Ripped from the comforts of their regular jobs, seven Beacon Journal reporters, photographers and editors went face to face with the enormous death and destruction left by Katrina.
Some took the thousand-mile trip to tell you about Ohioans involved in the relief efforts. Others responded to a plea for help from the Biloxi (Miss.) Sun Herald, a fellow Knight Ridder newspaper.
All of them found this journey into hurricane hell both upsetting and inspiring, to various degrees. Not one of them would describe his or her efforts as anything more heroic than “just doing my job.”
I asked each of them to describe one defining moment, one lasting impression. Here is how they responded.
Gary Estwick, reporter
I met Melicita Plessy outside her one-story house in New Orleans’ 8th Ward.
That’s where Plessy and boyfriend Robert Johnson braved Hurricane Katrina; their ranch-style house, which sits on pillars, rocked back-and-forth, nearly collapsing.
So they took their chances outside in chest-high flood waters, tying themselves around the washing machine and dryer, a pole on the street corner, then the house across the street.
Less than a week after surviving Katrina, Plessy was in no mood to celebrate. She hadn’t talked to her four children since they left evacuations at the Louisiana Superdome. Plessy and Johnson were supposed to follow them, but the water started to rise.
Her kids had cell phones, but Plessy didn’t have access to phones. She wanted to leave the city, but not until her kids contacted her. If she left, how would they find each other?
Great journalism minds might question a reporter helping out Plessy by calling her son’s cell phone. I don’t care. Sometimes, the outcome is more important than the story.
Plessy discovered that her oldest son was in Houston, and her oldest daughter was watching after her younger brothers in Little Rock, Ark.
(Estwick covers high school and Kent State sports. He arrived in New Orleans two days after Katrina left. He’s still there.)
Mike Cardew, photographer
The one thing that will stick with me is the people.
Given all the total loss of homes and property, it’s the people of Mississippi that make this place special.
Walking up through the pieces of what once was a home to talk to a person trying to gather what little mementos they can find of their home and you get offered a bottle of water because you look hot. Having a woman apologize for the condition of her house as you walk in to view the damage.
Watching neighbors greet neighbors and lending a hand and a shoulder for support. Watching a whole neighborhood rush out to take a helicopter delivery of water not for themselves but for the others in the neighborhood that weren’t able to get water for themselves.
These are the memories I will take from my time in Mississippi. It’s the people and their courage, pride and spirit in the face of adversity that I will cherish.
(Cardew arrived in Mississippi two days after Katrina struck. He returned Friday.)
Kymberli Hagelberg, reporter
Even from the safety of memory there is no way to intellectualize the sight of 150 miles of obliterated shoreline.
Reporters and emergency workers called the coast the “dead zone,” but the title didn’t buy us the usual emotional distance journalists wear as armor.
We were all part of the story of how everyday people live after one of the worst disasters in U.S. history. And part of that story is that the help I was always sure would magically materialize from our federal government and big charities didn’t come — at least not in the first interminable week.
Yet for the most part, Southern hospitality lived on despite unimaginable hardship.
Armed residents who patrolled their streets against looters never failed to welcome me and offer what little they had.
Most incredibly, people would break out of lines for food and water to get copies of the Sun Herald passed to them by a small army of reporters, editors and circulation employees who went out each day with free copies.
The newspaper became a lifeline for south Mississippians who needed to know how to find survival supplies, make home repairs and keep themselves healthy until relief arrived. But what was worth more than food and water to many was the chance to read about lost loved ones, or simply tell a reporter, “Print my name, so my family will know I’m OK.”
Every day that we walked into those communities I asked a simple, vital question, “What do you need to live?” The opportunity to help provide some of the answers was humbling, and a privilege I will never forget.
(Hagelberg covers Akron suburbs. She helped in Biloxi for eight days.)
Mike Burbach, managing editor
Because I’m an editor, I spent most of my time down there in and around the newspaper.
In addition to the images of destruction, despair and hope, two things stood out:
1. The passion with which the Biloxi newspaper staff, many of whom had lost homes or possessions themselves, dried off and served their communities.
2. The speed of the private response to the disaster. Businesses and church groups and individuals were on the scene in a flash, eager, willing and able to help.
(Burbach is in charge of the day-to-day operations of the Beacon Journal newsroom. He helped in Biloxi for five days.)
Susan Kirkman, assistant managing editor
The moment that affected me the most was when Kim Anderson, a copy editor for the Biloxi paper who lives in Waveland, sat down at the desk across from me to take a phone call.
It was from a friend who had some information about their neighborhood, which was among those hardest hit by the hurricane. When the conversation was over, Kim looked up at her husband and said, “Waveland didn’t do so well,” and then battled tears for a moment as they looked at each other.
It was a great reminder to me of the things that are most important in my own life, those things that aren’t material in nature: my husband, my kids, my family, my friends.
All the folks who have come through Katrina learn this lesson each day in her aftermath. I have been privileged to work with them, and hopefully, provide some help to them, even if it was only for a little while.
(Kirkman supervises the photo and graphics department. She helped with the Biloxi newspaper for 13 days.)
Lew Stamp, photographer
The police officer Marcus Holland placed his forehead against the child and within minutes calmed the child down as medical aid went forward.
It was a moment to remember — chilling, and humbling.
I had met Marcus several minutes before and as a gesture of breaking the ice, had offered him a granola bar. I offered two kinds, “take your pick,” I said. He took both and ate as if he had not eaten in a long time.
This began to let me know where I was and what was ahead of us.
The child’s mother was standing aside after the doctor was finished and after I had asked her name, she looked up at me, standing there trembling uncontrollably. I did what I seldom do. I stepped out of my role as documentarian and wrapped my arms around her and held her close till the tremors subsided.
(Stamp spent a week in Mississippi and Louisiana.)
Doug Oplinger, reporter
The enormity of what I saw didn’t hit me until I was home.
Photographer Lew Stamp and I drove from New Orleans, working all the way on our laptops, arriving home late Saturday.
I do the children’s message in our church services, and I learned as we drove that the pastor’s topic for Sunday was ”hope.”
I was still in my professional mode as my head hit the pillow that night, and figured that images of hope in New Orleans would spring to mind.
Instead, I kept remembering the abandoned city, homes to which families may never return, hundreds dead, pets roaming aimlessly.
Hours later, as I sat in church, I was emotionally overwhelmed by a lack of hope. This kids (and adult) message came to me: People are hurting, and for many, their only hope is the compassion that must come from the rest of us.
(Oplinger reports on state government and education issues. He and Stamp covered the experiences of the Akron-Canton Ohio National Guard Unit, Delta Company.)
