Marshall Ramsey

Things I learned from Katrina:

1. Don’t drive in the middle of a landfalling hurricane. I had two trees nearly crush me and saw an interstate sign fly off its poles.
2. Trees do unnatural things when faced with 70+ mph winds for 12 hours.
3. Have three-days worth of supplies on hand — even if you live inland. You can’t depend on someone to come save you.
4. Civilization breaks down quickly without electricity. I pay my power bill with gratitude.
5. Civilization breaks down even quicker without gasoline.
6. Make sure your windows aren’t painted shut.
7. When things get bad, we get good. I was impressed with how we helped our neighbors after the storm.
8. Like an orange, you can tell what’s inside people when they are squeezed.
9. People (and organizations) who are rigid and can only follow a plan will fail after a disaster. People who are nimble and can improvise on the fly succeed.
10. Human beings are resilient creatures.

Someone yelled across the newsroom, “Water is on the third floor of the Beau Rivage!!”

It was at that moment, I knew the Mississippi Gulf Coast would be changed forever.

That was ten years ago today. And the Gulf Coast has been changed. The definition of recovery is “the action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost.” The Gulf Coast hasn’t recovered. And in some ways it will never will. But it’s stronger, different, and like scar tissue, tougher. Through the loss, the cleanup, the battles over insurance, the flood plain maps, the inability to rebuild, the change and then the BP Oil Spill, our friends on the Coast have gone through Hell.

Today should be a celebration of their resilience, not Katrina’s brutality.

Yesterday I had the honor of attending a celebration for First Responders in Gulfport. It was the right way to celebrate the right people. I was surrounded by heroes and a few politicians. Mississippi tragically lost 238 but without the bravery of the first responders, that total would have been much, much higher.

Afterwards, I drove down Highway 90 to Pass Christian. I passed empty lot after empty lot. Memories began to crash like Katrina’s surge.

Ten years ago, I worked with Camp Coast Care at several sites nearby and wanted to revisit them. One site, a house near the Walmart, was the the last house destroyed by the surge on the street. It was a cruel twist of fate for its owner Steve and his family. My team and I were helping clean up the lot and looking for his wife’s ring. It was a classic “needle in the haystack” moment.

It was December, cold and rainy. As we scooped through the muck and debris, onne of my fellow volunteers said, “this is nuts.” I smiled and said, “We’re here in the name of our church and I can’t think of a moment closer to God than helping someone heal.”

We didn’t find the ring.

During a break Steve, showed me a white Ford Ranger truck across the street. “That’s where my neighbor’s carport was. They stayed. They drowned. Four more people behind them drowned.” I took a picture and later drew the scene. It’s a drawing that’s the most emotional I’ve ever drawn.

There was also a mid-1960’s Chevrolet pickup sitting down the street. Camille had sucked it out. Katrina had brought it back.

Yesterday I revisited Steve’s homesite. As Dustin Barnes​ and I were looking at the places where I had worked, Steve came out of his rebuilt concrete home. I asked, “Are you Steve?” He said yes but didn’t know me. I introduced myself, told him I had been one of the volunteers who had helped him look for the ring. He smiled and said, “They found that ring two weeks later. Someone sank a shovel in the dirt near where our bedroom had been and there it was.”

They had found the ring.

Steve said, “Everyone is talking about the anniversary but I’d really like to forget.” I heard that a lot yesterday. I’m sure a good number of Katrina survivors have PTSD. And I’m sure watching videos and seeing pictures of the storm will be tough on them today.

But as I drove away from Steve’s new home, I felt happiness for him and pride in the people of the Gulf Coast. Their wounds are healing stronger.

Like the live oaks that dot the Coast, they consistently survive whatever nature throws at them.

Here are the articles I am going to discuss today in class. Click on the headlines to read the articles.

USA Today: Murder on Social Media — Killer wanted World to Watch 

“The Twitter and Facebook accounts were created just last week.

Videos labeled as tests were added.

Then, as the nation learned that two journalists had been shot to death during a live TV broadcast Wednesday, the self-identified gunman used those accounts to post chilling videos showing him approach the scene, raise his gun and fire.”

