INFAMOUS: The Power of Truth Felt from Vera's Story

Twenty years ago, Hurricane Katrina taught us devastating lessons about crisis communication that still resonate today. Among the countless heartbreaking images from that catastrophe, one stands out as particularly powerful: the makeshift grave of Vera Smith at the corner of Magazine Street and Jackson Avenue, marked simply with "Here Lies Vera - God Help Us."

The image of the memorial still gives me chills when I see it.

I often return to Vera's story when I talk with public information officers and emergency communicators because it crystallizes so many truths about our work. Vera Smith wasn't killed by the hurricane itself, but by the chaos that followed. Her body lay in the street for days as authorities focused on other priorities, until neighbors finally took it upon themselves to bury her. John Lee, one of those neighbors, later explained his motivation: "Good old nuns told me, 'Bury the dead.'"

As crisis communicators, we face an uncomfortable reality: sometimes there simply isn't enough time to help everyone, no matter how desperately we try. The initial response failures during Katrina weren't primarily the fault of local public information officers who found themselves overwhelmed by an unprecedented disaster. Instead, what Vera's story teaches us is about what happens when we lose the public's trust during our most vulnerable moments. How, years later, local government agencies have yet to earn that trust back.

The gravest mistake we can make in crisis communication is prioritizing perception over truth. When we conceal bad news or spin away from harsh realities, we rob communities of their ability to make informed decisions and prepare for what's coming. Vera's neighbors knew the truth because they lived it. They saw the abandoned streets, the absent help, the bodies left behind. No amount of messaging could have changed that reality. But I do believe that local agencies standing beside them would have lessened the feeling of abandonment.

The problem, as usual, is time. When you’re responding to a crisis in your own backyard, you simply have to prioritize what actions you take and which problems to focus on. It becomes overwhelming in many cases. Even with my training and deployment experience, I froze the first time the crisis truly hit my home agency. My mind went blank; it took a minute or so for me to move past the shock.

I’ve seen communities turn their backs on local government agencies because they felt abandoned. In one case, the town was silent for three days after a major hurricane…they were dealing with their own family and property loss. Much of their staff evacuated. Their infrastructure was destroyed. But the silence, regardless of how valid those excuses are, was inexcusable to the residents grappling with the aftermath of the storm.

What moves me most about Vera's story is how it demonstrates both the power of visual representation and the strength of community bonds. That simple tarp with its spray-painted message became more than a grave marker. It became a symbol of their feelings of abandonment, their resilience, and ultimately, of neighbors caring for neighbors when they felt as though they were left to their own devices.

This is why building genuine community trust must happen before the crisis hits and continue long after. When people trust their local agencies, they're more likely to work together before, during, and after disasters rather than turn against each other or their government. They mourn together instead of seeking someone to blame.

In this space, a PIO can fill the need for showing up in the community. First responders, emergency managers, and local government leaders have pressing safety priorities. They have to focus on saving lives first and foremost. The four days that Vera’s body laid in place on the street were days packed with USAR missions, life-saving measures, and agency coordination. PIOs have some ability to go out into the community and, if they make the time, can be the representative standing beside those mourning. PIOs are more than media relations and social media (which, at the time, was limited). In the race to do everything, we must make time for empathy. We must make time to fill the void of government support. Our words and presence on scene mean more than statements reiterated on the 6 p.m. news cycle.

Even with all going on, I think a government representative standing alongside those neighbors as they dug her grave, moved her body the long trek to her resting place, or spray-painted that poignant message could have repaired goodwill. Once the residents realized they had to do it alone, I believe the bond became irreparable.

We talk about crisis communication as if it's a strategic game, analyzing messaging and media cycles. But Vera reminds us that behind every statistic, every press release, every carefully crafted statement, there are real people facing real loss. The neighbors who buried Vera didn't do it for media coverage or political points. They did it because it was the right thing to do. They did it to show love for someone who, in some cases, they had never met. They did it as a physical representation of their mourning.

As John Lee said at the time, "We were left down here. It was just neighbors helping neighbors, food, water, burying the dead." That's the kind of community response we should be building toward through honest, transparent communication that treats people as partners, not audiences to manage.

Vera's story endures because truth always does, even when it's uncomfortable, even when it reveals our failures. Especially then.