In one of my classes, my professor recently gave me a “fly-on-the-wall” assignment, in which I had to be a passive observer of my surroundings and report what I witnessed. We were told to have fun with the project, to observe the goings-on of places like a laundromat or coffee shop.
And while those suggestions did sound fun to observe, I couldn’t help but think there were more important places that deserved attention; places many people would rather ignore than explore. So I decided to plant myself directly across the street from the I-10 underpass, an area many refer to as “tent city.”
I arrived about 10:25 a.m. on an unusually windy day. Fortunately, the temperature had risen over the past few days.
And although traffic diminishes as the nights wear on, the roar of passing cars surrounding them from every direction never comes to a complete stop.
All they can hope for is that it will subside long enough for them to be able to lay down their heads and fall asleep. These people are proud to call New Orleans home, and it shows.
Sure, there were a few battered couches scattered among the tents, and there were groups huddled around old wooden tables playing cards. But they were not gathering in Audubon Park or meeting at the Fly to enjoy a nice day.
No matter what the weather, that is their life, those tents their homes and their table conversations one of the few ways they are able to temporarily distract themselves from their suffering.
Someone had set up a row of Port-o-Potties for them to use. Occasionally on my way to school I see volunteers handing out warm meals on particularly cold mornings.
However, the only “volunteer” I saw that day was a well-dressed white man making his rounds to the various tables. He walked with his head held high and in his hand he firmly grasped a copy of the Bible. He wasn’t distributing food or water, or clothing or blankets, but instead was offering the ultimate gift, the Word of God.
I shuddered to think how it must feel to have this man tell them their pain and suffering would be vindicated in heaven. It just so happens that this particular stretch of tents is located almost directly across from a cemetery, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they ever wished they could trade places. As much as I wish it were, the scene I was witnessing isn’t part of an emotional movie or a vivid novel.
It isn’t fiction at all. It’s real life, and it is just as much a part of our lives as it is theirs. And although our lives may seem light years away from each other, in reality their tents are mere miles from where we sit right now.
Rachel Buhner is a mass communication senior and can be reached at [email protected].
