photo by the Associated Press (copyright 2005)South of Paradise, Home of the Dispossessed
Written by Larry J. Knight, Jr.
-for the children of New Orleans
Remember the summer exodus
of southern heartbreak and diasporas
moving across the nation;
fleeing from rotting corpses, left to decay
in sewage and oil,
beneath a merciless Louisiana sun;
will families once solidified by community,
now split like breached levees
continue to be embraced with open arms
when the collective flood of evacuees
reach an impasse,
when America, forgets;
New Orleans,
will TV record your fate,
will AP photos document your future,
will the winds of change
blow cold, once altruism
is replaced with indifference-
the skeletal hand of charity
and humanism, methodically drawn in retreat;
Will hunger pangs and dehydration,
and shrieks for help
receive any remembrance
as the bones of drowned children
lost in the tidal surge of a swollen lake
crumble to dust;
will memorials for the dispossessed
be erected when the migration
marks an anniversary;
who’ll honor the disaster,
will scores of visitors flock
to the convention center,
to stand, or genuflect
where the poor were left to die;
Remember New Orleans;
its tree lined boulevards,
its putrid smell,
its pulsing jazz,
its people,
their joi d’ vivre,
their mulatto and Creole faces
contorted, in anguish,
forced from their homes;
who’ll remember their exodus,
mothered by hurricane,
inseminated by civic disparity,
the offspring is relocation,
people, moved from shelter to refuge,
sleeping for the first time
under unfamiliar skies
and unrecognizable stars,
Africans in Utah,
Nebraska,
Montana,
Oklahoma;
who’ll call them home,
remind them that red sunsets
never fell across their rooftops;
that the thick, grey looming shadow
of a chemical plant’s smoke trail,
cancerously rained down on them;
who’ll tell them that airborne carcinogens
aren’t tolerable as long as a government check
arrives at the end of the month,
discuss years of ecological ruin,
remind them, of the smell of poverty,
an inescapable odor trapped in memory’s grasp,
still, pungently, afflicting senses;
Remember New Orleans,
its orphaned children
scattered into the four winds,
lost in the wilderness,
adopted like human pets
only to be left behind
when they’re of no use,
when philanthropy withers,
when other children need bread and clothes,
who’ll champion their cause then;
will we still write songs about the bayou,
sing to the low moon over the Mississippi,
and dream, of the Crescent City
submerged under 20 feet of water;
what’ll become of compassion then,
when the attention is drawn elsewhere
and the city, is finally
and truly, left to fend for itself;
Where will the press conferences be held,
will we hear the sound bites
over the echoed screams of single mothers
who sift through the mud soaked remnants
of their lives;
when a son learns his daddy
was washed away with the flood;
when the ghastly sounds of the funeral dirge
rise, and hover above the city,
will we remember;
When empathy dries and tears subside,
will anybody count the hours
brown toxins spewed
into the poorest parts of the city;
who’ll speak of the death
that swept over them
as whispers of convenient resignation
and the guise of compassion
recount impoverished suffering;
who’ll worry about the affliction
fostered by the middle class, and sustained
by the continued poisoning of neighbors,
the slow extermination of strangers;
will they remember
that the rich and the poor
never intersected before this,
their lives too polarized;
abject poverty on the left,
needless excess on the right,
in-between them, a gulf that can’t be filled;
will they see this city,
New Orleans, as an oasis of corruption and greed,
proof of the lasting power of Jim Crow,
where the poor live deep in the barrel of shot gun homes,
cursed, like the wandering dead,
while in comparison, the affluent live like gods;
both divided by race, class, and education,
essential ingredients for the roux,
used to make a lethal gumbo of disproportion,
fed to the victims of gentrification
staining a nation when it boils over the top;
but who’s hands are marked,
who’ll clean up years of brewing antagonism;
a community displaced, or a society
that cares as long as the cameras are rolling;
Remember New Orleans,
its disease infested bowels,
its squalid ghettos,
its abandoned homes,
its deserted avenues, left to the dead,
will anybody recall the families, pulled apart,
stretched across a nation,
separated, given little, if any hope,
children and parents both
clinging to a myth of tomorrow;
will the fabric of the American dream
be ripped by society’s eventual indifference,
will the wounds on the feet of trekking masses
of dispossessed Southerners fester, and rot,
will their bodies succumb to the infection,
crippling them, for generations to come?
Who’ll remember?
Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.
photo by The Associated Press (copyright 2005)The Myth of TomorrowLyrics by Larry J. Knight, Jr. Arrangement by L. J. Knight, Jr. and V. S. MajorSleep precious children sleep,
our lives in the next world ain't far ahead,
Rest little children, rest your weary souls
for the Lord's a comin' soon
to take our spirits home.Remember the land of our mother,sweet land of our mothertake our spirits homeRemember the bend of the river,to the bend of the rivertake our spirits home
Dream precious children dream,
close your eyes and believe in sweet deliverance
Pray pretty children, kneel before the Lord
for salvations train's arrivin'
so climb on board.Believe in the life everlastingtrue life everlastingtake our spirits homeBelieve in our life's redemptionour redemption is a comingtake our spirits home
Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.
photo by The Associated Press (copyright 2005)
Week One
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.
