Ninth Ward

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “Lanesha.” It sounds like bells when she says it. The second syllable is bright and crisp. Not like Mama Ya-Ya who calls my name, drawing out the third syllable, the ah sound.

  “La-nee-sha.” I feel good inside. She has been waiting all this time to say my name; I have been waiting just as long to hear it.

  My mother points. I’m caught in a tree’s thick branch. She floats down, like crystal light, and untangles me from the branch. My legs are free. At first, tired, I slip deeper, but then I hear my mother say: “Pull, Lanesha. Pull.”

  I am not too tired.

  My arms reach, my feet kick. My mother boosts me from below. I fly like a rocket. I pull strong, slapping away driftwood, fallen leaves, pulling, pushing the muddy water down.

  My hand touches the boat. The wood feels good and I pull myself into the boat, collapsing onto the planks. I feel the boat floating, rocking me. On my back, I catch my breath, my chest rising and falling, and see blue sky and clouds shaped like huge pancakes.

  I prop myself up onto my elbow. “TaShon.”

  TaShon whoops, hollers.

  I look around. Peer over the boat edge. My mother is gone. I can’t see any light, only the dark water.

  “Lanesha, Lanesha! I thought you were gone.”

  “I wouldn’t leave you.” My mother didn’t leave me, I think, but don’t say.

  The oars are under the seat. I grab them and put them in the paddle holder. I pull and the boat dips to the right. I pull some more—not caring that I’m dirty and my eyes still sting. There are some weird bites on my arms and legs. My shoulders hurt. I pull the oars back, lifting up water, splashing it down.

  I row until the boat is further north, between our two houses, nearer to where our street becomes a stream.

  “Jump, TaShon.” It isn’t too, too far from the roof to the boat. But far enough.

  TaShon flies. I press my butt into the boat to keep it stable. I reach and catch skinny TaShon. He holds on to me for dear life. Me, him.

  “Mama Ya-Ya would be proud of us,” I say.

  TaShon sighs, happily sitting on the rowboat bench. He bobs his head, calling, “Spot. Here, boy.”

  Spot paces. Whimpers.

  “Come on, boy,” I shout.

  “Please, Spot. Good, good dog,” hollers TaShon.

  Pacing back and forth, tip to tip, end to end, on the roof, Spot’s scared. His tail is drooping. He doesn’t like this Mississippi water. This small blue boat.

  “Come on. Come on, boy.”

  Spot sits and my heart sinks for I think he has decided not to move. Then, he leaps, lifts off his haunches, and flies. Right into me and TaShon’s arms. The boat rocks. Water rushes in. I think we’re going to topple over. But we don’t.

  We all hug. Spot licks our faces, never minding the wet muck on mine. TaShon is crying, not caring that I can see.

  I row. It’s harder than it looks. I row, wanting to make TaShon happy. Happier.

  I wish I could see Mama Ya-Ya. Hear her laugh and clap her hands at all I’ve done. At all me and TaShon have done to help ourselves.

  I see a bright ripple, like lightning, in the water. It’s Mama Ya-Ya’s ghost rising, all sparkly like diamonds, all glittering with rainbows.

  “Mama Ya-Ya?”

  “She here?” TaShon looks around. “Don’t see nothin’.”

  I feel alone again with my gift. Crazy Lanesha. Except, I’m not.

  “Lanesha, you’re one sweet child,” says Mama Ya-Ya.

  Tears fill my eyes.

  “You’re going to be fine, Lanesha.” Then, I see my momma, softly shining beside Mama Ya-Ya. Together, they both say, “We love you,” and I feel such peace coming over me. Happiness, like a light inside me, breaking into a million pieces.

  “Lanesha, let’s get out of here,” says TaShon. “Let’s find water. Food.”

  Both my mothers are fading. Then, gone. Yet not. They’ll always be together and always be with me.

  I think: How lucky I am to see the dead.

  How my neighborhood seems dead. Yet not.

  I’m so happy. The boat is big enough for us. One dog. Two kids.

