Preserving Isle De Jean Charles
What We Have Done, What Can Be Done and What Will Become of the U.S.’s First Climate Refugees
November 28, 2016
The future of the U.S.'s first climate refugees is as stable as the land sinking beneath them. After $48 million was granted by the U.S. Department of Housing and Development for climate change relocation, the Native American Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw tribe of Southeast Louisiana is struggling to preserve their rich heritage above sea level.
Driving 80 miles in from New Orleans, the earth gradually lends itself to otherworldly phenomenon. The road steadily narrowing, houses raised ten feet off the ground, the background hum of cicadas, all while feeling engulfed by the quiet, still water surrounding me. A subtle, mysterious solitude builds in intensity upon nearing Isle De Jean Charles and it’s evident I’m becoming submerged in a community where nature and modern man are not only intermingled, but necessarily symbiotic.
I picked up some turkey necks from a grocery store in nearby Bourg on my way in. I arrived at, what seemed to be the only commerce store in Isle De Jean Charles and asked if they sold any netting. I was going crabbing. They didn’t. I settled with just my turkey necks and the worn, plastic laundry basket I had stored in my trunk as crabbing supplies. A happy, older gentleman approached me and spoke words in a language I have never heard. A younger man interjected in a sort of French I was more apt to comprehend but switched to English once he learned how poorly I was responding. His name was Theo Chaisson, owner of Isle De Jean Charles Marina, cancer survivor, widower, Houma Native American and overall genuine human being.
Chaisson seems to have seen it all, having been born in 1936. Being around the age of eighty, but looking much younger, he recounted the discrimination he faced growing up as a French speaking Native American in South Louisiana, “It wasn’t until 1963, Indians were allowed to go to school,” Chaisson said. There was often a smugness existing between French speaking Native Americans and the rest of the population. If you spoke French, you weren’t treated the same as everyone else, people sometimes wanted to fight you. Chaisson recalls when schools stopped teaching French in their classrooms. Larry “The Riot,” a fisherman from Raceland, Louisiana piped into conversation, “Cajun French isn’t [a language] written or read… Only spoken,” he said as he opened another can of beer in the store. After a half-hour there were five of us scrunched together in this tiny store, drinking beer, eating Snicker bars and exchanging tales of our lives in Louisiana. At this point, we resembled more of a social club, stories interjected only by frequent questions I had about the mysterious powders and liquids being sold on the shelves. Mostly spices, gumbo mixes, roux, local unlabeled honey. Enough time had passed and I set out on my journey to experience the land as the natives have. It was crabbing time.
Adaptation is occurring slowly on the only strip of land that remains for the twenty-five households it still embodies. Since the 1950’s, 98% of Isle De Jean Charles has vanished into the sea as houses have continually risen to shield from inevitable floodwater. But the question remains. How high is too high for a house on stilts and when is it time to bid a final farewell to the land the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw and Houma Native Americans have called home for generations? For some residents, the allure of a big government check isn’t adequate enough and many seem willing to go down with the stationary ship like an esteemed captain.
This sign, for instance; one man’s hand-written homage to the loyalty of Isle De Jean Charles emits an almost misunderstanding sense of force, “Island is not for sale, if you don’t like the island stay off” signed Edison, as if there’s a giant hand forcibly pushing him out. But the government mandate is strictly optional and no agency is forcing households to move against their will. In fact, the biggest advocate for the move has been chief of the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw tribe, Albert Paul Naquin, whose interest in relocation is not only safety-related but an effort to preserve the tribe, heritage and history and prevent the culture from diminishing, “This award will allow our Tribe to design and develop a new, culturally appropriate and resilient site for our community, safely located further inland,” said Chief Albert Naquin on the Isle De Jean Charles website http://www.isledejeancharles.com/.
Where to Go?
