"That's shameful"...
From the NYTimes:
January 30, 2007
Senators at Louisiana Hearing Criticize Federal Recovery Aid
By ADAM NOSSITER
NEW ORLEANS, Jan. 29 — Three United States senators sounded off on Monday about the slow pace of recovery from Hurricane Katrina at a hearing in the French Quarter, criticizing federal officials for perceived inequities in aid to Louisiana and for imposing rules that are halting government assistance.
With Senator Barack Obama, Democrat of Illinois and a presidential candidate, expected to speak at the hearing of the Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs committee, dozens of residents lined up outside the Louisiana Supreme Court building hoping to be admitted. But only a small fraction were allowed inside, where Mr. Obama jousted with Donald E. Powell, the federal coordinator of Gulf Coast rebuilding, about where the money was, and why more of it was not in Louisiana.
Mr. Obama and Senator Mary L. Landrieu, Democrat of Louisiana, focused on why Louisiana, which had far more damage than Mississippi, did not receive a larger proportion of federal aid. Mr. Powell said Congress had put a cap on how much aid money any one state could get.
The senators complained about federal rules requiring a local match for aid after disasters; Mr. Powell said that in some cases, like the removal of the tons of debris that inundated the landscape here, the rules had been waived.
The senators, including the panel’s chairman, Joseph I. Lieberman, independent of Connecticut, voiced little criticism of Mayor C. Ray Nagin or other local officials, and Gov. Kathleen Babineaux Blanco of Louisiana was not on the witness list. Ms. Blanco is responsible for the Road Home, a troubled housing assistance program that has made little progress in getting federal rebuilding aid to thousands of homeowners.
Fewer than 300 homeowners have received aid under the program, Mr. Lieberman said, though more than 100,000 have applied. (A program official said on Monday that 359 had received grants.) The program’s failure is cited as a crucial reason for the faltering repopulation effort.
The senators used the occasion to echo local laments that President Bush did not mention New Orleans in his State of the Union address. They did not disagree when Mr. Nagin, evidently referring to officials outside the city, said, “The tragedy of Katrina has lingered for so long, I just don’t see the will to really fix it.”
While the senators scored the federal response, Mr. Powell gingerly noted the region’s “significant” difficulties before the storm, and suggested the problems of the Road Home were now a state matter.
Undeterred, Mr. Obama warmed to the issue of the Bush administration’s failures in the response to the disaster, now a fixture in the Democrats’ arsenal.
“There’s not a sense of urgency out of this White House to get this done,” Mr. Obama said. He spoke of his hometown of Chicago’s recovery from the great fire of 1871 as an effort of national will, and suggested it could be done again.
Mr. Obama wondered about “whether we’re in danger of actually forgetting New Orleans,” adding, “That’s shameful.”
Yes, it is shameful. Even more shameful, in my view, is that this hearing occurred just yesterday. That it seemed more a stage for political grandstanding--even from my beloved Obama--than for the genuine concern and urgent demands that we so need. That only a handful of beleaguered protesters limply held signs outside. That I felt sorry for the lone protester who made it inside. Poor, poor guy, I thought. He thinks we can make a difference. This feeling of defeat is what it feels like to live here, on a bad day. I am looking forward to Mardi Gras, to some good days.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Helen Hill's husband wrote this op-ed piece that was published in the T-P today. It moved me to tears.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
I found these two videos on a New Orleans blog I've been reading lately. I found the blogger while searching the web for anything related to our future neighborhood, Holy Cross. the author was considering moving there. I don't yet know what she's decided.
Anyway, this short film is spot-on and sticks with you.
And this video--featuring Kanye West and Jamie Foxx--takes me back, in a bad way.
Warning: both are disturbing (in a good way?).
Anyway, this short film is spot-on and sticks with you.
And this video--featuring Kanye West and Jamie Foxx--takes me back, in a bad way.
Warning: both are disturbing (in a good way?).
Monday, January 15, 2007
What a long (and yes, strange) week it has been. I have fallen into a major spell of lethargy, which does not go well with anxiety. What I've done with it is a whole lot of nothing but worry about our future, lie around on the couch, eat far too much fried chicken in one sitting (okay--so that was while watching the very exciting Saints-Eagles game and therefore excusable), and sleep badly. None of this is new, but the unstructured time that comes with the big, fat breaks that we college instructors are afforded does not help. I have never had a handle on self-discipline, and so my long list of projects I meant to get to over the break has only added to my anxiety and guilt. The things I could be doing... the things I should be doing...
I did make something of myself over the past week. For one, I attended the crime march. It was just this past Thursday, but as with the week before, it feels like ages ago. I parked my car at Canal Place, walked to the meeting spot--the foot of the World Trade Center--and wandered around, reading signs, observing my neighbors, wondering where the minorities were. Later, we were in fact joined by members of the mostly-black Central City neighborhood, but it was once again a mostly-white protest. Many of the posters on the Bywater-Marigny nola.com forum derided folks for discussing the racial makeup of the march. Still, I wish the black community weren't so disenfranchised--and that our organizers (and yes, people like me) had done a better job of rallying minority residents. When I read (or hear) others saying that the issue isn't about race, I can't help but ask how it couldn't be.
But I am not feeling articulate enough to put this together.
At the march, I did see Marna David, a realtor we've met with about a few properties in Holy Cross. She was kind enough to give me a "HOLY CROSS, WE ARE REBUILDING" T-shirt, which I wore happily.
I felt a bit like an imposter, though, and I realized as I wore that shirt that I have very mixed emotions about our future (potential) move to HC. I can understand why the black community would want badly to protect HC and the lower ninth from gentrification by white folks like Simon and me. I am also a little afraid... not of the general criminal-element boogy-man, but of targeted attacks against us (whities) for moving to an area that black New Orleanians would understandably feel fiercely possessive of.