  We lift the oars out of the water and rest.

  I look at TaShon. Behind him, over his head, I see the sun. To the left, what was left of Mama Ya-Ya’s house. Now, there’s just clouds. And in the water, two tops of trees.

  “We have to row, TaShon. Until we see a bridge. An overpass. Something to climb up on. Above the water. Ready?”

  TaShon bites his lip.

  “Mama Ya-Ya says we’re going to be fine, TaShon. I say, we’re going to be best friends forever.”

  He nods.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  My voice strong, I shout, “One. Two. Three.”

  We row. Both of our hands on one oar. Straining to move the oars through thick water, then lift the oars up, then down. Again and again. Water splashes. Through water, up and down, we try to row.

  The boat rocks, confused. We even manage to turn ourselves around. The boat points, for a moment, out to sea.

  “Stop,” I say.

  “It hurts,” says TaShon.

  “I know.” A dead rat bumps against our boat. Neither me nor TaShon scream.

  “We’ve got to keep even, row together. Ready?”

  “Ready.” Surprising me, TaShon starts singing! He sings: “Row, row, row your boat.”

  I laugh.

  “Come on, Lanesha. Row, row, row —”

  “— row your boat. Gently down the stream.”

  Together, we sing-shout: “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”

  We keep pace together. Us both rowing, stretching our backs, our legs. Pushing against the current with all the strength we’ve got.

  “You sound like a frog,” I say to TaShon.

  He laughs full-out. My laughter matches his, starting in my belly and bubbling out.

  What is it that makes laughter feel so good? I think I must remember this moment. When I am in trouble again, when life surprises me, I should laugh.

  Thirsty, sore, sunburned, blisters bubbling on our hands, laughing, me and TaShon are having fun.

  We hear helicopters, but we don’t look up. If they drop a rope, then we’ll catch it. Otherwise, we keep singing. Keep rowing.

  “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…” This is my favorite part. We are merry. In our world, in our boat. As new friends.

  In my mind, I see triangles. The boat angling towards land, not sea.

  Ghosts are all on the left, near the sea.

  Spot’s ears are perked high. He sees them, too. TaShon doesn’t.

  I keep singing. I sense, if they could, the dead would build a bridge. Help the living. If their spirits were concrete, we, and the rest of the Ninth Ward (all of New Orleans), would be forever safe. Ghost levees. Ghost bridges.

  “There!” I scream. “There.” It’s the Martin Luther King Bridge overpass. It’s more beautiful than the Golden Gate. Rising up and over the water. I see tons of people on it, walking. To where, I don’t know. To someplace safe. That I know. Someplace safer than the flooded Ninth Ward.

  “Look, Lanesha.”

  I hear it, before I see it. A motorboat, with two men with shotguns, putters behind us. “Are you kids all right?”

  “We’re fine,” I say.

  “Hungry. Thirsty,” says TaShon.

  The men—good Cajun folk—give us a jug of water and PowerBars.

  “Do you know anyone else that need rescuing?”

  Inside, I feel good. Me and TaShon have rescued ourselves. With my hand, I shade my eyes. “There’s a family miles back,” I say. “In our neighborhood. Ninth Ward.”

  “Rescue boats should be getting over there soon.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “’Bout time,” says TaShon.

  The man with his belly folding over his belt asks, “Where’s your parents?”

  “At the Superdome,” says TaShon be
fore I can speak.

  “Your parents are going to be proud of you,” says the potbellied man. Then, both men tip their straw hats like me and TaShon are grown-ups.

  I lift the oars. “Bye, misters.”

  “Thank you,” says TaShon, all polite.

  “You two deserve an escort.” The second man ties a rope to our boat. “Ready?”

  Me and TaShon grin. Pull our oars in.

  The motorboat jerks forward. The engine put-putters.

  I relax, lying back, my hands crossed behind my head. I love the blue sky. I feel like I can do anything. Like I’m butterfly strong.

