her hands. I take them and say a short prayer for her, through which she cries softly and mumbles “amen.”
Before long it is over. I assure her I will try again tomorrow to locate her home and will get in touch with her as soon as I do. We part and I walk to my truck, looking towards the distant setting sun with more emotions running through me than I have felt my entire time in the gulf region. As I drive home, knowing that I will soon be leaving these wonderful, suffering people, I am filled with sorrow because after I leave and return to my normal life, saying to myself “Thank God that’s over,” they will still be here and their houses will still be destroyed. But Margaret is right, and I do not have to be concerned because when I leave she is still not alone, but is in the far better hands of a God who has not, and will not, forsake the righteous.
I never saw Margaret Sayles again. The next morning I set out again to find 6415 Nina Street. I knew from what I saw and from what Colonel Sneed had said that it was difficult to navigate the broken streets of the Lower 9th, but it only sunk in with my original failure to find Margaret’s house. I did find her home this time, however, right off the main drag aided by the description of its exterior. It was still in the guarded portion of the ward, but this time I decided to take my chances and I parked my truck on the street and made a run for it, hoping to get behind a row of houses before any of the guards saw me. It worked, and I was able to photograph the outside and the shattered interior of her home. As a wooden structure, it did not fair as well as the red brick house I had visited with Colonel Sneed. The home had floated off its foundation and the interior was just as bad if not worse than the previous day’s house. Hardly repairable for a thousand dollars. I snuck out successfully and emailed the pictures to one of Margaret’s friends. I spoke to her on the phone that afternoon and she expressed her deepest thanks for my efforts.
That was the last I heard of Margaret Sayles. I had indeed found her house, but what became of it or of her I do not know. I have tried to track her down but have so far been unable. The Lower 9th ward was bulldozed in the most severe sections around the levee break, leaving an eerie absence in a place so many homes and so much thriving community once stood. I have not been able to locate Margaret’s home.
Whatever happened to Margaret, however, I am sure she was ok. Her faith moved me, and I am confident as Psalm 94 says that justice will return to the righteous.
“For the Lord will not forsake his people, He will not abandon his heritage;
For justice will return to the righteous, and all the upright in heart will follow it.”
Psalm 94: 14-15
I had never met Margaret Sayles. She had gotten my number through a team that had worked with me for a time and then returned their home church, Pear Orchard PCA in Ridgeland, Mississippi, about one hundred miles north of New Orleans. Margaret had relatives in Ridgeland and relocated there after the storm. There she waited, like thousands of other New Orleans residents, for news of what had become of her home. When no news arrived, except the knowledge that Lower 9th Ward residents were not going to be allowed into the remains of the community for some time, she resorted to other options, contacting me to see if my limited “Disaster Response” credentials might enable me to produce some information she had been unable to come by.
The devastated Lower 9th Ward was the most notorious victim of the New Orleans levee breaks. There were several reasons for this, some warranted, some engineered. The ward was the most heavily damaged due to its position by the Industrial Canal, one of New Orleans’ largest waterways, whose levee breach was the largest and most volumous breach in the city. The result was catastrophic, leveling at least the first four blocks around the breach and piling the remains on top of whatever structures were left standing. The houses with the least flooding were filled with five feet of water, the worst covered in over fifteen. And not once, but twice. The Army Corps of Engineers patched the breach and controlled the flooding just in time for Hurricane Rita to arrive and produce storm surge that breached the Industrial Canal a second time.
What has added controversy and notoriety to this area of New Orleans has been the racial issues raised concerning the occupants of this mostly Black lower class community. The coincidence that the hardest hit section of the city was also the poorest convinced many it was not a coincidence at all. A looming barge came to rest just inside the breach of the levee which some claim to have been rigged with explosives by the corrupt city government to intentionally blow up the levee and flood the poorest of the poor to protect other more viable parts of the city. Though an outlandish theory, it was a tale that arose out of historical fact. In the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927, the Caernarvon levee south of New Orleans was intentionally dynamited by the Corps of Engineers in an attempt to prevent wide scale flooding of the city itself. The resulting flow flooded St. Bernard’s Parish. In addition, the Industrial Canal levee failed in two locations during the monstrous Hurricane Betsy in 1965. Many then alleged it too was dynamited.