Officials have projected that the U.S.'s first Climate refugees will relocate to higher ground within fifteen miles of their sinking homeland in North Terrebonne Parish. There is a strip of land off of Highway 90 between the cities of Thibodaux and Houma that could potentially serve as a new home for the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw. "I don't view this as necessarily urban sprawl because basically what we're doing is connecting these two dots that are already... well, Houma and Thibodaux are already very much, not tied together, they're not completely connected but it's becoming that way," Said Chris Pulaski, Director of Planning and Zoning for Terrebonne Parish, "I think this will help serve to bring much needed infrastructure improvements to some of these regions that have largely been rural and agricultural. I'm not 100% this is going to stay in Terrebonne Parish. But let's face it, the folks that are involved in this thing; this is their home, this is where their families are, this is where their livelihood is, so I think it may be a stretch to have it go outside of the Parish.”
Projected outcomes for the Biloxi-Choctaw-Chitimacha and neighboring communities
Since there is no set piece of land to tie a plan to for a new community, Patrick Forbes, the Executive Director of the Louisiana’s Office of Community Development hashed out what he and Chief Naquin would most like to see. Forbes, with the help of his team, Pulaski’s and a set of markers, drew up what-if scenarios to outline potential outcomes of a new resettlement community. “They’re trying to bring people in from the outside to come, shop, dine and experience that culture.” Pulaski said. Resettling to Northern parts of Terrebonne Parish, the community could be accessible right off of Highway 90, “Let’s face it, it [Isle De Jean Charles] is hard to get to. Coming from New Orleans…it’s a haul.” Pulaski said.
“The idea, from what I gathered, is to have this community be as much of a draw to itself so that it brings in folks regionally and beyond who would want to come to this location to see and experience what the tribes have in terms of things they’ve made, the art, the crafts, the culture, the food. So they’d have restaurants, a farm and table type approach. This is that opportunity.” Pulaski said. Programmatically, the elements the Department of Zoning and Planning of Terrebonne Parish would like to see is, presuming the property they select would front a major arterial road, would be higher density, more commercial use toward the front with a mix of lower density and residential space in the back while incorporating recreation components and self-sustaining type elements like agriculture and aqua-culture. Parish officials believe it’s a good time to begin welcoming this community to higher ground. “I think it would come at the appropriate time because we, as a parish, are investing our facilities in those same growth corridors.” Pulaski said.
But why is this happening? Why must an entire community flee in the first place?
This is due to climate change. The people of Isle De Jean Charles are considered the face of the first round of climate refugees in the United States. Their home is sinking into the Gulf of Mexico and this is the first example of government funding being allocated to a group of people for climate change relocation.
According to associate professor of coastal wetlands and ecology at Tulane University, Sunshine A. Van Baul, there are two problems Louisiana faces in terms of land loss. One is subsidence, where land actually sinks. This is caused by constrainments of the marshes and loss of nutrients due to the construction of levees built a hundred years ago. Second, is oil exploration and the creation of canals. “Once a canal is built, it’s permanent and at the same time, sea levels are rising and greenhouse gases are increasing.” Van Baul said. When I asked her if there was anything we could do as a people to stop making matters worse, Van Baul said, “Stop using fossil fuels.”
What is being done to slow down land loss and could we have bought some time for the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw in Isle De Jean Charles?
Robert Moreau of Southeast Louisiana University manages an environmental research station called Turtle Cove. Accessible by boat in the Manchac Pass between Lake Maurepas and Pontchartrain, the education center facilitates a better understanding of Louisiana’s precious environments while overseeing several wetland preservation projects.
One system in place, that has served not only to prevent land loss, but has literally rebuilt it, is the Annual Christmas Tree Recycling Program. In this program, trees are collected the first week of January and are placed by volunteers in areas where land is projected to be built. The trees serve several purposes: to protect the coastline from salt-water intrusion, enhance sedimentation, combat erosion, marsh rebuilding, habitat creation and to slow wave-reaction during hurricane season. According to the Southeastern University website at http://www.southeastern.edu/, “Over the past 20 years, Turtle Cove have been involved in the deployment of approximately 35,000 Christmas Trees into the Manchac marsh in various areas.” This project in itself proves you do not have to be a scientist to help protect your environment. “The program has created 8 miles worth of tree fences and restored 250 to 300 acres of marshland,” according to www.realchristmastrees.org.