Washington Post: Killer’s Ultimate Selfie: Roanoke Horror Becoming the New Norm

“Rage, narcissism, a gun and social media combined for a particularly excruciating display of horror Wednesday morning. After murdering two former colleagues during a live TV news stand-up, the Roanoke killer uploaded a horrifying message to his Twitter account: “I filmed the shooting see Facebook.”

AP: On-Air Killings Gripped Millions on Social Media

“Within hours, the carefully scripted carnage carried out by a disgruntled former colleague spread to millions of viewers gripped by what had transformed into a social media storm. The governor initially described a car chase on his weekly radio show, with police on the shooter’s tail on an interstate highway.

Social Media Shows Best and Worst Side of Journalist Shootings

“In this case, Flanagan not only was the focus of the story, he also drove it by posting his own perspective on Twitter and Facebook.

The lack of editors and gatekeepers curating breaking news becomes combined with the self-aggrandizing tendencies encouraged by social media in a kind of perfect storm for the promotion of violence.”

CBS News: Social Media played a big part in shooting.  

Question of the day: How would have Katrina been different with Social Media (and if the cell service had stayed on).

From Katrina to Sandy: How the Internet Spread the Word

“How did people get their updates in 2005?

Some of the differences are obvious. Of course, these days we don’t have to rely just on the talking heads on television, or even experts on the Internet, to tell us what’s going on; we can get our updates directly from our friends and family, who can post updates in real time on social networks.

But it’s not just about how we get our news, it’s about the resources that have been put in place by those networks to help people. As people shift the way that they get their news and updates, many of the biggest online resources have stepped up to the plate to really deliver help to those in need.’

When Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans in August of 2005, killing 1,833 people, and costing $108 billion in damage, there was no Twitter or YouTube. Even Facebook was less than a year old.

Without According to a Pew Internet report from November 2005, only 50% of all Internet users got information about Hurricanes Katrina or Rita online. This was only about 72 million people at the time.

Around 73% of those 72 million people got their news from a major news organization, by far the biggest piece of the pie. Websites for non-profits were the second most visited, with only 32% visiting them.”

Grandpa had said the house had survived Camille. But Grandpa wasn’t here fighting for his life — He was safely in his grave. Caught in the middle of Hurricane Katrina, Linda Grambling was trying desperately to avoid hers.

Katrina’s storm surge was crushing Camille’s records and the seaside homes in Linda’s Waveland neighborhood. Brown water swilled as the wind howled.

“So this is Hell?” Linda thought as she thrashed her arms in the surf. Fire ants landed on her face and bit her.

She had made it to her home’s second floor before it collapsed. Her face was pressed against the ceiling when the walls crumbled.  This was no way to die. Fatigue in her body burned like the ant bites on her face. She washed toward the railroad tracks — although she really couldn’t tell.  The water continued to rise and push her inland.  It looked like Noah’s worst nightmare.

“Omigod,” she feared, “I’ll get sucked out to sea if I don’t drown first.”

“Where’s Superman?” she thought. “Where’s Batman? Anyone? I need a superhero.”

She grabbed onto an oak limb and held onto it as tightly as she could. Her legs wrapped around the tree as she prayed it would hold.  The current ripped at her clothes and boards battered her body.

Safe for the moment, Linda closed her eyes.

“Where’s Superman?” she thought. “Where’s Batman? Anyone? I need a superhero.”

Slowly, the sea tired of its assault of the land and retreated back to the Mississippi Sound.  Linda, exhausted, passed out.

She awoke to tomb quiet. And then a faint hiss from what sounded like a gas line. There were no birds or bugs. She heard a faint “Help,” in the distance.  She then heard it again. It was a male voice.  “Help, my wife needs help.”

“Where’s Superman?” she thought. “Where’s Batman? Ironman? Anyone?

She carefully shimmied down the tree. When she got to the final limb it broke, sending her tumbling to the ground. Her body hit hard on top of a pile of boards. Nails impaled her hand and foot.  She felt Christ’s pain.

