Laura survivors finally get help, but some of the most vulnerable are left behind

DEQUINCY - Sitting in Jerry Jones' living room on a cold January morning, you can see your breath evaporate in wisps of fog.

More than two years after Hurricane Laura tore up her home, the 66-year-old is still without heat — her electrical wiring, damaged by the storm, can't support a heater or stove. Her gas lines took a hit too, so she doesn't dare turn them on for fear of leaks. Hot meals have to be prepared on a hot plate or in a small electric oven.

Jones said she couldn't afford homeowners insurance before the storm, so she applied for assistance, first from FEMA, then from the state, to no avail.

"I did everything they told me to do and then some," Jones said. "Nothing ever came of it."

Despite hundreds of millions in long-awaited federal aid finally arriving, many southwest Louisiana residents, like Jones, are falling through the cracks of programs set up to distribute the money. The main challenge involves what residents say is a bewildering process that determines who qualifies for help.

The state distributes the bulk of the funds through its Restore program, aimed mainly at rebuilding homes damaged by hurricanes Laura and Delta, as well as a winter storm and flooding that followed. The federal government allocated a total of $1.05 billion for long-term recovery for southwest Louisiana, including $680 million for the state's homeowner assistance program.

The state uses FEMA damage assessments to determine who is most in need of assistance through the Restore initiative. That means homeowners must have obtained a finding of major or severe damage from FEMA to be first in line for help.

Some residents don't understand how their badly damaged homes do not qualify, and they question how that could be determined in the first place since pandemic restrictions at the time prevented in-home visits by FEMA staff.

Though a tree limb went through the back wall of her den, her house shifted on its foundation and there is visible water damage throughout, FEMA ruled that Jones didn't have major damage.

She applied for FEMA assistance once she returned home after the storm and submitted documentation through a FEMA emergency desk at the local police station in her hometown of DeQuincy, about 25 miles north of Lake Charles. She was denied, appealed and was denied again.

"No one came here," she said. If they did, she added, they could have only assessed the outside of the house.

'Limited resources'

After Laura and Delta, 48,788 homeowners filed claims for individual assistance with FEMA, according to a McKinsey study. Roughly half were approved. Only 5,602 were considered to have severe or major damage, a recent state report noted.

Some hurricane survivors, like Jones, likely won't receive help through the federally funded program anytime soon, said Laura Grantham, a Lake Charles native and community engagement manager for the nonprofit SBP, which has rebuilt hundreds of homes as federal aid lags.

"Some of those people were most likely under-awarded by FEMA because of the COVID protocols," Grantham said.

During the pandemic, FEMA shifted to virtual and exterior inspections.

While it's difficult to determine how many people were incorrectly assessed, it has been the most common concern brought up in community meetings on housing recovery.

"It comes up all the time," said Pat Forbes, head of the state Office of Community Development, which is overseeing the funds. "Not just community meetings; the mayor, the parish, the government folks, the nonprofits we're working with — all of them have said that is probably their top concern."

Still, Forbes said his office has no plans to change its basis for assessing who's most in need, noting that the funds allocated to the program were based on the amount of homes that were determined to have major or severe damage by FEMA.

"Every disaster is like this: We have limited resources and much larger needs," Forbes said. "The amount of money they gave us is based on major and severe [damage assessments]. If we say 'we're not following that, we're going to give money to everybody who said they had damage,' we'd run out of money."

But, Forbes said, the office has regular conversations with FEMA about the determinations and whether they can be modified, and there may be money left in later rounds of the grant process to help those who were considered to have minor damages.

Meanwhile, the program is having trouble getting those who already qualify to apply. The state is encouraging those who may qualify to visit the Restore website for further information.

"We still have lower subscription rates than we were expecting," Forbes said. "It may be because it took so long to get the appropriation; folks have gotten rebuilt and moved on."

For those who didn't qualify for Restore, moving on has been difficult.

Dartanyan Breaux's home in North Lake Charles was made unlivable by Laura, its roof completely destroyed, leaving the inside exposed to the elements. Still, FEMA did not consider the damage severe and offered him $1,700 in emergency repair funds.

"That's a joke," Breaux said, pointing at the home's torn up wooden siding and roof patched with tarp and plywood. Inside, a once well-furnished living room with antique furniture has been reduced to mold and rubble, damages made worse by subsequent heavy rains.

"Believe it or not, this was once a cozy home," Breaux said, while stepping out onto his creaking front porch.

He has been living with his brother in Houston since the storm, coming to Lake Charles occasionally to check on the house. "If I didn't have family to live with, I'd be homeless," said the 57-year-old Air Force veteran, who lives on a small monthly disability check from the VA.

In April 2022, Breaux applied for a separate, far-smaller home rehabilitation program being managed by the city of Lake Charles, a stopgap measure thrown together during the long wait for Congress to approve federal aid.

In February, after waiting ten months, he received a cost estimate of $69,000, though the program's grants max out at $60,000. Breaux doesn't have the cash to cover the remainder.

And after nearly a year of emails, phone calls and lots of waiting, Breaux still hasn't received any funds or repairs to his home. "They make promises and then nothing happens," he said.

'In God's hands'

Many residents have taken their frustrations to public meetings organized by police jurors, state agencies and advocacy organizations.

Local organizer Tasha Guidry has been there with them, trying to help clear up the confusion. "No one knows where to turn," Guidry said.

Guidry can empathize. After her house was damaged by the floods of May 2021, water seeping through the foundation, she struggled to get help. She was turned down by the city's rehab program, applied for the state's Restore initiative and was accepted.

Her home is soon to be torn down and rebuilt. But getting there involved multiple calls to her police juror, visits to government offices, assessments, consultations, an appeal and meticulous record keeping.

As a long-time organizer and former city employee, Guidry knew how to navigate the process and who to call. But, she said, "if you're not me, how do you get help? And where, if you don't even know where to begin and how this all works?"

Guidry, who is Black, said this is particularly problematic for communities of color. "In our community, you have a lack of education, a lack of time," Guidry said. "People here are not very astute with local government."

Meanwhile, the city's primarily African-American neighborhoods are also those with the lowest average income, meaning residents are less likely to be able to afford homeowners insurance, making them more likely to need help rebuilding.

The combined effect is especially visible in North Lake Charles, a primarily Black neighborhood where it is difficult to find a single block that doesn't feature a home with blue tarp on its roof. "Natural disasters don't discriminate," Guidry said. "But the recovery always does."

In DeQuincy, on the northern edge of Calcasieu Parish, the picture isn't much different. Jones, who lives on the city's southside, which grew with the arrival of Black railroad workers during segregation, says she doesn't know what else to do to get her home fixed.

"I'm leaving it in God's hands."