The water in the lower Ninth Ward is thickening into a glassy, fetid slick as the gasoline, oil, solvents and sewage from thousands of submerged vehicles and homes leaches out. Some rescue crews can stay out on their boats for only an hour before getting light-headed. The water’s blue-black sheen casts back an almost mocking mirror image of the horrible devastation and incongruously beautiful blue sky above.
A tour from Houston to Gulfport and into New Orleans for several days revealed not only this type of weird physical destruction but also a landscape of raw and tangled emotions, ranging from open fantasies of an impending race war to inspiring, ad hoc experiments in interracial mutual aid and grassroots organizing. This mix of the best and worst in American culture suggests the widely divergent political possibilities left in Katrina’s wake. The storm could become an excuse to banish the African-American poor in the interests of the private redevelopment of New Orleans, or the city could become the geographic center of a progressive program of urban revitalization.
In the lower Ninth Ward, controlled breaks by the Army Corps of Engineers have dropped the water by several feet, opening an archipelago of scum-encrusted islands that can be navigated by way of partially open streets. Late in the second week of the disaster a colleague and I made our way through this eerie and desolate maze.
Though the area is routinely designated a ghetto, the homes of the Ninth Ward are mostly beautiful, century-old capes and bungalows, some with ornate wooden detailing reminiscent of old homes in the San Francisco Bay Area. “They’ll have to bulldoze it all,” says a visiting New York City cop, surveying the damage from inside an NYPD van.
Is that option–the right’s much-touted tabula rasa–inevitable? “They don’t have to tear all these down,” says Joe Peters, a Ninth Ward tier repairman. “Under that siding, that’s all cypress frames and barge board.” Peters seems to think that the more solid homes of the Ninth Ward can be saved. Increasingly the holdouts here see the mandatory evacuation order as part of a huge land grab.
I track down Mike Howell, a Nation reader I’d met several days before. “Yeah, this could be their dream come true,” he says. “Get rid of all the poor African-Americans and turn the place into Disneyland.” After camping on Howell’s roof, my colleague and I leave him and his wife our extra water and gas and push on.
At Kajun’s, one of only two bars open at the end of last week, a bacchanalian, slap-happy air prevails among the handful of drunk and adrenaline-pumped patrons. A big man with a ponytail is weeping–he just put down his dog because it was biting everyone. A wide-eyed young woman named Caroline is changing the bandage on a dog-bite victim and talking a mile a minute. “I am a massage therapist, but I am not licensed. I am giving garlic and herbs to everyone, even the soldiers.”