On the day before Easter, Shirley Tillman and her husband were driving on the beach road of Pass Christian, MS, when she spotted something odd. There by the shoreline was a small wooden cross, a lone monument someone had planted in the sand. She told her husband to pull over so she could get a closer look, grabbed her camera and headed to the beach.
Like Holt-Peterson Road near John Wathen's place outside Tuscaloosa, I have seen total destruction in nearby Alberta City and Crescent Ridge Road, in Birmingham's African-American community of Pratt City (approximately 7,000 homes), and elsewhere.
The question that folks who want to volunteer or send relief must begin to ask is not "how hard was xx hit?", but "where is there NOT a steady flow (or even an over-abundance) of relief?"
Just a week after the anniversary of the nation’s greatest oil disaster, Congress is set to vote on legislation to open up virtually all federal waters to drilling, while cutting governmental oversight and safety measures at the same time.
That’s sort of like telling the designer of the Titanic to forget about the icebergs and just build more ships. Full speed ahead!
The number one question everyone has asked me since my walk to Washington D.C. is, “How are your feet?” They are fairly good. Although I do still get the “hikers wobble,” usually early in the morning or if I sit too long.
I recently had the opportunity to speak with several neighboring friends and associates that are from New Orleans, but now living in Houston. Two I met, and they became a part of my life, while I was residing in Houston after Hurricane Katrina. I wanted to know, more than five years after leaving New Orleans, why were they still in Houston? Did they consider themselves displaced? What did they think about New Orleans and returning home?
The wind blows soothingly as I’m sitting on the edge of the pier. Clouds blemish the open sky, which is flourished with various shades of reds and oranges. The sun is slowly setting in the distance, casting dark shadows against the numerous boats anchored to the desolate docks.
There’s a parallel universe in the Gulf these days. In one, the water’s clear, the beaches clean and the seafood's as sublime as ever. The other is the one I witnessed last month, a world many fear may be closer to the truth.
My dad used to work at one of the chemical plants in the Point Comfort/Port Lavaca area in Texas, about a two and a half hour drive southwest from Houston. The plant produces plastics and PVC pellets which are used to make anything from sandwich bags to molded products. My father was a waste-water operator. They repeatedly had him send contaminated water out into our bays. Many of these contaminants are cancer causing agents.
Sometimes in history there are moments you have to ask yourself; can this really be happening? The fires spreading across the Cuyahoga River near Cleveland, the toxic goo seeping into houses at Love Canal. Each time, the pubic reacted with outrage and politicians got the message. New laws were passed to ensure public health and our environmental resources were better protected.
So wouldn't you would think that after the largest oil blowout in US history those lawmakers would be falling over themselves to pass new laws and keep this from happening again?
More than half of the Mississippi's swollen waters are beginning to flood Louisiana's Cajun Country and the Atchafalaya Basin. Today, floodwaters diverted from the Mississippi River are expected to reach Morgan City, Louisiana (population 12,000). This flooding comes after the Army Corps of Engineers' decision last Saturday (May 14th) to open the M
There is a moment between intending to change and actually making a change that is as large and silent as the far reaches of the universal plains. For some, it is a split second. For others it is years. For the collective conscience, it may be several lifetimes.
How easy it is for us to think that we are separate from each other, that who we are as a people is not entirely dependent upon who we are as an individual, and vise versa.
Laurel Lockamy has seen her share of dead sea life washing up on the beaches of Mississippi. Like a few other residents, she’s toted her camera along wherever she goes, documenting the dolphins, sea turtles, red fish and plethora of dead birds that seem to be washing in unusually high numbers.
Crossposted from Al Jazeera. Fresh flooding brings up difficult questions for Gulf coast residents, as fisherman pay the price to keep cities dry. Byron Encalade grew up in the swamps of southeast Louisiana, a place where day-to-day life hasn't changed much in generations.
The first week of Louisiana’s crucial brown shrimp season is nearly over and the reports from fishermen are not good. A government source confirms catches are down dramatically and some fishermen say they have given up because the price of gas is high and the price they’re getting for Gulf shrimp is low.
