Not washing your hands, a lot like ‘Platoon’

by Neil Burns

Let me begin by conceding that I am a bit of a germ-a-phobe. Anyone who has ever spent more than a few minutes with me has undoubtedly heard me utter the words “gross,” and “ew,” numerous times, and usually in the same sentence. Unlike many unfortunate individuals who suffer from an ADA recognized disability, I know exactly where mine originated. In the early ‘90s there was a Saturday Night Live skit where they invented glasses that allowed people to see small amounts of fecal matter in a way much like night vision goggles enable people to see at night. I vividly remember my fear as Phil Hartman walked around a McDonald’s with his fecal matter glasses, seeing everyone and everything covered in fluorescent green goo. As the skit ended, I turned off the TV and laid back. As I slowly went out of consciousness my sister leaned in close and heard me softly whisper: “the horror, the horror.” When I awoke I had a new fear joining my list: spiders, clowns, dolls looking at me, and touching the bottom of a lake (any lake will do, they’re all creepy). Having relived my fears with a tragic courageousness in admitting all this, I don’t think I’m being too much of a David Putty in requesting that the male members of the law school wash their hands after using the bathroom. Although it may be a bit chauvinistic, I’m purposely excluding the female faction of our school from being included in this article, as I have never been in a girl’s bathroom, don’t know what all goes on in there (although it must be pretty damn cool as no guy has ever seen a girl enter by herself), and am leaving them out most importantly due to my sacrosanct and simple belief my mother and older sister taught me years ago, “girls don’t go number 2,” and even if they did, I have to believe they’d definitely wash their hands. I’m not sure how many times I’ve been in the bathroom here in school and witnessed what is to me anyway, an extremely traumatic experience. Standing at one of the urinals watching out of the corner of my eye in perfect terror as everything moves in extreme slow motion, and one of the stall doors open. Someone slowly walks out - straight passed the sink and out the door. The theme music from Platoon begins to play at top volume in the bathroom, as I lift my head, close my eyes, and raise my hands in the air to a God who has forsaken me. Just like Sgt. Elias Grodin after his Comrade Barns (Tom Beringer) shot him, left him for dead, and then is shot in the back as the helicopter leaves poor Willem Dafoe to die an unjust death in an unjust war. So there I stand hopeless and helpless as I shed a tear knowing I’m going to have to open the same door that that inconsiderate disgusting bastard just walked out of. Not to mention the never leaving fear all day long whenever I touch something different, and am forced to wonder: what if that dude touched this ____ (insert here any object: chair, door, book, lolly pop etc.) I know some of you are saying it’s too farfetched to believe that a law student in this day in age would be so cruel, inhumane and tragically negligent as to use the bathroom for number 1 or number 2, and not wash their hands. My answer to that is: No, it’s not. It’s a horrible offense not unlike the Mai Lai massacre that occurs in the bathrooms here and throughout the world every day. So in light of this sad and tragic tale I humbly ask the men of the University of Idaho College of Law: Please wash your hands when you use the bathroom.

Force of Compassion

On April 4, Inter Alia published a special edition focusing on the stories of how 14 University of Idaho law students spent their Spring Break helping the victims of Hurricane Katrina. The following are those stories.

Perspective – A First Hand Account of One Family’s Struggle

by Michelle Gustavson & Amanda Ulrich

There are very few times in life when you stop and realize that an experience will change you forever, but one day in New Orleans over Spring Break qualified as one of those exceptions.

We finally arrived in New Orleans, Louisiana, at midnight on Sunday, after an exhausting 12 hours of traveling. With all good intentions, we planned on calling it a night, but the city’s vibrant culture gave us our second wind. Through the lights, music, and charm of the French Quarter, we were able to experience the finer side of New Orleans, in all of its glory. Yet, less than ten hours later, we found ourselves standing in a pile of rubble and debris—all that remained of a family’s home.

