A young African American man seeking to keep a clean record as he choose to escape the projects evacuates 300 of his neighbors when he steals a bus.
Now That Should Be A Movie.
It is called Last Bus Out
It is a Rescue Drama
In the vein of The Blindside
It is like Hotel Rwanda meets The Pursuit of Happyiness
It follows determined basketball player Courtney Miles
And streetwise drug dealer Jabbar Gibson
As they seek to help their friends and family escape the New Orleans area after Hurricane Katrina
Problems arise when police block the highways
Together they will trust in God and refuse to be stopped as they rescue over 300 people
The idea came to me when I read Last Bus Out by Beck McDowell and thought it would make a great movie portraying the victims of Hurricane Katrina positively
My unique approach would be showing the people of New Orleans as their own saviors instead of helpless victims just standing around as portrayed by the media
A set piece would be when Courtney is driving down an empty stretch of Highway 90, heading northwest away from New Orleans. Suddenly a Crown Vic, the car of a police officer, appears. Courtney slows down. He has no driver’s license, so if the police pull him over, he will be charged with a crime. There will go his clean record, along with his academic and sports future. The police officer looks up, does a double take, and glances over his shoulder at the empty highway. Then he looks up at the jampacked bus and scans the faces of the passengers looking out of the windows at him. Then he makes eye contact with Courtney. He smiles, nods his head, and lets the bus continue
Target audiences would be teenagers, educators, basketball fans, faith-based audiences, and the people of the Gulf Coast region
People would want to see the movie due to its universal themes of faith, determination, community, personal responsibility, and making the right choice
Today’s book I would like to suggest as a movie is Last Bus Out: The True Story of Courtney Miles, Who Stole a School Bus and Drove Over 300 New Orleans People to Safety After Hurricane Katrina by Beck McDowell, from Kirkland & Fort.
Courtney Miles grew up living with his grandmother, Geraldine Miles, in the Fisher Projects of Algiers, Louisiana, or Wes’ Bank, as the people in on the other side of the Mississippi in New Orleans call it. He had seen his mother arrested again and again for selling drugs, spending most of her time in the Louisiana Institute for Women. He came to age in a neighborhood where people carried more guns than driver’s licenses, witnessing his first murder at age 13. He even had the trauma of being awakened at the age of seven on Christmas morning with a gun in his face. He was raised by just about everyone in the apartment complex. They give him the nickname “Streets.” Many of them, including drug dealers and career criminals, encouraged “Streets” not to end up like them.
Despite his circumstances, he began making the right choices. He chose to walk a different way home to avoid street gangs calling out for him to join their “family.” He chose to ignore the security and lavish lifestyle that drug dealing would grant him, even if it meant going to bed hungry. He chooses not to revenge on friends who had been gunned down, refusing to participate in what McDowell so eloquently calls “genocide disguised as pride.” He chose faith, talking to God about his problems, and thanking Him for keeping him safe during the day. He chose to focus on basketball. The game taught him discipline. The coaches were father figures in his life, standing in for his own absentee one. By August 2005, he was averaging 17 points a game.
On Sunday, August 28, New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin ordered a mandatory evacuation. The coastal towns were supposed to evacuate before the city, but many New Orleanians panicked. Their hasty departure clogged the escape arteries. A more dire situation faced those without vehicles, like Courtney and his Fisher Projects family. The word on the street was that Nagin might as well have ordered them to take a vacation in the Bahamas.
Courtney was not worried anyway. He had seen enough Hurricanes veer off from the New Orleans area at the last minute that he figured Katrina would do likewise. On Sunday afternoon, he left his grandma’s apartment to stay at the house of his girlfriend, Jamie Carter. There he rode out the storm when it made landfall on August 29th.
As soon as the worst of the storm was over, Courtney decided to go check on his grandma. Despite protests from Jamie, he made his way onto the wind-swept streets. Fallen trees blocked his passage as he made his way through a city littered with trash and roof tiles. The biggest obstacle was when he was stopped by a police officer. Only people checking on their businesses were allowed to be out, said the police officer. My grandma is my business, Courtney replied. Okay, go straight to her place, said the officer. But if he caught him out on the street again, he would arrest him.
Courtney made it to Fisher without further incident. However, he could not find his grandma. He ran into Jabbar Gibson and a few more of his Fisher Projects “brothers.” Maybe Miz Geraldine evacuated, Jabbar suggested. Despite being smaller than Courtney, Jabbar was a few years older and heading down a path of crime. The “Man,” Nagin, had ordered them to evacuate but had not ordered them any buses, Jabbar added.
Algiers was higher than New Orleans by twelve feet and did not have the bowl design of that city. However, the water soon began to rise. The electricity went out, dogs scattered trash around, and nutria, giant rat-like rodents, started coming out of the canals. With the fans and air conditioners out, Courtney’s neighbors were forced to sit outside, where they battled mosquitos. Cellphone signals were out. Tempers flared in the August heat. Food supplies were running low. Some residents, like Jabbar, began looting. Gunfire could be heard in the distance.