And then I was reading this evening about Holy Cross the school. I don't know what misguided notion I'd had before--somehow I thought it was a historically black boys' school--but that school is whitey-white-white. Evidently, the school's decision to move was not impacted solely by the damage brought by the storm, but instead by the neighborhood's shift in demographics--from middle-class immigrant (white) families (German and Italian) to lower and lower-middle-class black families. Apparently, many of the families whose boys attended the school lived in St. Bernard, a neighborhood whose reputation for white-flight is notorious. (Recently they even instituted an ordinance to force St. Bernard residents to rent only to family or other St. Bernard residents. At least this is what I'd heard. One doesn't need an imagination to realize that this ordinance would prevent the largely-black population from New Orleans that is desperate to return to affordable rentals from moving to St. Bernard.) Still: I am hoping, oh I am hoping that Holy Cross was moving for less dubious reasons. And I hope, too, that all that I heard about St. Bernard is not true.
I just feel so conflicted about our move there. Guilty for gentrifying. Guilty for being afraid. Guilty for threatening the fragile makeup of a neighborhood that is already broken.
Speaking of broken... we drove down to the house last night, and oh, was it dark. Simon was worried about just how poorly lit the street was, but I pointed out to him that it was primarily dark because there are no other occupied homes on the block. Sure enough, when we returned to our 'hood, we noted that the streetlights give off the same, dim and inadequate glow. And because there are three unoccupied homes on our block now, the street is still quite dark.
So we plan to light that house of ours up. And all week I have been browsing designs on HGTV.com and marthastewart.com and lowes.com and whatnot, looking at dream kitchens and dream living rooms--looking for paint colors and at cabinet-stains and lighting fixtures because we got the revised designs for our home... and we are now about to sign a purchase order! (If anyone knows how to attach a pdf. to this post, tell me and I will attach the plans.) I'll write more about this soon (I hope).
I realize that I have not described a strange week, at all. I guess it's just that when I look back these memories come to mind, and they feel weird, all together:
1) driving to the house at night
2) watching the Saints game
3) having a hard time sleeping
4) attending a family-literacy training workshop
5) complaining to my colleagues at happy hour on Friday about my lousy schedule and being perpetually on the bottom of the totem pole at my job
6) drinking margaritas at the Dragon's Den
7) scanning Katrina refrigerator magnets
8) reading Madame Bovary
9) attending a crime march
10) worrying
11) doing laundry
12) watching the season premiere of Rome
13) presenting a humanities-based discussion of Jane Goodall's book, "The Eagle and the Wren"
14) looking for the perfect boots
15) deciding on novels for my fiction course
16) watching the Golden Globes
17) going to choir practice
17) reading other blogs and feeling a) immature and b) unread.
I need to go to bed if I am going to start getting up--as I will have to--at 6:15.
So goodnight.
I did make something of myself over the past week. For one, I attended the crime march. It was just this past Thursday, but as with the week before, it feels like ages ago. I parked my car at Canal Place, walked to the meeting spot--the foot of the World Trade Center--and wandered around, reading signs, observing my neighbors, wondering where the minorities were. Later, we were in fact joined by members of the mostly-black Central City neighborhood, but it was once again a mostly-white protest. Many of the posters on the Bywater-Marigny nola.com forum derided folks for discussing the racial makeup of the march. Still, I wish the black community weren't so disenfranchised--and that our organizers (and yes, people like me) had done a better job of rallying minority residents. When I read (or hear) others saying that the issue isn't about race, I can't help but ask how it couldn't be.
But I am not feeling articulate enough to put this together.
At the march, I did see Marna David, a realtor we've met with about a few properties in Holy Cross. She was kind enough to give me a "HOLY CROSS, WE ARE REBUILDING" T-shirt, which I wore happily.
I felt a bit like an imposter, though, and I realized as I wore that shirt that I have very mixed emotions about our future (potential) move to HC. I can understand why the black community would want badly to protect HC and the lower ninth from gentrification by white folks like Simon and me. I am also a little afraid... not of the general criminal-element boogy-man, but of targeted attacks against us (whities) for moving to an area that black New Orleanians would understandably feel fiercely possessive of.
And then I was reading this evening about Holy Cross the school. I don't know what misguided notion I'd had before--somehow I thought it was a historically black boys' school--but that school is whitey-white-white. Evidently, the school's decision to move was not impacted solely by the damage brought by the storm, but instead by the neighborhood's shift in demographics--from middle-class immigrant (white) families (German and Italian) to lower and lower-middle-class black families. Apparently, many of the families whose boys attended the school lived in St. Bernard, a neighborhood whose reputation for white-flight is notorious. (Recently they even instituted an ordinance to force St. Bernard residents to rent only to family or other St. Bernard residents. At least this is what I'd heard. One doesn't need an imagination to realize that this ordinance would prevent the largely-black population from New Orleans that is desperate to return to affordable rentals from moving to St. Bernard.) Still: I am hoping, oh I am hoping that Holy Cross was moving for less dubious reasons. And I hope, too, that all that I heard about St. Bernard is not true.
I just feel so conflicted about our move there. Guilty for gentrifying. Guilty for being afraid. Guilty for threatening the fragile makeup of a neighborhood that is already broken.
Speaking of broken... we drove down to the house last night, and oh, was it dark. Simon was worried about just how poorly lit the street was, but I pointed out to him that it was primarily dark because there are no other occupied homes on the block. Sure enough, when we returned to our 'hood, we noted that the streetlights give off the same, dim and inadequate glow. And because there are three unoccupied homes on our block now, the street is still quite dark.
