With one last spring break to indulge in as a college student, I decided to do something different and found myself in New Orleans. But not for the typical spring break experience. Instead, I traded relaxation for reporting, fly-by moments for long-lasting memories, and a week’s worth of bar tabs for a week’s worth of reality checks.

And for selfish reasons, I glad for that.

I’m glad, because I got to know 61-year-old Carrie Handy in the Upper Ninth Ward whose house is insulated with tarps. She poured her heart out to me, a total stranger, for two hours. She walked me through her electricity-deprived house, barely lit by the sun in the middle of day. So gracious was she that although I could see she didn’t have enough food to last herself a week, she asked if she could fix me something to eat on what was a makeshift stove, in a makeshift kitchen.

When it was time for me to leave for more reporter work, she gave me a hug and kiss on the check, and asked me to come and cheek on her when I could. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was probably the last time we would ever see each other, and I cried the entire 15-minute drive back to the hotel thinking about it.

I’m glad, because I got to know Otis Signal, or “Big O” as he calls himself. “Cast Away,” “I Am Legend”—those movies have nothing on his real-life story of survival. When thousands fled before and during Katrina’s wrath, he stayed. When the water flooded the inside of his home so bad he was forced to find refuge on the roof of his backyard shed, he stayed. And when rescue crews came to pick up he and the four people with him on that roof, he sent them off, and he stayed. He stayed because, as he said, “It’s going to take more than a little hurricane to get me out of my house.” Spoken like a true warrior.

But to know the true nature of this hero is to know a specific occurrence during his ordeal in Katrina’s aftermath. After a week searching for safety, Otis found a convent, which was to serve as a temporary safe haven. With everything in the city virtually washed away, the convent was unharmed. Otis was so in awe of how perfectly clean it was inside, the entire week he stayed there, he didn’t sleep in a bed one time. He said they were too immaculate. And for good measure, he even tidied up before he left.

I’m glad, because I wouldn’t have believed there was a “tent village” under a freeway overpass.

I’m glad, because I wouldn’t have been able to stand on the corner of Flood Street and Florida Avenue in the Lower Ninth Ward, and listen to the hollowing silence of emptiness resonate through the air.

I’m glad, because I wouldn’t have walked through that storm-tilted home on Reyes Street in the Lower Ninth Ward. There were clothes still on hangers on a pile of rubbish outside what was once someone’s pink-walled bedroom. A bathroom was exposed to the elements, with a Holy Bible opened to the Book of Luke still resting on the edge of a debris-filled bathtub.

I’m glad, because I’ve met people who have strength, courage and will I only dream to have.

I’m glad, because those images will comprise the lion’s share of what will forever be a figment of my realization of that old cliche, “Here today; gone tomorrow.”

Living through that much destruction just ain’t natural.

I’m glad, because I saw what Mother Nature is capable of.

I’m glad, because now I know what hope is.

I’m glad, because you can’t witness those scenes, and not be changed forever.

NEW ORLEANS (March 22, 2008)—I speak for all 26 Howard University student volunteers when I say that the week we spent with the seventh and eighth graders at Thurgood Marshall Middle School has forever changed our lives. For me, I thought I would have a modestly pleasurable experience–you know, go back to Howard at the end of the week and them continue on with the rest of my life. Not so. These kids are now my kids. I can feel their pain.

Many children in the school are from disadvantaged homes. And anyone who knows about children knows that kids are the products of their parents. At the beginning of the week, we saw what seemed like horrible kids. They fought each other. Their language was vulgar and obscene. Their academic achievement (for some of them) was below the standard level. And, a select few–some because of the storm–were two and three years behind their class. When I say that, I mean that there were 14-year-olds and 16-year-olds in seventh grade and a 17-year old in eighth grade. One of my favorite students was 16 … in the eighth grade.