  TaShon is waving at the folks on the bridge. All of them are shouting, waving at us.

  Bruises are all over me. I stink. I’m wet. I’m happy.

  I search the sky for rainbows. I don’t see any. But I know it doesn’t mean they’re not there.

  I’ve been born to a new life. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.

  I just know I’m going to be all right.

  I’m Lanesha. Born with a caul. Interpreter of symbols and signs. Future engineer. Shining love.

  I’m Lanesha.

  I’m Mama Ya-Ya’s girl.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Dear readers,

  Hurricanes are like whirling, water-filled tornadoes. Warm ocean waters are spun by equatorial winds and a vortex is created. This mass of heat and wind can move quickly with a frightening energy, often causing damage once it hits land.

  On August 28, 2005, Hurricane Katrina was declared a category 5 hurricane with winds up to 175 miles per hour and surging water up to twenty-eight feet high and hundreds of miles wide. Directly in its path was New Orleans, Louisiana.

  The massive storm surges flooded property and tore buildings from their foundations. Though severely damaged, New Orleans survived the hurricane. But the surging water had also destroyed many of the storm walls and levees (embankments intended to hold back rising water) that had been erected specifically to protect the city, because it had been built below sea level. As water continued to breach the walls and levees, the bowl-shaped city flooded, causing even more destruction.

  Hurricane Katrina was a casualty experienced by many Gulf Coast communities from Florida to Alabama to Mississippi to Louisiana. Nearly 1,800 people died, thousands were injured, many were left homeless, and property damage was estimated to be in the tens of billions of dollars.

  The lower Ninth Ward was one of the most devastated New Orleans communities.

  The residents of New Orleans, with help from people around the world, continue their efforts to rebuild and restore this beloved historic city.

  Sincerely,

  Jewell

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Books were my lifeline during a difficult childhood. For my entire writing life, I’ve been waiting to grow up enough to write what I hoped would be a good book for young audiences. Fulfilling this dream couldn’t have been accomplished without my agent Michael Bourret’s abiding faith and without my editor Jennifer Hunt’s superb skills. My heartfelt thanks to the Little, Brown Books for Young Readers family and to Alison Impey and her staff for designing such a beautiful book. As always, many thanks to my husband, Brad, who believes in me even when I doubt myself.

  Interview with Jewell Parker Rhodes, author of Ninth Ward

  Transcribed from the original audio

  Jennifer Hunt: Hello, this is Jennifer Hunt, editorial director for Little, Brown Books for Young Readers, and I have the distinct pleasure of being here with Jewell Parker Rhodes, author of Ninth Ward. Jewell, I’d love for you to tell us a little bit about yourself and how you became a writer.

  Jewell Parker Rhodes: When I was growing up as a child I read books all the time. I just loved books. And though I wrote all the time as well, I never could see that I could be a writer. It wasn’t until I was a junior in college that I read a book by Gail Jones and I thought oh, I can do this, I can tell a story, and in particular tell stories about the African American community. And that’s when I switched my major from theater to English, and I was lucky enough to have a creative writing teacher who didn’t say I was terrible! So I just started writing, and I’ve been writing ever since.

  Jennifer: How did the idea come to you for Ninth Ward, and can you tell us a little bit about the story?

  Jewell: I’ve always been attracted to New Orleans and I’ve been writing about New Orleans for many, many years. I almost feel as though it was like my spiritual home or maybe in another life I lived there, I don’t know, that there’s just something special between me and New Orleans. When Hurricane Katrina happened I was actually promoting an adult book and I was just overwhelmed with the thought of us losing this wonderful city, overwhelmed with the threat of destruction to the people and the community that I’d known for so long and loved. Afterwards, once the levees broke, once they had the Superdome, the Red Cross rescues, and the way that the tragedy seemed to go on, and linger on and on and on, I thought even more about the children and what they were going through, the hardships, and the resilience they needed. So I wanted to write a book about a wonderful black girl named Lanesha and a boy named TaShon, and how the two of them, through friendship, love, and community, survive not only the hurricane, but they survive the levees breaking—they survive to become stronger individuals all because of the faith they have in themselves, and faith that was given to them because of Mama Ya-Ya, who is the best pretend grandmother anybody could ever have. Mama Ya-Ya is the person who will always give you a hug, Mama Ya-Ya knows what you need, Mama Ya-Ya even sees you before you’re coming. Mama Ya-Ya just feels the beauty of these children, and she honors them, and they in turn survive and honor her.

