Houston Democrats

Sunday, August 28

As the storm approaches and grows larger, everyone I know is calling. "Are you staying or going? where are you staying? Are you bringing your pets? What should I do?" Governor Blanco urges us to "pray the hurricane down" to a level 2.

I relent to pressure somewhat and relocate to a more sturdy location, an apartment complex built out of an old can factory in the midcity neighborhood. The building is five stories high, built of concrete and brick. There are seven of us in the apartment, with four cats.

Monday, August 29

It's morning, the storm is over, and we survey the streets outside. There has been some flooding. A few of us explore the neighborhood in boats, and we see extensive damage, but overall we feel as if New Orleans has once again escaped fate.

Later in the day, we hear some reports of much greater flooding in destruction in the ninth ward and lower ninth ward neighborhoods, New Orleans' most overexploited communities.

Tomorrow, we decide, the water will lower and we'll walk home. We expect power will start coming on in a week or so.

There are many relaxed and friendly conversations, especially on the roof.

With all of the lights in the city out, the night sky is beautiful. We lie on our backs and watch shooting stars.

Tuesday, August 30

We wake up to discover that the water level has risen several feet. Panic begins to set in among some. We inventory our food and find that, if we ration it tightly, we have enough for five days. As we discuss it, we repeatedly say, "not that we'll be here that long, but if we had to..."

We continue to explore the area by boat, helping people when possible. The atmosphere outside is a sort of post-apocalyptic, threatening world of obscure danger, where the streets are empty and the future seems cloudy. The water is a repellent mix of sewage, gas, oil, trash and worse.

We meet some of our neighbors. Most of the building is empty. Of at least 250 apartments, there are maybe 200 people in the building, about half white and half Black. Many people, like us, are crowded 7 or 10 to an apartment. Like us, many people came here for safety from the storm. Some have no food and water. A few folks break open the building candy machine and distribute the contents. We talk about breaking into the cafe attached to the building and distributing the food.

We turn on a battery-powered tv and radio, and then turn it off in disgust. No solid information, just rumor and conjecture and fear. Throughout this time, there is no reliable source of information, compounding and multiplying the crisis.

Tomorrow, the news announces, the water level will continue to rise, perhaps 12-15 feet. Governor Blanco calls for a day of prayer.

Wednesday, August 31

White people in the building start whispering about their fears of "them." One woman complains of people in the building "from the projects and hoarding food." There is talk of gangs in the streets, shooting, robbing, and lawless anarchy. I feel like there is a struggle in people's minds between compassion and panic, between empathy and fear.

However, we witness many folks traveling around in boats, bringing food or giving lifts or sharing information.

But the overwhelming atmosphere is one of fear. People fear they wont be able to leave, they fear disease, hunger, and crime. There is talk of a soldier shot in the head by looters, of bodies floating in the ninth ward, flooding in Charity Hospital, and huge masses (including police) emptying Wal-Mart and the electronic stores on Canal Street. There are fires visible in the distance. A particularly large fire seems to be nearby - we think it's at the projects at Orleans and Claiborne. Helicopters drop army MREs and water, and people rush forward to grab as many as they can.

After the third air drop, people in the building start organizing a more even distribution.

Across the street is a spot of land, and helicopters begin landing there and picking people up. Hundreds of people from the nearby hospital make their way there, many wearing only flimsy gowns, waiting in the sun. As more helicopters come, people start arriving from every direction, straggling in, swimming or coming by boat.

A helicopter hovers over our roof, and a soldier comes down and announces that tomorrow everyone in the building will be evacuated.

Across the street, at least two hundred people spend the night huddled on a tiny patch of land, waiting for evacuation.

Read the rest here.