As students ourselves, we grew to love these kids. The local school board had taken all resources and a sense of hope away from these kids–and the teachers. The behavioral problems were so severe at the beginning of the week that we saw a security guard manhandle and handcuff a 14-year-old like he was a prisoner in a correctional facility. Though the child had ignored the security officer’s questions as he was in the hall switching classes–and may have had a few choice words for the guard– he did not do anything to deserve such a brutal attack.

He was later released and allowed to go back into the class.

We saw students curse out a white teacher. We saw them tempt and taunt her as she tried to teach a lesson. Not just one or two students–the whole class. The saddest thing that we saw was children–human beings, babies, kids–being treated like caged animals in a system that cares not for them.

When school started back for these kids, it was run and operated out of trailers in the 9th Ward–the most heavily affected area of New Orleans. So affected that civilization in this area no longer exists. Neighborhoods are gone. Houses are gone. People are gone. But the school system bused the children of Thurgood Marshall to this desolate section of town.

The school was then relocated into an abandoned Catholic school. Though the city had spent hundreds of dollars refurbishing the Thurgood Marshall Middle School building, the children and staff were told that they could not have that space. They could not teach their kids in their school building. Instead, the Marshall Middle School building went to two charter schools that had opened since the storm. The building still displays the Thurgood Marshall Middle School name.

There are only five teachers in the whole school. Some who were hired at the beginning of the school year quit. I can understand. Who can work in these circumstances? No computer, no Internet access, limited books, no extra curricular programs or activities, no free time, no art class, NO SCHOOL BUILDING.

But to the kids, the departure of each teacher seems like another abandonment. Some of the kids lost parents in the storm. Almost all of the kids have witnessed a loved one being murdered or shot. On the second day I was there, one of the eighth grade girls wasn’t feeling well. Even though we volunteers were there, she did not want to do any of her school work. Later we found out that one of her neighborhood friends had been shot multiple times and died. She was upset that she was not allowed to go to his funeral.

She’s 14 years old.

These stories go on and on. What I witnessed was not a made-for-TV movie. There was no good-hearted suburban teacher who came in and saved that day. If anything, the kids could not identify with the “suburban” teachers. The white teachers. They showed them the least respect.

But what I will say is that having the Howard student volunteers there for that week really boosted the spirits of the kids, the teachers and everyone involved. At the end of each work day, we would go back to our boarding house with what seemed like devastating stories about our kids. The students who worked on other projects, like gutting and painting houses, would be horrified by our testimonies. They wanted to meet the kids; discipline the kids. But we were falling deeper in love with them, day by day.

The behavioral problems improved so much that on the last day the security guards had absolutely nothing to do. We held a talent show for the kids. And one volunteer said that the security guards looked so bored they were walking on the mock runway that we made for the fashion show portion of the talent show.

(On the day we arrived, the guards had just arrested a child, who was subsequently suspended. They also made comments like, “you’re wasting your time,” when refering to the kids.)

More than five kids were suspended the week we were there. At least two were arrested and expelled. (See the Free Weezey blog entry.)

Many kids said that this was the best week of school they have ever had at Marshall. All of the kids opened up and even got a chance to talk about some of the problems that they have been dealing with since Hurricane Katrina.

Everything in New Orleans is labeled as “before the storm” or “since the hurricane.” The kids even use these terms when explaining what Marshall was like before the storm. It used to be a prestigious school that was known for its extracurriculars, especially the marching band.

The best thing I have ever done in my life to this point is to have met those kids.

The kids and volunteers exchanged contact info on the last day. The highlight of the day was at the very end when all the volunteers lined up in front of the school as the kids boarded their buses. As each bus pulled off, we waved in unison and blew kisses at the kids. We really are going to miss them. As one of the buses began to drive away, one little girl yelled out of the window to a volunteer, “I’ll see you at Howard.”

I broke into tears.

NEW ORLEANS (March 19, 2008)—Today one of the children I have been working with at a public school in New Orleans was arrested and expelled from school. This situation deeply affected me. It was only the day before that the same student told me this week had been the most fun he and the other students had ever experienced in that school.

