In his book, Come Hell or High Water, Michael
Eric Dyson recounts how hundreds of thousands of people were left behind in the
Gulf Coast region to experience the after
math of Hurricane Katrina. Those left behind to suffer the destruction,
disease, and death were predominately the black poor. These people had no way
out of the city before the storm hit, and received inadequate relief after the
destruction was done. It is no secret that the people who were mainly affected
by the aftermath of Katrina were poor people of color. These people also tended
to be the largest group with the smallest voice in political matters. Is this
mere coincidence or part of an intricate hierarchy of oppression? During this

This is a call to all those who would like to get involved with YP4's efforts to bring justice to the Gulf Region.  

Fellow Fellow Kamaria Moir has been an incredible force for change on her campus, gathering her classmates to help New Orleans get back on its feet by fundraising and sending volunteers.  I have been busy formalizing my research to add an academic perspective to recovery efforts.  I recently presented my findings at a panel on campus and have written a piece in NYU's Washington Square News: Katrina devastation exposed civic naiveté.

Kamaria and I are looking for fellows who would like to partner with us on this issue, to advocate for the people of New Orleans in a way that IS national and young people-driven.  Please leave a comment, or contact me or Kamaria if you would like to get involved.  We have some very exciting ideas to discuss.

Fred

fred.wong@nyu.edu

I've been sitting here some time now,

Severely beaten, bloody tears stream down my face

My once possessed fame and self-pride have all been swiped away

Heart broken...heavily laden...never did I think she would do this to me

Where was my father?  Thought he would always protect me...

Found the reason some days ago; people saying he was away...

needed some time to relax.

RELAX...I was here being tossed about, broken into infinite pieces, drowned and brought back to life, cruelly I was buried beneath rubble:

Yes, she did all this to me...all the while my father sat back and r-e-l-a-x-e-d

My soul comprised of miniature souls aches; it pains me to breathe

I dare not look into a mirror; for what I may see frightens me

Last night when I tried to sleep... voices from the souls within

screamed at, cried to, spoke with ME

Elders, infants, youth, middle-aged adults simultaneously reached out;

searching for relief

5-FIVE days have passed and now my father returns.  He's a little too late...

I have experienced death...from my mother

And so now I sit here, as I have done for some time now

Severely beaten with raspberry tears streaming down my bronzed cheeks, contemplating; do I blame my mother for the damage she has done unto me.

Or my father for the neglect that he bestowed.

Warning signs had been given far in advanced.  He could have sent me away to a safe place, but he failed...

Failed me, and the souls of those elders, infants, young adults, and children who have yet to be found.

My catastrophe will rang throughout history...I will always be the child who was beaten, drowned, made to hunger and thirst for days by the woman who I call mother:

All the while my father vacationed...so he wouldn't see my pain.

Last night, I met a Mike,  Harold Gee and his wife Holly. They are a few of the characters I have encountered in my odyssey through New Orleans, Louisiana. I helped Mike scrape paint off the ceiling of his two properties. Harold and Holly stayed during the big hurricanes of 2005, until they were forced to leave at National Guard gun point. They bribed the guards for about two weeks to let them stay after the storm with fresh coffee and real cream. Ultimately, they evacuated but not before cooking food for the rest of their Bywater community and learned that there was no need to worry about New Orleans' future.