Courtney decided it was time to act. Jabbar suggested stealing a car. But Courtney was not having any of that since he had a clean record with law enforcement. Furthermore, he was not leaving his Fisher Project family behind. What they needed was a bus. And he knew just where to find one.
Courtney and Jabbar made their way along flooded streets. Water was already to their ankles, the murky surface hiding manholes from their sight. Since the trash had not been picked up since the Thursday of the week before the storm, mountains of rotting food and baby diapers added a rancid stench to the mugginess. Finally, they made their way to the bus yard of L. B. Landry High School.
The gate to the yard was locked. There was no way either of the young men could force their way through the fence. When Courtney pushed the gate as far as it would open, it allowed an opening of just nine to ten inches. This allowed Nas, a skinny young man who had joined them, to squeeze through.
Nas went to the first bus, pried open its door, and checked for keys. Unlike in movies where a character finds the keys behind the sun visor in an abandoned car, there were no keys in the bus. Nas looked around. It was a miracle that he found a black box lying on the ground. It contained thirteen keys. One key was to the gate. Nas unlocked the padlock and let Courtney and Jabbar into the yard.
They stuck the keys into the ignitions of the buses and turned. None of them started. Finally, Courtney found one, but it was a manual transmission, and the tank was nearly empty. He checked the buses until he found one with an automatic transmission. He thanked God. But the key did not fit into the ignition. He finally found a key that fit into the ignition of a bus with an automatic transmission, but the tank did not have enough gas to drive it out of the city. He finally found one with an automatic transmission and a full tank of gas. “God is real,” Courtney declared.
None of the young men had driver’s licenses, let alone knew how to drive a bus. Courtney had driven a car a few times, so he kept telling himself that it was just like driving a really big car as he pulled out of the bus yard. Jabbar followed him in another bus. Courtney kept reminding himself of what his grandmother had told him, “Don’t be a follower.”
He drove back to the project, being careful to avoid flooded streets lest unseen nails punctured the tires. You could get arrested for this, Nas reminded him. “No sir” Courtney replied. He had worked too hard to stay out of jail. Nas asked him if he was thinking about his grandma. He replied that he was thinking about not crashing.
As the bus entered the project, Courtney blew the horn. Heads popped out of windows and a stream of people went running and yelling for the bus. It was not long before a line of Algerines, as New Orleanians call them, with their few earthly possessions, was for the bus. As they were getting on Courtney and Jabbar’s buses, a third bus arrived. It was driven by a lady Courtney had never seen before. She must have seen them take the buses and decided to do likewise.
Across the river in New Orleans, the largest domestic airlift operation in US History was occurring as 35,000 people were evacuated via air. The people in Algiers felt abandoned and forgotten. They had to take care of themselves and each other like they had in the past. Many of the older folks had survived storms like Hurricane Betsy and learned to rely on their faith in God.
After running down the halls, banging on doors, and yelling to see if there was anyone left in the projects, Courtney decided that everyone was ready to board the bus. Together 150-200 people jammed into the buses. Courtney would have to leave without knowing what had become of his grandma.
They were about to pull out when a fourth bus appeared. It jumped the curve and got stuck in the mud. The Algerines who had rushed to board that bus had to turn around and load up in the already jampacked buses. The three remaining buses continued their exit. Courtney led the way up to the West Bank Expressway. It was astonishing to see that the normally jampacked highway was empty. He crossed himself, thanked God for the bus, and asked Him to keep his grandma safe.
The expressway was empty but for two police cars, lights flashing, and uniformed officers next to them. Courtney’s heart nearly stopped. If he stopped and the police found him in possession of a stolen vehicle, there would go his clean record. And with that his chances at success in sports and academics.
He made up his mind. He would not stop. He pulled over in the lane that the police were not blocking and pressed on the accelerator. The bus grew silent as the passengers realized the gravity of the situation. One of the police officers tried to wave Courtney down, but he sped right past him. He looked in the rearview mirror. One of the officers was starting to get into his car, but then the third bus stopped. The woman whose name Courtney did not know got out and started talking to the officers.
As Courtney continued his journey, unsure of his destination, he saw another group of people walking along the roadside. Despite the bus being full, he pulled over. Praise Jesus, an elderly woman in the group declared as she boarded the bus. Courtney continued his drive along Highway 90, trying not to look at the mess left by Katrina.
Even when the sun began to set, he continued to drive. Soon a sign for Lafayette appeared, a city two hours and thirty minutes from New Orleans. By now his head was hurting and he was starting to become hungry. His wrist which he had broken playing basketball was beginning to hurt. But that did not stop him from pulling over when he saw another group of refugees. Despite the protest of the passengers, he let the group, including a baby, aboard. They were covered in dried mud and he guessed correctly that they were from the Ninth Ward, having waded through the flood waters. Eventually, Courtney would have to give in to the protests of the passengers and not let any more groups on board. When he saw groups walking down the highway, he stopped and promised them that he would return.