These kids, the one who was arrested included, all have behavioral problems. They are good kids—bright kids—who have been affected by a combination of a few unqualified parents and an uncaring educational system.

He was the class clown. Long dreads and a quick wit. He was intelligent and perceptive. But now he’s a captive. He was caught doing an illegal activity on school grounds during the school day and was immediately reported to the authorities and expelled from school.

He’s 15.

I cried when heard that he had been expelled. An expulsion is not what he needs to help him channel his behavioral problems, release his anger or become a better student or person. As a matter of fact, this action only helps to make him a social delinquent.

What happened to rehabilitation? These kids want to be believed in. Even though I have only been here a few short days, I can tell that these children are desperately seeking attention (love) and approval and encouragement.

Today he was in the gym complaining because he couldn’t rebound the balls as they ricocheted off the basketball hoop. He’s a short little thing. I can only pray that he is not charged or sent to juvenile detention.

I hope he gets into a better school. I’m praying for him. I am praying for all of them.

Howard journalism major Thomas Warren interviews a man left homeless by Hurricane Katrina at the tent village under an overpass along North Claiborne Avenue. The tent village is within walking distance of downtown hotels and the French Quarter.

NEW ORLEANS (March 17, 2008)—It was only a day ago that the 10 buses journeying from Howard University arrived in New Orleans. The impact of the resurgent city, however, has not taken long to affect the minds and hearts of those who have made a pilgrimage here for service. I, as one of the hundreds of volunteers, feel a dramatic sense of sadness after my first day of work.

First, let me provide a little bit of background information before I tell how the story of this historic city has saddened me.

This year is the third consecutive year that the students of Howard University have traveled to New Orleans. Each year, we have come with the intentions of serving by helping to restore the city, both physically (with the painting, building, and gutting
of houses) and mentally (with tutoring and mentoring programs in local schools and churches).

Since this is the second year that a staggering number of volunteers has participated in this sojourn (more than 500), the group is divided up into smaller groups and then sent out into the city to work on various projects. Some, for example, are working with Mayor Ray Nagin’s office surveying the Lower 9th Ward, while others spend the day tutoring or doing relatively light construction work.

As this is my second time in New Orleans for Alternative Spring Break (ASB), it has been made abundantly clear to me that these people have been forgotten. Not literally. Not figuratively. But actually. They have actually been removed from the national consciousness. This is what saddens me.

Though their faces may no longer bombard the TV screens, their struggles are not over. Though Anderson Cooper no longer reports from the Gulf Coast, their struggles still persist.

What I have learned in my short time here is that everyday for them is a battle. They are battling crooked contractors and school systems and emotional problems. Problems that, so far, have been undiagnosed.

Who can they turn to? The nation no longer lends a listening ear—or a generous dollar, for that matter. We as Americans have moved on to the next topic in world news, arguably no less important, but all the same we have moved on.

We have forgotten the crying babies being carried through waist deep waters to safety. We forget the mother who was separated from her children, the women
and children who were raped and beaten and left for dead. That is no longer tragic to us. Just a sad remembrance of a time past.

I am sad for the little ones who have no voice, for the hurt ones who are too busy to cry, for the displaced ones who know there is no place like home.

Sad I am, indeed, for the forgotten.

WASHINGTON (March 15, 2008)—Long lines waiting to check in, big crowds anxious to go to New Orleans, luggage spread from here to there and everywhere. This was the scene at Howard University today as more than 550 students prepare for a “mission trip” to New Orleans in the continuing effort to restore and rebuild the devastation created by Hurricane Katrina.

Loading up at Cramton Auditorium, students were expected to sign in, place luggage in designated areas and find their appropriate buses for departure. With sign-in starting at 8 a.m. by last name and going in increments of 30 minutes, students rapidly began piling up. Students were signing in, snacking on the refreshments provided and socializing until it was time to be addressed by our president, H. Patrick Swygert.

