Hurricane Katrina: Katrina Aid Is There, but It Takes Perseverance

Black Collegian, Oct 2005 by Harris, Ashley R

My journey to get disaster aid began at Houston's George R. Brown Convention Center, about two weeks after Hurricane Katrina stole my school year and most of my belongings.

If I had known that I would not be returning to Dillard University in New Orleans for many, many months, when I evacuated I would have brought my computer, my television, my beloved collection of shoes, jewelry and books that took years to acquire, and my albums and boxes of pictures.

Instead, underwear, flip-flops and my big hook of CDs were all I thought I would need for what I expected would be a brief stay with my family in Houston. But since there was nothing I could do about it, I didn't dwell on it. I turned my energy to acquiring items that would help build a new life.

To do that, I would need help. I am one of an estimated 73,000 college students displaced from 15 Louisiana college campuses by the Aug. 29 hurricane and broken levees in New Orleans. Fm part of a tidal wave of students who suddenly are broke and need money to replace what we bought for school as we transfer colleges. Some need even more, for housing, books and family support. We're learning that disaster aid exists for those who have enormous levels of perseverance and energy to break through the red tape to get it.

Still, I waited until Sept. 11 to apply for financial assistance because:

* there were desperate people who needed immediate assistance, and since I had my family's Houston home to come back to, I could wait and

* truth be told, I hate standing in lines.

So at about 8 a.m. Sept. 11, my aunt Harriett and I traveled 40 minutes from my house in a Houston suburb to the convention center downtown. It was operating as a shelter for thousands of evacuees from the Gulf region.

As we arrived, the center had just opened its doors to those not staying inside. There was a cluster of about 20 people forming a line outside the convention center. National Guardsmen sat at tables and occasionally glanced over at the line if laughter broke out. Volunteers walked around distributing water.

People were standing around, idly fanning themselves and chatting about what they were going to do with their money. However, as Houston's temperature began to rise from hot to sweltering, and the line was growing longer but still stagnant, the chatter turned to heated discussion as to what in the world (or other expletives) was taking so long.

The rumored reason we weren't being let in was crowd-control for NBA superstar LeBron James' tour of the shelter. Tempers began to flare.

Around 9:45 a.m., we finally were allowed to enter. Once inside, things went extremely smoothly. I walked through the dimly lit convention center to an area of tables where volunteers sat before computers. There, I gave a volunteer my driver's license and my story: a displaced student who was now living back at home. She entered my information in the computer. She gave me a bright yellow convention center temporary registration card, and asked another volunteer to lead me to various stations set up in the building.

At the Federal Emergency Management Agency desk, I sat down with one representative, who let me speak to another over the phone. After a series of questions about my property, I was given a FEMA number and told to have a nice day. 1 visited other stations for food stamps and housing, to see exactly what I might qualify to receive. I even got a decent meal.

But the American Red Cross was not there, so I could not check off everything on my post-Katrina to-do list.

I woke up the next morning at 8 to go to St. Agnes Baptist Church in Houston, to stand in line to speak with a Red Cross representative. I thought it would be inand-out. Boy, was I wrong.

A blinding sun, reflecting off the golden dome of the church, slowed my pace as 1 strolled up. As I got closer, I came to a standstill and my mouth dropped open at the sight of the line. It seemed endless.

It snaked through the metal gates and into the parking lot. Perhaps it was because FEMA had recently stopped distributing the $2,000 debit cards that Katrina victims could use to buy goods. Or it could have been that people knew that the American Red Cross, separately, was providing financial aid. Either way, there was an air of determination that turned St. Agnes from a place of worship to a place of business, where people had resolved not to let this storm keep them down.

"I hope you're not here for assistance," said a policeman who was handling crowd control.

"Well, yes sir, Fm a displaced student and Fm here for some assistance."

He looked at me kindly and said, "You might want to try back before 5 in the morning. They're closed for the day."

Apparently, after 6:30 a.m., no one else was allowed to join the line.

On its first day at this location, the American Red Cross had reached its capacity. Other storm victims, who in defeat were walking away from the line, told me the agency had only enough resources to serve 6,000 people, and would be back tomorrow.

As I walked back to my car, I couldn't help but think that there could be no better symbol lor the anguish caused by Katrina than that line pouring out of that church. Fourteen days after the storm hit, more than 6,000 people stood and waited in the heat to grab whatever aid they could to help restart their lives. They just wanted a fair chance.