Rebuilding New Orleans with the radical Common Ground Collective.
By Zeke Rediker
Spring 2007
Solidarity, not charity. That’s the slogan for Common Ground
Collective, a grassroots relief organization dedicated to rebuilding
the communities affected by Hurricane Katrina, which operates out of an
abandoned Catholic middle school in the heart of New Orleans’ upper
Ninth Ward. The organization was started by activist and ex-Black
Panther Malik Rahim in the immediate aftermath of the hurricane, after
thousands of residents living in neighborhoods ravaged by high winds
and surging waves of toxic flood water were left with neither basic
necessities nor livelihoods.
 This sign was found amidst the wreckage in the Ninth Ward of New Orleans, one of the poorest areas hit the hardest by Hurricane Katrina. (photo by Zeke Rediker)
Over winter break, I had the opportunity to live and work alongside
some of these people. The experience of working with Common Ground to
help rebuild New Orleans was absolutely core-shaking, forcing me to
question my deepest beliefs about democracy, equality, and the role of
our government. With no help from the government, I saw the ways in
which Common Ground addressed the problems of a catastrophe-stricken
city. Every day, the people of Common Ground confronted Louisiana’s
legacies of oppression and racism by working to reconstruct the
communities of New Orleans. As part of this organization, I felt as if
I were part of an important historical moment.
I stepped off the plane into a balmy New Orleans with my high school
friends Anne and Matt. We shared cigarettes at the terminal while
waiting for our shuttle, wondering how we might react to seeing a city
that had been torn apart by a natural disaster. While riding through
the downtown area on our way to St. Mary of the Angels School, our home
for the next week, it was impossible to notice any signs of hurricane
damage: the buildings were clean, bars and restaurants were up and
running, and tourists with oversized cameras walked the commercial
thruways.
Gradually, though, the skyscrapers and ritzy buildings disappeared,
only to be replaced by deserted cornerstores and rows of dilapidated
housing. As we got closer to the Ninth Ward, one of the poorest and
hardest-hit areas of New Orleans, the damage became real. We caught
glimpses of houses without roofs or doors, smashed windows, and
sporadic rubble heaps on the side of the road. FEMA trailers stood in
front of crushed homes, and people sat on porches spraypainted with
warnings of TFW: Toxic Flood Water. Businesses were boarded up, and
vacant restaurants claiming to have “the best Po-Boy in Orleans Parish”
seemed as if they hadn’t served one in some time.
Upon arriving at St. Mary’s, we were greeted by a hippie welcoming
coalition, all dressed in hemp and bright colors. Immediately, I
noticed the diversity of the Common Ground group—activists of all types
milled about: smoking on the stoop, watching videos, and engaging in
forceful political discussions. The alternative current at the Common
Ground Collective ran strong, uniting people of varying shapes and
forms, including Mohawk-sporting punks, dreadlocked Rasta-types, and
clean-shaven Ivy League students (I wasn’t the only one). St. Mary’s
School also served as more than a place for volunteers to stay: it
tripled as a homeless shelter, soup kitchen, and volunteer hostel. The
social dynamic of the school was charged, as people of every
socio-economic background converged on a Catholic middle school to do
their part in the reconstruction of New Orleans.
We dropped our bags, and the hippie coalition told us to grab
mattresses and find places to sleep in one of the classrooms. I grabbed
one of the peaked, stained mattresses and set it down in the corner of
one of the second-floor classrooms, right beneath a scribbling on the
wall which read: “Jesus calms the churning waters of the sea.” Later
that night, after hearing stories of hurricane survival from local
residents, I realized just how violently the sea was churning.
One man, Wendell, bobbed in neck-deep water for over a day before he
could make it to a roof and signal for help. Another man lost
everything in the storm, including his house, and couldn’t visit or
provide for his children because they were staying on the other side of
town. Having no car, no money, and being forced to sleep at St. Mary’s
homeless shelter, he had no way to reach them and had no idea how they
were coping with their new circumstances.
He spoke slowly and quietly with closed eyes and bowed head, wondering
what he could do to help his kids. I wish that at the time I could have
provided him with a solution, but I had no idea. I was shell-shocked,
and I offered my support, shook his hand, and wished him the best. As I
lay in bed that night, tossing on the dirty mattress, I tried to
understand how we, as a people, could have let things get this bad.
