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You can’t imagine the things I have seen. The things every American should see. The things you should see. A bumper sticker: “Make levees, not war.” A stack of flooded-out cars, come to rest in a random heap on a lot where once stood someone’s dream home. Orange spray-painted quadrants marking the living and the dead on each and every building, some on facades, and some on rooftops if the rescuers came by boat. Streets smeared with thick, grey sludge long-dried but still remarkably adhesive and coating everything in the color of despair. Miles and miles of “blue roofs” waiting for repair - the lowest of priorities on a list of competing urgencies. You can’t imagine what 2,500 unlivable houses in the Ninth Ward looks like. Block after block and street after street of rot and ruin. You close your eyes and try to superimpose what must have been grassy lawns and brightly painted doors, but you can’t blot out the buckled sidewalks and debris-strewn streets, many still impassable. No people, no traffic and no children. And that is the worst of it - the lonely quiet that remains when all of the children have gone.
Anchored on the Mississippi's bank is the cruise ship the police live on. From the river, looking back toward the lake, you can see the lighted name of the “Sheraton” where through some alchemy of planning, second-sight and generosity, the management and staff sheltered refugees, city officials and first responders through the aftermath – their own employees still quartered here having nowhere else to go. The FEMA encampment is a fenced-in lot guarded by the mercenaries of Blackwater. There is no sign that they might move to more permanent quarters, maintaining vigil on the idea that this crisis is a temporary one. There is a curfew. It varies depending on your location. Where there is no electricity, and that would be the majority of the city, it is 4PM to sunrise. In the French Quarter, it is midnight. The curfew is enforced by MPs patrolling in humvees. On the streets of an American city.
We walked through the Quarter looking for a drink. The party that never stops. The home of the take-away daiquiri. Where women and men dance adorned in funny hats and strands of glittering beads. The house that jazz built. We crossed a vacant street to avoid a grouping of refrigerators. Everyone avoids the refrigerators. They were spray-painted with messages – names and phone numbers of people looking for people. There are still more than 3,000 missing people. We came across a brass quartet playing “Iko Iko” on Decatur Street. We joined the parade of three dozen singing and dancing in their wake. We were soldiers, constructions workers, journalists, students, locals and tipsy girls who sparkled in the gaslight. We danced in a shower of champagne from the iron balconies where boys in bowler hats cheered and threw confetti. I kissed a stranger at midnight and made a friend on the streets of New Orleans.
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Fantastic
Posted Jul 24, 2008
This is a very well-written piece, with some really great imagery. Your descriptive language is neither too wordy nor short of details, and everything flows perfectly. Most importantly, like Justin said, this article is both powerful and concise. It grabbed my attention and didn't let go until... (
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