Blessed Are They...
By: Blair Borders
Can I begin a sad story with blessings? Is it fair to you, my readers, to burden you with a story that is not meant to cheer you but to make you pause? We will see.
I arrived in Grand Isle with Drew Landry, Cherri Foytlin (these two are organizing town hall meetings for victims of the oil spill to allow them to speak with representatives of British Petroleum (BP)), and Eric Breaux, cameraman. As soon as we arrived on the island, Drew took us to the home of Connie and Gary Snider, our soon to be boat captain. Before I could settle in my chair, Mrs. Connie was putting an orange crush ice cream float on the table in front of me. It was a sweet balm on that scorching day. We had not even been properly introduced. I was not surprised; this is the Louisiana nature. Mrs. Connie sat down at the table with me and told me how she does not go out much because she gets headaches, nausea, and congestion. She did not dwell on it long, but went off to search for a hat for me to wear on the boat so I would not get sunburned.
Captain Gary took us out
in his boat to tour the oil-soaked area around Grand Isle. As we circled Grand Terre Island (just off Grand Isle), amongst the old haunts of the Pirate Lafitte, we happened upon an oyster bed. It was dark with oil about six inches up. However, on top of the bed sat two American Oyster Catchers. According to our crewmember, known as the Birdman, this bird is one of the more endangered species in this area. His eyes twinkled with happiness as he snapped picture after picture.
These are the only birds that can use their beak muscles to pry open instead of clamping down.
They froze as we approached but did not fly away as we had feared. Instead, they honored us with a little dance. We watched as each bird mimicked the movements of the other, standing on one leg, turning their bodies, bobbing their heads. They moved in perfect sync. They appeared oil-free, their red and black beaks sharp against their gray-black heads. The sun seemed to shine through the tips of their beaks, making them appear to have orange flames on the tips.
It was good to see them. All of us in the boat smiled as we took as many pictures of them as we could. Through his lens, Eric captured their every move. It occurred to me that, because of their rarity, this might be the only time I will ever see these beautiful birds. They may not be around or I may never get the opportunity again to see this area by boat.
I came along on this trip to see with my own eyes what I could not believe with my ears. What also occurred to me, as I sat in the boat, is that I was here because of something much less rare in Louisiana than American Oyster Catchers: the generosity of strangers, the hospitality of the people of this state, and the ability those same people possess to rise above adversity with a smile.
Blesséd are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Later that day, I went to a town hall meeting organized by Drew Landry and Cherri Foytlin. A BP representative, Jason French, was there as were most of the town’s officials and about 30 residents. I am not a news reporter nor am I a videographer. I was just an observer. The oil spill doesn’t affect me directly. I don’t live here. I just have a story to write, and this part was going to be a downer because some bad things were going to be said.
The mayor, David Camardelle, spoke first and that was easy to get through. Next to speak was Karen Hopkins, a resident trying to help neighboring families cope with a financial situation that is getting more drastic every day. She asked the BP representative to explain why she had continued to get reductions in her checks coming from BP and also why they had altogether stopped in May. In May? This is late July, I thought. How is she eating, paying her bills, surviving? The BP rep could not give her an answer but said she could come in Monday and he would look at her individual case.
Then, ya’ll, I got mad. As we say in Georgia, so mad I could spit nails.
I was standing in the back against a partition that separated this big room into two. There was a crack, and I could see right through it to the back. There stood a BP claims adjuster listening in on the meeting, eavesdropping. He smiled as Ms. Hopkins spoke then shook his head “no” as if to say Ms. Hopkins was not right in what she was saying. Lastly, he smirked, but then he saw me. As we locked eyes, his face turned as pink as his shirt, his smile faded into a quiver of fear, and he disappeared from sight.
As the meeting progressed, my heart saddened until this one man, Dean Blanchard, spoke up. His accusation took me to another place. Could it be true that BP was flying planes at night, spraying dispersant, and then proudly announcing the next day that there was no oil? He had legitimate complaints, but one of the last things he said as the anger and pain began to get the best of him was, “Ya’ll puttin’ that oil on the bottom of our fishing grounds. What you think? We stupid?” The tension in the room broke for a moment as we all smiled as his strong Cajun accent branded his words right smack on the rep’s face. Everyone felt stronger.
Blesséd are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
That night, on the beach, but not because the beach is cordoned off, a candlelight vigil was held for the 11 lives lost in the disaster. Grand Isle had not forgotten.