So we plan to light that house of ours up. And all week I have been browsing designs on HGTV.com and marthastewart.com and lowes.com and whatnot, looking at dream kitchens and dream living rooms--looking for paint colors and at cabinet-stains and lighting fixtures because we got the revised designs for our home... and we are now about to sign a purchase order! (If anyone knows how to attach a pdf. to this post, tell me and I will attach the plans.) I'll write more about this soon (I hope).
I realize that I have not described a strange week, at all. I guess it's just that when I look back these memories come to mind, and they feel weird, all together:
1) driving to the house at night
2) watching the Saints game
3) having a hard time sleeping
4) attending a family-literacy training workshop
5) complaining to my colleagues at happy hour on Friday about my lousy schedule and being perpetually on the bottom of the totem pole at my job
6) drinking margaritas at the Dragon's Den
7) scanning Katrina refrigerator magnets
8) reading Madame Bovary
9) attending a crime march
10) worrying
11) doing laundry
12) watching the season premiere of Rome
13) presenting a humanities-based discussion of Jane Goodall's book, "The Eagle and the Wren"
14) looking for the perfect boots
15) deciding on novels for my fiction course
16) watching the Golden Globes
17) going to choir practice
17) reading other blogs and feeling a) immature and b) unread.
I need to go to bed if I am going to start getting up--as I will have to--at 6:15.
So goodnight.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Please check out my other blog: www.nolafridge.blogspot.com. I've started to add the scanned-in magnets, and I'll be continually updating the blog until it's done (I hope it won't take longer than a week).
Nolafridge is a blog devoted to images of refrigerators discarded after Hurricane Katrina, and the magnets those refrigerators once wore. I'll present a paper about the project (its impetus, my struggles with collecting, archiving, and giving it a "purpose") at the Popular Culture Association's annual conference in Boston in April. I'd hoped to publish the project in book form, but couldn't find a publisher (full-color books are evidently very expensive), so I'm going with the blog, instead. I won't make any money, but the project was never about that, anyway.
The next phase will be to turn the magnets into a Mardi Grase costume--The Frigidaire Queen--using my wedding dress. More to come!
Nolafridge is a blog devoted to images of refrigerators discarded after Hurricane Katrina, and the magnets those refrigerators once wore. I'll present a paper about the project (its impetus, my struggles with collecting, archiving, and giving it a "purpose") at the Popular Culture Association's annual conference in Boston in April. I'd hoped to publish the project in book form, but couldn't find a publisher (full-color books are evidently very expensive), so I'm going with the blog, instead. I won't make any money, but the project was never about that, anyway.
The next phase will be to turn the magnets into a Mardi Grase costume--The Frigidaire Queen--using my wedding dress. More to come!
Sunday, January 07, 2007
It's hard for me to believe that it was just Thursday morning that Helen Hill was killed. Somehow this city feels so different to me now. As if weeks and weeks have gone by.
First, a clarification. I don't know if I mentioned this previously, but the early news reports seemed to imply that Paul Gailiunas (Helen's husband) opened the door that morning. Paul was a doctor known for his devotion to those living in poverty, and somehow I--and many others--began to imagine that Paul and Helen's generosity was taken advantage of. I've read a different account, posted on the nola.com Marigny/Bywater forum:
"If you are disturbed about no info on how the crime took place and who was the perpetrator, (like me)- I just ran into a friend of theirs who told me that Helen got up at 5:30a.m. to let the pet pig, Rosie, out of the back door, because she thought she needed to go-- that was when the guy came in and attacked her. She started screaming and he shot her, which roused Paul who came to her rescue-- getting shot 3 times himself. The guy was African-American in his young 20's. But, Paul didn't have his glasses on and couldn't tell much more. The guy fled, and evidently, Paul made it to the front door with Francis to try to get rescued.Paul is apparently back in Canada with Francis, and no thoughts of ever returning here. He is completely devastated."
Obviously, I can't rely on a grapevine account, either, and neither account makes me feel better or able to make sense of the murder (if anything, the nola.com account makes me more worried. If Helen was attacked, and if the perp was in the back yard, what was his motive?) For some reason, though, I have been consumed with the details of the murder, with the story of their lives together, and with the way in which the loss of Helen has drawn our community together even as it sends many running from New Orleans for what may, in fact, be safer ground.
Since the murder, the nola.com forum has been abuzz with plans for a march against crime that will take place next Thursday. When I read author Ken Foster's first suggestion that we march, I cringed:
"does anyone know if there is a march planned on city hall regarding the lack of response on crime and these recent murders.
Or, would anyone like to help coordinate one? I know too many people who are ready to leave town--and probably still will--yet it seems it is time to demand something in response rather than just the usual sit and wait which seems the status quo for the city's leaders. "
Or, would anyone like to help coordinate one? I know too many people who are ready to leave town--and probably still will--yet it seems it is time to demand something in response rather than just the usual sit and wait which seems the status quo for the city's leaders. "
I have attended a few New Orleans protests "in my day," but I quit a while ago because the New Orleans tendency to make everything into a parade made me feel as if we were accomplishing nothing. Maybe I sound fatalistic when I assume that we are taken less-than-seriously when we tote bongo drums, ride wacky bicycles, or "second line" when we protest something as serious as was--I say I'm being a realist.
Anyway, I worried that this "march on city hall" would become another pointless parade. We'd feel good about ourselves, we'd have a grand ol' time, but what would we actually accomplish? I also worried that the group would be nothing but rich, alarmist whiteys--and that rallying together would only further polarize the city on racial lines.
