Hurricane Ida survivors still see no way out of FEMA trailers after a year and a half
Seated at a folding table, a family celebrates Thanksgiving in their FEMA trailer
Sterling Guidry was away in Mississippi working as a handyman on Thanksgiving day. Upon his return Sunday, he was cooking a Thanksgiving turkey for his family. Behind him, the cartoon "Tom and Jerry" had the two characters battling it out in the episode "The Cat Concerto" on the television as five kids, three adults, and a pit bull all gathered around the small kitchen for the feast.
Guidry and his sister, Elena Paredes, are living in two of the 1,637 FEMA trailers across Louisiana. Terrebonne has 709, and Lafourche has 366. Guidry lives in Ashland, and his sister now lives in Raceland. The official starting date for the program was March 2021, and the end date has been extended multiple times. According to a spokesperson with FEMA, the current end date is February 2024. Those spoken with lived in trailers prior to the storm, and say they can't move into more permanent housing because they've been priced out of the market.
FEMA trailers are separate from the state-run Ida shelters, which provides campers for survivors.
The siblings, Guidry and Paredes, had very different opinions about the FEMA trailers. Guidry said he didn't want his anymore and he was ready for them to take it. Paredes, on the other hand, said she didn't know what she would do without hers.
FEMA began charging $50-a-month rent in March to all who have been given a trailer. Guidry said he has refused to pay it, and the sooner they remove the trailer from his property, the sooner he can begin to pay for something that he can keep.
"I'm not paying for the god [expletive] thing, because if I could pay for something, I'd pay for something for myself," Guidry said. "I've never rent-to-owned a single thing in my life... I'm not paying rent. Take the [expletive], stop charging me. I'll camp out in grass with a tarp."
He said he is prioritizing other things right now, but if/when they take the trailer, he'll just focus on getting a new roof over his head.
"Why worry about building a house when I have a million other things to worry about?," he asked. "We live from paycheck to paycheck."
On the back of his property is a partially built tiny-house.
Paredes works at a local martial arts school and pays her rent, but fell behind on two payments. She was pregnant when Hurricane Ida hit, and while she was hospitalized giving birth, she couldn't work. She said without the trailer, she doesn't know what she'd do.
FEMA's caseworkers have been swapping out frequently, she said, making it difficult to pin down facts about the program. Each new person who takes up her case asks the exact same questions, and she doesn't have an answer for all of them. Questions include: How much do you make? Do you have a place to go? Are you looking for a permanent place? What is keeping you from getting one? Where would you go if the program ended?
Paredes never got a payout for the trailer she lost. She was living in a trailer she owned, but it was on Guidry's property when Hurricane Ida hit and destroyed it. Because she wasn't the land owner, there's a separate set of paperwork that must be filed for her to receive payment from FEMA for her loss. During immediate aftermath of the storm, she said, she was dealing with a custody battle and was hospitalized with a chemical imbalance, and she couldn't handle the extra stress.
"I was going through too much," she said.
Further complicating Paredes's circumstances, her family has grown in size, and she'll soon outgrow the FEMA provided trailer she's in now. She already sleeps on the couch so her four children can have the bedrooms, and she's currently pregnant with twins.
She said she's searched for a trailer to replace the one she lost but at $10-an-hour, with a car note, four children, and two more on the way, she hasn't had any luck finding one she can afford. She said there are a few programs out there she's found to help with getting a permanent residence, but the ones that do exist are flooded with other people seeking the aid.
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"There's no resources out there, and then if there are, there is so many [people]. I've done tried section 8 in Terrebonne Parish, it was so full, there's 500 people - it's nearly impossible," she said. "What you want me to do, work the corner?"
Affordability is the same barrier Eula Billiot finds herself running into. She has been searching for trailers for about a year-and-a-half now. Just last week she traveled to Hammond to check prices. The trailer she lost from Hurricane Ida was a three-bedroom that she had fully paid off at $28,000. In today's market the same trailer would cost her $80,000 to $90,000.
Last week she found a two-bedroom trailer that was priced at $52,000. Shipping it to her property in Ashland and hooking everything up would increase that price to $68,000. Working for the Council on Aging, Billiot makes minimum wage and gets about 25 hours a week.
At 73, and on a fixed income, she said she can't finance another trailer. If the program ends in February, she doesn't know where she will go.
"I try not to think about it, but every morning I wake up and think about February," she said.
Seated on her couch, she was watching westerns on the television like she often does when she gets off work. "Wichita" was on, and a John Wayne marathon was soon to start. Billiot said she hoped "Donovan's Reef" would play.
The trailer was decorated for the Thanksgiving holiday, and the furniture was moved around to make it feel more spacious, she said. After a year and a half, Billiot said she had grown accustomed to the trailer and it has become her home.
"I just wish they would let me keep it," she said. "There's no way I can finance a trailer for another 15 years."
This article originally appeared on The Courier: Hurricane Ida survivors see no way out of FEMA trailers
