What Happens Afterwards? 

By Olivia S. B.

Writing 212: The Art of the Essay

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In my English class we are talking about Katrina. I would much rather learn about a variety of other subjects. Anything else for that matter. Anything that could potentially be less sad. I didn’t expect us to watch a documentary in class. I thought the class would be just for reading and discussion. Images are harder to ignore. When I decided to major in English, I was hoping and expecting to be catapulted into reading assignments that consisted of writers who were more along the lines of Flannery O’Connor; fun, witty, and suspenseful. However, my class options were limited. It was this or a class about war at 8 a.m. Absolutely not. For now I’m trying to embrace the idea of learning and discussing things that may not be comfortable for me.

I wasn’t there, but I was alive when it happened. I was six years old. I didn’t watch the news then, but I couldn’t escape the fact that something happened. My first grade teacher survived. She told us about how she had to move hundreds of miles away. She was displaced. My current professor survived. She is teaching an entire class about one hurricane. And still, I had no interest in learning about Hurricane Katrina.

My professor introduces herself. Why she’s teaching the class, and what she hopes we’ll get from it. As she talks, she makes her way from behind her podium towards the control system for the projector. The projector screen behind her desk is pulled down, and the main menu for the documentary is on the screen. Images of a flooded neighborhood foreshadow the devastation that is going to be shown to us. We can only see rooftops and treetops; there are no signs of life. The water is dark and murky and passes the second story of some homes. The music, one short piece of a dramatic melody, plays over and over as she talks. We know what is coming next. She struggles, repeatedly poking the control board with her index finger to get the DVD to start playing at exactly where she wants it to. It works. To my right a student dims the light; the documentary begins. The only light now comes from the large windows that are along the two walls farthest from me. Beyond the windows, students scurry to their next class or to lunch, lost in their devices or in conversations amongst friends. I rest my elbows on my desk and I put all of my weight into my palms. I am sleepy and uninterested, but I watch.

There are images shown that I didn’t expect to see. I didn’t expect anything. This is how I go into new things, leaving no room for my hopes to get too high or to sink too low. I expect nothing. But what I found was that I was confronted with images that are hard to look at. People from New Orleans describe to the camera their experiences with Katrina. They’re dressed in cheap, dirty clothing. Everything is loose and baggy. Disheveled hair. And small children, with eyes as bright as shiny marbles that can’t completely understand the reality that surrounds them. Most of them are poor, most of them are black. I don’t need to look around the class to remind myself that I am only one of three minorities in the room. The only Haitian American. One of three black people. I noticed when I first walked in. I always notice. It is what it is, I don’t need to talk about it. My body shifts in my seat. I allow my eyes to scan the class and I cannot interpret what my classmates are thinking. Their attention seems to be directed towards the screen, but they look bored, or maybe they’re empathetic towards the people on the screen? Are they putting themselves in the shoes of the victims on the screen? Are they thinking what I’m thinking?

The levees broke. This is the reason for the flooding. The hurricane was only a Category 1 when it hit New Orleans.  The levees broke.Therefore the cause of the destruction was not the rain itself. Instead, it was the poor planning of the engineers. It was the lack of care by the local government. Why weren’t the levees built to the highest standards? Where was the urgency to ensure that every neighborhood would be able to withstand another hurricane? These are the questions with answers that were never given. These are the questions and concerns that many interviewees brought up within the first quarter of the documentary. Many of these people seemed to have their own speculations about these questions. But speculations aren’t enough. They wanted definite answers, they wanted help, they wanted to know that they were cared about, they wanted to know that they could rely on their government. There is more behind the destruction of New Orleans than just rain. The rain was just being rain. Releasing itself from clouds that would no longer hold.

I couldn’t help but to think about the earthquake. A different natural disaster. Magnitude Three. 2010. Haiti was the talk of the world for a few months. Haitian communities around the world were heartbroken at the news. Haiti was already poor. We were already pushed aside from the rest of the world. We were already nobody’s concern. There were wounds that needed healing before the earthquake. The shaking of the earth destroyed more than we could handle, salt on a fresh wound, and the world couldn’t help but to notice. As with Katrina, infrastructure was a large factor in this catastrophe. When the buildings crumbled in Haiti, people were killed. Homes were lost. Buildings crumbled and split in two as if cracked like crab legs. There was no pattern, no rhyme or reason, no order. There was no pitter pattering on rooftops. No winds that knocked things over as a warning to move away or to stay indoors. There was no warning from the center of the earth. There was no natural rhythm to help people follow the trajectory of the earthquake. It came out of nowhere. Cracks and crumbles and dust. Destruction.