Could this research serve as a model to help restore and preserve other coastal communities across the globe?
Dr. Gary Shaffer, a wetlands ecologist from Southeastern University conducting research activities at Turtle Cove has been working on an assimilation wetlands project that is literally re-growing swamp and marshland by using wastewater effluent from local municipalities. Dr. Shaffer has spoken publicly about how much of the Katrina flooding could have been avoided if the levees were lined with natural wetlands. In his project, Shaffer flows four million gallons of disinfected sewage into the wetlands every day in Hammond, Louisiana. Shaffer says, what he has found, is that “Both the young and mature trees that are along the pipe, right where the outfall is, trees are growing five times faster as they are anywhere in the Pontchartrain Basin.”
So what does this mean for the future of climate change restoration and community preservation? According to Dr. Shaffer, “We could theoretically grow millions of seedlings a year and have them ready for market in six months.” How can this benefit the people of South Louisiana and prevent further land loss? More trees, more land, more natural habitat means more protection from the encroaching ocean, more land usage, and more time for the communities who thrive from the environment of our coastland. Despite one's take on climate change, the implications from the research at Turtle cove suggest that we as mankind have the power to slow down the effects of an encroaching ocean.
A lasting impression of a sinking space
I returned to Isle De Jean Charles a week after my first visit as the sun was melting pink over the rising water. I had printed photographs to give to Theo Chaisson as a memorandum. Walking up the stilted loft of Isle De Jean Charles Marina once more, I noticed I was the last one on the island. All the others have fled indoors and Theo must’ve headed back to Houma for the evening. I taped the photographs to the door of his establishment and enjoyed the fleeing display of coral lights descending in the west from his lofty balcony. Although I’m not a member of this tribe, the silence and slowness of the soft and comfortable heat led me to feel for an instance the oneness with land and man that has made this island so peculiarly special and gave credence to the discomfort of having to leave.
At the moment in stillness, my tranquility was halted when a pick-up truck with a bed full of six men and a cooler pulled into the marina. A sign of life. I couldn’t decide if it was smarter to leave the deck or hightail it back to my vehicle. I was frightened. “Wanna beer?” One of the men asked as he stood up in the truck-bed tearing open a new one. Phew. Comrades. Still on edge from being abruptly awoken from solitude, I descend the stairs and met them below on the dirt parking lot. “Where you from? You speak French? We saw you drive in, thought we’d come check you out for ourselves.” I told him I live in New Orleans but love the idea of living in Isle De Jean Charles. “We’re trying to get out there. I’m Steve, this is Calis,” the man said, friendly as ever. Their accents were as authentic as they come and I heard the other men speaking in their native tongue amongst themselves over another round of beer, still perched, relaxed in the truck bed. This was the tipping point. It is one thing to see and hear an older generation of Native Americans speaking an out-of-textbook language. But it’s a whole other animal hearing a group of young, twenty and thirty year old men speaking a nearly extinct language. The experience was an emblem. The people of Isle De Jean Charles are unique. They are special and their culture should be preserved. By this time, the bugs that come with the fading sun were getting particularly aggressive. The group of us must’ve smashed enough mosquitoes to feed a small army and once they started attacking our eyeballs, it was time to say a final farewell. It saddens me to think perhaps a decade from now their children may most align themselves with Houma people, New Orleans people, Baton Rouge or Thibodaux people, but these are the first of their kind. These are the U.S.’s first climate refugees and time will tell what will become of their future.
What We Have Done, What Can Be Done and What Will Become of the U.S.’s First Climate Refugees
November 28, 2016
The future of the U.S.'s first climate refugees is as stable as the land sinking beneath them. After $48 million was granted by the U.S. Department of Housing and Development for climate change relocation, the Native American Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw tribe of Southeast Louisiana is struggling to preserve their rich heritage above sea level.
