At a loss for words

IN my 11 years at EBONY magazine, I have written about a myriad of people, places and events. I have penned articles about the famous and the not-so-famous, the rich and the poor, heroes and commoners. Recently, I had the unique--and life-changing-opportunity to walk the streets of New Orleans days after Hurricane Katrina roared through. A few days later, I flew over most of the Gulf Coast area aboard a Blackhawk helicopter alongside Army Lt. Gen. Russel Honore.

As a writer, I believe there is tremendous power in words. And, until now, I believed there was no person, place or thing--no event--that I couldn't look at with my two eyes, think about it, wrap my hands around it, and capture the essence with the English language.

After all, this is what I have done all of my adult life. I have always been successful, to a large extent, in taking myself out of the equation, separating my personal opinions and emotions, and objectively cutting to the heart of any subject I was covering as a journalist. I was schooled to believe that this was the best way to capture the true picture of the subject matter that I was covering. That's Journalism 101.

But as I saw the horrific events in New Orleans firsthand, I soon discovered that nothing about it was Journalism 101. Nothing I learned at Howard University, or practiced in the 14 years since I graduated, prepared me for what I experienced in the Crescent City. As I drove through the streets of New Orleans, and saw the physical destruction of infrastructure and lives, I knew that I'd have to toss the textbook journalism out the window, right there alongside the tons of refuge that lined the city streets.

I talked to as many people as I could. Each story seemed more horrific than the previous one. I can still see their eyes, filled with a pain that few people know, and that no one should experience. Without asking a single probing question, without using any of my tried-and-true techniques for breaking through fronts, pretensions and facades, I could see it all.

Right there in the eyes of these hurricane victims, I could see their souls. Crying souls. Pleading souls. Angry souls. Lost souls. Too many wounded souls to separate yourself from. Too many hurt souls to be simply a reporter. You see, on the streets of New Orleans, amid the women who had lost their children, the men who had lost their wives, the families who had lost their homes, there I was--a journalist who had lost his words, another soul stripped bare by Katrina's wrath.

It wasn't until later, when I witnessed Brother after Brother--the real unsung heroes in this national disaster--put their lives at risk to save countless women and children, that I realized my real place in this tragedy wasn't an individual mission at all. While this was too great for one Brother, one reporter, it's not too great for a band of Brothers. If there was ever a time for Brothers to step up their game, the time is now.

It's a tragedy so large that help--both physical and financial--will be needed for years. And every Brother in this country has a responsibility to help. Because if not for the grace of God, those faces on TV could be any of us.

Give to a reputable charity. Be a volunteer. It's times like we are experiencing now when we have to step outside of ourselves, outside of our comfort zone, and simply help. It not about money. More than anything else, these victims need your time, especially the little boys who have seen things during the last few weeks that no one should see--not even a reporter who's never at a loss for words.

COPYRIGHT 2005 Johnson Publishing Co.
COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group