The land smelled like salt water, wet wood and death. She had no idea what time it was: Her watch had been ripped off her. So had her shirt.  She felt around and at least had her pants and bra on.  She would have died of embarrassment otherwise.

“Help!” the cries grew fainter. And then they were replaced with another noise.  More voices. This time deeper and stronger: “Hello?!? Anyone alive?”

“OVER HERE!” she responded.

Two figures approached her from North. She looked at them and saw her cries had been answered. Superman and Batman walked toward her!

She reached out her hand to her superheroes and then saw who they really were.

They were a Waveland police officer and a paramedic.  Both were battered. But both were there to help.

“Don’t worry ma’am, you’ll be OK.”

As they helped her to her feet, she knew that the superheroes of Katrina didn’t wear capes.

The oaks reached to the sky yet at the same time knelt down and touched the sea. Robert St. John and I pulled into Pass Christian that evening for a book signing. The humidity was like syrup. Lights twinkled and children laughed. Boats swayed. The bookstore sat right near the Mississippi Sound, serenaded by the water gently lapping at the shore. As Robert’s truck pulled through town, I marveled at the live oaks and the beautiful homes. They sat on a slight bluff, like the land was tormenting the sea.

A few weeks later, the sea would take its revenge.

The following December, I stood on that same bluff looking at the slab where the bookstore had been. There were no more lights, children laughing or even homes. The live oaks were struggling. The humidity was gone and so were the bugs and the birds. It was tomb quiet. The gray Mississippi Sound lay there with a guilty look on its face.

First of all, I am grateful to Robert for the opportunity for me to join him on that tour. It gave me one of my last chances to see the Gulf Coast like it used to be. But it also allowed me to hear those children laughing.

People ask me, “Why in the hell would people want to rebuild on the Gulf Coast?” It’s a good question. You have insurance costs, flood plain maps, red tape and the stress of the next big storm. Coming back doesn’t seem logical. But the laughter in Pass Christian reminded me of something. It’s the same reason people want to return to New Orleans, Waveband, Gulfport, Biloxi, Pascagoula, Slidell or any other town that got hit hard by the storm.

It’s home. And sometimes, home defies logic.

Dear residents of the Mississippi Gulf Coast,

This is an open letter to you to just say how much I respect you. Your resiliency has lifted me so many times when I was having personal tough times. Life knocked you on your butt and you responded by doing what you always do, you dusted yourself off and kept moving forward.

I know it was hard. I worked with Camp Coast Care in Waveband and Pass Christian after Katrina — and even in December, half the people who sought medical treatment were in shock. I would be, too. How do you recover from something like that? When your whole world is washed away. But ate that elephant one bite at a time. And when BP sent oil your way and the economy ground to a halt, you kept going.

Some people might ask “why?” We know why. The Coast is home.

My thoughts and prayers are with you as we remember a time that you’d like forget.

Signed, a guy who draws cartoons about you from time to time.

Dear Mr. President,

I read yesterday where you’re attending a Katrina remembrance in New Orleans. I’m glad you’ll be there for the folks in New Orleans. No doubt they have suffered and I know they’ll find comfort in your words and you just being there.

I am sorry to hear you don’t have time to stop by the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I know you know how good the people are there — you visited during the BP oil spill and had a sno-cone on the beach.

I really don’t know why you’re not coming. Politically it might not be a good move. I’m sure the conversation between you and Governor Phil Bryant would be one awkward pause after the other. Or you might be busy — being President is a full-time job I hear. I’m sure some folks are probably glad you’re just doing a flyover — I read the comments and sometimes they’re ugly. Oh yeah, it’s easy to point out its not the first time the Coast as been ignored. It’s easy to make a Landmass joke right about now.

But let me tell this: You should be proud of the people on the Gulf Coast. They got hammered hard. First by Katrina then by the economy after the BP oil spill. Dealing with insurance and flood plain maps hasn’t been a bucket of chuckles either. I don’t live on the Coast but have spent a good amount of time there and marvel at the resiliency of the people there. As this country struggles to get back on its feet after the Great Recession, I’d think you’d want to really put that kind of spirit on the center stage.

