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Three years running, Columbia students, faculty, and staff have used their spring break to help rebuild the City of New Orleans. All week long, members of the Columbia student organization Reach Out will be telling the story of this year's trip.
ReachOut is a student run organization that fundraises all year long in order to travel to poverty or disaster stricken areas and contribute. Any Columbia student willing to work hard can be a member. You can reach us at reachoutccc@gmail.com.
New Orleans is a city that has a massive gap between poor and privileged and yet the two communities live practically on each others' laps – far too close to resist being completely appalled by the heavy contrast that exists among it. Still, what is being done? Throughout the week we have been volunteering in some of the most devastated areas of the city, from the Lower 9th Ward where the levee broke to St. Bernard Parish, to suburban parks and nature centers where we have witnessed the horrific and seemingly endless results of Katrina. On our drive to these work sites, however, little neighborhoods full of huge, gorgeous southern houses loom over the demolished, rotten, boarded-up, and abandoned houses and buildings waiting for someone or something to put the pieces together again.
We have labored all week over rebuilding darling Ms. Bessie’s house in the Lower 9th Ward (two blocks from the river where the levees broke), and though it seems immediately rewarding through her endless gratitude for every nail we hammer into her home, I just look around the neighborhood, down the street, and next door, to see that there is still so much work to be done. The devastation is truly overwhelming, and it’s going to take a lot more than 60 college students to help this city recover, accompanied by a generous timetable.
In spite of this incredible amount of damage and homelessness that New Orleans and the surrounding areas have experienced, visiting Bourbon Street and the French Quarter last night brought a new light to the city for me. Eighty degrees, a slight breeze, all of my new and remarkable friends by my side, I wandered through the narrow streets of the renowned French Quarter, filled with live music, bars, gumbo shops, restaurants, and this little patio courtyard where we all enjoyed some Cajun food, bignets, and a fantastic jazz trio, complete with the delicate French wrought iron tables and chairs and dancing couples spread about. This is New Orleans. This is how these relentless, motivated, strong-willed people survive. This is how they make it. The culture is so strong, so genuine, so deep – why would anybody want to leave? This is New Orleans; the city that will never leave my heart.
-- Callie Humphrey
All week long I worked at a camp with second graders who have lived through more in their seven years of life than most expereience in a lifetime. One little girl told me she has no toys. Another was scared to tears of getting wet in a water balloon fight since she had so few changes of clothes.
I never heard any of their stories, where they lived, if they evacuated or stayed, any of that. I could never ask them to relive the pain they experienced. Adults are desperate to share theirs stories and just talk about it; kids only want to play.
Janelle Foszcz
When thinking about my time in New Orleans my mind is flooded with countless questions and comments. With emotions running high and sleep being of a low priority one can understand how a volunteer may fight battle after battle in their heads, a result of trying to process too much information at once. It seems a natural reaction when one is subjected to the first-hand experience of one of the most painful and embarrassing moments in United States history. The national media didn't talk to the locals for hours, asking hard questions, giving them the respect that they deserve by letting them tell their personal stories of pain and heartbreak. We did. This country's democracy didn't lend one damn hand to the residents of the 9th Ward or brighten the day of the neglected, yet extraordinary children that we met and who have learned to process death and destruction at such an early age.
After finding family members dead inside their houses, waiting months for settlement money that just didn't come, and watching their property being seized before their eyes, it would seem that New Orleans would have a grim outlook on life and their fellow human beings. This is the most amazing part because it is not like this at all. These people have become the unknown role models for the common citizen, leaders for the struggling classes. How do these people get up every morning physically and mentally drained with nothing to their names and a brand-new obstacle to face? The answer is in one beautiful word: hope. Hope that the residents' actions will one day be rewarded. Hope that our country will open up its eyes to our clouded thinking and finally see the big picture. Hope that people will soon have their own bed to sleep in. Hope that more volunteers will do what the government refuses to do. Hope that repeated exposure to toxic chemicals, mold, and formaldehyde from FEMA trailers won't result in sickness or death for these people. Hope that the local businesses will return someday and flourish. Hope that a form of stability will be established. Hope that nobody ever has to go through this again.