On a beautiful late afternoon in early May, Dedrick Benison and Michael Calvin are quietly surveying the house that came crashing down around them just a week before. On April 27th they were watching a movie here, a neighbor’s house on the catfish farm where the men live and work, near Forkland, Alabama. Moments later a tornado collapsed the roof and ripped off the kitchen wall, sending furniture and splintered wood flying.
“I hate disasters,” Derrick Evans has said grumpily and repeatedly over the past several days. As a resident of coastal Mississippi and a Gulf Coast advocate, Evans has been through situations like this before – Katrina, Rita, Gustav, Ike, BP, to name a few.
More than a month after returning home from her walk to Washington, D.C., Gulf Coast mom and advocate Cherri Foytlin thanks all of the people who made the trip possible. She walked to D.C. from New Orleans to call for action to end the BP oil disaster.
My name is Baley Martinez. I am from the community of Grand Caillou, in Dulac, Louisiana (south of Houma). I am a part of the 17,000 member tribe United Houma Nation. I was born and raised in this community and I am currently 18 yrs old. Already in my lifetime, I have seen the drastic changes in the bayou region of South Louisiana.
Like Holt-Peterson Road near John Wathen's place outside Tuscaloosa, I have seen total destruction in nearby Alberta City and Crescent Ridge Road, in Birmingham's African-American community of Pratt City (approximately 7,000 homes), and elsewhere.
The number one question everyone has asked me since 
I recently had the opportunity to speak with several neighboring friends and associates that are from New Orleans, but now living in Houston. Two I met, and they became a part of my life, while I was residing in Houston after Hurricane Katrina. I wanted to know, more than five years after leaving New Orleans, why were they still in Houston? Did they consider themselves displaced? What did they think about New Orleans and returning home?
The wind blows soothingly as I’m sitting on the edge of the pier. Clouds blemish the open sky, which is flourished with various shades of reds and oranges. The sun is slowly setting in the distance, casting dark shadows against the numerous boats anchored to the desolate docks. 
My dad used to work at one of the chemical plants in the Point Comfort/Port Lavaca area in Texas, about a two and a half hour drive southwest from Houston. The plant produces plastics and PVC pellets which are used to make anything from sandwich bags to molded products. My father was a waste-water operator. They repeatedly had him send contaminated water out into our bays. Many of these contaminants are cancer causing agents.
More than half of the Mississippi's swollen waters are beginning to flood Louisiana's Cajun Country and the Atchafalaya Basin. Today, floodwaters diverted from the Mississippi River are expected to reach Morgan City, Louisiana (population 12,000). This flooding comes after the Army Corps of Engineers' decision last Saturday (May 14th) to open the M 
There is a moment between intending to change and actually making a change that is as large and silent as the far reaches of the universal plains. For some, it is a split second. For others it is years. For the collective conscience, it may be several lifetimes. 
On a beautiful late afternoon in early May, Dedrick Benison and Michael Calvin are quietly surveying the house that came crashing down around them just a week before. On April 27th they were watching a movie here, a neighbor’s house on the catfish farm where the men live and work, near Forkland, Alabama. Moments later a tornado collapsed the roof and ripped off the kitchen wall, sending furniture and splintered wood flying.
“I hate disasters,” Derrick Evans has said grumpily and repeatedly over the past several days. As a resident of coastal Mississippi and a Gulf Coast advocate, Evans has been through situations like this before – Katrina, Rita, Gustav, Ike, BP, to name a few. 
More than a month after returning home from her walk to Washington, D.C., Gulf Coast mom and advocate Cherri Foytlin thanks all of the people who made the trip possible. She walked to D.C. from New Orleans to call for action to end the BP oil disaster.
My name is Baley Martinez. I am from the community of Grand Caillou, in Dulac, Louisiana (south of Houma). I am a part of the 17,000 member tribe United Houma Nation. I was born and raised in this community and I am currently 18 yrs old. Already in my lifetime, I have seen the drastic changes in the bayou region of South Louisiana. 