  Jennifer: As you mentioned before, you are generally known for writing books for adults, specifically historical fiction, Douglas’ Women and Voodoo Dreams, which is how I knew your work when it first came to me. So I want to know a little bit about why you decided to write a children’s book, and what this process has been like, how it differs from your work for adults.

  Jewell: Writing this children’s book has been a wonderful adventure, and Jennifer, you know better than anyone because you were there with me every step of the way, helping, guiding, and teaching me, for which I will always remain grateful! I always felt that children’s literature was sacred; I think that growing up, if I hadn’t had some of the stories I’d had, from Heidi to Mary Poppins to Black Beauty, I think my spirit would have been crushed. Books opened up a way for me to live in this world, to feel hope, to know that there were different ways of living in the world, and it really kept my imagination and my sense of horizons open. So all my life I’ve wanted to write a book for children that might have the same impact that some of these great books had upon me when I was young. But I think what happens for me as a writer is I write from voice, and one morning—and this was several years after Hurricane Katrina—I was reading about Hurricane Ike, which was threatening the Gulf of Mexico and threatening New Orleans, and I thought, oh my, here we go again. At that moment, Lanesha’s voice came to me and the first line of the novel— “I was born with a caul” —came to me and I started writing. So I was just lucky to have you say that you liked it too and for us to have an adventure together!

  Jennifer: That’s one of the things that I really loved about it and I think is actually a really difficult thing to do but something that we agree upon, is really writing from the perspective as if you walked up to a window and peeked inside and saw a child in her most intimate moment of just sitting with her family or playing by herself; who is she in that moment? And one of the things I think you did so, so beautifully is to honor that child, and when we think about different kids, I know that you and I both feel that every single one of them has a wonderful story to tell, and I just appreciate how beautifully you were able to render a story about a child who lived through this incredible experience of Hurricane Katrina.

  Jewell: Well, you know, of course, you helped a great deal with
that. But I think that sense in writing a children’s book it’s even more important to stay close, as you said, to the experience. And so the times when I would think like an adult or add in commentary, those were the things that I had to take out because I think children are the most visceral beings; they feel, they sense that they are really in life and engaged in ways that sometimes as adults we become much more dulled by, or we put a distance between ourselves and experiences. So staying close to Lanesha, seeing the world as she saw it, tasting, hearing, feeling, sensing, was all magical for me. So Lanesha, maybe she’s a little child in me, or she’s some child we’ve given birth to, but she’s a special child and she’s meant to connect with all the world’s children.

  Jennifer: One of the things that I would love to hear you talk a little bit about is how family and spirituality both play a major role in Ninth Ward, and I wondered why you chose to explore these topics, when it could have been a straight adventure story, but instead turned out to be so multilayered.

  Jewell: When I think about my life’s adventure I think of how my family, in particular my grandmother, gave me the strength, the self-love, the nurturance to carry on; and I think that in terms of surviving and in terms of being resilient and in terms of making life better post-Katrina, that that’s what all those children would have needed in order to thrive. And knowing the African American community and knowing mothers love their children and fathers love their children, grandmothers nurture, I just felt as though I know these people and they give each other strength, they give each other love to go on. So family and spirituality, they’re entwined for me. My grandmother I think was a kind of spirit woman. If I had left out the spirituality I think there’s ways in which Lanesha might not have been able to go on, just based on her own sense of self. So it’s not just being part of family, it’s also having family carried with you like a spiritual cloak, so when they’re not there to help you, you draw on their sustenance, their love, in order to still thrive.