Driving 80 miles in from New Orleans, the earth gradually lends itself to otherworldly phenomenon. The road steadily narrowing, houses raised ten feet off the ground, the background hum of cicadas, all while feeling engulfed by the quiet, still water surrounding me. A subtle, mysterious solitude builds in intensity upon nearing Isle De Jean Charles and it’s evident I’m becoming submerged in a community where nature and modern man are not only intermingled, but necessarily symbiotic.
I picked up some turkey necks from a grocery store in nearby Bourg on my way in. I arrived at, what seemed to be the only commerce store in Isle De Jean Charles and asked if they sold any netting. I was going crabbing. They didn’t. I settled with just my turkey necks and the worn, plastic laundry basket I had stored in my trunk as crabbing supplies. A happy, older gentleman approached me and spoke words in a language I have never heard. A younger man interjected in a sort of French I was more apt to comprehend but switched to English once he learned how poorly I was responding. His name was Theo Chaisson, owner of Isle De Jean Charles Marina, cancer survivor, widower, Houma Native American and overall genuine human being.
Chaisson seems to have seen it all, having been born in 1936. Being around the age of eighty, but looking much younger, he recounted the discrimination he faced growing up as a French speaking Native American in South Louisiana, “It wasn’t until 1963, Indians were allowed to go to school,” Chaisson said. There was often a smugness existing between French speaking Native Americans and the rest of the population. If you spoke French, you weren’t treated the same as everyone else, people sometimes wanted to fight you. Chaisson recalls when schools stopped teaching French in their classrooms. Larry “The Riot,” a fisherman from Raceland, Louisiana piped into conversation, “Cajun French isn’t [a language] written or read… Only spoken,” he said as he opened another can of beer in the store. After a half-hour there were five of us scrunched together in this tiny store, drinking beer, eating Snicker bars and exchanging tales of our lives in Louisiana. At this point, we resembled more of a social club, stories interjected only by frequent questions I had about the mysterious powders and liquids being sold on the shelves. Mostly spices, gumbo mixes, roux, local unlabeled honey. Enough time had passed and I set out on my journey to experience the land as the natives have. It was crabbing time.
Adaptation is occurring slowly on the only strip of land that remains for the twenty-five households it still embodies. Since the 1950’s, 98% of Isle De Jean Charles has vanished into the sea as houses have continually risen to shield from inevitable floodwater. But the question remains. How high is too high for a house on stilts and when is it time to bid a final farewell to the land the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw and Houma Native Americans have called home for generations? For some residents, the allure of a big government check isn’t adequate enough and many seem willing to go down with the stationary ship like an esteemed captain.
This sign, for instance; one man’s hand-written homage to the loyalty of Isle De Jean Charles emits an almost misunderstanding sense of force, “Island is not for sale, if you don’t like the island stay off” signed Edison, as if there’s a giant hand forcibly pushing him out. But the government mandate is strictly optional and no agency is forcing households to move against their will. In fact, the biggest advocate for the move has been chief of the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw tribe, Albert Paul Naquin, whose interest in relocation is not only safety-related but an effort to preserve the tribe, heritage and history and prevent the culture from diminishing, “This award will allow our Tribe to design and develop a new, culturally appropriate and resilient site for our community, safely located further inland,” said Chief Albert Naquin on the Isle De Jean Charles website http://www.isledejeancharles.com/.
Where to Go?
Officials have projected that the U.S.'s first Climate refugees will relocate to higher ground within fifteen miles of their sinking homeland in North Terrebonne Parish. There is a strip of land off of Highway 90 between the cities of Thibodaux and Houma that could potentially serve as a new home for the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw. "I don't view this as necessarily urban sprawl because basically what we're doing is connecting these two dots that are already... well, Houma and Thibodaux are already very much, not tied together, they're not completely connected but it's becoming that way," Said Chris Pulaski, Director of Planning and Zoning for Terrebonne Parish, "I think this will help serve to bring much needed infrastructure improvements to some of these regions that have largely been rural and agricultural. I'm not 100% this is going to stay in Terrebonne Parish. But let's face it, the folks that are involved in this thing; this is their home, this is where their families are, this is where their livelihood is, so I think it may be a stretch to have it go outside of the Parish.”
