One Down...

This Friday, just in time to help them put the Thanksgiving turkey in the oven, the St. Bernard Project will dedicate the home of Paul and Beverly Dantoni, marking our 154th rebuild, and my first “finish” as a site supervisor. It is just one of the 25 homes we will race to complete in the month leading up to Christmas. Here’s the story of the Dantoni family, to whom I’ve grown especially attached in these last couple months:

Paul and Beverly Dantoni were married soon after high school. They’ve lived in St. Bernard Parish for most of their lives, and they have three very spirited boys. Paul is nine, and Logan and Austin are both seven. The boys will be welcoming a little sister in February. To round things off, the family has three dogs (Max, Angel, and Rambo) and two cats. The house they bought in 2000 is about 1200 square feet, and each boy will be able to claim his own bedroom when they move back in. For the last year and half, they’ve all been living in a double-sized FEMA trailer. Prior to that, the whole family squeezed into a standard FEMA trailer (26 feet long, 8 feet wide) for more than a year. I measured the walkable floor space of one of these trailers at another site recently – 45 square feet.


Paul has been a deputy sheriff in St. Bernard since the hurricane, and Beverly works the 9-5 night shift at Harrah’s casino downtown. She gets home from work just in time to get the boys up and ready for school, sleeps a bit, then wakes to deal with afternoon pickup, dinner, and bedtime before heading back into the city. It’s an especially grueling schedule for a woman who’s six months pregnant, but she takes everything in stride. Since times are tight, Paul and Beverly share one car, which makes life just a bit more complicated than it would otherwise be.

When Katrina hit, the Dantonis evacuated to Texas, leaving two of their three dogs behind. Though they expected to be gone just a few days, their exile quickly turned into five months. The floodwater had risen to within a foot of the ceiling. About three weeks after the storm, Paul ventured home to check on the house. He was amazed to find the two dogs full of life, sitting on the front stoop, as if they’d been waiting there since the storm. One window had somehow broken, and the dogs had apparently swum out. A little miracle.

Eager to rebuild close to family, the Dantonis used their savings and Road Home money to hire a contractor. But as has so often been the case in post-Katrina construction, the contractor took the money and ran, leaving the family with a half finished house and no funds to complete the project. We’ve been working with them to get things finished for about three months. In the two months that I’ve been at the site, Paul has spent just about every single off day working with me and any other volunteers assigned to the house. On every other day, he stops by on his way to lunch, just to check in, greet the volunteers, and see if we need anything.

At around 4:00 each day, Beverly drives up with the boys to feed the dogs, who live outside at the house. They run in to check the progress on their rooms, want to touch and use every tool, play games in the yard, and eventually start screaming at each other for some perceived injustice. As if I needed a reminder why I’m here, it arrives every day in these three little packages. Knowing that these boys will be out of that subhuman FEMA trailer and back into their home means everything.

This Friday, more than three years later, the Dantonis will finally get their lives back. A good story to be sure.

Shot and a Haircut

I’ve bellied up to one or two bars in the last 14 or so years. Some of the more memorable:

Ye Olde Fighting Cocks, St. Albans, England. On my way to Oxford for my junior year abroad, I sipped my first legal pint here at age 20 (an Old Speckled Hen, if you’re curious).

McMenamins’ Kennedy School, Portland, Oregon. A tandem of brothers showed the kids how to have fun by turning a vacant public elementary school building into a thriving bar and concert venue. They recycle abandoned spaces around the city in creative and profitable ways. Last summer I heard the Hunger Mountain Boys bluegrass band perform to a full house in what had been the school’s gym.

Masta’s Karaoke Bar, Koshigaya, Japan. The proprietor of this hole in the wall was surely the “masta” of the house, and he made all his customers address him as such. He sat at the end of the bar every night and loved to belt out Bon Jovi tunes. In one of the more bizarre decorating choices I’ve ever witnessed, the entire bar was outfitted in a Star Wars/moon rock motif. Somehow it all worked. I was a regular.

But I have to say, for all the bars I’ve seen over the years, I encountered a first at the R Bar on Royal Street in New Orleans’ French Quarter, where the special every Monday night is a shot and a haircut for $10.

The R Bar was described to me on my first visit there as a “hipster bar.” I’m not sure even hipsters themselves really know what that word means, but the description somehow seemed to fit well enough.

Dark red walls and a black ceiling set the tone inside the bar. The black and white antique barber chair sits prominently by the door, just outside the glow of the spotlight. Pool tables, video games, and a big screen TV somehow avoid cramping the space. Ornate chandeliers cast dim light on everything surrounding the chair.

Wispy thin Olivia whisks in at 9:05, with five customers waiting as Monday Night Football clashes with the jukebox. I don’t think many people will argue with the claim that most barbers have bad haircuts. I always wonder if they “do it themselves,” or if they simply get too sick of hair to care at all about their own. But it’s the truth. Olivia had the worst haircut I’ve ever seen.

She barely needed a bag to carry her supplies – a mirror you’d find in a dollar store travel kit, battery powered clippers with four different sized attachments, a rigid plastic comb, and a single pair of the very same scissors I used to cut construction paper in first grade.

In the ten or so minutes it took her to cut my hair, I talked nonstop to Olivia. She just might be the best barber (in terms of conversation) I’ve ever had. Though she loves barbering, Olivia is a musician at heart. She plays piano, and while she studied classical for a while, she has invented her own style. She’s not one for convention.

In all, my haircut actually wound up costing me not ten, but 18 bucks. I drank two Miller High Life’s while I waited my turn (at $2 apiece), tipped the bartender a buck a beer and, of course, threw Olivia a little extra for what actually turned out to be a great haircut…especially after the shot.