Amid this controversy and confusion, Margaret charged me the task of locating her home, reporting on its condition, and gutting it if possible. I was skeptical of what I could accomplish, but promised her I would try my best.
I have only been by the Lower 9th Ward once as it is an area of such controversy, devastation, and security I have no business going there. Besides, it is mostly destroyed so there is no work for Church volunteers. But today I have business going there and I arrive in the area with apprehension and caution. I park my truck just over the canal bridge at an intersection that has become the command post of sorts for all business inside the Lower 9th. I assume this much as least because every street in barricaded with the exception of this one, and it produces a steady stream of police, military, or other official vehicles flowing in and out of the destruction.
Approaching a young soldier with a look of boredom on his face and an M-16 across his back, I explain that I need access to the ward to locate a house, dropping as many official “Disaster Response” titles as I can think up. He does not threaten to shoot me or shut me down immediately which is a good sign, and directs me to a Red Cross Official apparently overseeing admissions to the disaster zone. He, too, does not shut me down but defers to the highest authority in the entire region of the city, Marine Colonel Sneed. “What have I gotten myself into” I think as I watch the Red Cross guy approach a sturdy, well built man probably in his early fifty’s who, though not in fatigues, I immediately identify as the man matching the description of “Marine Colonel.” Sneed approaches and without identifying his name or level of authority asks my intentions. I explain my undertaking and much to my surprise he responds, “OK, I’ll take you back, but you’ll have to wait a minute for me to finish what I am doing.”
Sneed disappears and I am left standing with the Red Cross representative, speechless over the ease with which I am passing through the numerous roadblocks. Chatting with the Red Cross guy, I learn that Sneed has come out of retirement to fill this leadership position. The prevalence of volunteers, churches, Red Cross types and guys like Sneed is the only thing keeping the Gulf Coast afloat after the storm. Apparently the Red Cross has devised a system to let homeowners back into the ward to see their homes, or what is left of them, but only see. “We take them around in a bus and let them look, but they can’t get out,” the Red Cross guy tells me. “We may be letting them back in on their own in a few weeks, but most everything in the ward is devastated.”
Sneed reappears and leads me to his large black Ford Excursion. “You know the address?” he asks. “There are no road signs left here so we’ll have to check it first and remember how many turns to make.” We check his large laminated table map before we leave, pinpointing where we think Margaret’s house is at 6415 Nina Street and set off. “I have to be at a meeting at the city E.O.C. (Emergency Operations Center) at 14:00, but we should have plenty of time.” I check my watch. That gives us at least an hour and a half. We start driving.
As I witness the devastation of the Lower 9th Ward for the first time I realize that it lives up to the reputation it has received. The destruction is tremendous with prevalent structural collapse, cars on top of houses, and obvious extensive flood damage to every structure. Trying to take advantage of the fact that I was getting a tour of the most controversial area of the Katrina story from a level-headed outsider in the know, I ask Colonel Sneed a few questions. He did not need much of a prompt to start talking.
“These homeowners have lost everything. They are going to have to come back to this crap dealing with a city that won’t make up its mind about rebuilding, levees, or anything. People question why they are all staying in their new cities. I wonder why they would ever come back? If you start a new life for yourself and you’re happy, stay where you are. I certainly want blame you. What’s wrong with a new life?”
Learning I work for the church, he continues his thoughts.
“You know, religion is what’s keeping these people going down here, it’s what’s getting them through. I mean it. Its not bull shit, it’s deep. These people have faith and I respect that.”
“Who were those troops I passed on the way in and what’s the role of the military here?” I ask.
“Those guys were from the Army Reserve, and I’ll tell you they’re starting to get pissed. They’re working overtime at boring jobs, not getting paid much to stand around with a rifle. These kids signed up to help their country in times of war, not stand around in some city that can’t police itself. They signed up to make a difference, not this shit. Pretty soon they’re going to get bored and quit, then we’ll have a real problem. If you’re going to make guys leave their jobs and their families, which are the sacrifices Reserve troops make, it better be for a good cause. The NOPD (New Orleans Police Department) should be handling this, but they’re so beat up and incompetent no one’s willing to step up and take over. This whole city government doesn’t have a clue. It’s a shame really.”