While attending a block party coordinated by ACORN, we met a family whose two homes were decimated by Hurricane Katrina; almost a year and one-half later, their lives are still not back to normal. During Hurricane Katrina, the mother and her adult daughter sought shelter at Lakeland Hospital, where the daughter was employed. The father, however, being unable to part with his home, refused to evacuate, despite the fact that he was bound to a wheelchair. He remained behind with his son during the hurricane and, consequently, the two were forced to live in their attic to escape the peril of the rising water. Ultimately, it was their neighbor who arrived by boat to save them.

The family was separated for weeks, not knowing of each others’ fates, with the mother and daughter being temporarily housed in Houston, and the father and son in South Carolina. After weeks of searching, the family found each other through a posting on the Internet. A week later, they were reunited; however, their joy was short lived. Upon returning to New Orleans, they discovered that the daughter’s home was completely destroyed, and all that remained of the parents’ home was a shell of what had previously been, due to both damage from the hurricane, flooding from the levees, and looting.

We were surprised to find that despite all that they have been through, the entire family remains optimistic. After waiting moths after Hurricane Katrina, the family is back on the property, residing in two FEMA trailers (which are barely adequate for their living needs). The family has been gutting the mother and father’s home, which remains standing on the property. However, since the daughter’s house was not salvageable, it was bulldozed by the City of New Orleans. Although the City promised to remove the remnants of the house from the property, they never followed through. As a result, the family was once again forgotten by the City of New Orleans.

We helped the family remove the pile from the property. Buried beneath the mud and sea shells washed in by the storm surge, we found reminders of the life lived in that home before the hurricane—umbrellas, bed posts, couch cushions, bowls, door knobs, and broken windows, etc. were all that remained. However, we were able to salvage some irreplaceable family keepsakes uncovered in the process, including a family photo and a special gift given to the father in 2002 by a now deceased friend.

The family was very appreciative of our efforts, and took a picture of the group to memorialize the day. After all receiving hugs from the mother, we parted ways. We only spent a few hours with the family, but their story has touched our lives forever. Despite the fact that they lost so much, they are just grateful for the fact that they still have each other. Today, we all experienced a much-needed dose of reality of what is truly important in life—it is not how much money you make, nor the status you attain, it is the people who you surround yourself with and the relationships you form. As the family has show us, even after losing everything, these relationships can sustain you through the hard times.

While law school is described as one of the most rigorous and challenging experiences one can undertake, it is nothing compared to what the victims of Hurricane Katrina have endured. It’s a reminder to all of us to not lose sight of what matters most—the friends and family that are all too often neglected by law students.

The Difference between Justice and Law

by Kinzo Mihara

There is a difference between justice and the law. What that difference is, I do not yet know; but I know that there is a divide between the two. The people that I interviewed live in the Seventh Ward. Most of the people are elderly: retirees or soon-to-be. These people expressed many different emotions during our visits. Many were brought to tears. It is hard not to join them. I have been here for a week, but to express what I have seen during that time would take too long; I only write about my experiences today.

The first stop today was the Sisters of the Holy Family. The sisters run parochial schools for disadvantaged students. They also feed the poor and take care of the sick and needy. The youngest Sister is 47 years old, many are in their 70s and 80s, and a few are nearing 100.

Many of the sisters left New Orleans prior to Katrina. A few, however, stayed behind to care for the elderly sisters and parishioners that did not have the family or the means to leave. They said that it was their holy duty to do so. It is the stories of the latter that humble me. Initially, the storm was uneventful. During a lull in the storm, one sister went down to the first floor of a six story building to check on the damage.

She told us that it was then she saw a wall of water rushing towards the building. She remembered that there were two very elderly parishioners still on the first floor. She rushed to them and ushered them to the stairs. By the time they had reached the stairs, the water was nearly four feet deep. They barely managed to make it up the stairs. The water remained on the first floor and did not rise any further — just enough to trap them in the building.

That night, the Sisters and their wards ate food that was left in the sister’s rooms on the second floor. There was no electricity. There was no running water. There was, however, one telephone line that was up and running. The sister called this a miracle given to those who pray. Their phone was set on redial to 911, taking four days before it was finally answered. They rationed out the water they had and were eventually rescued. During the resulting turmoil and constant movement between temporary residences, not all of the sisters survived. Fifteen of 125 sisters died as a result of Katrina. Their lives were lived and given to the Grace of God.

