Acorn

It is my first trip to the French Quarter. Music � jazz, blues and rock � floats from the open doorways of the clubs dotting Bourbon Street. The men crowding the balconies taunt those walking below. Some of the women on the street oblige in this chest-bearing ritual and are rewarded by beads of purple, gold and green. New Orleans police officers are in place, some on horseback, others manning the metal barricades marking each block, as visitors make their way to restaurants to taste the culinary delights of Prudhomme and Lagasse. It�s mid-January and the scent of Mardi Gras is already in the air.

But my mission here is far from the crowds and the clatter of the Quarter. It�s on desolate, deserted stretches like Fawn Avenue in Arabi, or Munster Boulevard in Chalmette, and Milne Street in the city�s Lakeview section. On those streets the noise comes from the ping of a hammer whacking the bent end of a pry bar or the thwack of debris being thrown to the curb.

I am in New Orleans as part of a hurricane relief crew put together by Virginia Samuel-Cetuk, associate dean for contextual learning in Drew�s Theological School and her husband, Norman Cetuk, a professor of criminal justice at Centenary College in Hackettstown.

Our 120-member team is made up of undergrads, seminarians and staff from the two colleges. We will spend six days repairing more than 100 homes damaged in the floodwaters following Hurricane Katrina. At night we will fall exhausted into sleeping bags on the floors of the Kenner United Methodist Church.

In my working life as a visual journalist, I had seen the photos of devastation from the Gulf Coast. But none of them could have prepared me for the reality of the situation. I find myself thinking, are we really on the streets of a major American city?

At times it seems that we�ve been transported to the war-torn streets of Baghdad or the bombed-out neighborhoods of Beirut.

There is a striking similarity in all the homes we enter. Front doors are forced open, windows flung wide to let the breeze carry away the stench. Each house bears the stripe of high water on its facade�four feet, seven feet, ten feet or more. Inside, the contents have been up-ended by the toxic blend of floodwaters. Refrigerators conceal food placed inside five months ago. Thick green mold gives a furry texture to the walls. A black-brown lace of mold covers the ceiling. The paddles of a ceiling fan droop like the petals of a wilted daisy.

I am surprised that many of the homes are as they were when the occupants fled the rising waters five months ago. Most of the remnants of life are irretrievable � the flag that covered a husband�s coffin, the photos from a daughter�s wedding, a child�s stuffed bear. All this and more will sit in a pile on the curb before making its way to a landfill somewhere.

We will spend most of our days removing the contents of each home and then gutting it down to the studs. Only then will there be a possibility of insurance payouts.

We are mindful of the toxic remnants and cover ourselves head to toe � helmet, goggles, mask, long sleeves, long pants and work boots. If we are lucky, the homeowner will be there to work along side our crews and share their stories. They tell stories of great loss � loss of homes, loss of jobs, loss of family and friends and, sometimes, even loss of life. Their lives have been put on hold � their community scattered far and wide.

There are no children playing in the street and no neighbor to greet neighbor. So our work teams give them a bit of community, if only for a few hours and for a couple of days.

We are doing what their families, their friends and neighbors would do. We are perfect strangers sifting through the details of their lives. We must handle that life lovingly as if it were our very own. It is our mere presence that provides some hope.

I can�t help but be struck by the irony that exists between the crowds in the French Quarter and the deserted streets of the Lower Ninth Ward. There is no longer a 6 p.m. curfew on Bourbon Street. All seems well there; the excitement has been building and will culminate next week on Fat Tuesday.

Mardi Gras will bring thousands of visitors to town and the dollars they spend will help bolster what had been a $5 billion a year industry, according to the New Orleans Convention and Visitors Bureau. Who can blame the people of the New Orleans for wanting to show the world their fortitude, their resiliency, their abiding joie de vivre?

That spirit � that survivor mentality � is the same kind of passion that swelled in the chests of New Yorkers after Sept. 11, 2001. We would persevere. We would not be beaten. And the Crescent City is trying to hang just as tough.

To ignore Mardi Gras in New Orleans would be like taking New Year�s Eve out of Times Square. But unlike the Big Apple there is no ground zero in the Big Easy. Instead there are miles and miles and miles of devastation. The destruction will take years and billions of dollars to remedy.

And that is the message that I pray will not be lost in the revelry of Mardi Gras. I wonder how many people, across this country and around the world, will see the celebration as a sign that New Orleans is back, fully recovered, and fully rebuilt.

In a place where every level of government has failed its people � from the parish levee boards to the city to the state to FEMA and beyond � we as individuals must not fail to reach out to those whose lives have been devastated. We can�t turn away.

We must share what we have seen; we must continue to help with our time, our labor and our money. Every gutted home can be a sign of hope. Just one more step on the road to rebirth. It is our obligation to help, until it heals.

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