1. Dispatches from the Other America
By Charles E. Anderson
The French Quarter bustles with hundreds of tanned tourists clad in Bermuda shorts, flip flops
and T-shirts baring pithy slogans. They crowd in around tour guides who tell tall tales of the
distant past, tales of Voodoo queens and illicit madams, stories of hard lives and cruel deaths.
They rush to get on busses to tour the grand mansions and manicured lawns of New Orleans’
famed Garden District. They drink strong coffee and eat beignets at the Café Dumond; dine in
the French Quarter’s famous five-star restaurants and drink at the many bars along Bourbon
Street. The greenbacks flow from warn leather wallets into the cash registers of the tourist
district seemingly faster than the mind can conceive. Further downtown, a gas station turns a
brisk business selling gasoline, snacks and cold drinks to hundreds of residents and visitors alike.
Traffic is heavy on this thoroughfare that dissects one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods, the 9th
Ward. The sidewalks here are full with foot traffic. Residents go about their daily tasks gutting
homes and businesses, seeming to continue with their lives. Taking this in, it is almost easy for
me to believe what I have been told: New Orleans is recovering well from Hurricane Katrina and
the city is on the road to recovery. But, this is New Orleans and the Crescent city is known for
its facades.
It takes only two left turns off the major
travel routes to discover the New Orleans I
had hoped did not exist. It is the New
Orleans the state and city governments do
not want you to see. Houses lifted from their
foundations when flood waters inundated the
city two years ago still sit as dilapidated piles
of rubble; occasional FEMA trailers dot an
otherwise barren landscape devoid of
functioning businesses or inhabitable homes.
The stench of mildew, mold and rotting
garbage permeates the area. This view of
“the other New Orleans” is haunting, like a
graveyard of the living. Schools, once filled
with the jubilant voices of youth, now sit silent and empty as though baring silent witness to
innocence lost; Churches sit boarded and vacant seeming to proclaim, “God doesn’t live here
anymore;” and dozens of corner stores, bars and barber shops sit dormant as if waiting for their
hard working owners to return and pick up where they left off on August 28 2005: the day before
the storm. Yet, this empty view of the city is no more accurate than the image so carefully
constructed by the Visitor’s Bureau. The truth about New Orleans is somewhere between the
cleaned up, shiny image of the uptown districts and the near ghost town aura of 9th
Ward.
Somewhere in this haunted ghost town, I discovered a resilience of the human spirit I have never
seen before. Signs proclaiming, “I’m coming home; I will rebuild; I am New Orleans” can be
seen hanging in front windows and posted in the front yards of the iconic Louisiana shotgun-

2. style houses. Life long residents struggle to gut their family homes, often without help. A new
generation of New Orleanians, proud of their heritage work long hours during the week only to
work longer hours repairing their damaged homes on the week-ends. Children still play here and
adults still congregate together on their front porches to talk about the hard times and to hope for
a better future. Hundreds of caring souls from around the country work tirelessly to do what they
can to help people they have never met. The story of this working-class district seems to cry out
from its dilapidated buildings and vacant persona. Local residents yearn to tell their story and
freely talk about the ordeal they have endured for the past two years as they suffered in silence.
Before I arrived in Louisiana, I had prepared myself to witness the destruction wrought by the
hurricane as well as the waste wrought by inept government. I was not, however, prepared to
witness the abject suffering of the hurricane victims, nor was I prepared to experience the
strength of faith and the resolve of character so steadfastly personified by these survivors. I had
the pleasure of meeting elderly residents of the 9th
Ward, many of whom have been working on
their homes with no assistance; I met volunteers, motivated only by the desire to relieve human
suffering, whose work has aided many; and I met a community “at the bottom of the world” in
southern Louisiana where the locals are determined to rebuild their community. My eight days
in Louisiana provided me with a view of the “other America” where resources are scarce; faith
and will power are essential for survival and in fact prove to be the heart of our national identity.
It’s a story of incredible suffering, amazing faith and strong characters. It is the story of
hurricane survivors, not hurricane victims. It is a story of a culture that is clinging to survival in
the wake of powerful hurricanes and feeble governments. It is a story of the best, and the worst,
of the American spirit.
Coming Tomorrow: Meet some of the 9th
Ward’s residents as they attempt to reclaim their lives
after the storm.
Published by Trouth.org August 2007