By Karen W. Murray

Like many others on August 29, I watched the horrific television images broadcast from New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. While personal tragedies fell upon so many, I was spellbound by what I saw. Although I felt I was an interloper and could not turn my eyes away, I continued to watch the events unfold on the television screen.

Later that night, in an interview conducted by an NBC reporter, I heard a school-aged boy say something that made me want to be someone besides just another interloper, someone who needed to do something to make a difference. This young black boy was standing outside the New Orleans Superdome and, as he looked into the television camera, he said, “This is just pitiful, just pitiful. What is my grandma going to do? She’s a diabetic and needs insulin. What are we going to do? It’s shameful.” The boy then turned toward his grandmother, who was sitting in a wheelchair, and took her hands into his own, and the camera faded out.

I could not forget this young boy who spoke like a grownup and I was always curious to know if he and his grandmother were okay. As fate would have it, I had the miraculous opportunity to see him twice more, both times on TV. One was an award show and the other was a show on The Learning Channel appropriately called “The Children of Katrina.” At last I would find out the name of this young man. His name was Charles Evans. I knew then as I know now that my life would never be the same. I also knew I had to travel to the Gulf Coast, and so I did. This is my story of my time in Mississippi.

Into the Breach
On October 9th, I began my odyssey with five other individuals from University Presbyterian Church traveling to Bay St. Louis, Waveland and Gulfport, Mississippi, to volunteer our time and services to the victims of Katrina. The reasons we went varied very little. It appeared from the very beginning that we were all there because we felt the need to do something other than watching the devastation on television or listening to the selective news coverage that the media and politicians provided us. What we observed in person and what we heard first-hand was nothing like what we had seen and heard from the media. Simply put, I was not prepared for what I saw as we traveled on Interstate 10 from Montgomery, Alabama, to our first destination: Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, a coastal town of some 8,000 midway between the Louisiana border and Gulfport.

While traveling to Bay St. Louis, cars along the interstate looked as though they had been picked up by a group of children during playtime and placed along the highway, waiting for their designated drivers to arrive. Farther down the interstate, houses would suddenly appear, as though springing up from the fertile black Mississippi mud, except their beauty had been stolen by the ferocious rain and wind. They were stripped of roof shingles, windowpanes were shattered and chimneys stood barren, enabling us to see through them and feel the hopelessness of the previous tenants, whose lives had indeed been turned upside down.

As we entered the city limits of Bay St. Louis, only dim flickering lights greeted us. Approaching the church where we would be staying, we saw a road sign that said, “Do Not Enter” -- the road leading to the bridge had been washed away. The driver turned around and headed our SUV in another direction.

After four hours of driving, we arrived safely at our destination. Once we put our things away, we immediately met with the volunteer coordinator to receive our assignments. We were to help a couple remove debris from their yard and to pull out drywall and insulation to expose the foundation, so the house could be sprayed with bleach in an attempt to rid it of mold.

The following morning, Susan and her granddaughter, Emily, met us at the front door of their FEMA trailer. They were very quiet at first, but as we worked throughout the day, Susan would emerge and she began to share pieces of her story with us. At first, she was drawn to Kim, one of two other women in our group. Susan and Emily readily identified with this vibrant, caring 5-foot-4-inch sparkplug.

How Susan and Emily interacted with us would have been a surprise but for the advice we had received from our volunteer coordinator and our hurricane expert, Henry, who had been through three earlier hurricanes. Both said the victims we were helping would let us know what their needs were. Sometimes it would be conversation, sometimes it would be just sitting quietly, sometimes it would be removing debris and sometimes it would be those things we simply take for granted: food, clothing and water.

With Susan it was listening; removing drywall, insulation and mold; removing debris from her yard so that FEMA could later pick it up; and uprighting the fallen tree house in her backyard so her son could climb it again. For Emily, it was having Kim take her by the hand for a walk down the dusty road -- so that they could have one-on-one time; so that three-year-old Emily could be a child again; so that her grandma could just have a quiet moment to herself. For the two days we were with them, these were their needs; however, the needs of those we would meet during the remainder of the week would be different.

A Tragic Tale
That afternoon, I traveled to Gulfport with Henry to pick up our assignments there; my other traveling buddies went to Waveland, a town of about 5,400 just west of Bay St. Louis, to remove debris from the property of the Bradys, a young married couple with two young children. Later that evening, my comrades shared their story.

When the volunteers arrived, Mr. Brady and the two children greeted them. The wife, however, would not come out of their FEMA trailer. As the husband worked alongside the volunteers, their tragic story unfolded.