Blesséd are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
On the boat, as we rounded a rookery he called Bird Island, the Birdman explained how Hurricane Alex had pushed the tides in further than usual. Louisiana lost almost the entire colony of Royal Terns as the oil-filled booms swept up onto the nests.
It is best to just call this man the Birdman. Using his real name might get him in trouble. You see, he sneaks around all the time, checking on sites, taking pictures of the birds and other animals. He works to help these animals, and how he lives I have no idea. He had tears in his eyes as his fellow residents spoke at the meeting. He is just one of those few people who puts the needs of others before himself.
Blesséd are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied.
Mr. Clint Guidry, a resident and President of the Louisiana Shrimp Association, spoke towards the end of the town hall meeting. He had several things to say, including agreeing with Mr. Blanchard about spraying dispersant at night, but then he got loud. He shouted to BP, not the man sitting there, but the entire BP company, “I will go to my grave fighting this. It’s not gonna happen. I’m not gonna let this happen!” We were all stunned at his booming voice, but when the noise faded, the only person frightened by it was the BP rep. Drew Landry said, “I almost felt sorry for the dude. He was shaking one time.”
These Cajuns then surprised me even more. As they talked, they kept clarifying that they knew the BP rep was not the bad guy. Afterwards, visibly worn out from the meeting, the BP rep was escorted out by all those who had spoken. They shook hands with him, apologized for getting upset, recognized him for being the brave soul to step out and take it. They gave him his earned respect. Needless to say, I was not as kind nor gracious, and for that I felt apart from them all. They had forgiven and forgiven quickly. I was not sure I could.
Blesséd are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
As soon as our crew hit Grand Isle, we stopped to look for oil under the bridge. We had seen sheen all the way up into the marshes of Leeville (which is north of Grand Isle) and that had put us on edge. I crouched halfway under the bridge to escape the sun. To my delight, I saw hundreds of hermit crabs ranging in size from a cumquat to an orange. They were there, surviving amongst the oil soaked rocks. I studied their shells for I had spent my childhood on the Atlantic beaches searching for these perfect shells the crabs carried as their homes. I thought how neat it was to find the mother lode for shell hunters. After searching for so long, they had always been there.
The tar balls, when they get onto the rocks must burst immediately. They do not run or dry up, but the splatter stays put. It is the color of old blood. I touched it; had to; and when I wiped it on my pants, it changed to brown, brown like... well, you know what I mean.
Blesséd are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
We came upon dolphins; their sleek gray bodies at times looked black in the harsh sunlight. They swam slowly and came up often for air, which worried us. Nonetheless, they were beautiful to see. Unfearful, they looked at us and came in for a closer look.
Neither are the people of Grand Isle fearful. As we were watching the dolphins on our left, the beach was on our right, and just outside the barrier sat a police boat of some kind. I could sense a change in Mr. Gary. The two strangers sitting in the other boat stood as we slowed for the dolphins. They made ready to crank their boat, posturing, showing us that they were ready if we were. Unafraid, Mr. Gary never changed his speed; however, he slightly turned his boat inland, almost imperceptibly, and looked at the other boat straight on. He seemed to be saying to them, “Yes, I do see you keeping me from what is rightfully mine.” After the police boat felt safe again, it moved off into the ocean, perhaps to report what they had seen.
On the way back inland, I watched a bird dive and catch a fish. Then it appeared to drop it, but thankfully caught it again. Then, it did it again. I realized at that point that it was showing off for us, enjoying this skill of his, thumbing his nose at the mess all around him, and at the same time, telling us that he was okay, that he will live to eat another day.
Closing in on the dock, another animal sent us the same message. An elegant white egret stood on the bank, free of oil. He stood like a soldier keeping watch. It was as if he was making sure we returned from his territory to our own and that we did so safely. Like a child, I mouthed a ‘thank you’ to him as we docked.
Blesséd are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.
The mayor said, “We are all learning together.” Ms. Karen called the fishermen of Grand Isle “her fishermen.” Drew Landry asked three times for BP to pay for air quality testers for Grand Isle but got no response from the BP rep. Then, Beverly Partin Armand said, “Our officials know better how to take care of this land and these waters than anybody else. And ya’ll won’t hear them. You won’t listen to them.” According to BP, this lady has no right to a claim on the disaster because she does not work (she is disabled), because she does not fish, and because she has no boat. A friend of mine from Georgia pointed out to me that, “In that case, most Louisianans AND the rest of the US population are not directly affected by this fiasco. What BP seems unable to understand is that the people of Louisiana and the rest of the country actually care about each other and the world.” Ms. Armand’s comment echoed what many people said that night, which was simply, “Let us help, listen to us because we know, and stick with us.”