The sisters are rebuilding. They are rebuilding the schools used to educate the children of the Ninth Ward. They are rebuilding the home that they have known for over 50 years. Luckily, the Sisters had insurance. The payout amount was nowhere near the cost needed to repair the damage. Now, the nunnery is “livable” due to the outpouring of support from other Catholic entities. One of the parochial schools is back up and running, the Academy for Girls remains unfinished, and the free school for the poor remains unfinished. Many of the sisters are elderly women. But they have returned to serve the community.

The second stop today was to a man, Lionel, and his wife. Lionel is a retired high school teacher and coach. His wife is a retired parole officer. Lionel told us that his wife is better equipped to speak to folks, so she did all of the talking. She told us that they were lucky enough to have evacuated prior to the storm.

They live in a FEMA mobile trailer in front of their home. The trailer is small, approximately 250 square feet. It was crowded and cramped. But they are both very thankful for it. They told us that it was better than being homeless. They were homeless prior to receiving it. She said in her 70 plus years, she had never been homeless before, and it was a very scary experience for her. She started to cry. Her story was humbling.

She said that her family had lived in the home since the 1950’s. She owns her home and rents out the one next door. They currently live on their pensions. She is angry at the insurance company for giving them so little money. They paid their premiums on time and in full — something hard to do as pensioners living on limited incomes. When it came time to help, the insurance company cut them a check for a paltry amount.

Lionel and his wife are products of the Great Depression. She tells us that they know what it means to do without. She tells us that they are rebuilding a little at a time. 25 dollars here, 25 dollars there. Slowly but steadily, they will stick it out. New Orleans is their home, and they would like to leave the house they lived in for so many years to their children.

She tells us that there is so much money out there, but Lionel and she have seen little in aid. They have received approximately $4,000 of FEMA aid, a long time ago. She told me that this could not compensate her for her loss. All of the pictures of her grandchildren are gone. Their furniture is gone. All of her jewelry she was not wearing at the time of the storm is gone. FEMA wants to be reimbursed for the money they were given.

The last stop was to a 92-year-old woman. She has outlived two husbands, and has lived in the same house since the 1950s. She lives on a pension that she receives from teaching in the city.

She is lucky to have health insurance. She was also lucky enough to have left prior to the storm. She has stayed with several grand-nephews and -nieces across the country. She received little money from FEMA. She paid for her temporary housing out of her own pocket, even though FEMA had promised to pay for these expenses — and has paid others.

The local government did not allow her to return for approximately six to seven weeks. She said she feels that she could have salvaged more if she had been allowed to return earlier. A single tear came to her cheek as she reminisced over the life’s worth of belongings that were lost. She then brightened up and told us that it is all part of God’s plan for her, and that the Lady watches over her. She told us that she has lived a good life.

Her home is almost finished. She said that she is about two months away. She is rebuilding to leave something to her niece, who lives next door. She is also having problems with her insurance company. Her home was worth more than $450,000. But she only received an insurance check for $17,000. The rest of her remodeling has been done through loans she has taken out to complete the work. The money that has been promised by the federal government has not come, and she does not expect that it will. A man from the government came and appraised her home for $67,000.

She then gave us a tour of her house. It was nice. I am not an appraiser, but I would have eagerly given her more than $150,000 — the amount that she needs to pay off the loans that she has taken out to finish the renovation of her home.

Word on the street is that the money was given to the State of Louisiana by the Federal Government. The problem seen by many is that the money that is not disbursed will be kept for State purposes. Not too many politicians have been by to see her home. She tells us that she is too black to be white, and too white to be black. But she does not dwell on that. She is too busy working on her home.

In the Great State of Louisiana there is a wide divide between justice and the law. The homes in the historically white part of the city stand with their grandeur and opulence as they were during Jim Crow. Visitors and tourists pack the restaurants and bars, flush with rebuilding and tourism cash.

