[Recovery Pen started as a response to the post-Katrina wreckage: physical, emotional, and societal. Unfortunately, its author still finds plenty to write about, two years later.]

Let's face it: we're all sick of Katrina. Maybe the news media is excited to have a pre-made story as August 29 roars down upon us, but the rest of us would rather be rid of the whole damned mess. Still, it's impossible not to think about, as impossible to ignore as the elephant standing on your foot.

This week, my fellow bloggers will be posting Katrina remembrances and photos, and I will continue on with my NOLA Alphabet as a way to commemorate what I've learned from this great city, before and after the storm. Yet I wanted to dedicate today's column to Katrina's children, who've had to survive the powerlessness of this trauma with the added powerlessness of being a child Adults can decide whether or not to leave the city as a killer storm approaches. But what about the children without a choice, the ones whose parents or guardians didn't have the sense or the money to evacuate? What would it be like living through such a storm as a child? Or as an infant, so sensitive and completely unable to make sense of the experience, likened to having a freight train running over the house, for hours on end.

And then, what about the aftermath? What would it be like to wade through filthy flood water, which goes a lot higher on a small body? And having your home - the center of your tiny universe - swallowed by water, your few toys ruined? What would it be like to leave all your friends, and maybe even lose your very best friend, your pet? To watch your relatives drown while you wait for rescue?

To think of it, makes me feel teary and a little sick. I don't want to imagine myself as a child going through such an ordeal. Even though traditional "wisdom" tells us that children are more resilient than adults, that resilience comes with a heavy price. Because children understand less of what's happening and remain powerless long after the storm, their scars can run deep. If no one teaches them what to do with their pain, those scars can fester for a lifetime.

Whenever people bemoan the crime problem, I always think of children. Because, my friends, crime is not a quick fix, and if you're truly interested in making the world a safer, better place, it's best to start with the kids. For there's no better recipe for crime than keeping a large group of traumatized, powerless children severely undereducated and living in desperate poverty.

And that's what brings me to the Renaissance Village, a FEMA trailer park outside of Baker, a suburb of Baton Rouge. After Katrina, FEMA bought up a cattle pasture to place row after row of trailers: almost 600 trailers in all, to house 2000 New Orleans evacuees. Mind you, these were not evacuees with cars to drive into town; these were evacuees who'd been rescued from their flooded homes, shunted to a Baton Rouge shelter, and then isolated out in the country. Many of these people had never been outside their New Orleans neighborhood, and now their world consisted entirely of dusty ground and white trailers filled with poison (a topic already discussed in this column.)

But I wouldn't write about this depressing scenario if there weren't a ray of hope. (Instead, I'd still be in bed, hiding under the covers.) Currently on display at the New Orleans Museum of Art through October 7, "Katrina Through the Eyes of Children: Art by Displaced Children at Renaissance Village," demonstrates the necessity of the arts in the post-K world. In October 2005, a handful of art therapists ventured to Renaissance Village to help the kids process the storm through art. According to their website www.katrinaexhibit.org, art therapy works for kids because it's easier for them to express themselves visually than verbally.

And even a quick glance around NOMA's exhibit bears this out. With few exceptions such as the watercolor I posted above, the kids colored water as brown or black. They painted the hurricane in brown, black, and often red. Dead birds fill the skies, and black snakes float through water. This exhibit depicts the children's consciousness of dead bodies, ruined homes, and their own tiny bodies clinging to the page's edges.

Each work is framed with a snippet of text meant to add to the art. Some of the writing came directly from the young artists, who explained their art with quotes such as "brown in the center is the hurricane," or "this is a scary, haunted hurricane." I wish more of the pieces had quoted the kids in their brilliant simplicity, but alas, most of the descriptions come from therapist grown-ups trying to interpret: "Note the triangle-shaped houses, which signify that childrens' idea of home (safety) has changed." Interesting, but too cerebral. Let the visceral shock of black skies and bloody ground stand on their own.

Much of the work was done in watercolor or Crayola marker, but the artists used other materials at hand. In the exhibit's center, posterboard and pipe-cleaner houses stand under a glass display case. There's a popsicle boat sailing up to a row of brown king-cake babies awaiting rescue on shore. Another powerful piece layers a cutout hand over a tangle of masking tape - a poignant symbol of the chaotic renovation if I've ever seen one.

As I left the exhibit, I pondered how I might paint the Katrina experience. I'd draw people of all colors standing in waist-high waters, with pink people flying over them with wings made out of dollars. There would be lots of green dollars in my drawing, dollars floating through the air but out of reach of the grasping hands, and even more dollars sinking into the watery muck below.