America was not so beautiful to hurricane victims, to people our
government did not help. The first day passed in a surreal rush, and
even now, I have not come to terms with it.
gutting houses and hurricane remnants
Our first workday began bright and early (around 6:30am). The coalition
of hippies mentioned above acted as our alarm clock, cruising the
school’s hallways with guitars and tambourines, singing for everyone to
get up. I dragged myself off my mattress, half-asleep, and stumbled
downstairs to breakfast. Breakfast was held in the gym, and it was
packed with volunteers preparing themselves for a long day of work. I
ate briefly and then went outside to don my work clothes: a blue,
full-length tyvex suit, large rubber boots, and a respirator with two
filters.
My two friends and I joined a work crew and walked to our work site,
carrying sledgehammers, crow-bars, pickaxes, and a slew of other metal
equipment. We spent eight hours tearing down the inside of a house,
gutting the walls and ceiling until only the frame remained. This work
is necessary in order for a damaged house to be properly rebuilt, and
occasionally, the property owners would come by to check our progress.
For the record, swinging a sledgehammer, my weapon of choice, in a
full-length suit, boots, and respirator in the Louisiana humidity can
get pretty damned hot. Frequent breaks were needed to recuperate, so we
worked on the house in shifts. After the first few shifts, we had taken
down the walls and carried the debris outside in wrought-iron
wheelbarrows. It then became necessary to kick down the ceiling from
the attic, and Anne volunteered. I was outside in the street wiping off
my sweaty, condensation-filled respirator, and Anne hadn’t been in the
attic for more than a moment when I heard a ruckus in the house. She
had found the remains of a dog, its body rotting amidst the crumbling
chunks of asbestos-filled plaster. Its spinal chord and ribcage
protruded from the ceiling beams, and it was obvious that the dog had
not escaped the rising flood levels, even after seeking higher ground.
These were the grisly reminders of the hurricane. Prior to finding the
dog, we had stumbled across a lot of personal memorabilia, including
photo albums, graduation plaques, hand-written letters, and a sign
inscribed “God Bless our Home.” It was hard to imagine that families
had once lived within the hurricane-stricken walls that we were now
tearing down, yet finding decomposing pets and family heirlooms made it
all the more believable. We finished the house over the course of two
days, and when we finished, we were left with a sad satisfaction at our
work.
The second house we worked on was smack in the middle of the lower
Ninth Ward, perhaps the neighborhood hit hardest by Katrina. The house
stood less than a few hundred feet away from the Mississippi River, and
it was a miracle that it had survived at all, for many of the houses on
its block hadn’t. Cloud’s cornerstore, formerly a local hangout, was
boarded up, yet I could still catch a glimpse of the destroyed interior
through the cracks of its rusted iron door. We brought a large crew to
work on the house, and we managed to finish it within the day, removing
the dry-wall and insulation from the frame and dumping it in the street
to be picked up by cleaning crews. The roof sagged as we worked, and we
labored with the constant fear that we could be crushed at any moment.
These descriptions only begin to describe the house’s problems: it was
also infested by huge spiders that crawled up and down the black,
mold-covered walls. The worksite was dangerous, and I even stepped on a
nail which went straight through my rubber boots and sneaker before
stopping short of my foot.
The next-door neighbor, a quiet, unassuming teenager named Patrick,
watched as we worked and talked with us at some length during our shift
breaks. (I use the term neighbor loosely, as Patrick, his uncle, his
aunt, their two daughters, and their Shitzu no longer lived in their
house. Instead, they lived in a FEMA trailer camped in front of the
wreckage that used to be their home.) Patrick walked us to the
Mississippi River to show us where the levees broke, while pointing to
barren swaths of land that used to be residential areas. The houses had
been swept away, displacing residents, many of which could not claim
hurricane compensation from insurance companies because the damage had
been caused by flooding.
the human face of New Orleans
Patrick was only one of the many interesting people I met while working
in New Orleans. Another was Donald, the son of Malik Rahim. Donald,
along with his friends Magic and Kevin, made my trip what it was:
something indescribably sad, humorous, stunning, egalitarian, and
eye-opening. We spent our last two days working on the roof of Malik’s
home, which had been damaged by high winds. Working alongside these
three men was something I will never forget, for each was as unique a
character as I have ever met.
