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Mirrors, clothing, furniture and other belongings unable to be salavaged are piled outside of the Batistes' house in New Orleans.
Tonda Batiste holds a photograph of herself from years ago that her husband, Leon, salvaged while cleaning out their New Orleans home. The family was rescued from the three-bedroom house as floodwaters rose in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.
Leon Batiste rests while moving the heavy furniture out of his Carrollton-area home in New Orleans. He saved some pictures, artwork and a clock.
Tonda Batiste quietly cries after seeing the damage done to her 7-year-old daughter Leondra's room by the flooding after Hurricane Katrina. Masks must be worn while cleaning because of the mold growing on the floors and walls of their home.
Tonda Batiste pulls down the curtains in the living room. She and Leon cleaned out the house to assess the damage and try to plan the next step.
Leon Batiste drags belongings out their home. They do not know what will happen to their neighborhood or how they will come up with the money to repair their home, but know they want to return to the city where he and wife were born and raised.
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NEW ORLEANS—Leon and Tonda Batiste’s lives used to revolve around the tidy, three-bedroom frame house they bought with their life savings in the Hollygrove neighborhood of Orleans Parish on the east side of the city.
This is the New Orleans that most tourists never see, where folks of modest means live about as far as one can get from the million-dollar mansions of the city’s Garden District and French Quarter just a few miles away.
This was not one of the stops where city politicians and President Bush promised help and delivered hopeful messages about financial aid and housing assistance.
Though it’s a tough place, and sometimes dangerous, it’s home. Neighbors would come over for red beans and rice, and their 7-year-old daughter, Leondra, would visit friends along Forshey Street.
That’s gone with Katrina.
The remnants of their lives are now piled up on the sidewalk outside: broken furniture still sodden nearly four months after the monster storm, photo albums faded by putrid water that reached up to the rooftop, drawers full of mementos and memories.
All of it, except for a precious few items—a portrait of Leon smiling proudly in his Army uniform in 1978, some knickknacks, a clock and a few mementos—are headed for the dump. Just down the block, a man scavenged for anything useful in front of one abandoned home.
“I’m dragging everything out of there,” said Leon, wearing a thin dust mask and gloves to protect himself from the mold.
Knee-high black rubber boots deflect nails in the flood-buckled pine flooring. “In this house, pretty much everything is gone.”
In the small living room, Tonda reached under a pile of wet debris. She lifted ed up her mask in for a moment of exhilaration to say, “Baby, you might could salvage some of these pictures!” For the past several weeks, the Batistes have lived in an apartment in Stafford County, where they have extended family. Leondra waited for them there, asking her mom on the phone each evening when they were coming home.
They are among dozens of hurricane evacuees living with relatives in the Fredericksburg area.
The Batistes, like so many thousands of Katrina Diaspora around the country, are in an aching state of need. They’ve received about $5,300 from the Federal Emergency Management Agency, the federal government’s point entity on disaster relief.
They’ll receive about $13,000 for the damage to their home, all its contents, and vehicle. But it’s not nearly enough to rebuild, and the money they have is steadily being depleted by the numbing cost of living in Northern Virginia, which is much more than southern Louisiana.
“We bought our house in 1995, just before we were married,” said Leon. “We didn’t have any honeymoon.” He paused for a moment, adding: “Here are our lives. We were born and raised here.”
All their neighbors are in the same situation: homes ruined, lives in disarray. Some have returned. Some want to return. Some will never be back.
“It’s easy for someone to say, ‘Well, just go somewhere else.’ But this is our home and our property,” said Tonda, whose eyes misted with tears after pulling a picture of her daughter from the debris.
In the months since the storm, the realities of their situation have begun to sink in. They know they are close to making the life-changing decision about whether to cling to the hope of rebuilding, or begin a new life in Virginia.
Tonda is angry. She says help hasn’t filtered down to the people who need it most.
She’s frustrated with hours on the telephone dealing with government agencies and being told to wait, though the couple are thankful for the help they’ve received from the Stafford chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, community organizations, friends, family and strangers.
Still, her anger is tempered with hope.