But I've got to give it to Ken Foster and my 'hood. Today a meeting was held to plan the march, and more than 200 people attended. Racial diversity and a broad representation of all New Orleans neighborhoods is a concern for others, too. AND we've all agreed to keep the silly stuff at home. We want to act and look as serious as we want to be taken. So, I will make a proud return to my protesting roots this Thursday. More soon...
Today Simon and I walked to Helen and Paul's house. The walk reminded me just how close, close, close we lived. I am sad that I didn't know them, my neighbors. Jackie told me last night that she remembers introducing me to Paul, and I do seem to remember him (I recognise him in photos), and saying to someone I met, "That's my brother's name!" (yes: brilliant.)
When we arrived at their house, the pile of flowers and letters had gotten soggy from last night's rain. Someone had crafted an angel wing from a piece of gold spray painted cardboard. In Sharpie, they'd written, "It rained so hard last night, it was almost like God was expressing all of our sorrow."
The front door to their home was open, and we didn't know what to do. It was almost as if we were scared to cross the threshold, and I found myself very morbidly looking at the hardwood flooring for traces of blood.
Inside, friends of theirs were boxing up their things, and thankfully, one of them spoke to us. He asked if we knew them, and we said we didn't, but that we were neighbors. The man (named Brad Ott, I think) said something along the lines of oh good, neighbors, and said how much they loved the neighborhood and everyone in it. He told us he'd pass along the card, and asked us to write down our contact info. We walked home. Simon and I hugged. We've hugged a lot in these past four days. I'd like to hug more to make up for all of the crying I've been doing.
Later, I went to the Riverwalk Mall for mindless shopping with one of my girlfriends. There can't possibly be a more beautiful view from a Banana Republic in all the world: steamboats going down the mighty Mississippi. I bought a sweater that was on sale. I came home and made stir fry and watched TV. I felt not at all like Helen Hill.
Maybe that's what has made these past few days seem like forever. It's not just that the neighborhood all of a sudden seems energized--that all of New Orleans now seems energized--it's that I have been reflecting a lot on my own life, and comparing it to that of Helen Hill. Helen Hill, with her thrift store clothes and her community activism, with her creativity and spirit. She was who I would like to be, and I think I have been feeling heavy-hearted because I am realizing that not only did we lose her, but I missed out on getting to meet her, on getting that wonderfulness to rub off on me. Oh, poo.
So tonight I sent an email to the owners of the B&B where the suspect first broke in before attacking Helen. One of the owners said to Adam Nossiter of the NY Times, “You know, there are people in this neighborhood trying to bring it back[...]I’m tired of this. I’m ready to torch the whole neighborhood.”
My email:
"Dear David and Dale,
I am your neighbor. In May, my husband and I were married at Bacchanal. My parents stayed at Sweet Olive (as they had before and will again). Having them just a short walk away and in a place they loved meant a lot to both them and us. Since then, we have continued to spread the word about your wonderful place.
The Sweet Olive is a wonderful place because of you and the love you've filled the house with. I hate to think that an intruder could threaten that.
Still, I can understand how frustrated you must be (Dave, I read of your frustration in the NY Times.) As longtime residents of the Marigny, we can relate to the fear and anger you've expressed. Nevertheless, I feel strongly that this city needs the love and commitment of people like you.
We hope you'll stay. If there's anything we can do for you, please let us know.
Your neighbors,
Sarah and Simon"
I am your neighbor. In May, my husband and I were married at Bacchanal. My parents stayed at Sweet Olive (as they had before and will again). Having them just a short walk away and in a place they loved meant a lot to both them and us. Since then, we have continued to spread the word about your wonderful place.
The Sweet Olive is a wonderful place because of you and the love you've filled the house with. I hate to think that an intruder could threaten that.
Still, I can understand how frustrated you must be (Dave, I read of your frustration in the NY Times.) As longtime residents of the Marigny, we can relate to the fear and anger you've expressed. Nevertheless, I feel strongly that this city needs the love and commitment of people like you.
We hope you'll stay. If there's anything we can do for you, please let us know.
Your neighbors,
Sarah and Simon"
So maybe Helen has rubbed off on me. At least I'd like to think so...
Good (peaceful) night, all.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
On the way to see “Dreamgirls,” I heard a segment on NPR about the drummer for the Hot 8 Brass Band, who was shot and killed last week. The bullet was intended for his 15-year-old stepson. The Hot 8 are now considering leaving New Orleans.
After the movie (which was nothing remarkable, ‘though the music felt good), I turned on WWOZ and heard DJ Brice Nice (who DJ’d our wedding reception) playing a tribute show to both Dinerral and Helen Hill, the young mother who was murdered two days ago. The songs ranged from brass band music to protest songs, to funny ditties her husband played, including “Opposite Machine,” and “Accidental Attraction.” I felt as if I’d heard the band before, and I was so, so, sad all of a sudden.
I’d not driven by Helen and Paul’s home, though they live just four blocks from us. When I was without a car, I would ride my bike by their house on my way home from bartending. I would never do that now. Is it that I am older, and do we really get more conservative? Or is it just that I am wiser and not so naïve?
I am scared by the aftermath of these murders. On nola.com, people are posting that these killings are the last straw, and that they plan to move away now. Others hang on defiantly. I watch and worry. One poster repeatedly writes, “Tear down the projects!” and I feel sick and scared.
One has to imagine that the people who killed Dinerral and Helen were desperate, and I think the environment here is fueling that desperation. The landscape is horrible, and the message we hear from our “leaders”—through stagnation and no evidence of progress—is that they don’t care about us. It is difficult, when no one cares for you, to care about or for yourself. And as someone on NPR said this evening, “Poverty is a form of violence, itself.” New Orleans has, and continues to breed poverty.