Donald, originally from South Central Los Angeles, brought the
experience into focus for me. He told me the story of Common Ground
from the beginning, describing in detail the organization’s
relationship with the community and the police. During my stay in New
Orleans, the relationship between Common Ground and the police became
especially strained. The police had arrested Common Ground members on
numerous occasions—once while I was in New Orleans. The New Orleans
Police Department (NOPD) have a long-standing reputation of being
tremendously violent, especially toward activists and residents of
poorer, minority communities.
Donald told me how Malik had become an influential community leader in
the Woodlands, an apartment complex in New Orleans. At the time, the
Woodlands had a rampant gang problem, as rival factions from the
different buildings clashed violently over drugs. After Malik became
involved in the community, the gang problem ceased, and Common Ground
even organized a barbeque and tackle football game between the
previously feuding sets. As the event kicked off, the police showed up
and dispersed everyone, citing the organizers with disturbing the peace
and disorderly conduct.
The National Guard was deployed in New Orleans during my stay, partly
because a spate of gun violence broke out after New Years. Over ten
people were killed in the first two weeks of 2007, culminating in a
“Stop the Violence” rally on our last day in New Orleans. Even though
the National Guard patrolled the streets of the city in fully-equipped
hummers, carrying sub-machine guns and sporting combat gear, locals did
not fear them like they did the NOPD, according to Donald and Patrick.
Patrick told me the story of his father, who was forced to sell crack
cocaine to support his large family. Patrick’s father was confronted by
the police one night while selling and swallowed his stash to avoid
being brutalized and arrested. Patrick said that the small plastic bag
exploded in his stomach, releasing a lethal does of crack cocaine and
triggering a seizure. The police allegedly stood by while he convulsed
to death, refusing him medical attention. They transported the body to
the hospital only when they were sure that he was dead.
I heard too many stories of personal tragedy during my stay in New
Orleans, and one of the only reasons I was able to keep my sanity was
Magic’s ability to provide comic relief. He made an especially strong
impression on me, for he was one of the greatest story tellers I’ve
ever met. He punctuated his anecdotes with sayings such as “get ya mind
right” and tangents about how he is arguably the greatest
microwave-cook ever. And he is.
Although I was skeptical at first how anyone could use electromagnetic
waves to prepare a worthwhile meal, Magic “opened the kitchen” on our
last night. He made everyone a plate, and I was instantly converted.
Really, eating that meal was akin to a religious experience. He
prepared shrimp, pork, chicken, andouille sausage, and spiced rice in a
microwave and left the whole school smelling like Louisiana barbeque.
People drifted in while we were eating, asking for a plate, and he
didn’t deny a single person, instead welcoming everyone into “Magic’s
Kitchen.”
Kevin was another memorable character of the trip. One night on our way
back to St. Mary’s, we stopped at Rally’s, a southern fast-food chain,
to grab some burgers. As we turned into the drive-thru, Kevin jumped
out of the truck, ran up to the ordering console, and began knocking on
it. In his best baritone voice, he crooned “Hellooooooo” over and over
into the console until the attendant’s voice came on loudly, echoing
throughout the parking lot: “Excuse me sir, stop knocking on the
console. You need to wait. I will be with you in a moment.” Naturally,
everyone in the parking lot broke out into peals off laughter.
After getting our order, we drove around the corner to St. Mary’s,
where we ate standing around the back of the truck. When three burgers
remained, Kevin sprang into action again, waving his hands furiously
and beckoning everyone on the stoop to come eat with us. “Hey
everybody! We got burgers. Come get some!” It is worth mentioning that
Kevin was a bizarre character, and at first I had no idea what he was
doing. I hissed, “Kevin, chill out. You really want everyone eating our
burgers?” He didn’t respond to me and kept waving his hands. When
people started coming over, I realized that some of them hadn’t had a
decent thing to eat in months and were grateful for our generosity. I
felt terrible and wished I hadn’t said anything. But I did learn that
in adverse circumstances, the what’s-mine-is-yours philosophy goes a
long way. As crazy as Kevin may have been, he taught me a lot about
giving and survival, and our Rally’s burger experience was one of the
defining moments of my trip.
involve yourselves
Community-oriented initiatives in New Orleans are a great outlet for
college student activism. If you are interested in working with Common
Ground Collective (www.commongroundrelief.org), they will feed and
house you for however long you want to stay. All you have to do is get
yourself to New Orleans, and they will provide you with everything else
you might need. |