I have used a few of The Beatitudes from the Bible to illustrate a point. The people I saw on Grand Isle have already won this fight. I am not saying they should stop, that it is over, and all is well. This fight will become their children’s and their grandchildren’s fight. But, they win because they are not afraid. They are not afraid to say they are scared; they are not afraid to call you out; they are not afraid to forgive; and they are not afraid to tell the truth.
This story goes back and forth over the course of my one day on Grand Isle, one day that has changed me forever. I was so depressed when I saw that blood-splatter oil right next to those beautiful shells, but the people of Grand Isle picked me up and dusted me off. They encouraged me with their courage. They loved me and never knew I was there. That boy behind the partition dismissing these people with his smirks and laughs was denied all that I gained. I call it believing--believing in each other, believing that life will recover with time, believing that one person can make a difference, believing that one room of people can stand together against a beast no one wants to name-Greed.
Later that evening, under circumstances which I don’t have space to describe, I lay on the beach in Grand Isle and thanked God for this day. I thanked God for giving all of us the strength we need to get through this.
We returned home at about 3 a.m. The next night, Jen and Mitch Reed played a benefit at Bourque’s Social Club in Scott to help Cherri Foytlin and her family pay their mortgage. What I didn’t tell you in the beginning is that Cherri is a writer as well. She has volunteered her time and efforts to help these victims of the oil spill (of which she is among). She, along with Drew and others, is attempting to give the people a voice. She spoke recently on CNN, and I will leave you with her words instead of mine. These words speak volumes about who we are in Louisiana---fiercely independent, capable and intelligent, and owners of bigger hearts than I can describe. I caution you, if you look her up on YouTube.com, you will not see a more beautiful person deliver a more heartbreaking speech in your life. Bring your tissue.
When asked by the CNN reporter if she really thought President Obama would call her to hear her plea, she responded,” If he is an honorable man, he will call me. I put my faith in him. I gave him the only thing a poor person has. And that is a vote.”
I arrived in Grand Isle with Drew Landry, Cherri Foytlin (these two are organizing town hall meetings for victims of the oil spill to allow them to speak with representatives of British Petroleum (BP)), and Eric Breaux, cameraman. As soon as we arrived on the island, Drew took us to the home of Connie and Gary Snider, our soon to be boat captain. Before I could settle in my chair, Mrs. Connie was putting an orange crush ice cream float on the table in front of me. It was a sweet balm on that scorching day. We had not even been properly introduced. I was not surprised; this is the Louisiana nature. Mrs. Connie sat down at the table with me and told me how she does not go out much because she gets headaches, nausea, and congestion. She did not dwell on it long, but went off to search for a hat for me to wear on the boat so I would not get sunburned.
Captain Gary took us out
in his boat to tour the oil-soaked area around Grand Isle. As we circled Grand Terre Island (just off Grand Isle), amongst the old haunts of the Pirate Lafitte, we happened upon an oyster bed. It was dark with oil about six inches up. However, on top of the bed sat two American Oyster Catchers. According to our crewmember, known as the Birdman, this bird is one of the more endangered species in this area. His eyes twinkled with happiness as he snapped picture after picture.
These are the only birds that can use their beak muscles to pry open instead of clamping down.
They froze as we approached but did not fly away as we had feared. Instead, they honored us with a little dance. We watched as each bird mimicked the movements of the other, standing on one leg, turning their bodies, bobbing their heads. They moved in perfect sync. They appeared oil-free, their red and black beaks sharp against their gray-black heads. The sun seemed to shine through the tips of their beaks, making them appear to have orange flames on the tips.
It was good to see them. All of us in the boat smiled as we took as many pictures of them as we could. Through his lens, Eric captured their every move. It occurred to me that, because of their rarity, this might be the only time I will ever see these beautiful birds. They may not be around or I may never get the opportunity again to see this area by boat.
I came along on this trip to see with my own eyes what I could not believe with my ears. What also occurred to me, as I sat in the boat, is that I was here because of something much less rare in Louisiana than American Oyster Catchers: the generosity of strangers, the hospitality of the people of this state, and the ability those same people possess to rise above adversity with a smile.