-- Neale Baldyga
In a dysfunctional place that often calls itself "the city that care forgot," I was honored to travel with the Columbia College documentary crew to chronicle how 58 students and faculty helped rebuild the chaos in the Lower 9th Ward, New Orleans East, and St. Bernard Parish. The crew consisted of my former students: Zack Rockwood, Nora Clark, and Mark Perkins as well as Jesse McAlpin, who was not a former student, but whose uncle Mike McAlpin and I worked on a couple PBS documentaries. Our job was simple: record the narratives of citizens grappling with the chaos while our students helped rebuild their hurricane-damaged homes. The story centered on the power of volunteerism here on the front-line of a traumatized community. There are some who think either all is well in New Orleans or that the Crescent City, which is shaped like a bowl and might very well fill up once again with the next hurricane, shouldn't be bothered with. Preachers, like Rev. Charles DuPlessis of Mt. Nebo Bible Baptist Church, discussed the "moral imperative" that residents here are "Americans, not refugees, and should be treated as such since natural disasters can and do occur in every part of this country."
Historians like Baba Luther Gray pointing out this was America's first multi-cultural city long before New York City. "It's the place where jazz was conceived and where American dance was born," Gray said. We shot photos of the hallowed ground called Congo Square (now Armstrong Park) where African slaves were trotted out two centuries ago at the spiritual place of the Houmas Indians and made to dance in order to be more effectively marketed as healthy workers. Across the street is the Storyville section of the French Quarter where jazz was officially born, named after the jasmine scent often used in bordellos where America's only original art form was played. Nora, a professional tap dancer, performed at this sacred site. That same night, she danced with spoken word artist, Asia, at Sweet Lorraine's in what HBO Def Poet Shakespear called "a New Orleans first combining poetry and tap." We captured all of those images and more. For me, it was especially meaningful to revisit with my teen son, Amman, our relative's home at 1704 Deslonde, and discover it was now the headquarters of Common Ground, a Black-led recovery non-profit. Meanwhile, down the street, residents, like Bessie Montgomery of 1405 Deslonde, assessed us this way: "Columbia College Chicago made a difference."
-- Stan West
As I sit and reflect on the past week, I am trying to replay all of the words, actions, and emotions that being in New Orleans with such an amazing group of people manifested. I just got off the phone with my mom, calling to see how the week went and if we made it home safely, and all she could say is that I sounded different. Although I tried to answer all of her questions about the trip to my best ability at the time, I still got the “Nicole, you’re sounding evasive” comment, and she proceeded to ask if I was sick, or in love. And although my body may be sick and my heart full of love, I guess this just goes to show how hard it is to just translate back into real life and to articulate into simple phrases how your week of unexplainable experiences affected you right away.
Upon arriving in New Orleans for the second spring break in a row, I thought to myself “Why am I here and what exactly has changed since the last time I was here?” The answer to that question was gradually answered over the course of the week, but what I knew upon entering the journey is that something inside of me had been changed from last years trip, and that I was here again because I was driven by that experience to want to use my time away from school and work to better the life of another in some way, even if only one person was touched by my being there to help … it was somehow worth it. Throughout the week, I worked on two different construction sites of homes that were destroyed, two different wildlife preserves that had been affected by the storm, and an elementary school full of children who lives were affected and are still being affected by the Hurricane Katrina. In all of these activities, I realized the one thing that had not changed since the last time I had been down here was the undying gratefulness and appreciation that the citizens of New Orleans express to the volunteers who are here to help them. I had an innumerable amount of thank yous and hugs, and had lunch bought and made for me and the other volunteers. These people extend so much love and gratitude that it is hard not to form an emotional bond toward them and the work you are doing for them. It’s not hard to see how much these people have been through either, just look into their eyes when they speak about the experience of the storm that they lived. Their eyes have seen things that human beings should never have to see ... and it shows. They have seen their precious homes, their belongings, their memories, and all of their history destroyed in deep pools of toxic floodwater. They have seen dead bodies of family members, friends, neighbors, and pets floating in the ruins of their own town. They have seen the injustice of our own government first hand and are still living the consequences of it today. Peering into the eyes of these people and seeing all of this, while all I can hear is them pouring out their gratitude to us is honestly mind-boggling. I can’t understand how they still have so much love, and thanks, and hope to give.
Maybe once I wrap my mind around this idea I can start being less evasive, and more expressive about my week. Until then I am speechless and humbled by the experience of these people, and their actions, and their stories. Each year I return from New Orleans, I return with a new perspective of the world and a better appreciation for preciousness of life itself.
-Nicole Salvo
My favorite experience on our service trip thus far happened on Tuesday. A local man volunteered to take our group for a historic tour of New Orleans. He has lived here all of his life so he was very knowledgeable about the area. John lost a lot in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and during the day he helps neighbors rebuild their houses and at night he volunteers at Camp Hope. He told us about seven of his friends who committed suicide after Katrina – one, in his words, from a “broken heart”.
