Mid-day Wednesday I was relieving myself against the wall of someone’s house in St. Bernard’s Parish, Louisiana. I was not expressing my displeasure with the homeowner; I have no idea who the homeowner is. Nor is that kind of behavior typical for me. A month after Hurricane Katrina, there wasn’t a working toilet within 20 miles of where I was standing, so the normal rules of polite society are not in effect. Traffic laws are out, too. Traffic lights don’t work; if a divided highway is blocked on one side, just go the wrong way on the other. Here, driving society is more polite, people wave each other on and few take advantage of another driver.
September 11, 2001 is the disaster against which all disasters are now measured. I was at ground zero in October 2001. The emotions were overwhelming, but New York was, for the most part, still New York. New Orleans, one month on, is not New Orleans. One can drive for ten or 15 miles and see great swaths of urban America desecrated, deserted and debris-strewn. At night the darkened skyline is barely visible by the light of the stars. A few residents are filtering back from the Katrina diaspora. Most will be dispersing again, heading for higher ground, hoping to never go through this again.
We were chased away from both the Murphy and Chalmette oil refineries by security guards as we documented activities there. At Chalmette (a subsidiary of ExxonMobil) a security guard in a white pickup truck with “Homeland Security” in orange spray paint on the side told us, “Exxon doesn’t allow any photos of the refinery to be taken, even if it’s in the background.” At least he was honest about who calls the shots in Louisiana.
Everyone I’ve met has been eager to tell her or his story, to have someone bear witness to what they’ve been through. In St. Bernard Parish, just east of New Orleans, working class people of all races live between two huge oil refineries. Their stories, for the most part, have not been told. I spoke with Raymond Blazio in what remained of the trailer park in Meraux where 16 members of his extended family lived. He was waiting for his parents to arrive to see what had become of their home.
“I told them not to come. I was here a week ago and saw there was nothing to salvage, but they want to come, for closure,” he said. “I’m worried about my mom’s heart. She’s strong, she’s a persistent little lady, but I worry about her heart.”
Raymond lived in an upstairs apartment near the trailer park. When he visited last week, his possessions were intact. He returned with a rental truck, only to find that someone had set fire to the building. Everything was destroyed.
Raymond’s brother’s trailer was wrecked, his sister’s trailer was wrecked, his aunt’s trailer was wrecked. Raymond and his brother remodeled their parents’ trailer last spring. “It looked like a trailer on the outside, but inside, it was a home. That was going to be for their retirement. Now it’s gone.” At his feet lay someone’s sequined dress, a memory from a happier time.
A tank at the Murphy Oil refinery was knocked from its base by the flood. According to the U.S. Coast Guard 19,500 barrels, or 858,000 gallons of oil flooded into Meraux. In the neighborhood where the oil flowed, you can see it smeared on the sides of houses, indicating the level of greatest depth.
The Emerys on Walkers Lane have a big family, too. They too are scattered around the country, but Carol Emery is planning now to gather everyone together for Thanksgiving. “We are together every year and we will be together this year. We all got out safe, so we have so much to be thankful for.”
“This is just material,” she said, indicating her house with a hand gloved in latex. She wore heavy rubber boots, a protective suit and a particle mask. The first floor of her house was, weeks later, still sopping wet. Mold – and other things – were growing from her leather sofa.
Ms. Emery is a social worker, she and her family have taken in children to care for, have been a strong foundation for their community. “People have taken us in, have given us money,” she said. “We’ve always given to other people. I can tell you, it does feel good to receive.”
Danny Duchmann, on Livaccari Drive, was angry. “This neighborhood was fine the day after Katrina. People were out raking the leaves. Then the levee broke. The water came up fast; people were trapped. We gave these politicians our tax money to build up those levees. They promised, ‘Vote for me, I’ll strengthen the levees.’ What happened? Pfft, the money went right into their pockets. Now look at us.”
Most of the people of Meraux are moving on. Some will have to move on. A million gallons of oil spilled from the Murphy Oil refinery, the soil in some areas is so contaminated, people will never live there again.
Lawyers for Murphy are contacting some of the residents of Meraux, offering to buy up homes for another expansion of the refinery, another tank farm. For the people of St. Bernard Parish, Katrina was a disaster. For the corporations, it’s a business opportunity.