Blesséd are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Later that day, I went to a town hall meeting organized by Drew Landry and Cherri Foytlin. A BP representative, Jason French, was there as were most of the town’s officials and about 30 residents. I am not a news reporter nor am I a videographer. I was just an observer. The oil spill doesn’t affect me directly. I don’t live here. I just have a story to write, and this part was going to be a downer because some bad things were going to be said.
The mayor, David Camardelle, spoke first and that was easy to get through. Next to speak was Karen Hopkins, a resident trying to help neighboring families cope with a financial situation that is getting more drastic every day. She asked the BP representative to explain why she had continued to get reductions in her checks coming from BP and also why they had altogether stopped in May. In May? This is late July, I thought. How is she eating, paying her bills, surviving? The BP rep could not give her an answer but said she could come in Monday and he would look at her individual case.
Then, ya’ll, I got mad. As we say in Georgia, so mad I could spit nails.
I was standing in the back against a partition that separated this big room into two. There was a crack, and I could see right through it to the back. There stood a BP claims adjuster listening in on the meeting, eavesdropping. He smiled as Ms. Hopkins spoke then shook his head “no” as if to say Ms. Hopkins was not right in what she was saying. Lastly, he smirked, but then he saw me. As we locked eyes, his face turned as pink as his shirt, his smile faded into a quiver of fear, and he disappeared from sight.
As the meeting progressed, my heart saddened until this one man, Dean Blanchard, spoke up. His accusation took me to another place. Could it be true that BP was flying planes at night, spraying dispersant, and then proudly announcing the next day that there was no oil? He had legitimate complaints, but one of the last things he said as the anger and pain began to get the best of him was, “Ya’ll puttin’ that oil on the bottom of our fishing grounds. What you think? We stupid?” The tension in the room broke for a moment as we all smiled as his strong Cajun accent branded his words right smack on the rep’s face. Everyone felt stronger.
Blesséd are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
That night, on the beach, but not because the beach is cordoned off, a candlelight vigil was held for the 11 lives lost in the disaster. Grand Isle had not forgotten.
Blesséd are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
On the boat, as we rounded a rookery he called Bird Island, the Birdman explained how Hurricane Alex had pushed the tides in further than usual. Louisiana lost almost the entire colony of Royal Terns as the oil-filled booms swept up onto the nests.
It is best to just call this man the Birdman. Using his real name might get him in trouble. You see, he sneaks around all the time, checking on sites, taking pictures of the birds and other animals. He works to help these animals, and how he lives I have no idea. He had tears in his eyes as his fellow residents spoke at the meeting. He is just one of those few people who puts the needs of others before himself.
Blesséd are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied.
Mr. Clint Guidry, a resident and President of the Louisiana Shrimp Association, spoke towards the end of the town hall meeting. He had several things to say, including agreeing with Mr. Blanchard about spraying dispersant at night, but then he got loud. He shouted to BP, not the man sitting there, but the entire BP company, “I will go to my grave fighting this. It’s not gonna happen. I’m not gonna let this happen!” We were all stunned at his booming voice, but when the noise faded, the only person frightened by it was the BP rep. Drew Landry said, “I almost felt sorry for the dude. He was shaking one time.”
These Cajuns then surprised me even more. As they talked, they kept clarifying that they knew the BP rep was not the bad guy. Afterwards, visibly worn out from the meeting, the BP rep was escorted out by all those who had spoken. They shook hands with him, apologized for getting upset, recognized him for being the brave soul to step out and take it. They gave him his earned respect. Needless to say, I was not as kind nor gracious, and for that I felt apart from them all. They had forgiven and forgiven quickly. I was not sure I could.
Blesséd are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
As soon as our crew hit Grand Isle, we stopped to look for oil under the bridge. We had seen sheen all the way up into the marshes of Leeville (which is north of Grand Isle) and that had put us on edge. I crouched halfway under the bridge to escape the sun. To my delight, I saw hundreds of hermit crabs ranging in size from a cumquat to an orange. They were there, surviving amongst the oil soaked rocks. I studied their shells for I had spent my childhood on the Atlantic beaches searching for these perfect shells the crabs carried as their homes. I thought how neat it was to find the mother lode for shell hunters. After searching for so long, they had always been there.
