The Spirit of Phoenix and the Incompetence of Baton Rouge

When I hastily departed to Phoenix, I had hoped that it would end up being a brief stay with friends and a chance to relax in the dry Arizonan desert. However, it became apparent once Katrina's fury battered St. Bernard Parish that my jaunt would become an extended exile. I would also learn that thanks to modern communications and technology, I would be able to lend a hand to my community even though I was well over 1,500 miles away from Louisiana.

St. Bernard Parish lost power and its communications during the storm and the deluge of water that inundated the parish to levels of 17 feet and higher had cut off the local government from the world.

Thankfully, cell phones were still operational; the ubiquitous communication devices would be the lone lifeline between St. Bernard and the outside world. As my mother, essential government personnel, had to remain at the government complex, I was able to reach her during late hours and was able to relay information to the outside world, call in address for rescues, coordinate medical drops from FEMA, and even dispatch search and rescue teams from out of the state.

From my St. Bernard Parish Southwest Command Post, I spent hours on the phone and the computer, building information websites, trying to get the attention of the national media on the parish, posting news about St. Bernard on the Times Picayune's website, and fielding questions from concerned residents.

The greatest burden that fell upon my shoulders was bearer of dire news. St. Rita's nursing home was the scene of a terrible calamity when the building was quickly engulfed by water resulting in the deaths of over 30 aged and infirm people who could not help themselves. A relative of a nurse who worked there noticed that many people were posing questions about their relatives and asked if I would be willing to pass word to families inquiring about St. Rita's.

Reluctantly, I agreed. Out of the blue, grief counselor had been added to my list of responsibilities. In a period of 96 hours, I had to break terrible news to over 50 good people. Though the requests came by e-mail, I made a point to personally calling all who inquired about St. Rita’s. Some took the information better than others when told that their mother, sister, or grandmother would not be coming home.

Since my phones were ringing off the hook at all hours of the day, I figured that meeting my Sunday obligation would be improbable and called a friend of mine who is a priest for dispensation.

After previously declining other requests, the pastor readily granted it but then suggested that I go to church and speak with the priest to see if he would allow me the opportunity to address the congregation for the second collection, which was earmarked for hurricane relief. I showed up at Phoenix's Roman Catholic cathedral and spoke with the priest officiating the 11 AM Mass and offered to say a few words, as a plea from a genuine evacuee might help spur donations.

It's a good thing I had asked for absolution as I was not able to sit through the Mass, between taking calls and fidgeting. My body was in the church though my mind was elsewhere. Just before Mass ended, the priest invited me to the pulpit and I delivered a brief talk on the destruction and death toll in the forgotten and forsaken parish of St. Bernard all the while fighting back tears.

A staff member from the office of Congressman Charlie Melancon called about raising badly needed supplies for rescue crews and rescued evacuees in St. Bernard Parish. The congressman agreed to supply the plane if I could gather the food, water, and clothes.

After spending a few days trying to reach out to Phoenix businesses, a Young Republican from Tucson called to inform me of a charity called WorldCare, an organization active in relief efforts around the world. Not having heard of this group, I was doubtful about their ability to put together so quickly nearly one ton of items.

When I arrived at the Tucson charity's headquarters, I was stunned. The large building had spilled its donated supplies out into its parking lot and there were dozens of people and donors on hand working like bees, stacking everything from boxes of underwear and socks to cans of dog food. As a large supply of water had already been loaded in the plane, I decided to bring pet food for those animals left behind and had weathered the storm and the post-hurricane starvation in adition to extra clothes for those workers who have not changed their wardrobe for over a week.

When the final load was passed through the hands of the cosmopolitan group of volunteers that included Republican activists, environmentalists, jet pilots, and postal workers, I expressed my thanks on behalf of my parish and state for their enthusiasm and direct contribution to those who needed it most, as opposed to cutting a mystery check that may or may not make it to where the money is needed most.

I dubbed the jet "The Spirit of Phoenix", to some chagrin of the locals who were from Tucson, though I explained that Phoenix was a symbol of resurrection, an appropriate analogy as southeast Louisiana tries to come back from the dead.

The flight marked one of the most relaxing moments since I left home. Away from computers and phones, I was able to sit down and just be idle. My surroundings were ironic as I was enjoying the pinnacle of luxury at my most destitute. The pilot informed me that they had an extensive DVD library on board and I selected a comedy, Dr. Strangelove. Though I had seen the movie many times, I figured I had lost my own copy in the flood and I needed a laugh.

Just as the plane descended into Baton Rouge's airport, the final scene of atomic explosions flashed on the screen as the song "We'll meet again someday" played. What an omen.

The plane was unloaded into a jet hanger and I contacted the person who was supposed to arrange the transport of the 3,000 lbs of supplies 70 miles as the crow flies from Baton Rouge to Chalmette. What would transpire from this point on would be demoralizing as gathering and hauling 1.5 tons of supplies through two time zones would prove to be a walk in a park compared to the seemingly mundane task of trucking them to St. Bernard Parish.

That morning I was told that the original plan was to load the supplies into a barge and send them to the parish via the Mississippi River, which made sense when considering the flooded roads. But when I learned that they would not arrive for another week, I nixed that and insisted that they be brought in by land. My state contact conceded the point and told me to be at the airport before noon.

I arrived at the Baton Rouge airport before 11:30 AM and waited till 1:30 PM before I was told that it would be necessary to load the goods on to a truck and bring them first to the West Baton Rouge Parish port. Without question, I complied, putting on the truck the most crucial supplies. After crossing the Mississippi River, I was treated to another waiting game in the humid Louisiana weather. The state trucks did not arrive until 5:00 PM and they had not been filled with gas, further delaying matters.

And then I heard something that put me in a state of apoplexy: the truck I was to drive to St. Bernard was not to deliver supplies but to just to deliver a truck. I had been blindsided. I furiously protested and was told that the supplies would eventually get there. All of my frustrations with the current state administration boiled over and I and a lawyer friend stood our ground: we would not be getting behind the wheel of a truck unless it was loaded. I had not flown from Arizona for livery duty nor had the people of Tucson gave essentials that would gather dust in a warehouse.

Grudgingly, the state official backed down and asked me to try and catch up later. By the time we loaded the trucks with the secondary materials, the sky had grown dark and my willingness to drive through "Mogadishu on the Mississippi" without electricity had evaporated. The run would have to be made the next morning.

Though Governor Blanco's administration had been late getting to St. Bernard and resources intended to help with search and rescue in the parish had been held up and requisitioned for New Orleans, they were right on top of the late truck delivery and were pitching a fit. I didn't really care as I was determined not to bring an empty vehicle to St. Bernard while needed supplies would sit in a warehouse or be sent to other areas.

Never mind it was the state that had changed plans because of their inefficiency; never mind it was the state that was 6 hours and 3/4's of a tank of gas tardy. The whole situation epitomized the chaotic state of Louisiana government and their total misplacement of priorities.

The trucks were unloaded in Chalmette the next day and were delivered to their intended destination where they were placed next to the eight other trucks, which had appeared unused and unmoved since they were parked the previous evening. Angry calls from the state over paperwork were directed towards this writer-disaster volunteer, but the tirades were relegated to voicemail as they just so happened to call when I was in poor cell reception areas.

The Spirit of Phoenix had encountered the Incompetence of Baton Rouge and the former prevailed despite the determined efforts of the latter.

The whole experience screamed out why so many people get frustrated not with nature but with pen-pushers and how personal initiative is suppressed by government. Apparently, hell or hurricanes hath no fury like a bureaucrat.