So how willing are we—am I—to stay put? To fight both for those who have less—as Dinerral, as Helen, and as her husband (who was cradling their 2-year-old, Francis Pop, in his arms, kneeling over his dying wife)—fought? Is it worth the risk?
In line for popcorn at the movies, I told Brandi that I’d been crying over this in the car, and a woman in front of me in line asked if there were any leads. No. No leads. Evidently the shooter may be the same person who broke into Sweet Olive (the B&B where my parents always stay). The police were responding to a call there when they hear four or five shots and ran just two houses down to find Helen dead. It could have been the same person. No description has been given. I don’t know why.
But here, it is almost a foregone conclusion. The man is black. A drug addict. He has no regard for anyone’s life, much less his own. And this assumption is fueling the kind of anger that scares me so much. I imagine Helen Hill would have felt the same concern.
How do we deal with our fear? How do we address it, and at the same time, address our need for security and safety in this volatile and right now frightening place? I am almost as afraid of the polarization I see coming out of the response to Helen’s murder as I am of the killer, himself.
And there is something at the heart of my mourning that is even more complicated. I feel so resolutely sure that I am meant to stay here precisely because of people like Dinerral and Helen. The fact is, they (educators, creative forces, givers) are not exceptions in New Orleans. In fact, there are many, many, many more like them. It’s one of the things that drew me here, in the first place.
When I drove past Helen and Paul's house, I realized just how close it is to our own. A carpet of candles and flowers covered the stoop. I cried. Hard.
But, as I mourn the loss of these two amazing souls, I am sure, somehow, that they would want us—that they would want me—to stay and lay claim to this city. It might seem naïve, but now, here, I prefer to see it as wise.
After the movie (which was nothing remarkable, ‘though the music felt good), I turned on WWOZ and heard DJ Brice Nice (who DJ’d our wedding reception) playing a tribute show to both Dinerral and Helen Hill, the young mother who was murdered two days ago. The songs ranged from brass band music to protest songs, to funny ditties her husband played, including “Opposite Machine,” and “Accidental Attraction.” I felt as if I’d heard the band before, and I was so, so, sad all of a sudden.
I’d not driven by Helen and Paul’s home, though they live just four blocks from us. When I was without a car, I would ride my bike by their house on my way home from bartending. I would never do that now. Is it that I am older, and do we really get more conservative? Or is it just that I am wiser and not so naïve?
I am scared by the aftermath of these murders. On nola.com, people are posting that these killings are the last straw, and that they plan to move away now. Others hang on defiantly. I watch and worry. One poster repeatedly writes, “Tear down the projects!” and I feel sick and scared.
One has to imagine that the people who killed Dinerral and Helen were desperate, and I think the environment here is fueling that desperation. The landscape is horrible, and the message we hear from our “leaders”—through stagnation and no evidence of progress—is that they don’t care about us. It is difficult, when no one cares for you, to care about or for yourself. And as someone on NPR said this evening, “Poverty is a form of violence, itself.” New Orleans has, and continues to breed poverty.
So how willing are we—am I—to stay put? To fight both for those who have less—as Dinerral, as Helen, and as her husband (who was cradling their 2-year-old, Francis Pop, in his arms, kneeling over his dying wife)—fought? Is it worth the risk?
In line for popcorn at the movies, I told Brandi that I’d been crying over this in the car, and a woman in front of me in line asked if there were any leads. No. No leads. Evidently the shooter may be the same person who broke into Sweet Olive (the B&B where my parents always stay). The police were responding to a call there when they hear four or five shots and ran just two houses down to find Helen dead. It could have been the same person. No description has been given. I don’t know why.
But here, it is almost a foregone conclusion. The man is black. A drug addict. He has no regard for anyone’s life, much less his own. And this assumption is fueling the kind of anger that scares me so much. I imagine Helen Hill would have felt the same concern.
How do we deal with our fear? How do we address it, and at the same time, address our need for security and safety in this volatile and right now frightening place? I am almost as afraid of the polarization I see coming out of the response to Helen’s murder as I am of the killer, himself.
And there is something at the heart of my mourning that is even more complicated. I feel so resolutely sure that I am meant to stay here precisely because of people like Dinerral and Helen. The fact is, they (educators, creative forces, givers) are not exceptions in New Orleans. In fact, there are many, many, many more like them. It’s one of the things that drew me here, in the first place.
When I drove past Helen and Paul's house, I realized just how close it is to our own. A carpet of candles and flowers covered the stoop. I cried. Hard.
But, as I mourn the loss of these two amazing souls, I am sure, somehow, that they would want us—that they would want me—to stay and lay claim to this city. It might seem naïve, but now, here, I prefer to see it as wise.
Friday, January 05, 2007
In an effort to get mind off of the horrible murder down the street, I've focused my efforts this morning on coming up with a pitch for an NBC TV show that's holding a casting call today in New Orleans. The show, called "Fortune" will give money to participants to fulfill some sort of dream. Now, of course New Orleans is filled with folks lacking the funds to fulfill even the most basic of dreams (dreams which arguably shouldn't have to be dreams, even--like rebuilding a home or a park that's been ravaged by the storm). Like those "dreams," my own has TV written all over it. I want to build a bridge.
In 1912, when the by-now notorious Industrial Canal was built between the lower ninth ward (including the Holy Cross neighborhood, where Simon and I plan to move next summer), it effectively isolated the Lower 9 from the rest of the city, which resulted in disinvestment (if that's a word) in the area, and a general downturn in the area's value and viability as a historic community. The two bridges which connect the Lower 9 with the rest of the city lie at Claiborne Avenue and St. Claude. Both drawbridges, they are hulking and unsightly structures--neither of which is pedestrian or cyclist-friendly. In a city where only 40% of the residents own cars, and where public transportation has become increasingly sporadic and inaccessible, post-K, these bridges further isolate the Lower 9, making an already-difficult revitalization of the neighborhood even more difficult.
