Bargewatch: Sick, War Torn, a Game of Catch, and Sadly Much the Same

On a mild, dreary, late morning, one of a series in the January finale, I maneuver a borrowed car through the streets wet from last night’s downpour, with their tire hazards: Nails waiting like mines, slate scraps scattered about like shrapnel, heaps of cypress set roughly along the roads making for trenches, and broken bargeboard bunkers. Civilians in large vehicles crowd the quiet, nearly dead neighborhood.

The nature of progress is that it continually fights with itself. At times, forward movement proves swift and positive. On the other hand and as in a cancer or on a battlefield, that quick transformation can cause great pain and the breaking down of a body or place. In the case of the Lower Nine—its people, the canal wall, the barge, and the response—the crowd sees only a sick locale with very low chances.

Yet, the neighborhood’s condition has stabilized. It can not grow much worse, and many more viewers have passed by during daylight (“visiting hours”), and will for some time to come. The obvious path of destruction—the articulate gaps in engineering—waits for comment.

For what is there to live in this decrepit area? A new row of houses and blocks, temporary trailers along the lane, saplings entered into the cracks of the oily earth—what can these improvements really bring the people who used to reside downriver and who could very well experience the trauma again?

And yet the neighborhood, especially that part away from the canal holes, shows some activity, a few vital signs. Near Lawless High School, a man sits atop a crane and works its arm into the exposed innards of a ranch-style home, moving water-logged household items from one deposit to another. Other family krewes gather together, rummaging through their mess. A middle-aged white couple parks a streamlined minivan on the side of Deslonde and, smiling, gets out the camera for a live shot of upset and I’ve-been-there.

Continuing on the sad sojourn, I meet a Starlight tour bus at an intersection. There, in the large front window, a woman sets up with her camcorder—tourist, humanitarian, local citizen, returnee?

Her looming backdrop becomes that mass of unparalleled stillness, in all of its fame: Behind her squats the barge. A colleague and poet sent this piece of information. The botched containment vessel has a name, Ingram, and some folks have tagged its side with “Fuck Katrina” and “Hi Fudgie” (which from the distance looks like “Fugee”). With tightened security that includes a police SUV parked near its hull, the barge still attracts, in my estimate, hundreds of weekend goers. The progress along the breaches, either caused by the barge or, more likely, through which it was sucked, appears in a long, dark heap of mud rather than a formal wall.

* * * * *

By Friday afternoon the following week, life grows even busier. The dirt heaps resemble more of a formal mound, and I have been cut off by a semi pulling long metal reinforcements for the new canal wall.

Between St. Claude Avenue and the river, in the Holy Cross neighborhood, a handful of homeowners work on their homes. Along Royal Street, the sweet echo of the hammer adds some sort of distant possibility of revival. A man sweeps the brown ground. Deeper into the neighborhood, “We’re Home – Bring New Orleans Back” signs sprout in a scattering from front yards beside newly planted flowers. In one, a small Queen Palm bows to the sunlight. Some houses have been renovated and are on the market. Back at St. Claude and Egania, men work on their pickups at a service station.

My favorite part of the day, though, is the bustle about the Holy Cross campus. School reopened last week, classes are being conducted in trailers and a series of mobile units connected by boardwalks, a shipment of donated backpacks and school supplies lines the parking lot, and the awkward teens mill about the few blocks towards the levee and the river. It is a glorious recess, with a cool breeze sculpting the soiled river water into ripples towards the rocky shore. I tag along.

The juveniles gather on the stones as in a rookery. To the right and upriver, a gray battleship offers its presence. A barge passes as it should while a bunch of partially-uniformed boys toss the football. I watch as a pass intended for a squeaky-voiced kid drops short and into the cradling arms of the cornerback. “It’s your friggin’ fault” squawks the receiver. There’s always someone at fault. The quarterback rebuts: “No more long-ass runs. You can’t go deep every play.” And I think he has something.

At some point, we will have to realize and perhaps call the time of death, even if and as the place does grow into another Lower Ninth Ward, stronger, changed, and barge-less. Then, maybe, slowly, in planned steps, things can move along. For now, folks who lived there—especially at 1815 Jourdan Street, the barge’s resting place—and those weaving in their vehicles to witness the unbelievable and to capture it on digital video, will continue day tripping. What matters, really, that place of writing and film alike – is the record. And the record shows a wasteland, far from both plain and simple, especially when most of the tenants and old timers are long gone. The kid’s game of catch as they’re back at school, though, echoes something positive.

What matters, really, is the record.