As he finishes his thoughts on the New Orleans government we pull up to Nina Street, or what appears to be Nina Street. The remaining telephone poles at the corners of the various roads have the street names spray painted down their flanks. We can not find 6415 so we back track. “We must have been one street over,” he says. Pulling up in front of a one storey red brick house we reach 6415. “Brick houses are a tough call. Some of them are at least still structurally sound so they may be rebuildable. It’s up to the insurance companies to decide,” Sneed says as we step around the couch lying sideways across the front walk. I snap a picture of the exterior. Apparently this house was searched by Florida Urban Search and Rescue Task Force One on September 18th based on the markings painted on the garage door. Accordingly, this house was probably underwater until then or shortly before, leaving it with three weeks of stagnant water damage.
If there are any success stories from the Hurricane Katrina federal response they lie with the U.S. Coast Guard and the FEMA Urban Search and Rescue (US&R) teams. Deployed several days prior to Katrina’s landfall, these specially trained federally funded rescue teams were searching within ours of Katrina passing overhead. There are twenty eight teams nationally, and for the first time in the US&R program’s history all twenty eight teams were deployed for a single incident. They worked tirelessly, rescuing many in New Orleans and Mississippi. The scale of the disaster was such that every structure for over one hundred miles of coast from Biloxi, Mississippi, through New Orleans, Louisiana, had to be searched for either survivors or bodies. The task was overwhelming and their work did not get the praise it deserved.
Likewise, the U.S. Coast Guard threw out every rule in the book in an effort to rescue those trapped on rooftops and other precarious locations throughout New Orleans. Helicopter pilots flew multiple sixteen plus hour missions, refusing to abide by the rules so that they could continue rescues. The Washington Post would call U.S. Coast Guard operations Katrina’s silver lining.
To my surprise, Sneed invites me to enter the house to take pictures. As we enter I am greeted by the familiar stench of stale mold, only worse than most of the houses I have been in because this home has not been opened up more than twice since the storm three months prior. I wish I had brought my mask, but the smell has little effect on Colonel Sneed so I would have been embarrassed to wear it anyway. The house is for all intents and purposes turned upside down. The ceiling has collapsed, the kitchen is the dinning room, and the dinning room is in the kitchen. The couches are overturned. Clothes are strewn across every room. All is lost. Margaret’s house still stands, but she has lost everything.
Driving back through the ward I decide to take a chance on Colonel Sneed’s generosity. “Is there any access to see the Levee Break?” The 9th ward levee break is by far the most infamous. I know I will never get another chance to view it, much less while guided by the man in charge.
“No, there’s not, but I’ll drive you over to take a look at it.” As we make our way the damage to the structures gets worse and worse. With each progressing street, houses are becoming piles, and piles are becoming piles with houses on top of piles. “We’re still finding bodies in these more demolished sections. Rescue teams searched all the standing structures, now we’re sending cadaver dogs to the general locations of individuals still on the missing person’s lists. Usually we get a hit right away.”
Eventually the houses and piles disappear and turn into a barren area about the size of two or three football fields. Straight ahead is the levee, a benign looking ridge of gravel with workmen and their equipment on top. It appears plain enough, but what surrounds me suggests that perhaps the ridge of gravel is much more. To my right I see a field of concrete cinder blocks, twisted chain link fence, and overturned cars scattered about the remains of driveways and front steps missing their garages and living rooms. To my left the ominous shadow emerges of the barge that crashed through the industrial canal levee break. The damage surrounding me rivals that of the Mississippi coast where no structures are left standing. The force of the water that flowed through this break must have rivaled that of the ocean itself where Katrina made landfall, a humbling thought.
“People claim New Orleans blew up this levee. Trust me, it’s not blown up. I’ve seen things get blown up, and this levee wasn’t one of them. New Orleans would be too stupid to blow up this canal anyway. They don’t have much of a clue, but even they aren’t stupid enough to blow up this levee. The point is they aren’t doing anything to help. They should really be doing more.”
