VIOLET, LA. (written by elise) it took me a while. today, while moving boxes of food and impromptu shelving around the distribution tent (free store), another volunteer asked, “when you sent all those emails today, talking about this, what did you say?” it’s not just me, it’s hard to write here. not only is there so much to work on, so much to do, and so many people to be around, that the will to sit at a computer is almost incomprehensible, it’s also the subject matter.

it’s heavy here. my first week i was in shock. each car ride weighed on me more, nothing but lines and lines of toppled, piled, muddied, drown. like the lines in the sand telling the whispers of the wind, these lines are stronger, stronger, shouts from the nightmares of what went on. two hurricanes. mismanagement. police brutality to an extreme. the list continues.

it got to the point where i broke down. crying on a street near where we’re staying, in the county of St. Bernard’s Parish, the town of Violet, outside New Orleans by 10 miles, listening to people’s stories, in this semi-rural town, just as the sun starts to fall. i broke the seal, but i didnt let it all out.

it wasn’t until later, on a phone call in a dark car, that i cried full force. crying, “it’s so thick, thick, the air, it’s so thick, it’s so thick, it’s everywhere, thick, thick.” one phrase per few minutes. the gravity of what was was all around. i am sensitive, and i thought i wouldn’t be able to see beyond it. even when people were smiling and laughing, you see it on the corners of their eyes. and when you’re wearing respirators, that’s really all that’s available. eyes are so soulful, and all eyes here are pointing down.

still, after that cry, i lightened up. i managed to focus on the positive humyn interactions. the coming together. i slowly saw the birds return, and i saw the plants growing tall. i photographed them. that was when i got my motivation back. stopped feeling bad. began to write it down.

so what did i write about today? i told my friend, in the tent, as dusk fell, ” well. (pause). i wrote about what we do here. the services. i wrote about the changes in population. the reactions. i wrote about working at mamma dee’s, in the seventh ward. the funerals. this area. the oil refinery, i touched upon, ” i told him, ” i didn’t get too depressing. i told a little bit about it all. and i gave a call out. i asked for people to email me about groups that might come down, i told them i will write them. i wrote about the group we just had, how good it was. how much people are needed down here, to do basic work. i wrote about my fears. that the centers here will not dissolve when the community wants them too. that power will affect us all and create another situation. i’m worried. i’m worried about the children.” he nodded and said, ” i just cant write about it yet. little bits, to a few people. but rarely.” he is one of the people who is eager for my letter writing party on thursday. we are writing to groups, especially of youth, back home and all around. asking them to come down.

my fears. the children. normally, i go for a walk. to clear my head. but here, that last week, before my cry let it all out, before my cry loosened the air and entered the moisture all around me, i almost crumbled when walking on the streets behind HOPE (Helping Other People in Everyway). i saw children. playing in the dirt and in their broken house. on one of these february skies, where all day it seems like dusk is all around.

there are no schools. the ground is toxic, not only from the arsenic and other substances that broke through with the water, not only with black mold (to name but one), but also from the Murphy Oil Refinery, which could have chosen to suffer a little cost, combine their oils, to prevent spillage. instead, the area got doused in oil. inside, outside, even the streams. it’s especially bad for children (see: http://www.bt.cdc.gov/disasters/hurricanes/katrina/murphyoil/). in an impovershed town, with no schools, and now arsenic, oil, and black mold hurting their neurological development, what are we going to do about it? talk about unequal.

we are gutting houses. we are cutting trees, clearing land. we are throwing neighborhood potlucks. i am going to plant sunflowers. sunflowers. sunflowers. the plant that sucks the toxins up into their leaves and stalks. the plant you throw away when it’s done. Violet is going to be the land of sunflowers for a season, and it will help the ground. and, despite it all, there’s hope. and it all comes full circle; ask anyone, new orleans has always been magical.

taking the dogs for a walk today with another volunteer, i talk about the soil testing results for a community garden in the seventh ward. “their worst bed had 58 parts out of 2 million, or so, toxicity. the fda says it’s safe to plant up to 228 parts toxic.” the other worker’s face lit up, “i’m glad to hear that, i was the one who took those tests and sent them in, and i’m leaving tomorrow.” full circle.

no one really wants to leave here. unless they burn out completely or go mad, which happens. a lot. it almost took me in, i got to the point of constant shaking, until i broke down. and, as has been said many times down here, “well, a break down can even be good once in a while.” it seems everything here is about rebuilding something new. we are all examples of it, and you see it all around.

i will write more later.
love you all
elise