Can't Drown a Fish

Two men were crouched over a mound of gear—what looked like an assortment of clothes, bags, grocery sacks, and knick-knacks. Much of it was soiled, dirty, and damp. In between the two men, was a luggage carrier. Straps, ropes, and bungees were all fastened to various points of the carrier. Being held in the center of the cart, was what looked like the basket part of a grocery bin. It was a ram-shackle contraption, pieced together with junk found on the street. It seemed to be serving it’s purpose, as the two men were adding more straps and tossing random items into the basket.

*Can’t Drown a Fish. Photo captured by the author.*

One of the men looked younger, perhaps in his late twenties. He had a forest-green vest on, complete with several symmetrical pockets lined down the front. There were stains and smears, along with little pins, buttons, and patches stapled to the vest’s exterior. The young man had on a pair of cut-off jean-shorts and big combat boots that laced halfway up his calves. To top it all off, the left and right sides of his head were shaved, with a big greasy mohawk striped down the middle.

The other man was much older, most likely in his sixties. He was in a wheelchair, wearing a ball cap that was shaded dark from sweat around the brim. Hanging off the sides of his chair, were bags filled with other trinkets and survival equipment. He had a bushy white beard that stretched up the sides of his face, meshing into the same color of hair, before matting away under his hat. Both men were grumbling to each other, rummaging through trash, throwing things they saw of use into the luggage carrier basket. The younger one looked over at me with frowning eyebrows, a harsh scowl on his face. I was still sitting in the front seat of my vehicle, my knees bobbing up and down while I tentatively considered if this was a safe place to park.

I got out of my van and swung my backpack over my shoulders. It would have to do. Nothing of value was inside the vehicle—I made sure of this, as everything electronic and expensive was crammed inside my bag. I started walking down the sidewalk, taking extra care not to stare over at the pair of men. I didn’t want to give them any odd reason to shatter out my windows and steal my bedding. I still needed to sleep in there tonight. Instead, I shifted my gaze toward the gutter. Another mistake. It was filled with glass shards, millions of little pieces of destroyed car windshields and passenger windows. Every space where a car was parked, a small pile of shattered glass accompanied it. None of the vehicles looked to be the victim of the break-ins, but the leftovers were out for everyone to see. I pictured those two guys lobbing rocks or bits of porcelain through my van’s windows, rifling through my clothes and blankets, only to be left with nothing of value.

As my eyes followed the gutter, they met a sinister pile of waste. It seemed to be the spot where someone had once parked, opened their door, and dumped a mountain of heroin needles, tampons, condoms, pop cans, socks, cigarette cartons, and tissues. An entire vice-driven ecosystem was growing out before me. I lifted my head and walked on toward the French Market.

*The sinister pile. Photo captured by the author.*

I came to New Orleans to talk to people. After spending the entirety of Hurricane Ida watching from afar, viewing weather men braving the storm, shouting into their microphones, and predicting what would happen next, I found myself a little discontent. I wanted to know what the every-day person’s experience was. How did the evacuation go? Were people able to make it out safely, or did they stay and hope for the best? What kinds of property damage did they receive? News stations covering Ida touched on these matters, but only briefly. The focus was on the storm itself, understandably so.

I figured I would go down and find out for myself. So I prepared the van for living-in, filled jugs of water, gathered my recording equipment, my camera, and hit the road. It was roughly a seven hour drive from where I live in Georgia to get to New Orleans.

Once I arrived, I explored the French Quarter—walking down Bourbon Street, getting a steaming cup of coffee at a local café, listening to some street bands, and enjoying views of the Mississippi River. It was a Sunday, and a few miles away, the Saints were playing a football game against the New York Giants in the Superdome. There are an endless number of bars and eateries in the French Quarter, and every single one of them was showing the game. Most people I passed on the street or saw inside buildings donned Drew Brees jerseys, some had gold and black beads stacked around their necks, face paint, oversized Saints sunglasses, and even the occasional pair of Saints-embroidered dress slacks. Every time the Saints scored, someone would run out of a bar screaming, “Touchdown!” and look to the nearest passerby for an affirmative high-five or hug. A sense of community radiated from every street block.

Then I Met Cris

It was a long day of walking, chatting with a couple people, eating a spicy, yet incredibly delicious, bowl of Jambalaya, and listening to the best local bands and singers. It was early evening, and as I made my way back to the van, I saw a lonely man sitting on a bench. His bike was leaning against the back of the bench, and was laden with gear, strapped and harnessed to every side he could find space without it interfering with the rotation of the pedals. Next to him, sprawled out on the metal seat, was a slumbering dog. Once I saw the man, I had two immediate instincts: first, that he was probably homeless, which brought along with it a sense of empathetic sorrow and personal weariness. Second, that I should talk to him and see how he was able to weather the disaster of Hurricane Ida.

Cris introduced himself to me after I approached, and never hesitated in his decision to share his story. I hadn’t considered the position of a homeless person in a hurricane—my mind always went first to those with homes and families. I always imagined big trees falling on cars and houses and how the owners would have to deal with the fallout. Never once had I pictured what it must be like for someone with nowhere to go to endure the 149 mile-per-hour winds that Hurricane Ida blew in. Cris’ perspective changed all that. I will never forget his answer when I asked him my first question: Were you able to evacuate or where did you stay for shelter during the storm? His reply was simple, saying, “I was out in it. I didn’t find no shelter, I was in the storm.”