My idea was to "pitch" the rebuilding of the St. Claude Avenue bridge. The St. Claude bridge is the smaller of the two bridges, and the one that connects the historic Bywater with hictoric Holy Cross. The bridge is narrow and far too scary for any pedestrian to safely cross. As the Preservation Resource Center's Operation Comeback steps up its focus on the revitalization of Holy Cross, and as other factors begin to bring life back to Holy Cross (Brad Pitt's Global Green Project; the rebuilding of the Jackson Barracks), a new bridge would aid the comeback of the Lower 9, including Holy Cross.
But there are more selfish reasons that I want this bridge to be improved. When I talked to Terrence about our moving across the Canal, he was sad because he said he wouldn't be able to see us anymore. I told him that of course he would, but really, he's right. He can't drive, and without a passable pedestrian bridge, he'll not be able to come see us. Jackie won't be able to ride her bike to our house as she now does. And in general, that narrow and uninviting bridge will discourage our friends from coming over to visit us.
So I'm getting my "pitch" together, and I start doing research, only to discover that of course, the notorious Corps of Engineers in in charge of the fate of the bridge. They do, in fact, have plans to rebuild it--in 2015. Their plans, though, focus on industry and improving the flow of maritime traffic, not on aiding the neighborhoods (which shouldn't surprise me, I suppose). There's a clause that suggests that two weeks before the destruction of the current bridge, an "advertising period" will occur, allowing for private entities to vie for possession of the bridge, but who, I ask you, would want to own and maintain a bridge when they know the government will foot the bill? Anyways, my little dream was squashed by the reality of bureaucracy. I suppose this is what so many homeowners with their own "dreams" are experiencing right now.
My dream effectively killed, I turn, then, to my next project: scanning months' worth of refrigerator magnets for my upcoming Nolafridge presentation at the American Popular Culture Association. (See my other blog.)
Sigh... I guess it's better than having the morbid thoughts that have possessed me for the past 24 hours. Again: sigh.
In 1912, when the by-now notorious Industrial Canal was built between the lower ninth ward (including the Holy Cross neighborhood, where Simon and I plan to move next summer), it effectively isolated the Lower 9 from the rest of the city, which resulted in disinvestment (if that's a word) in the area, and a general downturn in the area's value and viability as a historic community. The two bridges which connect the Lower 9 with the rest of the city lie at Claiborne Avenue and St. Claude. Both drawbridges, they are hulking and unsightly structures--neither of which is pedestrian or cyclist-friendly. In a city where only 40% of the residents own cars, and where public transportation has become increasingly sporadic and inaccessible, post-K, these bridges further isolate the Lower 9, making an already-difficult revitalization of the neighborhood even more difficult.
My idea was to "pitch" the rebuilding of the St. Claude Avenue bridge. The St. Claude bridge is the smaller of the two bridges, and the one that connects the historic Bywater with hictoric Holy Cross. The bridge is narrow and far too scary for any pedestrian to safely cross. As the Preservation Resource Center's Operation Comeback steps up its focus on the revitalization of Holy Cross, and as other factors begin to bring life back to Holy Cross (Brad Pitt's Global Green Project; the rebuilding of the Jackson Barracks), a new bridge would aid the comeback of the Lower 9, including Holy Cross.
But there are more selfish reasons that I want this bridge to be improved. When I talked to Terrence about our moving across the Canal, he was sad because he said he wouldn't be able to see us anymore. I told him that of course he would, but really, he's right. He can't drive, and without a passable pedestrian bridge, he'll not be able to come see us. Jackie won't be able to ride her bike to our house as she now does. And in general, that narrow and uninviting bridge will discourage our friends from coming over to visit us.
So I'm getting my "pitch" together, and I start doing research, only to discover that of course, the notorious Corps of Engineers in in charge of the fate of the bridge. They do, in fact, have plans to rebuild it--in 2015. Their plans, though, focus on industry and improving the flow of maritime traffic, not on aiding the neighborhoods (which shouldn't surprise me, I suppose). There's a clause that suggests that two weeks before the destruction of the current bridge, an "advertising period" will occur, allowing for private entities to vie for possession of the bridge, but who, I ask you, would want to own and maintain a bridge when they know the government will foot the bill? Anyways, my little dream was squashed by the reality of bureaucracy. I suppose this is what so many homeowners with their own "dreams" are experiencing right now.
My dream effectively killed, I turn, then, to my next project: scanning months' worth of refrigerator magnets for my upcoming Nolafridge presentation at the American Popular Culture Association. (See my other blog.)
Sigh... I guess it's better than having the morbid thoughts that have possessed me for the past 24 hours. Again: sigh.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Not good. This young couple opened their door to a stranger at 5:30 am. We would have done the same. I am spooked, and most definitely sad for the husband and son of the talented mother who's responsible for the wonderful little animated film you can see by clicking on day 9 at this site.
Also, it appears that the perpetrator did, in fact, break into Sweet Olive B&B--either before or after the murder.
Also, it appears that the perpetrator did, in fact, break into Sweet Olive B&B--either before or after the murder.
This morning a woman was murdered four blocks east of our house. I don't know the details--the info released on WWL-TV's site is sketchy--but the speculations on the Bywater/Marigny forum scare me.
Now, I am NOT an alarmist, but I must admit that this has me shaken. I am home alone today, and I think that maybe I'll run some errands away from home until I know more. I may also drive by Sweet Olive B&B to find out what I can do (if anything) to help.