The road remained empty but for the two buses. Suddenly a Crown Vic, a police car, appeared in the distance. Courtney slowed down as he passed the car. The officer looked up, surprised. He glanced back down the empty road, then up at the faces peering from the bus. Then he made eye contact with Courtney, smiled, and nodded. Courtney kept driving. He passed a second police officer, who gave him a thumbs up.
Courtney eventually made it to the Cajundome in Lafayette. There he was united with his grandma. He reluctantly admitted to her that he had stolen a bus. You don’t know how to drive a bus, his grandma said. Well, I do now, Courtney replied. A news report playing on the stadium’s jumbotrons of President George W. Bush calling for the punishment of lawbreakers made the confession even more awkward.
Jabbar did not stop at the Cajundome, continuing to Texas. Courtney returned to pick up the families for whom he had promised he would return. On his way back he tried not to be distracted by scenes of people looting. Then he was stopped by National Guard troops. They told him the road was closed and he would have to turn around. Courtney insisted on keeping his promise to the people. Finally, the Guardsman let him pass. On Courtney’s second run down Highway 90, he picked up one hundred people. Then someone expressed surprise that the Guardsman did not arrest him. Courtney replied, “That ain’t nothing but God.”
When Courtney arrived back at the Cajundome, he saw Jabbar on the news. He had arrived in Houston and become a major news story. There was even talk of Spike Lee making a movie. But then Jabbar was arrested by Federal agents for drug trafficking.
Courtney would remain mostly silent about his part in the rescue. He would continue to pursue academic success and a basketball career. Eventually, he would be noticed by Oakland coach Gil Dorsey-Wagner, a man from a similar background who had devoted his life to helping young men from disadvantaged backgrounds. He moved to California where he would reconnect with family members like his grandfather.
There are several reasons that Last Bus Out would make a great movie. There’s the excitement of a rescue. There’s the inspiration of Courtney’s commitment to personal responsibility and choosing to rise above his external surroundings and break the circle of poverty. A film portrayal of Courtney’s choices would encourage other young African American men to ignore the siren call from ivory towers to blame everything on the “white man.” It would show that young black men can choose their destiny despite the obstacles that some politicians claim doom them to lives subjected to poverty and crime. It would demonstrate that it is possible to overcome extenuating circumstances that demagogues call “systemic racism.” It would be an inspirational exhibit of the freedom offered by a strong mindset unshackled from the chains of the past and freed from the slavery of a culture of victimhood.
It would also be a rebuttal to racist portrayals of the people of New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina. Before there were memes to express one’s views and to spread “fake news,” there were forwarded emails. In the months following Katrina, several such emails appeared in my inbox politicizing the disaster. Just a few weeks after Katrina dissipated, Hurricane Rita made landfall in Texas. Cities like Galveston in Rita’s path were successfully evacuated. Not long after there were forwarded emails containing pictures of buses leaving Galveston vs buses sitting in water in New Orleans. The pictures were entitled “Republican Leadership vs Democratic Leadership.” Even as someone “Republican born and Republican bred,” I considered such politicization a low blow. When kids playing during recess see another child get in trouble for breaking a rule, they make sure extra hard to follow said rule so they will not get into similar trouble. Like those children, of course, the Texan leadership would make sure they got everyone evacuated after having just seen the horrid results of a failed evacuation just half a month earlier.
But some emails were more sinister. Someone claiming to be a volunteer in a shelter accused the New Orleans refugees of being entitled, wanting McDonalds instead of the food provided by the shelter. The supposed volunteer related a story in which they had asked young men to help set up tables. They replied that they would not work because they had “just lost our f—ing homes.” The email ended stating that the refugees did not deserve help. Others claimed that crimes in Houston and Atlanta were committed by “the Katrina people.” The storm had supposedly reinforced the racist stereotype that intercity African Americans were lazy, entitled welfare recipients and criminals.
A film about Courtney Miles would challenge that caricature by portraying the people of New Orleans as not only survivors and heroes but also their own saviors. According to McDowell, there are stories of…
….fishermen who trolled the toxic flood waters all day and half the night in their own boats, pulling victims aboard, shuttling them to safety, and going back for more. Doctors, nurses, and medical personnel labored in appalling conditions with primitive equipment and limited supplies to save the lives of people dependent on them. Cab drivers combed the streets for disabled victims, construction workers lifted debris off trapped residents with heavy equipment, communication engineers braved the heat and filth to restore radio and cell service to aid in the rescue effort, and kitchen workers salvaged spoiling food from restaurant refrigerators and cooked for hours to feed the hungry homeless. Members of Carnival krewes even hauled in generators used by Mardi Gras floats so they could be hooked up to operate hospitals and police stations. (McDowell, Last Bus Out, 216-17)
McDowell contributes these acts to the hospitality and community spirit that New Orleanians exhibited before the storm. These were Courtney’s people, his extended family, so it was no wonder he stepped up to help them in their time of need. A movie about Courtney would honor the spirit of the people of New Orleans.
Because it is an inspirational and exciting story of choosing to overcome one’s circumstances and helping one’s community that honors the people of New Orleans is why Last Bus Out by Beck McDowell should be a movie filmed in Louisiana.
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