The “colored” sections of the city remain broken. The busses don’t run. The schools are not open. Jobs are hard to find. Folks are returning, but the aid promised to them by the federal and state governments seems to be more of a myth than a reality. Even so, the people I saw were working to rebuild anyway. I may not know what the difference is between the law and justice, but I know that here the gap is wide.

That Little Dash

by Pete Hamill

It was just after 6:30 p.m. when the blue Chrysler sedan we had rented turned onto eastbound I-10, headed back toward downtown New Orleans and out of one of the worst neighborhoods in New Orleans, the Lower Ninth Ward. As I sat in the passenger’s seat looking out the window towards the city skyline and silently reflecting on the things I had just seen, I knew that this was a story I would tell my grandchildren one day.

I have no friends or family in New Orleans. I have never been here before, mostly because I never had a reason to come. When a group of my fellow Idaho Law students decided to join the Student Hurricane Network and come here for spring break to help provide relief from the devastating effects of Hurricane Katrina on this beautiful city, I found that reason.

We came here to help. Having heard the stories of neighborhoods still in such a state of disrepair that they are nearly uninhabitable, we wanted to do more than just talk. We wanted to help clean up. We went to a block party in the Ninth Ward that had been organized to get residents of the neighborhood to interact with and help one another. That’s where we met Mary.

Mary and her husband, Lionel, are an elderly couple that used to live at 2298 Rayboune Street in the Lower Ninth Ward. Now they live in a FEMA trailer No. 49229621, which is parked next to the shell of what used to be their home. The inside of the house has been completely gutted and only the concrete foundation and wooden frame remain.

Mary showed us the entrance to the attic and told us that when the levies broke and the water came rushing in, her husband and her son climbed up into it to escape the advancing flood and wait for help. They waited for three days before it arrived — a story that became even more unbelievable a few hours later when we get our first glimpse of Lionel as he emerged from his FEMA trailer in a wheelchair that he has been confined to since before the storm.

The high water mark is plainly visible on the outside of the house. It is a dark brown line, four inches wide and at least five feet high. It runs through the middle of Mary and Lionel’s front door. They did not have flood insurance. Consequently, they are insured only for the damage that occurred above the water mark. Their yard is nearly entirely covered with what looks at first glance to be tiny white pieces of gravel. A closer look reveals that they are not rocks at all, but seashells washed in by the water in Katrina’s aftermath.

Our job here was to move a giant trash heap out of the yard and to the street where it can be hauled away by garbage crews the next day. The pile stood eight feet high and is a mixture of scrap metal, concrete, garbage and dirt. It was completely overgrown with weeds. As we started to dig into the pile, pieces of Mary and Lionel’s life as it was before the storm started to emerge. Ashley found a picture that had been buried for at least a year. It was heavily damaged by water, but you could still make out a young man and woman, their arms around one another. When Michelle walked over to give the picture to Lionel, he told her that it was of his son and his son’s girlfriend.

Later we found a souvenir from the Mardi Gras parade — a coconut painted red with “ZULU 2002” written on it. I took it over to Lionel, who had rolled his chair to the front of the driveway and was surveying Ray Street like a hawk. I knelt down next to the chair, and asked him if it was something he would like to keep. He was silent for a moment and then his eyes started to well up as he told me that yes, he would like to keep it. He said that the coconut had been a gift from a friend a few years earlier. Lionel’s friend had not survived the storm.

We worked for nearly three hours to move as much of the trash pile as we could. There was more work to be done in a different part of the neighborhood, and so just before 5 pm it was time to say our goodbyes. Mary informed the group that we would not be going anywhere until she got a hug from each of us. I walked over to Lionel, shook his hand, and told him to take care of himself. The look on his face as the group said farewell and started to get into the cars made it clear to me that this day was about so much more than helping fix a house and clean up a yard. The people of the Ninth Ward have been neglected. They have been forgotten about by nearly everyone. For this family to finally feel like someone cares about what happens to them means more than any amount of yard work ever could.

After about another hour and a half spent knocking the tile out of a bathroom in a different house a few blocks away it was time for the group to return to our hotel in downtown New Orleans, the reconstructed part of the city where the rest of the tourists are enjoying the spectacle known as Bourbon Street.

