Red Tape & Rice

First, a quick story: A house down the street from the Roy's, still on Soniat street, was being worked on by a small crew of contractors. During a break Amanda and I walked down the street and met them. They were completely renewing the inside structure of an old house and were doing well with what little crew they had. One waved to us and we struck up a conversation about the directly behind the one they worked on. It was an absolute disaster- it was so dilapidated and conquered by both the hurricane, a year of collapse, and the complete lack of an entire side of its second floor, that it was amazing it hadn't been demolished yet (it couldn't possibly take long to do the job). The worker explained that the house was in horrible shape, but there was one big problem that really hurt the owner more than the wind damage, the year of leaning, or the flooding... It was the fact that it was on the historical registry. It was, for better or worse, protected. And that meant that unless there was a fire (wink), the owner had to rebuild it only in retaining what little shape or structure it had left. It would cost twice as much to do that as it would to just doze it and start over. And it makes the parcel of land worthless until he does so. There was no wonder that aside from some haphazzard plywood that nothing had been done. A bigger kicker: because of the sprawl of the home's demise, there's not enough land on the parcel to fit a FEMA trailer. "The only thing holding that thing together is red tape." ***Ida Roy made for us, in essence, the biggest thank-you meal she could have. While we all underestimated her promise and still had lunch planned to come from elsewhere, Ida fixed a massive lunch for 50 of red beans and rice, incredible sausage, fried chicken, bread, salad, and potato salad. It was a meal that could only be described as hearty, for a hungry and thankful crew that was so proud to be partaking. I spoke to Ida about it, commenting about my grandmother; I mentioned her age (93) and that this meal was very reminicent of the kind she would have fixed for friends and family-- at least in spirit if not exact recipie. I really, really appreciated it. And Ida teared up more than once trying to express that it was the least she could do.Later that day I was tasked with touching up the ceiling in what was being used as Ida and Carlton's bedroom in the upstairs. It was a room where the rain hadn't come directly in (some rooms were completely exposed to the elements until recently) but it had some severe discoloration from water damage. I had been dubbed the "ceiling guy" much to my spine's chagrin and in nearly every room in the house had done some if not all the ceiling primer and coats of paint. But in this makeshift bedroom, "our campsite" Ida offered, it was quiet and not full of the bustle of the other rooms. I draped plastic over much of the room and its contents since the spots were pretty far apart and with a roller and later a small brush and a ladder touched it up as best I could. I was almost done and Ida came in. I offered to leave, but she indicated she just wanted to sit-- and to also get away from the bustle. She was 79 but could pass for more than a decade younger with her shrewd energy and matriarch spirit. She sat and watched me finish. We chatted more. About family. About life. About hope.Downstairs, their grandson Sedric spoke candidly as we all dragged into the last hour. He shared with us that friends of his would come from out of town and ask, "Show me the 9th Ward, show me where our people suffered." Sedrick explained that he would show them the 9th Ward, but then he would drive to Lakeside. And the East. And he was very adamant to make the point that this had nothing to do with race. "Everyone suffered. That storm, and those levees, it didn't matter...We're all in trouble."Two hours later our ride back to a much-sought-after shower and rest was convinced to do some diverting. She took us everywhere. Not just the poor neighborhoods, but also the rich. And then the middle class- what is left of it. Perhaps for all the stories we had seen, all of the special, heart-breaking pictures we took near the Roy's house, we felt like our experience as rebuilders was effective-- potent enough for us to communicate what had happened. We were wrong. I can't believe we took an early picture of the eerie spray-painted "X" on a door, like it was special. We passed thousands of them in this one ride. We passed hundreds of demolished homes. We passed thousands of gutted domiciles. Saw countless scenarios of anguishing heartbreak, implausible destruction, unmatchable scenes of difficulty, and dizzying juxtapositions of damage caused by storm, sun, age, politics, and man. We literally found ourselves unable to say, "Oh my God" anymore. Our tears welled up at any turn of the head. Examples ranged from watermarks taller than any man, the buildings knocked like toy brick towers, the renewing spirit of the people of Broadmoor, the University of New Orleans' faculty/staff housing in ruins, a National Guard unit still on guard at the entrance of a middle-class subdivision far outside the city, entire low-income apartment complexes left as massive skeletons... We were saturated with sorrow. And the more we tried to categorize the damage in our minds, the more we tried to label or compartmentalize the issues and destruction, the more we tried to Headline News the situation, the less efective it was. We were numb with pain. And we were only witnesses. We were deathly silent for most of the ride back. We were almost unable to make small talk, even if relevant. This had nothing to do with designations or terms. This was about civilization. Humanity.I realize that it's far easier, and probably more digestable, to get our nuggets of information and feel fed by the newsfeed. But if you take anything from my dribble of thoughts about what has happened in New Orleans- nay, what is STILL happening in New Orleans- is that the story has absolutely nothing to do with the words black, white, rich, poor, upper, lower or middle. It has nothing to do with feeling like we should do right by a city's people because a government any particular level failed them (even if they all did). You need to let your introspection stop plainly at the front door of these tragedies- you shouldn't need to pry further. These are not people somehow classifiable into neat descriptions and they don't deserve to be. They are, flatly: Mothers; Fathers; Brothers; Sisters; Friends; Family. Grandmothers. Daughters. Wives. Husbands. Sons. Grandfathers. Humans. And most importantly, the only thing that mattered in the last whisps of August and first of September, ALIVE. These are those that did not make the count at the bottom of the sprayed "X" that marks the door of any house in New Orleans. They are still alive.So much more to say, to think about, to share, and to cry about. But for now I think I've done as much as I can do without shorting out the laptop on which I type. We're home shortly and the brief but potent trip will have come to an end.But I am branded.*I'd incorrectly spelled Sedrick's name with a C yesterday, sorry.