I wonder how it must feel to be so vulnerable in front of the entire world. To go to bed on a regular night, only to wake up without a home, to be forced into survival mode. To go from being tucked under my covers to feeling my sheets cling to my legs from the moisture. The rain. The flooding. Having to go upstairs, then upstairs again, if there is another floor to retreat to. The roof being the last place to go. The water rising quickly. Then waiting. Or to wake up not knowing where I am. Falling asleep in my room only to wake up in an ocean of concrete slabs and dust. Hearing people wail. Not feeling my body. Not being able to move. I’m sure it can take something out of a person to be on camera during a time like this. With nothing. For the world to watch. Your story playing in the background noise of someone’s home. On the kitchen table. Glanced over. Pushed to a corner. People look quickly, their brows furrow in sorrow and they go on with their days. They pat themselves on the back for knowing what is going on in the world. They are informed, their solipsistic lenses are still on but at least they are humbled. For a few minutes. They do nothing. Nothing changes. For the news consumer. For Mother Nature’s current victim. For the refugees. For the people who can only pray. For a new life. For change. For drinking water. For hope.

In Haiti, just like in New Orleans, cries were heard all around. The world eventually responded, as they did with New Orleans. The storm was covered in the news, so was the aftermath of the storm. With New Orleans, the American government left the people feeling betrayed. From not being declared as an emergency to the shoe-shopping sprees had by government officials. Help from the government came later than it should have, or could have. As if lives could be put on hold. Time meant nothing to the people that local citizens relied on. Time, which crept by wearily, meant everything to those who were victims of the storm.

Time meant a lot to the people who aimlessly roamed around. Searching for food. Searching for water. Searching for dry clothing. Searching for their loved ones. Time seemed to stop at night. When the darkness was impenetrable. Silence became a shroud over their heads. No better than during the day. Sirens wailing, people wailing, and in response the wind wailed and brought raindrops along with it.

My eyes begin to water so I sit up straight. Luckily, I’m wearing a cardigan and I dab my eyes with my wrists. I can’t let anyone see me cry. I look around the room. Nobody else is crying. Nobody else seems to have moved at all in the last twenty minutes. I can’t tell if they’re paying attention or if they’re not truly present. Many of my classmates are sitting almost hunched over with half-closed eyelids. Glazed over. No reactions. What could they be thinking?

I wonder what goes through a person’s mind as the catastrophe unfolds. I wonder if it appears to be only a nightmare at first. If they have to pinch themselves to accept this as true. What makes them realize it is reality?

I remember hearing the stories. They weren’t real to me. What the news reporters were saying wasn’t true. This wasn’t real. Nothing happened in Haiti. The condolences that were directed to me were unwarranted. Pitiful glances, unsolicited hugs, and questions about my family. Unnecessary. Because this wasn’t real. How could it be? I avoided personal anecdotes. Faces. Facts. They haunted me the more I ran from them. But I kept going. The further I ran from the truth, the less real it became. I was in fifth grade and I was good at pretending. It became a story. When repeated it lingered in the air. My eyes stung and my nostrils flared. My face grew hot. I could only run for so long, until my body collapsed into its own pile of shame and pity. So I had to face reality. Several years after the earthquake in Haiti reality came to face me.

I wonder how long it takes to rebuild a community after such a tragedy. I wonder if people are able to go back to their old lives. I wonder if everyone chips in to help rebuild the community and once that’s over everything goes back to normal. Like nothing happened. Or maybe this event will always weigh heavily on their memories. Maybe they never forget any of the details and it’s permanent, like a scar that’s passed down to future generations. Their grandchildren will know about this too. When it is all over, when everything is cleaned up and put back together, I wonder what then happens. Do they celebrate? Can they? Or do the horrors they endured constantly bombard their minds? Can they find peace? I imagine it to be hard to sit around a circle of friends with rum and pâtés. With kids running around being kids and kompa blasting in the background.

When I hear stories of mothers losing their children and children losing their mothers, I turn my head away. Hot tears well up at the bottom of my eyes. People without families or a place to call home, I assume, struggle more than the rest of us with who they are. They cannot rely on someone’s shoulder to lean on. They cannot rely on photos that hang on walls to help them hang on to memories.

I can’t do it. I can’t imagine how that person must be feeling. I can’t imagine that happening to me. I can’t imagine that happening to my parents, or my sister, or anyone I love. So I turn my face away. I’m ashamed of refusing to connect with the rest of humanity. Refusing to allow myself to be vulnerable. When things get uncomfortable, I run.

I’m reminded of when I was following the news on the earthquake. When everyone who cared at least an ounce was. It was on the morning news, the lunchtime news, the evening news. Constant updates, stories, facts. This was the first time I saw my father cry. His head rested in his palms. Eyes closed. Silence settled in the room without invitation. Without leaving room to breathe. In the background the reporter continued to give details about what was going on in Haiti. Updates on the death toll, incoming aid, more anecdotes. I’m not sure if my father lost someone he knew. I didn’t ask. I just stood there, beside him. I never know what to do or what to say when someone cries. Especially not my father, he never cries.