The tar balls, when they get onto the rocks must burst immediately. They do not run or dry up, but the splatter stays put. It is the color of old blood. I touched it; had to; and when I wiped it on my pants, it changed to brown, brown like... well, you know what I mean.
Blesséd are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
We came upon dolphins; their sleek gray bodies at times looked black in the harsh sunlight. They swam slowly and came up often for air, which worried us. Nonetheless, they were beautiful to see. Unfearful, they looked at us and came in for a closer look.
Neither are the people of Grand Isle fearful. As we were watching the dolphins on our left, the beach was on our right, and just outside the barrier sat a police boat of some kind. I could sense a change in Mr. Gary. The two strangers sitting in the other boat stood as we slowed for the dolphins. They made ready to crank their boat, posturing, showing us that they were ready if we were. Unafraid, Mr. Gary never changed his speed; however, he slightly turned his boat inland, almost imperceptibly, and looked at the other boat straight on. He seemed to be saying to them, “Yes, I do see you keeping me from what is rightfully mine.” After the police boat felt safe again, it moved off into the ocean, perhaps to report what they had seen.
On the way back inland, I watched a bird dive and catch a fish. Then it appeared to drop it, but thankfully caught it again. Then, it did it again. I realized at that point that it was showing off for us, enjoying this skill of his, thumbing his nose at the mess all around him, and at the same time, telling us that he was okay, that he will live to eat another day.
Closing in on the dock, another animal sent us the same message. An elegant white egret stood on the bank, free of oil. He stood like a soldier keeping watch. It was as if he was making sure we returned from his territory to our own and that we did so safely. Like a child, I mouthed a ‘thank you’ to him as we docked.
Blesséd are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.
The mayor said, “We are all learning together.” Ms. Karen called the fishermen of Grand Isle “her fishermen.” Drew Landry asked three times for BP to pay for air quality testers for Grand Isle but got no response from the BP rep. Then, Beverly Partin Armand said, “Our officials know better how to take care of this land and these waters than anybody else. And ya’ll won’t hear them. You won’t listen to them.” According to BP, this lady has no right to a claim on the disaster because she does not work (she is disabled), because she does not fish, and because she has no boat. A friend of mine from Georgia pointed out to me that, “In that case, most Louisianans AND the rest of the US population are not directly affected by this fiasco. What BP seems unable to understand is that the people of Louisiana and the rest of the country actually care about each other and the world.” Ms. Armand’s comment echoed what many people said that night, which was simply, “Let us help, listen to us because we know, and stick with us.”
I have used a few of The Beatitudes from the Bible to illustrate a point. The people I saw on Grand Isle have already won this fight. I am not saying they should stop, that it is over, and all is well. This fight will become their children’s and their grandchildren’s fight. But, they win because they are not afraid. They are not afraid to say they are scared; they are not afraid to call you out; they are not afraid to forgive; and they are not afraid to tell the truth.
This story goes back and forth over the course of my one day on Grand Isle, one day that has changed me forever. I was so depressed when I saw that blood-splatter oil right next to those beautiful shells, but the people of Grand Isle picked me up and dusted me off. They encouraged me with their courage. They loved me and never knew I was there. That boy behind the partition dismissing these people with his smirks and laughs was denied all that I gained. I call it believing--believing in each other, believing that life will recover with time, believing that one person can make a difference, believing that one room of people can stand together against a beast no one wants to name-Greed.
Later that evening, under circumstances which I don’t have space to describe, I lay on the beach in Grand Isle and thanked God for this day. I thanked God for giving all of us the strength we need to get through this.
We returned home at about 3 a.m. The next night, Jen and Mitch Reed played a benefit at Bourque’s Social Club in Scott to help Cherri Foytlin and her family pay their mortgage. What I didn’t tell you in the beginning is that Cherri is a writer as well. She has volunteered her time and efforts to help these victims of the oil spill (of which she is among). She, along with Drew and others, is attempting to give the people a voice. She spoke recently on CNN, and I will leave you with her words instead of mine. These words speak volumes about who we are in Louisiana---fiercely independent, capable and intelligent, and owners of bigger hearts than I can describe. I caution you, if you look her up on YouTube.com, you will not see a more beautiful person deliver a more heartbreaking speech in your life. Bring your tissue.
When asked by the CNN reporter if she really thought President Obama would call her to hear her plea, she responded,” If he is an honorable man, he will call me. I put my faith in him. I gave him the only thing a poor person has. And that is a vote.”