This past week has been something close to a nightmare, as I am sure is the case for all natives of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama who are presently living abroad. Each time I turn on the television, access the web, or listen to the radio, I am constantly overcome by a feeling of helplessness and loss. I, like many, have cried several times this week, and this article is my catharsis; my attempt to heal myself through the only thing that I seem to be able to control...my words.
Many of my friends and their families were affected by this storm. Many of them have lost their homes, their possessions, even their loved ones. Being from Louisiana doesn't give me the right to claim this as 'my tragedy' or the tragedy of my people for that matter, but there is something about this event...something overwhelming.
Though I’m from Baton Rouge, I know those people in New Orleans, many of them have stood right next to me as I participated in the Mardi Gras, Bayou Classic, New Year's, Essence Festival, and Super Bowl festivities, or visited their homes on innumerable occasions. I can see their faces each time I look at an Associated Press image that is shown repeatedly. I always say to myself 'I know them,' they are not random strangers in some photograph on in some video footage, they are my former neighbors; and in some ways, it is my tragedy, and their tragedy, and everyone's tragedy. But here I sit, in Jacksonville, reduced to relying on third party communication; sickened by the network news coverage, but at the same time totally dependent upon it as the only source of information.
As a former student and now teacher of journalism, it is hard to sit through the bold computer graphics, intentionally somber music, and asinine editorial commentary, just to see one glimpse of the 'city of my father', to find out if the areas where friends of mine once and presently reside are inundated with water. But as I have found, even the networks have had difficulty understanding, let alone covering the immensity of this event. And their difficulty only pales in comparison to mine. They have satellite phones and video communication links, whereas I have my Sprint cell phone, that most of the time just doesn't seem to be able to connect me with people in the 225, 504, or 985 area code regions. They are able to speak with the governor, the mayor, and even the president, but I can't speak to people that mean more to me than an elected official. The pensive waiting game feels like an eternity.
For example, over the last week I've tried to get in touch with two of my dearest New Orleans-born friends who now live in Baton Rouge and their parents, who undoubtedly lost their home out in New Orleans East. I call, get no answer; call again, still get no answer; the lack of communication becoming a rhythmic exchange between me and nothingness. But each day as I try to reach them, I have to ask myself, what do I plan to tell them? How can I convey sentiments over a telephone, especially when I'm safe, dry, still have all of my possessions, aren't worrying about the safety of any immediate family members or what tomorrow will or may bring? Each time I dial, and that now ubiquitous operator voice comes on to tell me that the circuits are busy as a result of the storm, I painfully avoid the inevitable.
We cannot begin to understand what it's like to experience what many of them are at present experiencing. Over the past week, I have somewhat come to find out details of the event that are not being presented in the press. Details that have come to my attention thanks largely to the network of Louisianans who can't reach anyone by phone because of poor communications, but must rely on some unreliable, yet essential version of the old telephone game. One person finds out some piece of information, then that person communicates it to another person, who then does the same thing, and so on.
Over the past seven days, I have been informed of suicides, phone calls from flooding attics, people braving the elements on their roofs, lost homes, mass migrations, people paddling through flood ravaged streets, arduous two day treks from one side of the city to the other, and a lost niece, who was recently discovered in Texas after being missing for more than a week. It has been somewhat nightmarish, but hopeful, because each day also brings signs that things are going to be okay, for example, a good friend, who now lives in Richmond, told me on Saturday that most of his family is safe, and that the signs of relief and aid, amidst the firestorm of criticism seem to be materializing.
After 9/11 I felt a deep feeling of sadness and loss that punctured the fabric of my day to day life, but this is different, this was 'home.' And though I am not from New Orleans, my father is, and my friends are, and I have slept, ate, played, danced, written, cried, laughed and smiled in the Crescent City. It IS my home, and now it is a virtual ghost town, left for dead, its vibrancy gone, and its people's joi d'vivre dried up in the humid Louisiana heat. It pains me to consider that things will never be the same way again, that the city of New Orleans, and the American Gulf Coast, will never be able to recover from this.
I think, in some ways, that this mass exodus of New Orleanians is in some way a form of tragic irony. There is a saying that has been uttered by scores, upon scores of that city's residents...'I was born here, and I am going to die here'. Thankfully, for the thousands who were able to escape the grip of death and despair, for now at least, that axiom did not come true. But for now, we can only pray that the life that awaits the evacuees and the victims in Mississippi and Alabama will be one filled with hope and fortitude, for it is often said that in the face of great adversity, we human beings are often at our best. I only hope that the creator of that great maxim is right.