It was hard for me to grapple with. I thought everyone evacuated, and if they didn’t, that they had a roof over their head somewhere. Maybe a homeless shelter? Maybe a motel? And then again, maybe not. Cris told me about how he eventually found a grove of trees, where he hunkered down and crawled into a soaking wet sleeping bag. The grove helped shield away from the howling wind, but it was still anything but ideal.

At one point, Cris detailed his experience of walking through the storm outside, waving at people inside their motel rooms. I asked Cris why he stays in New Orleans, why anyone lives there when the stakes seem so high every year when hurricane season rolls around. His response was yet again simple, but insightful. “This is NOLA, man.” That tight knit, communal love of the place you come from, the place you live, the area you call home—it runs deep with Cris as it does with everyone else that lives in that city. And how could it not, when they have to band together and endure the wrath of mother nature time and time again?

Cris provided something more than just an interview for me. More than just a conversation with a random guy on the side of the street. He opened up my perspective and made me double-back on what I thought was true. His story replayed in my head over and over, as I kicked myself for never considering the vast array of circumstances within one city, and even one person.

That night, I laid awake, staring at the ceiling of my van, parked in a Walmart lot, thinking about Cris and his tale. There had to be more like him, more people that were homeless that didn’t have the services or structure many others did throughout the process of evacuation. Maybe instead of interviewing people who had a home to leave, I should pivot and talk to the far less fortunate? I had seen groups of them scattered throughout the French Quarter all day, surely they would share their stories.

I decided I would sleep on it. But deep down, the realization had already taken root, and I knew what I needed to do.

I Was There Today

I woke up the next morning, and spent roughly 45 seconds pondering my next move. It seemed so clear to me—go into Walmart, buy some goods to build care packages, wander the French Quarter, inquire the homeless on their experience, and give them a package as a way of saying thank you. I bought enough supplies to make eight packages, each one including socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste, notebook, pen, lighter, body soap, granola bar, beef jerky stick, peanut butter crackers, mini Ziploc bags, and five dollars in cash.

*Putting together the care packages. Photo captured by the author.*

All eight bags fit nicely in my backpack, stuffing it to the seams. As I got back out into the French Quarter, I was feeling the weight of all the packages hanging from my shoulders, and immediately thought, “There’s no going back now. I gotta start finding folks to chat with because these damn things are heavy.”

As I spent the day navigating through the streets, over cross-walks, and across markets, I found eight friends who all had unique stories to tell. Some of them had small houses or apartments they were able to get to and hold up in. Some were truly homeless and weathered the storm outside, just as Cris did. Some found shelter in local hotel lobbies, motel rooms, homeless shelters, and hospitals.

Through each of their recounts, several themes emerged. The first one I noticed was who was doing a majority of the helping post-hurricane. Government organizations like FEMA came in. Various churches, the Red Cross, and other outside influences arrived to assist those who needed help. Most commonly, however, were locals helping locals. Many of the homeless people I spoke with explained how it was difficult to know where and when services were being offered. As many poor and displaced people don’t have access to digital information, the details on obtaining help often came as rumors or past-tense scenarios. As in, other homeless individuals passing particulars down the grape-vine—by the time you’d hear about it, it was a thing of the past.

Locals helping locals is really a fantastic summation of that tight-knit feeling you get when you walk around New Orleans. There are operations that are still functioning today, where food trucks gather under highway bridges, handing out food to the homeless. Some locals offered up their showers, their shelter, and access to their water in order to help those less fortunate during the hurricane aftermath. The spirit and care of these groups runs deep. But hey, that’s NOLA, man.

As I spoke with Cris, one of my favorite quotes he said was, “If the city gets wiped out tomorrow, so be it. I was there today.” It struck me to the core—a simple slice of wisdom proving what it means to have and love your home. In that moment, he didn’t seem homeless, but rather, a man who knew where his loyalties lied. Knew where his soul longed to be. Less worried about panicking in the sights of things yet to come, more concerned with living here and now, in the wild-loving world of New Orleans.

Cris, along with everyone else I spoke with, opened my eyes to the truths of homeless living, especially in the face of such a terrifying natural disaster. They inspired me to feel less uneasy with people like the two men rummaging through garbage, frowning at me while I sat in my van, wondering if they’d break my windows. They required me to sit with them, feel with them, talk with them, and most importantly, listen.

This Voices project will be released in two parts. In the first episode, you’ll hear directly from Cris, Michael, Earlene, Lo, and Adam. Later on, in the second part, you’ll hear the stories of Elton, Eric, Stephanie, and Lane. Each one has a tale of their own to tell, and in these episodes, you’ll hear their stories in their voices, with their own unique inflections, accents, laughter, and sorrows.

I can’t know what it’s like for someone down on their luck, less fortunate than I. I can’t know, unless I ask them. Unless I sit with them and listen to what they have to say. In Voices, I try to highlight the stories and opinions of those who may be unheard. Those who deserve to have their hat thrown in the ring, not just be parodied by people on television.

I hope you’ll take the time to listen to their words.

Voices Part 1: Can't Drown a Fish