Hope you have a great trip to New Orleans. It’s fun town and the people there need your encouragement. And when you’re there, stop into Cafe Du Monde. You’ll thank me later.

Signed a guy who draws cartoons about you from time to time.

I needed to order a college transcript so I ordered an extra one just so take a trip down memory lane. I cracked open the sealed envelope (apparently they take security seriously — I mean who would want to change their grades? — oh, everyone) and looked at my five years at the University of Tennessee. This what I found:

1. My grades were generally good. Mostly A’s and B’s with a few C’s (in Statistics, French, and Calculus). There was one D and that was in Accounting II — and I pulled that bad boy up from a solid F by getting a 92% on my final. I’m most proud of that one. Really. I learned what I could really do if I applied myself.

2. I had a 3.2 average — which is OK. I wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar by any means.

3. I remembered every professor and remembered a few lessons I learned from each of them. Most didn’t involve the subject matter.

4. I switched majors and I can see where I floundered initially after doing so. The value of my advisor, Dr. Sarah Gardial (who is now Dean of the Business School at Iowa), is obvious. My grades shot up after she helped me craft my schedule for my future.

But what doesn’t show on my transcript is how hard I worked outside of the classroom and what I did extracurricularly.

1. I served as a Resident Assistant and as a Student Government Senator for my dorm, Greve Hall.
2. I worked nearly full time for Student Publications as a paste-up artist.
3. I played harmonica in a band.
4. I drew hundreds of editorial cartoons for student newspaper, The Daily Beacon.

And out of all of that, guess what made the biggest difference?

College was a wonderful experience for me — I gained a great education in the classroom. But I found a career at The Daily Beacon.

That’s where my passion was. And that doesn’t show on my transcript at all.

Brown and white, the mixed-breed dog moved down the beach with a slight limp. But for an animal in the double digits of years, she had an agility about her — an almost gracefulness. The vet had tried to put her down during those bad days. There was no way that hip could be healed and he didn’t have the resources to save her. But an angel had rescued her. An angel from South Carolina. That angel named her for the hellish force that brought them together.

She was a dog named Katrina.

Unlike the storm, the four-legged Katrina was grateful for her human companion. The angel, Jenny McMillan, had volunteered with her church immediately after the hurricane. She gave up six months of her life to help total strangers. When asked why, she simply said, “This strip of land is where my faith came to life.”

So many had followed in Jenny McMillan’s footsteps. People from all across the country to help. Not for profit. Not for fame. Just because it was the right thing to do.

It was the worst of times. Yet, it was the best of times.

Three weeks after the storm, Jenny found the puppy near a washed-out homesite. The little dog was still standing near her dead mother and brothers and sisters. Hurricane Katrina was an indiscriminate killer of man and beast. But somehow this special dog had beat the odds. Jenny coaxed the puppy out with a piece of beef jerky. While standing in the shadow of the Friendship Oak, a lifelong bond was formed.

Now they were back. Jenny and Katrina had come back down for the 10th anniversary to see for themselves what progress had taken place. Both walked down the beach next to the now docile Mississippi Sound. Katrina barked at a sea gull and chased it down the beach. Jenny noted something different about the Gulf Coast now — there was the sound of bugs and birds. It was yet another sign that life was back. The storm was a force that assaulted all five senses. You could taste the storm. The smell would burn your nose. You could feel heat that would smother you. The sight of the destruction still burned in her mind. But the thing that stuck with Jenny immediately after the storm was the silence.

Death has a haunting silence to it.

But now, things were teeming. The very people who they had helped were welcoming them back for a 10th anniversary reunion. Jenny walked up to the crowd and recognized so many familiar faces. There were hugs and handshakes. Toasts were made and thanks was given. The group of volunteers and the Mississippians they helped broke bread by the sea. The very sea that had nearly destroyed them. The very sea that had brought them together.

As they watched the sun set off toward New Orleans, Katrina jumped up on a priest and barked. “You have grown since the last time I saw you,” he laughed.

After ten years of recovery, they all had.