“We don’t want money. I don’t want a check. I pray for people to come to our rescue, with volunteers, building supplies, plumbers, electricians” to help rebuild, she said.
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About the series Only the Civil War displaced as many Americans as Hurricane Katrina. In a sense, the war and the hurricane’s aftermath are the same. The nation’s biggest natural disaster exposed the best and worst of humanity, and will define a generation. Though the storm played out mainly in Louisiana and Mississippi, it’s also a story about Fredericksburg—about how people here have been doing their part in the recovery and relief effort, supporting relatives in the stricken areas, and hosting strangers who have come seeking refuge. There are the victims—people of every race, creed and social class. There are heroes who rescued and comforted evacuees in their hour of need; helpers from volunteer agencies and churches taking time off from jobs, lives and families; those who dug deep into their pockets, and many who could only watch in horrified fascination from the sidelines. The storm left a monumental montage of sadness and human loss, looting, incredible inspiration, good intentions gone bad on the part of leaders of all political stripes, and above all, a guide for the future as Americans ponder nature’s power and how to blunt its destructive force. Free Lance–Star photographer Rebecca Sell and reporter Rusty Dennen spent a week in September covering the aftermath of the hurricane. They returned this month.
After Katrina Day 1: Lives in limbo Day 2: Volunteers answer the call Day 3: Rebuilding lives Day 4: Gone, not forgotten Day 5: A city divided
A look back |
“It’s rough. This is no joy trip. We’re leaving our child” to make the 20-hour drive here in a rented car, “but you have to do what you have to do,” Leon added. They paid for gas and a hotel room out of the dwindling financial assistance they’ve received.
Tonda is incensed that New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin is pushing to have a scaled-down Mardi Gras, the city’s most famous festival. “They’re talking about having a parade?”
Leon shook his head, adding: “I got to get a place to stay and a roof over my kid’s head. This is a crisis, and there’s no sympathy for us.” Leon is livid that New Orleans recently sent an electric bill to them in Virginia. The Batistes live in a part of the city that hasn’t had electricity since the storm.
Slowly and deliberately, over several hours, the couple went room to room, removing soggy clothes, furniture and belongings in a process that’s become known here as “mucking out.” On the curb, in between trips, they’d look around the neighborhood.
“Look at poor Mrs. Ann’s house,” Leon said. Mr. Williams is the man next door. He hasn’t been back.
“We knew all of them,” Tonda said. “This was the best block.” Leon’s father and Tonda’s mother lived nearby. Their houses are in similar, sorry shape and they are living with relatives out of state.
At one point, a soiled black sedan pulled up—a neighbor from around the block.
“How’re you doing?” she asked. “If you all get tired, let me know. I’ll come over and give you a hand.”
The usual sounds of urban life are strangely missing. There are no children playing, no dogs or cats in sight, no blaring sirens, car horns, music. The smell of gumbo wafting from stoves is a fading memory. Even the birds are still absent.
Three houses down the block, neighbor Oliver Hewitt Jr. pulled nails from sodden framing. “We lost everything,” he said, a weary tone to his voice. “The car, everything. When I first came down here, I said, ‘Lord, have mercy. It’s like a ghost town.’”
For the Batistes, the memories of the storm are still raw.
The morning Katrina hit, there was some minor flooding, and they thought they’d be OK. But unbeknownst to them a levee nearby had breached, and within an hour the water was coming into the house. Carrolton–Hollygrove had become a giant lake.
Tonda knew something was very wrong when she went to get out of bed and stepped into water. Soon, the bed, furniture and appliances were bobbing around the house. At one point the family clung to the floating refrigerator.
They were rescued from the rising water on their porch by neighbor boys paddling around on doors or other flotsam.
They made it to a succession of shelters and eventually to extended family in Virginia.
As an unusual winter chill wind blew in from the north, making New Orleans feel more like Newark, N.J., than the deep South, they kept up the numbing routine of putting things on the pile out front.
“Lord, we’ve got a lot of work to do,” Tonda said. “We’re just getting started.”
To reach RUSTY DENNEN:
540/374-5431
rdennen@freelancestar.com