When word to evacuate came, Mr. Brady immediately went next door to his in-laws’ home. They refused to leave; in past hurricanes nothing of any consequence had ever happened to their home. The Bradys begged them to leave, but still they refused. Mrs. Brady’s parents died in the storm; their bodies found in the attic.

The house the couple had died in stood a hundred yards from its foundation. Yet, where the house once stood, our group saw clothes hanging untouched and blowing gently in the breeze, as though waiting for their mistress to select her outfit for the day. Before the volunteers left the Bradys, the wife did venture out of the trailer to thank them for their help. Again, we had done what had been requested -- we removed debris and let them tell their stories.

A Cry for Help
The next day, we traveled back to Gulfport, where we would share our accommodations -- church pews and the church floors -- with 150 college students from Tennessee and Florida. But, to all of us, it was good. As long as we had running water, food and shelter, it did not matter that we had to take showers outside. It was all good. The following day we would begin our volunteer efforts in earnest.

That day, we found ourselves at St. James Baptist Church with Pastor Hartwell. We built storage areas, unloaded a semi-truck full of donated goods, loaded up a moving van and distributed some of life’s necessities: clothes, drinking water and food. Sometimes we just listened; sometimes we even got angry; sometimes we were left in sheer bewilderment; and sometimes our personal beliefs would be questioned. But no matter what, we never forgot why we had come -- because the people we met would not let us.

On our final day, while another volunteer, Brandon, and I were sawing wood, we heard a voice ring out: “We’re hungry. We need food.” I looked at Brandon and asked if he had heard what I had just heard. He looked out toward the sandy field before us and we saw a little black boy wearing blue shorts, a blue top and a pair of black shoes, with a Slurpee in his right hand, running toward us.

Brandon walked toward him and I watched as this 27-year-old white man took the hand of this little black boy and walked off toward a small house. Within minutes, Brandon returned, telling me, “He was saying that his grandmother, Ms. Parker, and his aunt, Ms. Young, are hungry and they need food.” We went over to the church almost directly in the house’s backyard where I met the boy’s grandmother and she told us her story.

Ms. Parker, whose daughter is serving in the military in Korea with a pending deployment to Iraq, told us that on the day of Katrina, she had taken her grandson, Ryan Paris, to the school where they had been directed to go. She said when she heard the roar of the storm, she took her body and covered her grandson, as the roof of the building was pulled off. Debris flew all around her and the others inside the school. Days later, she went back to her home. When she opened the front door, water was everywhere. She went to the church to ask for help because of the water damage and the awful smell of mold.

After several weeks, still no one had come to help her. She even cleaned the debris from her yard after being reassured by FEMA that it would then come out and place a trailer on her property. One day, her other daughter, Ryan’s aunt, woke at 2 a.m. with something telling her to call the FEMA office. She was actually able to speak with someone and asked about her mother’s application: It had been lost and Ms. Parker must reapply. She had now become number 6,001 on the waiting list for a FEMA trailer.

Walking us through her house, Ms. Parker kept saying, “I can’t take it any more. I can’t breathe in here. I just want my trailer. Please help us.” We convinced her to go outside. As we sat there in the Mississippi heat and humidity, she told us that her grandson was soiling his pants on purpose. He knew better, but this seemed a way to get back at her. He blamed her for the storm, he no longer felt safe and he told her he did not love her anymore. We watched as tears fell down her face, unable to completely identify with her pain or the unpredictability of her future. We attempted to reassure her that we would do whatever we could to help her and the others we would meet along the way.

Do Not Forget
One of these was Leon, a local resident, who came up to me as I was working. He said, “I don’t care about stuff; those things don’t matter. But what does matter are my friends, my family and my co-workers. Our community has changed forever. My neighborhood has changed forever. Those individuals that I used to walk across the street and have coffee with are gone. Those individuals I used to celebrate the holidays with are gone. Please ma’am, don’t let us be the forgotten people.” I told him no matter what, we would not let them be forgotten. So, that is why I wrote this article.

It is now going on more than 13 weeks since Katrina and eight weeks since I left Mississippi. I have not forgotten and neither have my traveling partners. Since my return, I have put on fundraisers with the help of my colleagues at Associated Counsel for the Accused. I have called Senator Cantwell’s office. And I have sent cards with small gifts enclosed to those I met in Mississippi to let them know we have not forgotten them. Yet, I feel our government has and that, in time, so will the good citizens who were there for the Katrina victims when our government wasn’t.

For those of you reading this article, I only ask that you contact your legislators, representatives and senators and ask them what they are doing to help the Katrina victims. I am only one person with just one voice. But think of what can be accomplished if one becomes many. I beg all of you not to forget: Do not let them become the “Forgotten People.” n