Apocalypse Here
Mid-day Wednesday I was relieving myself against the wall of someone’s house in St. Bernard’s Parish, Louisiana. I was not expressing my displeasure with the homeowner; I have no idea who the homeowner is. Nor is that kind of behavior typical for me. A month after Hurricane Katrina, there wasn’t a working toilet within 20 miles of where I was standing, so the normal rules of polite society are not in effect. Traffic laws are out, too. Traffic lights don’t work; if a divided highway is blocked on one side, just go the wrong way on the other. Here, driving society is more polite, people wave each other on and few take advantage of another driver.
September 11, 2001 is the disaster against which all disasters are now measured. I was at ground zero in October 2001. The emotions were overwhelming, but New York was, for the most part, still New York. New Orleans, one month on, is not New Orleans. One can drive for ten or 15 miles and see great swaths of urban America desecrated, deserted and debris-strewn. At night the darkened skyline is barely visible by the light of the stars. A few residents are filtering back from the Katrina diaspora. Most will be dispersing again, heading for higher ground, hoping to never go through this again.
We were chased away from both the Murphy and Chalmette oil refineries by security guards as we documented activities there. At Chalmette (a subsidiary of ExxonMobil) a security guard in a white pickup truck with “Homeland Security” in orange spray paint on the side told us, “Exxon doesn’t allow any photos of the refinery to be taken, even if it’s in the background.” At least he was honest about who calls the shots in Louisiana.
Everyone I’ve met has been eager to tell her or his story, to have someone bear witness to what they’ve been through. In St. Bernard Parish, just east of New Orleans, working class people of all races live between two huge oil refineries. Their stories, for the most part, have not been told. I spoke with Raymond Blazio in what remained of the trailer park in Meraux where 16 members of his extended family lived. He was waiting for his parents to arrive to see what had become of their home.
“I told them not to come. I was here a week ago and saw there was nothing to salvage, but they want to come, for closure,” he said. “I’m worried about my mom’s heart. She’s strong, she’s a persistent little lady, but I worry about her heart.”
Raymond lived in an upstairs apartment near the trailer park. When he visited last week, his possessions were intact. He returned with a rental truck, only to find that someone had set fire to the building. Everything was destroyed.
Raymond’s brother’s trailer was wrecked, his sister’s trailer was wrecked, his aunt’s trailer was wrecked. Raymond and his brother remodeled their parents’ trailer last spring. “It looked like a trailer on the outside, but inside, it was a home. That was going to be for their retirement. Now it’s gone.” At his feet lay someone’s sequined dress, a memory from a happier time.
A tank at the Murphy Oil refinery was knocked from its base by the flood. According to the U.S. Coast Guard 19,500 barrels, or 858,000 gallons of oil flooded into Meraux. In the neighborhood where the oil flowed, you can see it smeared on the sides of houses, indicating the level of greatest depth.
The Emerys on Walkers Lane have a big family, too. They too are scattered around the country, but Carol Emery is planning now to gather everyone together for Thanksgiving. “We are together every year and we will be together this year. We all got out safe, so we have so much to be thankful for.”
“This is just material,” she said, indicating her house with a hand gloved in latex. She wore heavy rubber boots, a protective suit and a particle mask. The first floor of her house was, weeks later, still sopping wet. Mold – and other things – were growing from her leather sofa.
Ms. Emery is a social worker, she and her family have taken in children to care for, have been a strong foundation for their community. “People have taken us in, have given us money,” she said. “We’ve always given to other people. I can tell you, it does feel good to receive.”
Danny Duchmann, on Livaccari Drive, was angry. “This neighborhood was fine the day after Katrina. People were out raking the leaves. Then the levee broke. The water came up fast; people were trapped. We gave these politicians our tax money to build up those levees. They promised, ‘Vote for me, I’ll strengthen the levees.’ What happened? Pfft, the money went right into their pockets. Now look at us.”
Most of the people of Meraux are moving on. Some will have to move on. A million gallons of oil spilled from the Murphy Oil refinery, the soil in some areas is so contaminated, people will never live there again.
Lawyers for Murphy are contacting some of the residents of Meraux, offering to buy up homes for another expansion of the refinery, another tank farm. For the people of St. Bernard Parish, Katrina was a disaster. For the corporations, it’s a business opportunity.
© Mark Floegel, 2005