It had started to get dark and the Ninth Ward is not somewhere one would want to be at night. I sat on a curb next to my friend Erick while we looked up and down the street, surveying the incomprehensible damage to the homes. As we sat in silence, Erick reached into his pocket and took out his MP3 player. We listened to a Garth Brooks song called “Pushing up Daisies.” The chorus goes like this:

"There's two dates in time
That they'll carve on your stone
And everyone knows what they mean
What's more important
Is the time that is known
In that little dash there in between
That little dash there in between..."

Those words had never meant more.

Katrina Victims are Not the Only Ones Losing

by Autumn Renshaw

Few Americans will forget the tragedy and catastrophe that struck New Orleans, Louisiana, a year and half ago. Many of us remember seeing the Katrina victims swimming through the streets, being rescued from their roofs, and their possessions, houses, and lives being washed away. Yes, these images, pictures, and people, we will not forget. However, hidden within this ongoing fight and struggle to rebuild one of America’s greatest and most famous cities, lies another struggle, one that is equal in injustice, but silent and unseen.

After Katrina, the city lying in ruins, many began the long road of rebuilding and recovery. However, since more than a million residents had been displaced with little money nor a home to return to, additional workers would need to be recruited if the rebuilding effort was going to be successful. Many companies looked outside America for these recruitments. These American companies made promises of paying immigrant workers 50 times what they would make at home for a period of three years; the recruiters pitch was hard to resist. The promises were so persuasive many Indian and South Americans put up their houses, farms, and family savings to pay the $15,000-$20,000 collateral that the recruiter stated was needed to become a guest-worker.

However, the promise of a better life was never delivered; many came over and found there was only about a month’s amount of work, which many still have not been paid for. What has resulted is what some call “modern day slavery.”

Today, Louisiana is housing thousands of immigrants who came over on H-2B visas, which establish a means for employers in any job sector with shortages to hire foreign workers to fill those vacancies. There are a limited number of visas for this program. These visas only allow the immigrant to work for a specific company, and if for any reason they stop working for that company, they will be deported.

Each year 120,000 foreign workers receive visas to do farm work or other low-skilled labor, usually for three to nine months. These programs grew out of the World War II bracero program, in which hundreds of thousands of Mexicans worked on farms and railroads, often in deplorable conditions. Labor experts say employers abuse guest workers far more than other workers because employers know they can ship them home the moment they complain. They also know these workers cannot seek other jobs if they are unhappy.

Many of these workers also cannot return home, because they have nothing to return to, and no money to support themselves if and when they do return. By some estimates, close to 100,000 new migrant workers — Latino, African-American, Asian, Native-American, and Anglo workers either recruited to the reconstruction zones or searching on their own for better economic opportunities — have arrived in the Gulf Coast region after Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Tens of thousands have come to rebuild New Orleans. Instead of being validated and rewarded for their role in this city's renewal, they find themselves locked into states of marginalization and transience.

Across the city, workers are living in abandoned cars, working in toxic conditions, chasing after a web of subcontractors for their wages, and running from police and immigration authorities who have intensified their enforcement efforts, while labor law enforcement is lax.

Therefore, I am working with an organization called the New Orleans Worker’s Center for Racial Justice in which intense legal research on the issues of immigration, tax, and employment law has taken the vast majority of my time. The short-term goals for the center include organizing day laborers and other contingent migrant workers new to New Orleans, as well as hurricane survivors returning to New Orleans; developing worker leaders; and empowering workers to address wage claims, discrimination claims, police harassment, immigration raids, and dangerous working and living conditions.

The intermediate and long-term goals include building infrastructure; defending and expanding workers’ rights, both locally and statewide; developing worker leadership; and spearheading multi-racial and racial justice organizing in the reconstruction and hospitality/service industries, with worker-leadership and community support that will foster worker empowerment in New Orleans.

The infrastructure supporting worker justice was lacking in New Orleans and Louisiana before Katrina and has become a more urgent need since the storm, especially for day laborers.