Scheduled departure was designated to be 12 p.m., but it is 2:04 p.m. and we are just now departing.
Why is this you ask? There was pure chaos with the signing in process, luggage placement and bus assignments. Though the plan may have been well thought out, the execution got lost somewhere in the process.

Students were confused, frustrated and anxious to know what was going on. Bus assignments were mixed up, students were late and organizers were losing their minds trying to get everything together.

Dean Bernard Richardson kindly reminded us that “this is not about us, this is not about our organizations, this is not even about our university, this is about the people of New Orleans.” Hearing those words helped some get through the choas and remember that through all the disorganization and confusion, our mission is to assist all those affected by the devastation of Hurricane Katrina.

Sade Dike, who’s going to ASB with the Howard University chapter of the NAACP, said that she could be doing something else, but in the words of Charles Hamilton Houston, “How can I rest when there’s work to be done?”

As we prepare on our journey to help rebuild and restore the beauty that New Orleans once was, we remember that “this is not about us, this is not about our organization, this is not even about our university,” but we are here to help the people of New Orleans and that’s what we are going to do.

Howard student reporters are in New Orleans to listen to the stories of distressed Katrina victims as well as to report on the presidential campaign to determine if Katrina remains on the political agenda? Is poverty, racism and classism  a priority for the presidential hopefuls?  Watch for the student blogs, articles and other multimedia on blackcollegeview.com.  The students  will post daily updates beginning March 17.

Howard student volunteers will board buses on March 15 heading to New Orleans to spend their Spring Break assisting victims of Katrina.  Student volunteers will build houses working with Habitat for Humanity, and student journalists will report from the front line.  Watch for the student blogs, articles and other multimedia on blackcollegeview.com.  The students  will post daily updates beginning March 17.

Own It Or Leave It Alone

My journalism experience here has taught me all the lessons I have wanted to know and many, many more that I had not anticipated. I’ve come to the conclusion that I will either own my medium or own my medium.

I have realized many things about myself in the course of one week. My threshold for direct human interaction ranges from 90 minutes with one or more colleagues to 72 hours with a loved one. I really enjoyed busting my [backside] to get around town to people who would not answer phones or return phone calls. I’ve missed an interview for another and I’ve been cancelled on at last minutes. Did I mention that I’ve had my first migraines in over a year? AGONY!

“That’s life,” our advisor says.

And it is. Only my story will tell it’s actual worth.

If I swore, I would swear that someone was out to get me. Since Tuesday, I have scheduled two or more for the next day. And each day, that number slowly approaches zero because of emergencies, no shows and faulty directions. Friday, I Capri Sun burst in my bag, destroying my clips, smudging my notes, pervading my laptop and stinking up my bag.

The fact remains that I am not to be defeated. During my undergraduate career, I have oft questioned whether or not I have the passion prerequisite to being a journalist. It is very clear now that my passion is a fire that burns high octane. If I did not think that the Ronald Madisons and the Terry Burtons and all the untreated mentally ill did not deserve a voice, I would have ditch the colleagues to gaze at the luxuries at the $hops at Canal and live it up at Harrah’s.

Ashley Southall is a junior journalism whispering sweet nothings in Portu-glish to her delicious crawfish. Seu exoskeleton é tão lindo, she says. Pode abrir?

After enduring a twenty-four hour bus ride with loud group of freshmen singing everything from Disney soundtracks to New Jack and current “radio” R&B, you, too, would rejoice at the sight of Dillard University.Over 500 hundred Howard
University students gave up cook-outs and lying under beach umbrellas to do the good work of assisting in the recovery efforts for Hurricane Katrina survivors. We off-loaded around 12:30pm and made our way down the path of wild grass and clovers on either side of the sidewalk to the Lawless Memorial Chapel, which was built on Oct. 23, 1955.With time to spare before the orientation, most volunteers, who are lucky, take their post at available outlets while others try figure out how they’re going to charge their cell phones. The long line to the women’s room drive some to develop the buddy system, taking turns standing watch outside the men’s room as each of them go in and out. The adventurous ones, in their “Howard University” t-shirts, toured the 55-acre plantation-style campus marked by the smaller quarters bordering the prominent Library, which was the first academic building erected on the campus on May 1934, according to the brass plaque.

