New Orleans is a city marked by tragedy. But don’t call locals resilient

NEW ORLEANS (AP) — She ran around in silver sparkling shoes, her faux chainmail tunic shimmering in the freezing breeze, maneuvering horses made of paper mâché, a giant green dragon, and sheep constructed from milk cartons.

Antoinette de Alteriis was preparing with hundreds of others to put on the Joan of Arc parade, a joyous, freewheeling kickoff to Carnival season.

Just a few blocks away, people wept and laid flowers and crosses at the site of a horrific truck attack that killed 14 people only six days earlier. A memorial to the dead stretched for half a block.

“That’s a hard thing. How do you reconcile that with having a parade?” de Alteriis said. “Here’s how we reconcile it: We chose hope.”

Countless times in the past week, politicians and outsiders have praised the city for its ability to bounce back. New Orleans has faced tragedy again and again, perhaps more than any other American place.

Locals wince when people praise the city’s “resilience.” They say they're exhausted at being asked to endure the systemic problems and inequities and government failures.

Mark Schettler, a veteran bartender, said he prefers to think of this parade, and all the ones that will come after it, as an act of defiance that inspires others to follow, to act. That, he said, is what the city needs most right now.

“We’re so sick and tired of having to be resilient. How about for once things just work?" Schettler said. “But as long as I have two middle fingers I will always be waving them around defiantly.”

Schettler watched the parade from the Double Club on Chartres Street, at a party reserved for people in the service industry. It was his 39th birthday -- he had a stack of dollar bills pinned to his chest, a New Orleans birthday tradition -- but there was a bittersweet tinge to the celebration.

Schettler grabbed random people at the bar and quizzed them: What’s the R word that you hate the most? Most knew the answer right away.

“Resilience?” said service industry worker Andy Pratt. “Pay us! We’re sick of being resilient.”

“It’s not fair to be judged by your ability to navigate trauma,” said Dominic Hernandez, the club’s co-owner with his wife Cierra.

“It is so dismissive,” said Cierra Hernandez.

“It’s honestly insulting,” said Rafaela Lopez, a tattoo artist and bartender.

They were given little choice but to keep moving: Bourbon Street reopened a mere 36 hours after the carnage, before all the bodies had yet been identified by the coroner. The Sugar Bowl was delayed, but by less than 24 hours. Officials, eager to move forward, plugged the upcoming Super Bowl.

Many people who work as waiters, bartenders or dancers in the French Quarter had to go back to work the day after the attack.

Still grappling with the bloodshed in their streets, some said they felt forced into a state of resiliency by leaders prioritizing those who visit the city, over locals’ need for time and space to heal. Louisiana relies on tourism, with 42.6 million visitors in 2022 generating $17.1 billion.

Lt. Gov. Billy Nungesser, who oversees Louisiana’s marketing and tourism efforts, said that while he understands the need for time to mourn, he also recognizes that the state needs tourism dollars to survive.

“Those tourism dollars are what keeps the rest of the city and the rest of the state working,” Nungesser said. “How we shine for the Super Bowl will affect tourism for years to come."

And although some view the return to normalcy as resilience, others don't share that view or see it as a compliment. It’s a forced state of being that requires nothing of anyone but the people who are hurting.

Dressed in leopard print with glitter sparkling all over her cheeks, Lopez said the only real resilience is in the support that the community has for itself.

“The only people who take care of each other is us,” Lopez said.

Someone brought out shots for the table, and they all raised a glass. They laughed and made a toast: “To resilience, y’all!”

It's been just 20 years since Hurricane Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast, and in the decades since there have been more hurricanes, the BP oil spill, and spasms of violence. The city had the highest per-capita homicide rate in the nation in 2022. The numbers have decreased in the years since, but residents still say violence is so ingrained in city life, they’re often numb to it.

On New Year’s Day, just hours after the carnage on Bourbon Street, the owner of a Vietnamese supermarket was gunned down in a robbery. Thanh Vu, a mother of six and widely known as Ms. Maria, was described to the local media as a “beloved matriarch.” Two others were killed in separate shootings that same day: 19-year-old Kayron Hall and 41-year-old Percy Baytop.

“Things keep happening here — hurricanes, floods, now a terrorist attack. We’re just expected to dust ourselves off and keep going,” said New Orleans native Julie Laskay.

De Alteriis said she still has post-traumatic stress disorder from surviving Hurricane Katrina. She spent months after living in a makeshift shelter with her elderly mother, her son and two cats, and still gets pangs of fear when a bad storm rolls in, a compulsion to check in with friends – the same instinct she felt after the attack on New Year’s Day.

Some people have criticized Mayor LaToya Cantrell and Chief of Police Anne Kirkpatrick for leaving the French Quarter vulnerable on New Year’s Eve; the city was in the midst of replacing the steel barriers, leaving a security gap that gave the attacker an entry onto the street. The mayor later admitted she remains unsure if the expensive new barriers would be able to stop a similar vehicle attack.