Sneed stops to let me take a few more pictures and then we make our way back to the command center. I thank him and get on my way. My time in the Lower 9th could not have been more than twenty minutes, but I saw more in that time and learned more from Colonel Sneed than I had in my entire time in New Orleans.
Colonel Sneed did such an excellent job managing the Lower 9th Ward after Katrina that the City of New Orleans hired him on to direct their Office of Emergency Preparedness. In a recent National Public Radio interview, Sneed described the new system in place to evacuate and account for the entire New Orleans population should a category 3 storm take aim, at which time the city would enforce a mandatory evacuation. The plan includes methods to transport special needs residents from the city, track them, and return them, along with provisions for the security of the city itself. Sneed seemed confident the plan will work. Hopefully we will never find out.
Later in the day with the thoughts of what I have seen in the Lower 9th fresh in my mind I stop by another job site referred to me by the Pear Orchard guys to assess the work. I only have a few more days and a lot of jobs so I am not sure if I can get to this one. It turns out, however, that upon my arrival the homeowners are there preparing to gutt the drywall from their home. I talk with them about the job and my scheduling concerns, only to discover that they are related to Margaret Sayles and that she is in fact sitting outside in their van. I had actually walked right by her coming into the house. I have not yet planned what I am going to say to her, but I did not expect it to be in person, much less so soon. What should I say to someone who has lost absolutely everything but does not know it yet?
As I approach the passenger side of a white minivan I catch my first glimpse of Margaret Sayles. Margaret is a heavy set woman in her late 70’s or early 80’s. There is a walker by her door, indicating her elderly condition, but from my first words with her I can sense she is spunky. I introduce myself and she immediately remembers me having spoken to me the previous day. At first I do not tell her about my visit to her home. I want to feel things out first. On her own initiative she begins telling me her story.
“My home was flooded twice by the industrial canal breaches. It wasn’t much, but I’ve lived there a really long time and I’ve taken good care of it. All of my clothing and valuables are in there, if only I could get to those few valuables. Maybe they are still there. I bought homeowners and flood insurance, but some insurance man told me he looked at the house and it’s reparable. They only gave me a thousand dollars.”
This insurance guy probably only looked at it from a bus window. As she continues telling her story, Margaret begins to cry. I tell her that I was able to get into her house just a few hours ago. She quickly looks up, but I tell her that what I saw is not pleasant.
“Its pretty bad,” I say. “The house is still standing but it was heavily damaged by the water.” I do not want to use much detail, hoping she will want to see the pictures and they will speak for themselves. “Are you sure you want to see them?”
“Yes,” she responds without much thought. “They will give me some closure.”
I walk to my truck to retrieve my camera, heart racing, eyes wide with emotion, fear, and awe at the surrealistic nature of the day’s events. I am about to show a woman I just met the proof that she has lost everything. How have I found myself here?
I return, clutching my camera and reviewing the photos.
“Here they are, a red brick house, right?”
“No,” she says, “My house is blue with siding.”
I went to the wrong house. Sneed and I were on the wrong unmarked road at the wrong 6415.
“No, that’s not mine, but I’d still like to see the pictures.”
As I show her the photos of a flooded house that is not hers a thousand emotions fly through my head. Anger at wasting Colonel Sneed’s time. Frustration at the amount of effort it took for me to get into the Lower 9th Ward, knowing that I will not be able to pull off such a smooth entrance again. Shame at raising Margaret’s hopes for closure then leaving the door open. She responds graciously, however, expressing thankfulness for my assistance to her as she continues to cry.
“I don’t know what I am going to do. The only real option for an old lady like me is to go into a home. I can’t deal with all of this and I don’t have the money to rebuild. But you know what? It will be ok, because the Lord does not forsake the righteous. I know that, and He will not forsake me.”
On the brink of tears myself, I offer Margaret the only thing I can give her. “May I pray with you before I go?” I ask. Her face lights up and she offers me her hands. I take them and say a short prayer for her, through which she cries softly and mumbles “amen.”