And so I cried too. I cried for family members I’ve never met. I cried for strangers. I cried for the hard work that was thrown away. The homes that were destroyed. The stranded lovers. Stranded babies. Abandoned parents. Lost friends. Lost hope. Lack of tears. Dusty air, cloudy water, muddy skin and scarce amounts of food. The hymns that were sung for something to do while they waited for help, anything. Hymns and sermons always have sent chills down my spine. I’ve never caught the Holy Ghost, but I have caught myself crying at His grace. And so I prayed. I prayed for the city of Port-au-Prince to be rebuilt. For our culture to stay alive. For the found bodies to rest in peace. For the babies to stop crying, and to live long lives. For people to find food and water. For those that were capable to help Haiti, to help. For those who could heal, to heal. For those who could save, to save. I prayed for people I’ve never met. I prayed for my family, for my parents. I prayed for myself.

Quickly, I glance across the room to make sure there are no eyes on me. I turn my body to face the front of the classroom. To my right is the door and beyond that is the nearest restroom but I can’t get up. Everyone will know why. My face burns crimson and I feel heat escape my cheeks. A sniffle escapes my throat and my nose starts to run. I pretend I have a cold. I don’t wipe my eyes. This will draw too much attention to me. Instead I lean one arm against the back of my seat and fix my attention to the documentary.

When things get hard I run away. I close my eyes or I change the channel. If I can find my earphones I’ll plug them into my ears and blast music that means nothing. I’ll pretend like I don’t care. Like nothing means anything. I trap myself in my naïve solipsistic universe. Where only I exist. And therefore only what pertains to me matters. That’s wrong. But I know I am not the only person to do this. This is a privilege. To not be able to relate to certain experiences. To be able to continue life just as you were before encountering someone else’s bad news. Nothing changes for you.

This is not okay. As members of humanity we should care. Why? Because nothing about the way our lives are dictates that this is how they should be. We can’t be entitled to safety and comfort. We are not safe from some of these tragedies that other people face. That could be any one of us. At any time. Anywhere. In a situation that we thought would never happen to us. Praying with all our might that somebody, anybody, will hear our cries and care enough to help us.

Will they?

Will you?

I don’t really know how it feels. I don’t know how it feels to experience a major earthquake or destructive hurricane. I don’t know what it’s like to lose my home, or my family members, or access to food and water. My power has never been out for more than a few hours. I’ve always been able to rely on my parents to make sure I am safe and fed. There has always been a roof over my head. I’ve never broken any bones or been in the hospital for more than a couple of hours. I’ve never had to swim for survival, I’ve always been able to stand on my feet when my arms got tired. I can turn off the screen when images become too disturbing. I shut out stories that make me weep.

I’ve never been forced to survive.

I don’t know how it really feels.

My professor pauses the documentary. Class is ending. Somehow I didn’t notice her make her way to the front of the class. I don’t know what she’s saying. The lights are on and I quickly fumble to wipe my tears with the back of my hand. The sleeves of my cardigan are damp. Gross. My face still feels hot but when I look around I realize that nobody notices. It’s time to go. Shame engulfs me when I realize I don’t remember exactly what happened in the documentary. I was so consumed with my thoughts. As my foot crosses the threshold separating the classroom from the hallway, I begin to plan the rest of my day in my head. I have to go to work, I have a paper due, I have things to do. I put in my earphones. I blast music that means nothing.

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A Word from Olivia 

In writing this essay I found that when writing about an emotional topic my sentences get shorter. They become abrupt. A lot can be said within a few words. Although the style of this essay, as it pertains to short sentences, wasn’t necessarily on purpose, I appreciate the effect that it has. My meditation of the depiction of Hurricane Katrina and her victims in the Spike Lee documentary When the Levees Broke, led me to also meditate on the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. Both events were difficult for me to process. In the difficulty to express the horror I experienced in learning about both events, respectively, I found that I don’t always have a lot to say. Instead of speaking, I put myself in the shoes of others and I write. For this essay, I took the stories that were being told by victims of Katrina and I extracted the overlapping experiences to convey simpler messages. I took these stories, their fears, the longing for safety in their eyes, and the empathy that I had for them to reflect on my own reality.  I feel, I write, and I pray. And if I could save everyone, I would.

In any given country or region of the world people are simply people. Despite political differences, different languages, beliefs, cultures, ways of living, there are a few things that remain the same. People feel. People have needs. People live in their own realities and may not have any idea of what life can be like in other situations. Like in third world countries. Like me. For both devastating events I was at home when I first heard of them. I was dry and safe. And just as I did then, I still feel guilt about the stark observation I’ve made of the world: nothing about the way things are prove that that is how they should be. There is no reason for why I am where I am. There is no reason for the people in those situations to have been where they were or still are. 

What Happens Afterwards? is a meditation on these thoughts and experiences that I continue to have today.

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From Professor Elisabeth Whitehead