Projected outcomes for the Biloxi-Choctaw-Chitimacha and neighboring communities
Since there is no set piece of land to tie a plan to for a new community, Patrick Forbes, the Executive Director of the Louisiana’s Office of Community Development hashed out what he and Chief Naquin would most like to see. Forbes, with the help of his team, Pulaski’s and a set of markers, drew up what-if scenarios to outline potential outcomes of a new resettlement community. “They’re trying to bring people in from the outside to come, shop, dine and experience that culture.” Pulaski said. Resettling to Northern parts of Terrebonne Parish, the community could be accessible right off of Highway 90, “Let’s face it, it [Isle De Jean Charles] is hard to get to. Coming from New Orleans…it’s a haul.” Pulaski said.
“The idea, from what I gathered, is to have this community be as much of a draw to itself so that it brings in folks regionally and beyond who would want to come to this location to see and experience what the tribes have in terms of things they’ve made, the art, the crafts, the culture, the food. So they’d have restaurants, a farm and table type approach. This is that opportunity.” Pulaski said. Programmatically, the elements the Department of Zoning and Planning of Terrebonne Parish would like to see is, presuming the property they select would front a major arterial road, would be higher density, more commercial use toward the front with a mix of lower density and residential space in the back while incorporating recreation components and self-sustaining type elements like agriculture and aqua-culture. Parish officials believe it’s a good time to begin welcoming this community to higher ground. “I think it would come at the appropriate time because we, as a parish, are investing our facilities in those same growth corridors.” Pulaski said.
But why is this happening? Why must an entire community flee in the first place?
This is due to climate change. The people of Isle De Jean Charles are considered the face of the first round of climate refugees in the United States. Their home is sinking into the Gulf of Mexico and this is the first example of government funding being allocated to a group of people for climate change relocation.
According to associate professor of coastal wetlands and ecology at Tulane University, Sunshine A. Van Baul, there are two problems Louisiana faces in terms of land loss. One is subsidence, where land actually sinks. This is caused by constrainments of the marshes and loss of nutrients due to the construction of levees built a hundred years ago. Second, is oil exploration and the creation of canals. “Once a canal is built, it’s permanent and at the same time, sea levels are rising and greenhouse gases are increasing.” Van Baul said. When I asked her if there was anything we could do as a people to stop making matters worse, Van Baul said, “Stop using fossil fuels.”
What is being done to slow down land loss and could we have bought some time for the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw in Isle De Jean Charles?
Robert Moreau of Southeast Louisiana University manages an environmental research station called Turtle Cove. Accessible by boat in the Manchac Pass between Lake Maurepas and Pontchartrain, the education center facilitates a better understanding of Louisiana’s precious environments while overseeing several wetland preservation projects.
One system in place, that has served not only to prevent land loss, but has literally rebuilt it, is the Annual Christmas Tree Recycling Program. In this program, trees are collected the first week of January and are placed by volunteers in areas where land is projected to be built. The trees serve several purposes: to protect the coastline from salt-water intrusion, enhance sedimentation, combat erosion, marsh rebuilding, habitat creation and to slow wave-reaction during hurricane season. According to the Southeastern University website at http://www.southeastern.edu/, “Over the past 20 years, Turtle Cove have been involved in the deployment of approximately 35,000 Christmas Trees into the Manchac marsh in various areas.” This project in itself proves you do not have to be a scientist to help protect your environment. “The program has created 8 miles worth of tree fences and restored 250 to 300 acres of marshland,” according to www.realchristmastrees.org.
Could this research serve as a model to help restore and preserve other coastal communities across the globe?
