In Between Roadblocks

Hundreds of houses around Pass Christian, Mississippi are unlivable and unrecognizable. Photo: Roger Burks

I passed the first roadblock just as Deuce McAllister found the end zone for a touchdown.

On the fourth anniversary of September 11, I was driving right through the middle of another American tragedy while listening to the New Orleans Saints football game on the radio. I turned down the volume as my car rolled up to the National Guard checkpoint. It was a bit surreal to see a half-dozen camouflaged men, guns on shoulders, patrolling the streets of my own country. I rolled down the window to speak with them.

A young solider told me that the area was restricted, only open to residents, Red Cross workers and government officials. I explained that I work for Mercy Corps and wanted to visit the relief shelters in the area to assess needs and offer assistance. After the guardsmen asked me a few more questions, they waved me through.

The Saints' star running back Deuce McAllister scored just as I turned the radio up again, putting his team ahead and giving thousands of displaced, beleaguered New Orleans residents a small cause to celebrate.

There have been very few moments of levity and joy over these past two weeks. The area beyond the checkpoint was a land where tinder that used to be houses lay mingled with fallen trees. Most homes were completely flattened; it was impossible to discern what size, shape, even color they'd been. Clothing and household debris was hanging twenty or thirty feet up in the limbs of trees, testament to the height of the storm surge.

I saw no sign of life for miles. It felt like I drove around this eerie landscape forever before I finally saw a utility crew restringing power line.

I had come to Pass Christian for two reasons, really: to visit shelters and distribution points, and also to find a local church, Our Mother of Mercy, that had sent a $35 donation to Mercy Corps in April. I wanted to thank the congregation for that gift and see what Mercy Corps could do for them in their hour of need.

I'd looked at a map of the area and knew roughly where the church was situated: near Highway 90, the beach road along which some of the most profound devastation took place. I didn't know what I'd find as I drove toward Pass Christian's central business district.

Some questions were answered immediately when I was stopped at another roadblock on the way to Highway 90. A soldier told me that absolutely no one was being allowed into the area; that there was virtually nothing left standing.

"For several blocks inland, everything's gone. There are 29 miles of absolute destruction along the highway," the soldier said, and then repeated, "Everything's gone."

I wondered what the individual congregation members - folks I'd never met - had lost and where they'd gone. I'm still left wondering what they'd given that $35 for. I wish I could have extended them some measure of kindness.

Before heading back to Baton Rouge for the day, I visited a few distribution points and makeshift medical clinics. The families who remained in Pass Christian - by choice or circumstance - were lined up to receive basic supplies or see a doctor. With no stores open or services available for miles, these places are the only option for hurricane survivors.

As I stood asking a local volunteer what Mercy Corps could do to help them, a nearby radio blared the news that Deuce McAllister had leapt across the goal line for another touchdown. Cheers and high-fives went up across the parking lot, and, for a moment, there was real joy in the air again.