Discovering Desire

It was simply breath taking. I had never seen anything like it before. I had grown up in the Deep South and had seen other pockets of poverty – but none like what I was staring at through the lens of my Yashika Camera and telephoto lens. My friend, who had brought me to see the Desire Housing Projects had been advised by everyone – not to drive into them – that they were exceedingly dangerous. He felt we were taking risks by driving on their outskirts. After seeing them firsthand – I understood his reservation.

We had only driven a little ways off of the interstate, over some railroad tracks. But it was like we had crossed a border and entered a war-ravaged third world country with seemingly endless rows of dilapidated government brick buildings covered with graffiti registering the deaths of dozens of youth killed within its darker corridors. Some buildings still standing, unrepaired after being damaged by fire. Busted out windows. Crumbling brick. Though it appeared unlivable – it was teeming with people – mostly children.

I zoomed in on one of the apartments deep in the heart of the vast housing complex – one that had obviously suffered fire damage – though it looked as though a bomb had gone off and had left crumbling brick, smoked doorways and broken window frames. I push my finger to take the snapshot and then suddenly held off. Out of the doorway came strolling small children – one still in diapers. My jaw dropped as well as my heart. People are still living there, I thought.

Later I researched and discovered that the Desire Projects were deemed uninhabitable in the 70’s, were poorly constructed and built adjacent to a former municipal dump called the Agriculture street landfill. Interstate 10 and a railroad track on its northern and western boundaries along with a barbed wire fence encompassed it. The Industrial Canal ran along its eastern boundary, with lines of industrial warehouses, a railroad track and barbed wire fences. The Florida Canal, the Florida Housing Projects, a railroad track and a barbed wire fence, separated it on the southern boundary. There were over 1,800 apartment units that “officially” housed 16,000 plus residents. I say officially because there were undoubtedly more than reported. Single parents headed 98% of its units. 60% of its residents were under 16 years of age. The men were present – simply under-reported. This dynamic was indicative of the many ways in which federal government assistance programs had deleterious effects on family – the God-given infrastructure for social stability.

The sight was permanently branded upon the film in my camera – but even more deeply and permanently upon the film of my heart. Never had my heart been so moved. It is the closest encounter with heaven’s hand inviting me, even reaching out to me, I had ever had. And while I was not ready to vocalize it – I had undoubtedly found my new place of purpose and calling.

A couple of years later after having moved into this neighborhood to start a ministry from scratch, New Orleans earned the notorious distinction of capital city for homicides. Over half of the murders which took place in the city happened in this area. I’ll never forget the first New Year’s evening we slept in the neighborhood. Literally thousands of gunshots filled the night air. The next day I climbed upon the roof of our home – the house picked out by the kids we had begun to minister to – and gathered at least a dozen bullets that had previously fallen on our roof and rolled into its gutters.

My wife, Ellen, was 5 feet tall – she was not naturally a brave soul. She lived with normal feminine instincts to avoid danger. Yet here we were – the only white family within a couple miles radius starting an incarnational work in the nation’s worst housing project community.

Ironically, Desire Street ran through the middle of this – the nation’s worst public housing project – and was intersected by streets called Abundance, Benefit, Pleasure, Treasure, Piety and Humanity streets. Those inscriptions would seem more befitting the streets of gold in the Kingdom of Heaven – than these treacherous paths through dilapidated buildings in a forsaken part of New Orleans. Nevertheless those inscriptions became for us the content of our prayers and the contours of our mission – to see this community rise up to its lofty hyperbolic street signs, to defy human expectations and through gospel power become a desirable place to live.