Dr. Gary Shaffer, a wetlands ecologist from Southeastern University conducting research activities at Turtle Cove has been working on an assimilation wetlands project that is literally re-growing swamp and marshland by using wastewater effluent from local municipalities. Dr. Shaffer has spoken publicly about how much of the Katrina flooding could have been avoided if the levees were lined with natural wetlands. In his project, Shaffer flows four million gallons of disinfected sewage into the wetlands every day in Hammond, Louisiana. Shaffer says, what he has found, is that “Both the young and mature trees that are along the pipe, right where the outfall is, trees are growing five times faster as they are anywhere in the Pontchartrain Basin.”
So what does this mean for the future of climate change restoration and community preservation? According to Dr. Shaffer, “We could theoretically grow millions of seedlings a year and have them ready for market in six months.” How can this benefit the people of South Louisiana and prevent further land loss? More trees, more land, more natural habitat means more protection from the encroaching ocean, more land usage, and more time for the communities who thrive from the environment of our coastland. Despite one's take on climate change, the implications from the research at Turtle cove suggest that we as mankind have the power to slow down the effects of an encroaching ocean.
A lasting impression of a sinking space
I returned to Isle De Jean Charles a week after my first visit as the sun was melting pink over the rising water. I had printed photographs to give to Theo Chaisson as a memorandum. Walking up the stilted loft of Isle De Jean Charles Marina once more, I noticed I was the last one on the island. All the others have fled indoors and Theo must’ve headed back to Houma for the evening. I taped the photographs to the door of his establishment and enjoyed the fleeing display of coral lights descending in the west from his lofty balcony. Although I’m not a member of this tribe, the silence and slowness of the soft and comfortable heat led me to feel for an instance the oneness with land and man that has made this island so peculiarly special and gave credence to the discomfort of having to leave.
At the moment in stillness, my tranquility was halted when a pick-up truck with a bed full of six men and a cooler pulled into the marina. A sign of life. I couldn’t decide if it was smarter to leave the deck or hightail it back to my vehicle. I was frightened. “Wanna beer?” One of the men asked as he stood up in the truck-bed tearing open a new one. Phew. Comrades. Still on edge from being abruptly awoken from solitude, I descend the stairs and met them below on the dirt parking lot. “Where you from? You speak French? We saw you drive in, thought we’d come check you out for ourselves.” I told him I live in New Orleans but love the idea of living in Isle De Jean Charles. “We’re trying to get out there. I’m Steve, this is Calis,” the man said, friendly as ever. Their accents were as authentic as they come and I heard the other men speaking in their native tongue amongst themselves over another round of beer, still perched, relaxed in the truck bed. This was the tipping point. It is one thing to see and hear an older generation of Native Americans speaking an out-of-textbook language. But it’s a whole other animal hearing a group of young, twenty and thirty year old men speaking a nearly extinct language. The experience was an emblem. The people of Isle De Jean Charles are unique. They are special and their culture should be preserved. By this time, the bugs that come with the fading sun were getting particularly aggressive. The group of us must’ve smashed enough mosquitoes to feed a small army and once they started attacking our eyeballs, it was time to say a final farewell. It saddens me to think perhaps a decade from now their children may most align themselves with Houma people, New Orleans people, Baton Rouge or Thibodaux people, but these are the first of their kind. These are the U.S.’s first climate refugees and time will tell what will become of their future.
Theo Chaisson poses behind his register at his store, Isle De Jean Charles Marina
In nearby Point-aux-Chenes, Jesus overlooks the salt erosion devastating the marina
Sitting atop a bed of shucked oysters below Isle De Jean Charles Marina
Crabbing in the outer corridor. Turkey necks submerged.
A rear view look at Island Road, the strip of mass that connects Isle De Jean Charles to the rest of the world. During storms, residents are forced to remain isolated from the mainland when this road is flooded over.
On Island Road, David Griffin of Bayou Blue provides us with repeated instruction on how to cast net. Tonight we're fishing for shrimp. I caught one. I named him Fred.