Kalamu ya Salaam is a New Orleans poet. He is a Katrina survivor who returned home to continue to teach and write. He runs e-drum, a Black arts listserv. His oral history project featuring Katrina survivors makes sure voices marginalized by the soon-to-be-former mainstream get heard.
Since Katrina rocked Black America a year ago, I have been completely floored by his first-person journalism about his life and the lives of those devastated by the Gulf Coast disaster.
Here is one of his Katrina reports, reprinted here in its entirety. No other words from me are needed.
Spirits in the Dark
By Kalamu ya Salaam
Post-Katrina New Orleans
Nobody missed a beat. No pause. No exasperated sighs. No moans of “awwww, mannn,” or groans of “shucksssssss.” Just a quiet, steady continuance as we sat in semi-darkness reading our work and receiving feedback. Our ages range from fifteen to fifty-nine. Our stories, like our lives, are distinct in their details but essentially we are all battling to hold on to our sanity. Chris laughs his hearty laugh as recent college-grad Ashley deftly uses somewhat humorous descriptions to explore the hardships of an extended family dealing with death and aids. Eighteen-year-old Dominique tells us why she’s no longer a youthful teenager. I read my latest Big Easy report that focuses on a close friend whom was thrown in jail. A power failure is the least of our worries. Blackouts happen frequently now, not just in the so-called devastated areas but all over town. Last week Harold and I were eating at his apartment and in the middle of a mouthful of well-seasoned fried catfish from Manchu’s, the lights flickered off. People who don’t know us often mistake Harold for my older brother, or me for a son Harold had when he was much younger. People who do know us, understand that we might as well be brothers, recognizing that I treat Harold with a filial respect accorded to no one else. Post-Katrina is particularly hard on our elders and Harold, born in 1931, has to make a decision: stay or go.
Medical care is spotty—all physicians Harold trusted are gone. Most of Harold’s immediate family lives in California; the few who were here evacuated to Texas and have decided not to return. Harold remains because all the work he wants to complete before his transition is here but he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on.
He is stubborn, yes, but not stupid. He’s been weakened by a stroke that left him with a pronounced limp and a partially disabled right arm. Then there is the onset of glaucoma. But what worries Harold most is the deterioration of our city.
Recently our weekly conversations have returned time and again to his dilemma: should he be sensible and leave or be determined and stay.I think he should go. I want him to stay. So, I listen without taking sides. If he needs or wants something, I try to help out. What else can I do?
Last week he had a taste for catfish. Before Katrina, copping some catfish would have been a snap, but now, there are not many neighborhood restaurants open, plus the pickings are mighty slim when it comes to black-owned establishments. We decide on take out from a hole-in-the-wall, Vietnamese run, Chinese/Soul-food joint.
In the midst of a thunderstorm, we eat and talk in the dark. I try my best to joke: hey man, if we was Indians we could get a candle and sit down and sew. But we’re not Indians, there’s nothing for us two old men to do in the dark except sleep, especially considering we have just hardily eaten our fill.
When the lights came back on, I rose from the couch, checked on Harold (he was sleeping soundly in his bedroom), slipped out the door and intended to head uptown for my nightly session with my friend Doug. I have accepted the task of ensuring Doug takes his nightly medication. That’s no small feat. Like all of us Doug needs encouragement, lots of encouragement.
At first I thought it was just a little standing water outside the back door, and then I thought maybe this part of the parking lot is low, but finally I got the message as I peered myopically at a newly filled, foot-deep wading pool that less than two hours ago was dry asphalt.
I had on loafers. I tried tip-toeing. That didn’t work.
I splashed over to the fence where I had parked. The water was way past ankle deep on the driver’s side but maybe only four or five inches on the passenger side. Once in the passenger seat of the small Corolla I had to manage the task of hoisting my big-ass body across the console with the shift sticking up and maneuver into the driver’s bucket-seat. After a minute or two of twisting and turning, I finally slumped in place.
I felt horrible. My feet were wet. It was still raining. I called Carol, explaining that I was wet and miserable. She advised me to go home and she would let Doug know.
Two of the city’s largest pumps are burnt up. Katrina flooded them with salt water and the massive engines were not cleaned before this summer’s first big rain in June. One-point-five inches of water later, the pumps broke down. Now, every time it drizzles there’s standing water everywhere because the pumps are functioning only around half-capacity.
I’m sure people are tired of hearing about our problems. Looks like every other day we’ve got another shortcoming or some other service falling apart. I know I’m tired of it. Nevertheless, I would prefer to be fighting frustration in New Orleans than kicking back somewhere else.
In the unlighted classroom our circle of Students at the Center staff and students are reading off of donated laptops, the screens highlight our faces but not the rest of our bodies. Our heads seemingly float unattached. We probably look like a in one of those cheesy horror movies where self-deluded crazies sit around a table, hold hands and try to contact the other world.
We carry on like the dark wasn’t nothing. And it isn’t. Or rather that’s all it is: nothing. Darkness is simply the absence of light. The old folks were right: rather than waste time cursing our conditions, it’s better to illuminate the way forward by letting our spirit lights shine. That’s why instead of crying, we are sitting here laughing with each other.
The half-hour series will span the life of Hannibal, from his tutelage as a warrior under his father, Hamilcar Barca, to his scaling of the Alps with an army of elephants, and his invasion of Italy.
Drums in the Global Village 