Morning Drive

Most of us begin each day with a ritual morning drive, whether to work or school or someplace else. Talk radio shouts at us as coffee sits secure in the cup holder. Four wheels spin on pavement, guided more by habit than any sort of skill. But do we ever notice where we’re going? My daily commute stretches 9.4 miles in a soft curve from west to east along Claiborne Avenue, which neatly divides New Orleans into two distinct zones. As a newcomer to this place, I’ve found myself more attentive to the landmarks I pass during the 22 minutes I’m in the car each morning. Here are a few of the sights that have caught my eye:

McDonald’s: As I turn right onto Claiborne, a pair of golden arches beckons. Though I usually manage to avoid pulling in (more out of poverty than discipline), I marvel at the rebirth of McDonald’s in the city each time I pass one. As other food chains, banks, and department stores have languished or left altogether, McDonald’s has systematically (and very quickly) re-established a dominant, visible presence here. Rather than refurbish their old, damaged stores, they have instead undertaken a massive plan to build brand new, gleaming ones. The golden arches are in fact the only familiar symbol of these new fast food palaces. The interiors are more modern and upscale, and double drive-thru lanes are usually packed with cars. Oh, and they are everywhere. Next time we have a hurricane, I suggest putting the McDonald’s people in charge of it. They clearly know how to get a job done.

Edgar P. Harney Elementary School: A row of eight or ten shiny new yellow buses sits along the side of the road as children play in the schoolyard waiting for the bell. I think back to my own Catholic school education, and to my recent years as a teacher and administrator at an exclusive independent school in Boston’s western suburbs. Though I can’t claim to know anything about what happens inside Harney’s walls, it’s hard not to notice the fact that the school is completely surrounded by houses and storefronts that have been abandoned for three years. Maybe those sights motivate some of the students to earn their ticket out of the slums by working hard at Harney, but my guess is that the opposite is true for most. The more I think about it, the more I’m struck by the staggering disparity American children face in accessing high quality education. I am fortunate to be a product of good schools, but I wonder what and where I’d be today if I’d attended Harney.

Superdome: At first it stares me in the face, looming there all powerful and secure with its bright white semi-spherical roof. After whizzing through a couple intersections I quickly pass alongside it, pulling up onto Interstate 10, which runs directly above Claiborne for a few miles. I can’t yet drive this stretch without recalling the hurricane story of a friend down here who, unable to swim, waded a couple miles through chest-high water seeking refuge from the raging floodwaters. The scene inside was so disgusting that she actually held her urine for three long days, unable to endure the smells emanating from the bathrooms. This dome, the tragic site of evil acts of rape, murder, and child abduction in the days following the hurricane, once again hosts the New Orleans Saints for all of their home football games. Many of the people who suffered so much under its dome (my friend included) now return regularly to cheer on their beloved team.

Iberville and Lafitte Housing Projects: From the elevated perspective of the highway, I can easily look down to my left and right into a couple of the roughest and most dangerous public housing projects in the United States. One of them is finally being demolished. It has been said that the New Orleans police will not venture into these areas out of fear. Instead, the drug kingpins make and enforce the laws. As hard as I try, I’m unable to imagine being a boy growing up in one of these projects rather than on a wooded dead end street just down the road from the local country club.

Corpus Christi-Epiphany Church: My new parish. As I pull off I-10 and descend back onto Claiborne, a well-directed glance to the left reveals the red clay rooftop of this church run by the Josephites, a small order of priests who minister to the African American community in the United States. Unless I bring a friend I am pretty certain to be the only white person in the pews. Though I stand out, I always feel welcome. The music and spirit of this church are unlike anything I’ve experienced in parish life up north. Though it’s clearly still a Catholic church, and thus not as animated as many southern congregations, there seems to be more of a conscious commitment to active communal worship. The congregation sings and claps and has fun. They truly celebrate their faith, even in those times when there may not seem to be much of a reason. The parish school hasn’t reopened since the storm, and though there is hope that it might someday make a comeback, that day is at best a long way off.

Industrial Canal: After a four-minute slingshot through the blighted Upper Ninth Ward, full of so many homes that haven’t been touched in three long years, I climb onto the Claiborne Bridge and catch my first glimpse of the Lower Ninth. From a distance, a visitor might mistake this place for a park of some kind, full of what appears lush greenery. But a brief detour to the left quickly reveals row upon row of hidden concrete slabs that once served as foundations and steps that once led into front halls – all of the homes completely washed away by the flood. In the last month, a charitable group led by Brad Pitt has begun rebuilding here. His project is expensive and controversial, but the visible signs of renewal brought by the bright-colored new homes lifts the spirit.

The Parish: As I cross a set of elevated train tracks – hopefully without getting caught by an inordinately long train heading for the oil refinery on the Mississippi – I enter St. Bernard Parish, the diminished community that I have committed to help rebuild during this year of service. St. Bernard is the only county in US history to be entirely wiped out by a natural disaster. Every one of the 27,000 homes in the parish was rendered uninhabitable by the storm. Other than a few fast food places, a Home Depot, a supermarket, and a dozen or so Dollar stores, not much has reopened; but the people here are absolutely committed to rebuilding their community. Having spent every workday with them for three of the last four weeks, it’s easy to see why.

As I get comfortable in my new city, I’m sure I’ll probably stop noticing a lot of the sites that color my ride to work each day. It’s only natural. But I can’t imagine I’ll ever forget these early morning drives.