Before long it is over. I assure her I will try again tomorrow to locate her home and will get in touch with her as soon as I do. We part and I walk to my truck, looking towards the distant setting sun with more emotions running through me than I have felt my entire time in the gulf region. As I drive home, knowing that I will soon be leaving these wonderful, suffering people, I am filled with sorrow because after I leave and return to my normal life, saying to myself “Thank God that’s over,” they will still be here and their houses will still be destroyed. But Margaret is right, and I do not have to be concerned because when I leave she is still not alone, but is in the far better hands of a God who has not, and will not, forsake the righteous.
I never saw Margaret Sayles again. The next morning I set out again to find 6415 Nina Street. I knew from what I saw and from what Colonel Sneed had said that it was difficult to navigate the broken streets of the Lower 9th, but it only sunk in with my original failure to find Margaret’s house. I did find her home this time, however, right off the main drag aided by the description of its exterior. It was still in the guarded portion of the ward, but this time I decided to take my chances and I parked my truck on the street and made a run for it, hoping to get behind a row of houses before any of the guards saw me. It worked, and I was able to photograph the outside and the shattered interior of her home. As a wooden structure, it did not fair as well as the red brick house I had visited with Colonel Sneed. The home had floated off its foundation and the interior was just as bad if not worse than the previous day’s house. Hardly repairable for a thousand dollars. I snuck out successfully and emailed the pictures to one of Margaret’s friends. I spoke to her on the phone that afternoon and she expressed her deepest thanks for my efforts.
That was the last I heard of Margaret Sayles. I had indeed found her house, but what became of it or of her I do not know. I have tried to track her down but have so far been unable. The Lower 9th ward was bulldozed in the most severe sections around the levee break, leaving an eerie absence in a place so many homes and so much thriving community once stood. I have not been able to locate Margaret’s home.
Whatever happened to Margaret, however, I am sure she was ok. Her faith moved me, and I am confident as Psalm 94 says that justice will return to the righteous.
“For the Lord will not forsake his people, He will not abandon his heritage;
For justice will return to the righteous, and all the upright in heart will follow it.”
Psalm 94: 14-15
Saturday, July 7, 2007
The War Wages On
A father comforted his 11-year-old daughter, who was wounded by a suicide bombing in Amerli, IraqI am not a pacifist, but I feel that responsibility demands action in the face of evil, and sometimes this means taking up arms. Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes in his Ethics that a man who tries to maintain his innocence by not taking up arms incurs upon himself a greater guilt. He says, "He [the man who seeks to maintain his innocence] sets his own innocence above his responsibility for men, an he is blind to the more irredeemable guilt which he incurs precisely in this; he is blind also to the fact that real innocence shows itself precisely in a man's entering into the fellowship of guilt for the sake of other men." Bonhoeffer's belief in action would take his life, but his conviction to enter into the sufferings of the world remained resolute to his grave.
When I look at the picture of that little girl above, I want to feel Bonhoeffer's conviction. The war in Iraq, right or wrong, is lousy. I want to stare long and hard at that photo just to be reminded that the war wages on even as we in America celebrate our independence. I want to share in the suffering in hope of in some way alleviating it. Stuck in prison shortly before he was led to the hangman's noose, Bonhoeffer wrote an interpretation of Christ's call to the Christian in the secular world. "Jesus asks in Gethsemane, 'Could you not watch with me one hour?'...Man is summoned to share in God's sufferings at the hands of a godless world. He must therefore really live in the godless world, without attempting to gloss over or explain its ungodliness in some religious way or other...It is not the religious act that makes the Christian, but participation in the sufferings of God in the secular life."
When God heard the screams of the little girl above I believe he felt pain. Thankfully, because he called Christ to suffer and Christ obeyed, she, I, and you can be free from the pains of this life. Yet as a participant in this secular world, I want to hear her screams myself, suffering with her that I may bring the peace that is Christ crucified and raised again.
Friends, remember that there is a war going on. Remember that children are suffering. Pray that there may be peace and tears of suffering turned to tears of joy, joy in the risen Christ Jesus.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Welcome to the Drafting Room
Lets face it, Xanga is dead. It was a good ride but its time to move on. The Drafting Room will be a souding board for my musings on life and the world. Yes, I stole the name from a great Philadelphia resturant I ate at last night with the blog king Anthony Bradley himself, but what can I say, its catchy and rings of putting out thoughts and ideas for testing. Join the draft...
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