Tampa Photography Blog

Walking into chaos as a female journalist with expensive gear dangling from my arms was one of the most uneasy feelings I have ever had.

The adrenaline I get from being in a newsworthy situation, not sure of what’s to come, helps. But knowing there’s not much that can be done if someone attacks me is a level of fear I realized I am not comfortable with.

The first big shooting day I had was arriving at the Superdome in the heart of New Orleans. The last time I was there I attended a Saints game with some friends and had a wonderful time—drinking, cheering, joking about crazy fans.

This time was so very different.

Getting there was a task in itself. Driving through flooded streets and passing refugees walking aimlessly, we made it to a dry spot where the National Guard promised us my car was safe. We strapped on our knee-high rubber boots (my best investment of the trip) and headed on foot to the Superdome. I went on this adventure with two male journalists from other papers that had already been there to assess the damage.

Experience is everything.

First we had to walk through a Hyatt that smelled so much like urine, we gagged as we opened the door. I’m sure it was once considered a prime spot to stay, being so close to the Superdome. Now, it was just a shell, housing lost people and lost hope.

When we first walked up to the entrance of the Superdome, I got all the dirty looks I was accustomed to getting at fires, car accidents and other tragedies. But the difference was these people were not just depressed and angry—they were starving, thirsty, tired and homeless. Not a good combination.

Then I found that half the people were more than willing to talk to me, let me photograph them and tell me their story. They wanted media coverage. They wanted to find their families. And they wanted to get home.

This was one of the times I felt truly honored to be a member of the media. If just one of my photos helped lost relatives find each other or created awareness about the desperate situation, it was worth every frame I shot.

Then a member of the National Guard told me I was not allowed inside the Superdome. (Journalists don’t like hearing “no” even if it’s from a man with a large gun.) I asked why, of course, and he said it was simply too dangerous. Not because I was a woman, but because I wasn’t a refugee, just a journalist. At this point there were rumors of rape and murder from inside the Superdome. The National Guardsman confirmed it was pretty awful inside but wouldn’t go into specifics.

Later when I saw the news that night, I saw how the media embellished the rumors. It made me mad to know that there was no proof so rumors were turned into facts. That happened quite a bit that week. I would be shooting something and see or read a completely different (and sensationalized) account of the event. We all want great photographs and great quotes from an event like this, but it shouldn’t be at the expense of the subjects. It shouldn’t be worth telling lies.

At the Superdome I witnessed some ridiculous and awful things. My first strange encounter was when I saw two National Guardsmen standing watch over two men on the ground with assault rifles. Blood was running down one man’s face as he tried to explain what happened. I heard from the Guard that the two men got into a fight over a cigarette and one of them pulled a knife. Over a cigarette!!! This proved to me that no one was in their right mind. How could they be?

I also met Gale, a hysterical woman who was weeping and babbling. No one could understand her. I told the Guard watching her that I wanted to talk to her. I asked her to calm down and tell me her story. She said she got separated from her mother (her only living relative) when her mom passed out and was taken to a shelter for care. She had been waiting in line for hours and hours to get on a bus to go to a shelter. After the Guard heard her story, he said if she calmed down, he would let her get on the bus now to find her mother.

So good to know there are people out there who still listen in times of chaos.

As I looked around, I saw a man tied to a chair, in urine-soaked jeans, surrounded by Guardsmen. They weren’t being aggressive towards him, just trying to calm him. But again, no one had listened to his story so he continued to yell. He told me he was tied down because he pulled some scissors on guys who were threatening his family. He said he was trying to defend himself and his family. I felt awful for him, knowing if I was in his situation, I would defend my family no matter what it took.

September 3, 2005 journal entry:

“I am disgusted by the living conditions at the Superdome. There are still hundreds and hundreds of people outside lying in filth—trash, urine, feces, food, liquor. It’s like the smell of Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras times a hundred….

…We walked through the Hyatt to get to the Superdome. In the hotel, it’s pitch black with the smell of urine filling the building. It was frightening to walk through and hear the flopping of my rubber dairy boots on the wet floor. It was slimy and slippery, from God knows what…

…As I looked for some detail shots among the trash on the grounds outside the Superdome, I found an old framed family portrait. I thought it was so sad that someone saved it and brought it all this way through the evacuation but then left it, because they didn’t see value in it any more. It broke my heart…”