Back in the chapel, Rev. Gail Bowman opened up with a prayer for a spirit of cooperation. “Bless us. Bless them. Bless this city. Bless all those who waited for help to come,” she said. “Help is here.” Dr. Iva Carruthers, general secretary of the Samuel DeWitt Proctor Conference, revived the spirits of the volunteers with a pep talk about being an important link in an already recognized legacy of Howard University students. “We are at a sacred moment in time that not only will you create the story, but to tell it. You are going back in time in order to create the future, and that’s the spirit of Sankofa,” Carruthers said. “We must be a voice for those struggling to be heard.”

Councilman Derrick James Carter, a Howard alumnus, recalled his freshman year at the university to a standing ovation. “Who would’ve imagined that in 2007, we would have five hundred might students of Howard in New Orleans,” Carter said. “You’re not only local leaders and national leaders. You are expected to be international leaders. This is probably the largest contingency of students coming to New Orleans.”

Ceeon Quiett, who spoke on behalf the mayor, said that this experience was a way of continuing what those before us have laid the foundation for. “I hope that you take back that the will of the people in New Orleans is still strong,” Quiett said.

Alan King is a senior print journalism major. He is a getting his story ambition on to the 100^th degree in New Orleans, representing the Capstone News Network well.

Southern Comfort

by Courtney Bowe

Our bus: no running water and no flushing toilets. Our bus mates: forty-three rambunctious freshman. Our technological resources: no Internet access, and fighting for outlets to charge cell phones, laptops, and cameras. Our budget: I won’t even go there. Limited transportation: one car, six people. Our state of mind: frustrated. It’s only been three days and we have reached the end of our rope… 

We have been inconvenienced, and our patience is clearly wearing thin. The good news for us is that we will be back to the conveniences of our cushy DC life in less than 48 hours. The residents of New Orleans are still inconvenienced. It’s been almost two years.  

While we all continue to bark about who is driving the car, or missing our FREE three square meals (all in the name of civic journalism) we have learned that the residents of New Orleans are perseverant and resilient to the burdens that have been placed on their shoulders. Aside from the gray concrete slabs of front porch that line the once lively streets the Ninth Ward, the one thing that has remained steadfast within the city of New Orleans Louisiana is that genuine Louisiana southern hospitality.  

Thank you Mr. David Fountain for letting us drop by anytime to charge our camera battery three days in a row. Thank you for the offer of left over ham and black eye peas. Thank you for the ice that you provided one of our team members who was suffering from a migraine. Thank Father John Raphael, principal of St. Augustine’s all boys Catholic school, for letting us into your space to speak with your students so openly. Thank you Vice Principal Eric Smith for dropping what you needed to do to jump-start our rental car!!! Thank you Sister Julianne. Thank you Father Atwood for letting us send e-mails from your library. Thank you Dorian White and 18-year-old Howard Ledett (6’8, future cardiologist) for your stories. Thank you Fred Johnson of the Neighborhood Development Foundation for keeping your office open and allowing us to use your Internet until 10:00 at night! Thank you Ms. Ruth and the Salvation Army for letting breakfast be served just a little longer for us early morning stragglers.  

Thank you.  

I hope that our stories can accurately reflect how much we appreciate your heart-felt kindness, warm smiles, and giving spirit in a time when we should be giving to you.  

Courtney Bowe, first year graduate student, mass communication media studies, and communications liaison for the “8/29 You Are Katrina: Peers Making a Difference” Campaign.