The parade marched on. It was a motley assembly of hundreds of volunteers, smaller than in past years, from retirees who had participated for nearly two decades to twentysomethings who signed up on a whim for the first time ever.

Spectators expressed gratitude for the knights, monks, angels and others who had donned their elaborate costumes in near-freezing weather: “Thank y’all!” “Y’all look so great!” “Gorgeous!” Strangers smiled at each other, friends reconnected and hugged along the route and the warmth of the moment seemed to hold the city together.

Hannah Miller held a sign reading “I love you New Orleans”″ with little lights around it.

“Tonight felt almost like a protest or a rally,” she said. “Because love is bigger than fear.”

It felt, some said, like a light in the darkness.

Wren Misbach, a marcher dressed in a silvery tunic, viewed it as an act of service to the city she loves.

“We take care of ourselves here,” Misbach said. “We rise again, we live to fight another day, we put ourselves back together.”

Yasin Frank Southall and his friends celebrated in a most New Orleans fashion: Pouring out free hot toddies and slicing king cake for anyone who passed.

“Going back to normalcy is really important. It’s about tradition, it’s about love,” said Southall, a 42-year-old community engagement manager for a housing organization.

As the parade wound to a close, Kathleen Ford, a 56-year-old realtor draped in a pink and white coat with a bejeweled felt crown, called out to the marchers: “Pray hard!”

She had to be here tonight despite the cold, despite how tired she was of bouncing back ever since she lost her house beneath 10 feet of water after Hurricane Katrina. A former French Quarter resident, her favorite bar was just a block away from where the attack happened.

This parade, she said, isn’t about resilience. It's about the city, and what it means, its beauty, its pain, its grit.

“It’s what we do, it’s part of our DNA, my DNA,” Ford said. “It’s the soul of my heart and soul of New Orleans.”

As the parade ended before her, a procession of angels brought up the rear, their white-gloved hands clasped in prayer to the tune of Hallelujah.

They marched through a flutter of confetti and flashing blue police lights.

Galofaro reported from Louisville, KY, and Cline from Baton Rouge, La. Brook is a corps member for The Associated Press/Report for America Statehouse News Initiative. Report for America is a nonprofit national service program that places journalists in local newsrooms to report on undercovered issues. Follow Brook on the social platform X: @jack_brook96. Follow Cline on the social platform X: @SaraLCline.

Marchers in the Joan of Arc parade on Monday, Jan. 6, 2025, in New Orleans, hold aloft a banner with a quote from the French saint. (AP Photo/Jack Brook)

Antoinette de Alteriis, co-captain of the Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc, organizes volunteers before the start of the Joan of Arc parade on Monday, Jan. 6, 2025, in New Orleans. (AP Photo/Jack Brook)

Antoinette de Alteriis gathers props in preparation for the Joan of Arc parade Monday, Jan. 6, 2025, in New Orleans' French Quarter. (AP Photo/Jack Brook)

Volunteers carry a makeshift dragon through the streets of New Orleans famed French Quarter for the Joan of Arc parade kicking off the start of the city's carnival season Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Jack Brook)

A marcher in the Joan of Arc parade carries a wheel symbolizing the sainthood of St. Catherine at the Joan of Arc parade on Monday, Jan. 6, 2025, in New Orleans. (AP Photo/Jack Brook)

A person dressed as Joan of Arc rides a horse during the annual Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc parade, kicking off the Mardi Gras season, in New Orleans, Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

Parade-goers walk during during the annual Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc parade, kicking off the Mardi Gras season, in New Orleans, Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

A woman holds a torch during the annual Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc parade, kicking off the Mardi Gras season, in New Orleans, Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

Parade-goers dressed as angels walk during the annual Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc parade, kicking off the Mardi Gras season, in New Orleans, Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

A person dressed as Joan of Arc holds a sword on-top of a horse during the annual Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc parade, kicking off the Mardi Gras season, in New Orleans, Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

A person dressed as Joan of Arc holds a sword on-top of a horse during the annual Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc parade, kicking off the Mardi Gras season, in New Orleans, Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

Parade-goers walk during the annual Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc parade, kicking off the Mardi Gras season, in New Orleans, Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

Parade attendees toast to victims of the deadly New Years truck attack, during the annual Krewe de Jeanne d'Arc parade, kicking off the Mardi Gras season, in New Orleans, Monday, Jan. 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

PHOENIX (AP) — From heartbreak and devastation to outrage, Emily Pike's tragic death is stirring heavy emotions and putting the spotlight to a crisis that has long plagued Native American communities, where a disproportionate number of people have been killed or have gone missing.

In the case of the San Carlos Apache teenager, she disappeared from her group home on the edge of a Phoenix suburb in late January.

Authorities posted her picture on social media, saying she was missing and had possibly run away. Just a couple inches shy of 5 feet tall, she was wearing a pink and gray shirt.

