Target: New Orleans

Photo by David Grunfeld

Dart Sociey member Natalie Pompilio had the idea to spend four months in New Orleans volunteering on reconstruction even before she was laid off from her job at the Philadelphia Inquirer. She told other Dart Society members of her plans back in November, mentioning the weekend efforts of the Muckrakers, a group of Times-Picayune staff members who've gutted their coworkers' homes. Many of us were eager to join up, but we needed to know how we individually or as a journalism society could be most useful -- were carpentry skills required?

Society members had already come through in the wake of Katrina in 2005 -- raising more than $10,000 to help journalists on the Gulf Coast. But this time we wanted to do something different.

The Dart Society's homebase Uptown

After some discussion, the Dart Society came up with a simple plan which Natalie named “Target: New Orleans”: We would send Society members down to tour the wreckage with a partner from the Times-Picayune, and on the weekend, join up with the Muckrakers. No carpentry experience necessary. We'd give Society members a hammer or a broom -- Dave Cullen, who'd be the first to go, happened to have his own tool belt -- and get ourselves into the thick of it. Society members would also lend assistance to Natalie for a book project about the coverage of Katrina.

Head Muckraker Suzanne Stouse and Lynn Cunningham, the Times-Picayune's assistant to Editor Jim Amoss, have been working with the Society to schedule the tours, work detail, and match Society members with their Times-Picayune counterparts.

Tornado damage. (Photo by Dave Cullen)

Dave Cullen, the first Society member to arrive in New Orleans for the project, was paired with Mark Schleifstein, who took Dave on a 35-mile tour of the wreckage, through what Dave described as “every conceivable permutation of vibrant to post-apocalypic urban ghost towns and stages between.”

On Saturday, Dave was scheduled to clean up debris and perform some gutting work on a house hit by the recent tornado. That house, Dave said, was being renovated when the tornado struck.

Days after his return from New Orleans, Dave said he was still riding a wave of euphoria. He knew the project would be personally rewarding, but it wasn't until he witnessed the scope of the wreckage and lent a hand to help that he realized how much. Dave sent us these thoughts:

Dart Society members Natalie Pompilio and Dave Cullen

My foremost observation was that some areas, like the French Quarter, downtown and much of Uptown (where I was staying), look like nothing happened, at least on the surface. These areas are full of life, and though I'm sure they are hurting in a lot of ways too, they looked and felt vibrant.

At the other end of the spectrum were places like the lower Ninth Ward. We drove over a very high bridge (over the Industrial Canal, I think) heading in, which gave us a bird's-eye view of much of it, and it looked like a neutron bomb had gone off. Block after block of houses were still standing, but kind of battered, and there were few signs of human life or care. The streets remained intact in some places, crumpled and ravaged in others; shops and schools and mini-malls deserted, lawns still grayish and scorched by the weeks of standing saltwater, but plant life fighting back, weeds and vines and brambles beginning to creep into the sidewalks, onto the front porches and over and through the link fences.

I was taken aback by small sights that seemed obvious on reflection, yet continued to grab me: so many signs of life frozen in time, like vehicles backed halfway out of driveways, and all the temporary signs, like the church listing the theme of the coming Sunday service that was presumably never held. So many times I felt like I was driving through Pompeii, frozen at the moment of the volcano.

Some neighborhoods were a patchwork of alive and dead, but nearly every block was one or the other: almost nothing in the middle. FEMA trailers became the main sign of life in the 'dead' neighborhoods, although occasionally I would spot a house with its lawn neatly trimmed, flowers blooming all around the deck, Carnival decorations hanging from the windows. But the FEMA trailers were the easy sign: usually that meant someone was living there, trying to build back. The pleasant surprise about the trailers was how much they came in clusters. We would drive by block after block where there would be one trailer, then zero, one, one, zero, zero . . . 10. Out of nowhere, a block would have eight or 10 or 12 or more. Mark and others I talked to explained that a lot of extended families and a lot of neighbors have gotten together to make a go of it, and in other cases one or two families on a block are going it alone, but their presence has encouraged others around them to follow. I'm sure there are all sorts of different patterns, but what is clear is that people need each other to do it. There is strength in numbers, and they seem to be succeeding most when they don't have to face it alone.

Street signs. (Photo by Dave Cullen)

I was struck by the enormity of all the simple tasks I had not considered. So many obviously huge things, and then so many little details. The temporary hand-painted street signs put up in some places offered a little glimpse. God, they have to replace EVERYthing in some areas. And those street signs are important: just getting to our work sites both Saturday and Monday was problematic, because so many remain missing and it was a struggle to find our way. I was told this has been a major problem hampering outside contractors and others helping with the rebuilding process who don't know the city. The asphalt on the streets is buckled in some areas, some are nearly impassible, other such hazards are just marked with hand-painted warning signs. So much to be done. But most of the main thoroughfares we took were fine.

The devastation was hard to look at sometimes, and meeting the people and hearing their pain made me wince. All that was expected, though--the surprise was this peculiar thought that kept creeping into my mind: "I could see living here." Really. I kept toying with the idea of moving there. That's how powerful the charm of this city is. That's the best way to describe the hold it had on me.

In spite of what Katrina did to this city, in spite of roughly half the population still missing, the same essential essence of the city that made me fall in love with it a decade ago isn't simply surviving. It's thriving. It's in the architecture of the houses, in the causal layout of the neighborhoods, in the relaxed attitudes of the cab drivers, and the warmth in the smile of a very old woman I saw as I walked down the street Monday morning. I was heading to a parade, she was dragging in a garbage can, straining just to pull the empty plastic container.

"Happy Lundi Gras," I said. "Happy Lundi Gras." She was tickled, and not afraid to show it.

I felt the odd but soothing essence of this city in a hundred different ways, some of which I could identify, others I could only faintly sense.

Of course it was Carnival. I'm sure everyone is not this nice all the time. But I have been to enormous holiday parties and festivals in New York and Chicago and London and Cairo and Bahrain and countless other cities, and rarely have I felt this kind of warmth, and definitely not sustained for an entire week. New Orleans is a special place. That's not a very bold statement, but I'd heard that a thousand times before Katrina and especially after. FEELING it is a whole different experience. Get them to New Orleans, I kept thinking. Get as many people here as possible, and that will make more difference than all The New York Times series imaginable. Get them to feel the vitality of this place even in its weakened state, and they'll never let it fade away.

I found myself feeling re-energized in my conviction that this city and its population have to be saved. I was horrified by how little has been done, and how many barriers the people there face. However, I also believe that whether they knew it or not, New Orleanians had already rescued the essence of their city. It's there. They still have a hell of a fight to bring the rest of it back, but the soul of the city is more resilient than I had imagined.

I realized that in the early days after Katrina, I was responsive to the plight of both the city and the people, but more so to the people, and over time that imbalance has grown. I had almost lost sight of the plight of the city--as an organism itself--and how unique and priceless it is to America. When I thought about Katrina, I thought about the victims, almost always the people. I thought a lot about them this week--impossible not to, especially as I met them--but the plight of the city as a whole leapt to the foreground to join them. Just being in this city it's hard not to feel how remarkable it is--what energy it oozes into the American culture. I got scared for it all over again. And I feel a personal need to help save it, in a way I never experienced even in the worst of the coverage of the aftermath.

--Dave Cullen