Now, I am NOT an alarmist, but I must admit that this has me shaken. I am home alone today, and I think that maybe I'll run some errands away from home until I know more. I may also drive by Sweet Olive B&B to find out what I can do (if anything) to help.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
An article in today's Times-Picayune addresses roadblocks to the Musicians' Village for many of its intended inhabitants (musicians). Back in October I wrote a piece for nolafugees.com about learning that I was ineligible for the Village (for different reasons) and bemoaning the out-of-town bongo-drum-chick's ability to cruise right on in to her 20 year, no-interest mortgage.
Oh, and those damn mortgages!
Simon and I met with staff at the Preservation Resource Center today. It appears our meagre budget might, in fact, not be enough for the house at 717 Deslonde. The architect was in attendance, and she was very amenable to our suggestions for improvements to the plans, but we are learning just how expensive these things can be. The house will have 1300 square feet of living space, and we have no sense of just how much a total renovation of house with said square-footage should be, but we both get the impression that if we went it alone, we could make it happen, for sure, within our budget... sigh. If only we knew what we were doing.
We feel so in the dark about all of this house-buying stuff, and with Simon returning to teaching tomorrow, and my return to teaching soon, we will not be able to devote ourselves to the kind of research and legwork that feels necessary in such a huge undertaking. Because Simon is a Brit, he's wary of realtors and wants us to act as much as possible on our own behalf. I'm all for it, but right now I'm feeling pretty adrift and confused. Should we buy the PRC house--with its solid restoration (down the the nails), even though it appears it will be more expensive than doing the work ourselves? How the heck does one teach full-time (and live a life, maintain a new marriage, etc., etc.,) and renovate a flooded home? And even if we did have the time, how could we pay rent in our current house AND pay for the renovation? What is it that makes us feel we should be buying, anyhow? We've got a great rental in a fine location. Or is it that we are looking for something more? (Something more like Home.)
I guess I should just console myself with the dream of finally being in that new home. Of having a bedroom with a door we can close (in our single, L-shaped shotgun, our doorless bedroom is stuck between the living room and kitchen, and therefore gets more traffic than any of the four other rooms). Of having neighbors who stay. Of being away, away, from the darn train. Of walking a couple of blocks to the levee, where we'd watch another of those sunsets... Ah, that's more like it. (See: I am trying to end my typically-bleak posts on a lighter note!)
Oh, and those damn mortgages!
Simon and I met with staff at the Preservation Resource Center today. It appears our meagre budget might, in fact, not be enough for the house at 717 Deslonde. The architect was in attendance, and she was very amenable to our suggestions for improvements to the plans, but we are learning just how expensive these things can be. The house will have 1300 square feet of living space, and we have no sense of just how much a total renovation of house with said square-footage should be, but we both get the impression that if we went it alone, we could make it happen, for sure, within our budget... sigh. If only we knew what we were doing.
We feel so in the dark about all of this house-buying stuff, and with Simon returning to teaching tomorrow, and my return to teaching soon, we will not be able to devote ourselves to the kind of research and legwork that feels necessary in such a huge undertaking. Because Simon is a Brit, he's wary of realtors and wants us to act as much as possible on our own behalf. I'm all for it, but right now I'm feeling pretty adrift and confused. Should we buy the PRC house--with its solid restoration (down the the nails), even though it appears it will be more expensive than doing the work ourselves? How the heck does one teach full-time (and live a life, maintain a new marriage, etc., etc.,) and renovate a flooded home? And even if we did have the time, how could we pay rent in our current house AND pay for the renovation? What is it that makes us feel we should be buying, anyhow? We've got a great rental in a fine location. Or is it that we are looking for something more? (Something more like Home.)
I guess I should just console myself with the dream of finally being in that new home. Of having a bedroom with a door we can close (in our single, L-shaped shotgun, our doorless bedroom is stuck between the living room and kitchen, and therefore gets more traffic than any of the four other rooms). Of having neighbors who stay. Of being away, away, from the darn train. Of walking a couple of blocks to the levee, where we'd watch another of those sunsets... Ah, that's more like it. (See: I am trying to end my typically-bleak posts on a lighter note!)
Monday, January 01, 2007
Best wishes, all for a happy and healthy 2007.
We spent our eve at the Mid-City bonfires--one of those very "local" events that makes one happy, happy, happy, to be back in New Orleans. Families and friends pile their Christmas trees on the neutral ground of Orleans Avenue, and at midnight the trees are lit, for a spectacular bonfire. Everyone's shooting off fireworks (perhaps dangerously, yes), and a few folks get naked and run rings around the fire. It's not a city-sanctioned event, but the cops and the fire department are there. Last night I watched one cop wait in his car for someone's firecrackers to go off before he drove on. It just feels so good to have the powers that be actually there to protect you... rare. We all glowed and drank champagne and rang in the New Year happily.
Today we drove down to Holy Cross for the umpteenth time. What we love most about the neighborhood is its access to the river. All this time we've lived in the Bywater/Marigny, we've lived just blocks from the river, but we've never been able to see it unless we drive into the Quarter--massive concrete "locks" block us from the view and from access to the space. In Holy Cross, there's a beautiful footpath and benches along the river, and a spectacular view of the city. Yesterday we saw our first sunset there. I hope there will be many more.
Tomorrow we meet with the Preservation Resource Center to discuss 717 Deslonde, the home we may (we hope) buy. If I've not mentioned the PRC's work before: their Operation Comeback program is designed to revive historic homes in historic neighborhoods.
717 Deslonde was slated for demolition. It's been in the same family for the past 85 years, and before the storm, two sisters lived there--the daughters of German immigrants. The house really feels wonderful--like it's been loved--and there's a big yard, to boot. While our primary reason for moving out of the Marigny-Bywater is being unable to afford the area, we are excited, too, about the larger land parcels. The neighborhood has a long way to go--as most of the city does--in terms of recovery, but we are hopeful.