It was nearly a month later that sheriff's deputies in a neighboring county reported finding and identifying Pike's remains. It was more than 80 miles (129 kilometers) from where she was last seen.

Since then, news of her brutal death has reverberated through Indian Country and beyond. A crowd gathered Thursday at an intersection in Mesa, near her group home, to honor her life and to press for changes that might help curb the violence.

Dozens of people of all ages viewed the vigil's program on a large inflatable projector. Clad in red, they embraced, shielded candle flames on the windy night and held posters that read “No more stolen sisters” and “Justice for Emily Pike.”

“These tears that are shed are a part of a healing process,” said Mary Kim Titla, a member of the San Carlos Apache Tribe. Titla was wearing pink — Pike's favorite color. She said Pike had dreamed of becoming a veterinarian.

Advocates say the crisis stems from colonization and forced removal, which marginalized Indigenous people by erasing their culture and identity. Limited funding, understaffed police departments and a jurisdictional checkerboard that prevents authorities from working together have only exacerbated the issue.

Pike's case has drawn the attention of hundreds of thousands of people through social media. Some have shared photos of themselves, their mouths covered with a red handprint that has become emblematic of the movement to end the violence. Posts included the hashtags #NoMoreStolenSisters, #SayHerName and #JusticeforEmily.

In Wisconsin, organizers planned for their own candlelight vigil. Fliers in Colorado encouraged people to wear red, and Daisy Bluestar, a Southern Ute tribal member on Colorado's Missing & Murdered Indigenous Relatives Task Force, posted a video about Pike with the hashtag #ColoradoStandsWithYou.

The girl's basketball team at Miami High School in Arizona wore jerseys with “MMIW” and a red handprint on the back.

“We’re all mourning this terrible loss of a precious young girl. Emily really has become everyone’s daughter, granddaughter and niece,” Titla said.

Titla herself has three female relatives who went missing and were killed. She said the community has come together to honor Pike and to demand justice. This shared solidarity comes from a desire for healing from historical and generational trauma, she said.

“It affects so many people," Titla said, “and I think the reason is because we all know someone — it could be a relative, it could be a friend, it could be in our own tribal community.”

Pike's remains were found northeast of Globe, Arizona, the Gila County Sheriffs Office said.

Like many others, her case involves multiple agencies. Gila County is working with Mesa police, the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Mesa police typically don't investigate runaway reports, but the agency did list Pike as missing on its Facebook page two days after the group home reported she was gone.

Arizona's Department of Child Safety requires notification of a child's missing status to occur within a day of receiving the information. However, that requirement doesn't extend to tribal social services, according to Anika Robinson, president of the nonprofit foster care advocacy group ASA Now. Pike was in the custody of San Carlos Apache Tribe Social Services, which could not be reached for comment, at the time she went missing from the group home in Mesa.

Mesa police reported Pike as missing to the National Crime Information Center the evening of Jan. 27. Police have said it would have been up to the group home to contact her case manager who then would have contacted Pike's family or tribe.

The girl's mother, Steff Dosela, has said in interviews that she didn't hear about her daughter’s disappearance until a week later.

Robinson questioned why it took so long. “Imagine what probably had already transpired by that week,” she said.

Arizona Gov. Katie Hobbs in 2023 created a task force to identify policies for addressing the high rates of disappearances and killings among the Native American population. A final report is due in 2026.

Washington, New Mexico, Michigan, Wisconsin and Wyoming also have created task forces dedicated to the crisis.

President Donald Trump during his first term created the nation's first task force to begin looking at the problem, dubbing it Operation Lady Liberty. The Biden administration followed with a special unit within the Bureau of Indian Affairs, U.S. attorneys' offices in key areas began taking a closer look at unsolved cases, and top officials held listening sessions across the nation. Just last month, the federal government launched an initiative to help solve missing and unidentified person cases.

Tiffany Jiron, executive director of the Coalition to Stop Violence Against Native Women, said more comprehensive law enforcement training that address jurisdictional challenges, increased funding for tribal programs that provide shelter, mental health resources and legal aid to impacted families and survivors and strengthened alert systems are among the policy solutions that advocates should continue to fight for to address the systemic crisis.

“As an Indigenous people, we are not invisible,” she said. “We deserve just as much attention from law enforcement. Our cases are involving real people, real families, real children.”

People attend a vigil for slain Native American teen Emily Pike in Mesa, Ariz., Thursday, March 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Samantha Chow)

A sign lies on the ground at a vigil for slain Native American teen Emily Pike in Mesa, Ariz., Thursday, March 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Samantha Chow)

People attend a vigil for slain Native American teen Emily Pike in Mesa, Ariz., Thursday, March 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Samantha Chow)

A tribute to slain Native American teen Emily Pike adorns a fence near a vigil in her honor in Mesa, Ariz., Thursday, March 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Samantha Chow)

People attend a vigil for slain Native American teen Emily Pike in Mesa, Ariz., Thursday, March 6, 2025. (AP Photo/Samantha Chow)