Community Lines
Marred roof. Peeling clapboards. Skeletons of wood visible through dark windows. Each house on this block resembled hundreds of others we had walked past. We coded them yellow on our address sheets and kept walking. Overgrown vegetation flanked the litter-strewn street, which was easier to walk on than the remains of the sidewalk. With a few paces, a gentle grade brought us to a blue house, one marked by an immaculate facade and a manicured lawn. We turned the corner and realized that most houses on both sides of the street were evidently part of a well-maintained neighborhood. The next house had been razed, leaving behind a yard of sand. We stood in front of the flawless third house, trying to figure out the address of the bare property between it and its corner neighbor, when a woman appeared, apparently the owner. I said we were part of the Gentilly Project, which was collecting information about the state of repair of houses throughout the Gentilly district of New Orleans. The information would be posted online using color codes and given to neighborhood associations to help organize and channel resources more effectively. She nodded in understanding, and I asked if she knew the address of what was next door. She made some suggestions, nothing definitive. Then she ambled back into her home.
It was common for residents to call out to us with their inquisitive looks or voices. And we were encouraged to approach them and explain why a pair of us was traipsing around their neighborhood with a clipboard. After a little explanation, they were often effusive with thoughts and information. They’d share their frustrations, their blessings. We’d write down any needs they mentioned. Without prompting, they’d usually point to the forlorn houses around their home: “He’s in Atlanta and ain’t sure if he’s comin’ back.” “She’s in her eighties and livin’ with her daughter now.” “They’re starting to rebuild but livin’ in another part of the city.”
I specifically recall talking with a married couple who was temporarily living in a more affluent area outside New Orleans while they rebuilt their home of over twenty years. The people there, they said, are cordial, but they conspicuously stay on their property and the most they ever say is a friendly greeting. Another man I spoke with had permanently moved his wife and young son to a comparable neighborhood after the storm. His neighbors there are friendly but never chat at length or want to come over for dinner despite their casual invitations. He said he missed the vibrancy of his old neighborhood, where he could stop and pull up a chair at a neighbor’s place anytime.
His old neighborhood may not look the same now, but its spirit has returned, perhaps amplified. Although many of its homes have trailers on their front lawns, the residents there look after each other. They watch each other’s children. They labor together to restore their homes. They share lawnmowers to keep the grass at a respectable length.
It’s a similar story elsewhere in Gentilly. I talked with several residents who said that since the storm, neighbors have been doubly ready to assist others in any way possible. Dormant neighborhood associations have been rejuvenated and are poised to reach out to neighbors on streets with few trailers or refurbished homes. It is the hope of the Gentilly Project to further encourage neighborhood associations in accounting for neighbors and organizing to better direct the assistance they still need from others outside their neighborhoods.
Yet, that sense of community isn’t everywhere. Accounting for neighbors tends to evaporate in importance as the burden of property rises. More to own demands more attention to sustain, and property lines begin to divide neighbors, leaving them with a vacant knowledge of each other.
It was common for residents to call out to us with their inquisitive looks or voices. And we were encouraged to approach them and explain why a pair of us was traipsing around their neighborhood with a clipboard. After a little explanation, they were often effusive with thoughts and information. They’d share their frustrations, their blessings. We’d write down any needs they mentioned. Without prompting, they’d usually point to the forlorn houses around their home: “He’s in Atlanta and ain’t sure if he’s comin’ back.” “She’s in her eighties and livin’ with her daughter now.” “They’re starting to rebuild but livin’ in another part of the city.”
I specifically recall talking with a married couple who was temporarily living in a more affluent area outside New Orleans while they rebuilt their home of over twenty years. The people there, they said, are cordial, but they conspicuously stay on their property and the most they ever say is a friendly greeting. Another man I spoke with had permanently moved his wife and young son to a comparable neighborhood after the storm. His neighbors there are friendly but never chat at length or want to come over for dinner despite their casual invitations. He said he missed the vibrancy of his old neighborhood, where he could stop and pull up a chair at a neighbor’s place anytime.
His old neighborhood may not look the same now, but its spirit has returned, perhaps amplified. Although many of its homes have trailers on their front lawns, the residents there look after each other. They watch each other’s children. They labor together to restore their homes. They share lawnmowers to keep the grass at a respectable length.
It’s a similar story elsewhere in Gentilly. I talked with several residents who said that since the storm, neighbors have been doubly ready to assist others in any way possible. Dormant neighborhood associations have been rejuvenated and are poised to reach out to neighbors on streets with few trailers or refurbished homes. It is the hope of the Gentilly Project to further encourage neighborhood associations in accounting for neighbors and organizing to better direct the assistance they still need from others outside their neighborhoods.
Yet, that sense of community isn’t everywhere. Accounting for neighbors tends to evaporate in importance as the burden of property rises. More to own demands more attention to sustain, and property lines begin to divide neighbors, leaving them with a vacant knowledge of each other.
posted by David Nyweide at 12:02 PM
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