John took us to a local cemetery where graves had been broken open by the flood, the bodies no longer in their coffins, and the site completely unrestored. These are the things that you will not see or hear about going downtown to Bourbon Street. We have been driving to sites in neighborhoods that have the number of people, who were found inside, spray-painted on the front door. We’ve seen houses that have not even been checked yet. We’ve seen whole kitchens in front lawns and schools completely destroyed by water and fire damage. One day, one our chaperones turned to us and asked, “Does this look like the most powerful country in the world to you?” Certainly, it doesn’t.
Carly Beltramo
For months I listened as members of ReachOut speak of the life-changing experiences they had on their two previous trips to help rebuild New Orleans. Even though I had been given these months of warning, I was in no way prepared for what I am facing here in the city. Driving through the streets, everything appears as a ghost town. Businesses are boarded up, windows are broken, signs are arched over, and there are few other vehicles or people around.
I was able to work in the lower 9th Ward painting a home for my first day and was left speechless by everything I saw. There was a large home that still had not been gutted after these nearly three years! Walking into their kitchen I was taken aback. There were glasses upside down on a towel next to the sink, a jar of peanut butter opened with a butter knife inside and an iron left still on an ironing board.
Aside from these familiar sights, the remainder of the kitchen and house was filled with clutter and debris. The floodwaters in this particular home were fifteen feet high and the water damage was quite evident. I was appalled to see the state of this home after so much time has gone by. Unfortunately I found that most homes looked this way as I continued to tour the neighborhood.
Each day here I have learned so much. I have talked to many locals and became very involved in their personal stories. I’ve been able to grow so much as a person and appreciate the little things in my own life so much more.
Shanna Vincent
A poem.
. . . as first rays of sun hit land. Turning onto the main street. Green, yellow, and purple houses on the left. Mississippi River on the right. Beauty experienced for the first time, though it was always there. A dream realized.
I saw driveways and stairs with no houses. Swallowed by the marsh and bayou they may never be seen again but their shadow will always remain.
I saw houses that were in pristine condition but next door, a family's home was frozen in mid collapse.
I saw a neighborhood strangled by commercialism but culturally fighting back.
I saw a car, buried beneath a house that was relocated 20 yards from where it stood for so many decades. The address sign “1728” remained in place with the front steps. Clothes were still hanging in what used to be the walk-in closet.
I saw a pool behind an abandoned home. Water collected from the storm came alive. Surrounded by concrete, an ecosystem emerged. Mountains of algae, swarms of tadpoles, and a sign in the bottom that read, "For quarter life loans dial 510 etc. etc. etc."
I saw nature find a way.
I saw a system that failed but I saw failure jump start the system.
I saw gentrification in reverse. Major businesses were ejected by force and neighborhood stores now have a fighting chance.
I saw balance.
I saw every corner of the city while transporting eager volunteers. Good to bad, wrecked or new, one block to the next, I love the spirit of this city now more than ever before.
I saw what I thought was a clown starved for attention but really he was a man that gave a kindergartener the attention he needed to change his life forever.
I saw a student, far from home, determined to play guitar at a small coffee shop. He imported much more than supplies, hope, and a strong set of arms - he gave them a good night. The owner said we paid their rent for the month.
I saw a local man talk about people he grew up with that took their lives after the devastation. Telling their story keeps them alive. He didn't shed a tear. He just told their story.
I saw a graveyard graveyard.
I saw people who love their town and have found a way not to give up. The love for this city, their home, can never be quantified. The spirit of this place can never be tarnished.
I saw a group of people from all walks of life, put their lives on hold, to make at least one persons day. The days they made can never be measured. Only they know what each moment meant to them. Words, photos, and text can only scratch the surface. You have to be there.
I saw hope. Nothing will ever be the same, but nothing will ever be the same.
by Dimitri William Moore
Inspired by Reach Out
Today I was able to work with a dedicated group clearing out Joe W. Brown Memorial Park – a nature preserve – of a bush that has sprouted and interfered with the reproduction of other growing species. We were informed by one of the workers that this harmful plant was not found in the preserve until after Katrina.
The devastation is incalculable, and though the power of nature makes me fearful, today’s job helped me to appreciate the beauty around me.
Terence Reynolds
There is an old and creepy building in front of our camp that is rumored to have been used as a morgue in the aftermath of the Katrina. Last night I took a snapshot of this building, trying to capture the beautiful eeriness that it holds over our camp. Oddly enough, the picture turned out to be speckled with hundreds of mysterious circular light shapes. White, green, red—a galaxy of tiny globes. I took many other pictures of the building, and this small phenomenon recurred in all of them. The natives maintain that the building is haunted. Today we found what resembles a face in one of the circular light shapes.
Alex Small
