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Glimpses of the Ninth Ward
Written by
Janet Rae Brooks
, Special to Redcross.org
Monday, November 21, 2005 — NEW ORLEANS – For nearly an hour, the bus had been driving up and down the streets of the devastated Lower Ninth Ward, allowing those on board their first glimpses of the homes they had fled some two months earlier. When Leon Vaughn stood up halfway down the aisle of the Gray Line tour bus and began singing “Amazing Grace,” he quickly had a bus full of backup singers.
The city’s “Look and Leave” plan, launched Oct. 27, gives former residents of the Lower Ninth, who had scattered throughout the country in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, a chance to visit their sealed-off neighborhood even as cadaver dogs continue the search for bodies.
At the corner of North Roman Street and Benton, riders trooped off the bus to take a quick look inside an apparently untouched brick home, chosen by officials to demonstrate that there would be nothing to salvage from their own houses.
The predominantly black neighborhood was among the hardest hit in New Orleans by both Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, with parts sitting under water for as long as four weeks after the Industrial Canal levee broke.
Just beyond a military checkpoint at the corner of Caffin Avenue and North Claiborne Street, homes lay twisted, smashed together or reduced to piles of sticks. Others had been wrenched off foundations and deposited in the middle of the street, in a schoolyard, on top of cars – or even with cars inside them. Roofs had been left sitting on the ground, mattresses hanging in trees, recliners sitting on rooftops. Parts of blocks had been swept entirely clear of houses.
“It looks like somebody dropped a bomb on the place – and the bomb is called Katrina,” said George Solomon, as his neighbors on the bus shot video, snapped pictures and relayed instant eye-witness reports by cell phone to loved ones.
“There’s houses all over everywhere,” said former resident Earl Randall, Jr.
The brick house was the only stop the bus would make. The rest of the neighborhood was deemed too dangerous to wander in.
Retired Marine Colonel Jerry Sneed had tried to prepare the former residents when they boarded the bus just outside the Lower Ninth Ward.
“I’m telling you no matter how nice your furniture or china was, or however big a television screen you had,” Sneed said, “it’s either not there anymore or it’s absolutely destroyed.”
This was their day to take another step toward closure, he said. There were Red Cross mental-health volunteers on board the bus to help them cope.
“What you’re going to see may be very, very traumatic for you,” said Sneed.
Most of the riders climbed the front steps at the brick house on Benton Street to peer silently at the devastation within. Others chose not to look.
“It’s self-explanatory from the outside,” said Dionne Robateau, who remained on the bus. “You can just keep driving.”
Dirty insulation hung from the collapsed ceiling in the small front room visible from the door. Filthy, waterlogged remains of furniture lay thrashed and deposited in jumbles on the muddy floor, blocking the entrance.
Green mold covered the walls, windows were blown out and a ceiling fan in the next room was warped so badly that it looked like a giant, twisted tulip.
Despite the horror, Margaret Delaney didn’t want any part of saying goodbye to her old neighborhood.
“I don’t want to go to no Texas or New York or California,” she told the others gathered on the cracked pavement beside the bus. “I want to go home. I have three children and I was buying my house. I don’t care if you all consider this Skid Row – it was MY house; I worked for it.”
Fellow resident Desiree Nailer joined Delaney to stand up for their neighborhood.
“Fats Domino, one of the best musicians in the world, lived just down the street,” she said.
Although the Lower Ninth had a higher poverty rate than the citywide average, it also had a higher home ownership rate, according to the Greater New Orleans Community Data Center.
Before the three Louisiana National Guardsmen, who had followed the bus in a camouflage Humvee, hustled the residents back on the bus, Nailer made one final comment.
“They built the Great Wall of China,” she said. “They could have built a wall around this city.”
When the bus finally headed on down North Roman Street, someone called out: “Why don’t you sing us a song, Leon?”
Vaughn, an organist and singer at local churches, got to his feet and the bus was suddenly filled with his deep, rich baritone.
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound . . . ” he began.
“It was grace that brought me safe this far,” the entire bus joined in, “and Grace will lead me home.”
When they finished “Amazing Grace,” they launched into another song. The singing faded occasionally as other riders spotted the remains of their house, their father’s house, or a neighbor’s house.
“That’s my friend’s house,” someone called out, as the bus passed a pancaked wooden house. “Your friend’s house is all the way flat,” Randall replied.
“See that yellow house down there?” Randall said a few minutes later, pointing to a house a couple of blocks away, halfway into the street. “That’s my daddy’s house, the house I grew up in. It used to be right here.”
Homes weren’t the only things lost. Churches, parks, schools, a laundromat, barbershop, grocery store, drugstore and other businesses had been ravaged as well.
“That’s where I used to get my hair cut – Melvin’s,” said Randall. “I don’t think he’s going to cut no hair today. Look at the washeteria. Oh, lord, look at the washette.”
Nearby, Beulah Land Baptist Church, a single-story, buff-colored brick structure, appeared undamaged.
“That’s my church,” someone said. “Standing strong.”
“Look at that dog,” came another voice, as a mutt stranded in the neighborhood wandered through debris to the left of the bus. “Looks like he’s been eating some alligator.”
As the surreal tour continued through the decimated neighborhood, the singing went on. The driver made sure everyone saw their home, even when his military escort grew agitated that he wasn’t following the planned route.
“Katrina and Rita came, but I shall not be moved,” sang Vaughn. “Just like a tree landed by the water, I shall not be moved.”
As the bus exited the Lower Ninth and headed back to the pickup point, people who had lost everything were passing the hat for the driver, giving a cheer for the American Red Cross volunteers and singing.
Red Cross volunteer Michelle Lynch of Detroit, who rode along to provide comfort said that she would never forget the ride.
“You can put chaplains on buses, but this is their own way of grieving,” said Lynch, a clinical psychologist. “We were touring destruction, but they were able to spontaneously come together and sing about their blessings and the grace they’ve been given. You could almost feel it wash over you—the hope."
All American Red Cross disaster assistance is free, made possible by voluntary donations of time and money from the American people. You can help the victims of thousands of disasters across the country each year, disasters like the Midwest ice storms, by making a financial gift to the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund, which enables the Red Cross to provide shelter, food, counseling and other assistance to victims of disaster. The American Red Cross honors donor intent. If you wish to designate your donation to a specific disaster please do so at the time of your donation. Call 1-800-REDCROSS or 1-800-257-7575 (Spanish). Contributions to the Disaster Relief Fund may be sent to your local American Red Cross chapter or to the American Red Cross, P. O. Box 37243, Washington, DC 20013. Internet users can make a secure online contribution by visiting www.redcross.org.
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