The Beginning of the End of the Beginning [ARTICLE]

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.