Yesterday I read the post of a blogger who is also entertaining the idea of moving to Holy Cross. She wrote that friends cautioned her against that move because of the crime. Having spent many days in the area, and having driven there at night, I don't have the sense of its being a crime-ridden area, at all, but because it is part of the Lower Ninth Ward, it seems that most people assume the worst of it, as they do all of the Lower Ninth.
But when I am in Holy Cross, I feel like I am in an actual neighborhood--a place where people live in their homes for a long time, where they have families and lives, as opposed to a place like the Bywater-Marigny, where so many of us are simply "stopping" for a while. In our neighborhood, everyone seems young and in transition--or they are real estate investors who own property upon property and rent them out. I look forward to feeling at home in Holy Cross. Now, if we could only be sure that they'd close the MR-GO (I'll write about the research I've done into the nature of the flooding in Holy Cross soon. Right now I've got to make black-eyed peas and greens for good luck.)
Here's to a productive new year--and one that finds us all at home, wherever we are.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Merry Christmas, all! Simon and I are spending our holiday with my family in Atlanta--a fast and soulless city that nonetheless works. Well--with one exception: we could not find a place to watch the Saints game yesterday that wold broadcast the sound. No--they needed to listen to the depressing calls of the Falcons descending deeper into their pit of mediocrity. Still, we drank pints and watched the soundless game as happily as we could, sound or no. Mostly we wanted to be with other fans. There are 85,000 New Orleanians now living here, so you would think we could have found them. Anyway, the Saints stomped the Giants, and it was a fun game to watch (even in the ultra-lame ESPN Zone in Buckhead).
I have been feeling a lot older this Christmas. At the midnight service last night, I ran into the mother of a girl I used to babysit. Her daughter is now 23 and living with her boyfriend. Our usual Christmas traditions have taken either a hiatus or have permanently ended this year (a Christmas Eve dinner we've gone to since I was nine.) And we fought at the dinner table last night; not an adult event, but one that felt, somehow, like the result of us all getting older and more stubborn. It appears I have become my father's daughter to the umpteenth degree--and while I love him, the mean-streak I've developed is not a gene we wear proudly. We fought over who left the lights on. Yes, really. And now I want to go home. I'm hoping the gluttony and spoils of the day (I am always, always, spoiled when I come home) will change my mood.
Before we left, things were much more jolly. I'd started a post which I never finished. Here are its beginnings (from the 22nd):
Ah, the holidays... this is what I needed. Simon is in the kitchen (where a man belongs! ; ) making spaghetti, we've got family with us, and we spent a lovely day--strolling the Quarter, riding the Algiers ferry across the Mississippi, and (loudly) singing carols in Jackson Square.
Yesterday was not as jolly. It rained for hours and hours on end, and when we drove down to Holy Cross to see the house we've been considering buying, we discovered six inches of water covering the street and saturating the yard.
I was sad. We'd fallen in love with a house that the Preservation Resource Center will be renovating--a lovely little shotgun that was in the same family (whose German name suggests they may have been part of the substantial German immigrant population in Holy Cross) for 85 years. She's small, but the PRC has planned an addition that will allow us room for a family, and she backs up onto the now-abandoned site of Holy Cross school, which could become something wonderful--like a community center--or something lame (condos). Buying in Holy Cross is a gamble for many reasons. But for a couple of teacher with a hefty load of school-debt in tow, it's our only option--and it's one we're happy about, actually.
We'd discovered Holy Cross after I published a piece on my friends' website--a piece about realizing that we're a) grown-up and b) middle-class, and at the same time c) unable to afford a home on high ground in New Orleans. The neighborhood where we rent has become populated by a bunch of aggressive investment realtors out to make a buck off of renters, and also aggressive gentrifiers who call the police when they see more than two black people sitting on a stoop together. There are no longer children, and the artists that once populated the Marigny/Bywater can hardly afford to live here. While we CAN afford to live here (thanks to our kind landlords who are also dear friends), we don't want to live in this whitewashed neighborhood any longer.
The neighborhood association meetings here are mostly bitch-slapping bouts focused on aesthetic matters like roofing-style or policing dog-poop. In the months immediately following the storm, neighbors shrieked about their cable taking too long to be restored, and it felt, well, embarrassing.
Many of the most active neighbors here remind me of my entitled Tulane students--how they are ignorant of others' suffering, and therefore have an exaggerrated sense of their own suffering. Just as I chose to leave Tulane for a (less prestigious) job at UNO (where I love the students), I know want to leave the cat-fights here for the community we've found in Holy Cross.
Of course, there are also the more obvious reasons to leave our neighborhood: no parks, no green space, and one very loud train that we were once used to but that now seems all of a sudden to be louder, closer, and running more frequently. There's a sometimes-violent bar on the corner, too. And the traffic and the noise. And the house under perpetual renovation next door. And there's the wasted money on rent. Plus, I think we're just ready to go.
So anyway I wrote this piece for my friends' site, and in writing it I did research on what houses in the city we COULD afford. I put $150,000 as the price limit (too much, actually--we can't really afford that much) and found nothing but gutted and flooded homes. I kept looking, and soon two pretty renovations appeared in the Holy Cross neighborhood.
When I mention Holy Cross, folks generally want to know where it is. Holy Cross is a mile and a half east of us, just on the other side of the Industrial Canal. It's in the lower ninth ward. Yes-- that lower ninth ward. That is usually enough to have people asking why we would want to live there.
We want to live in Holy Cross because we can afford it, because it is on relative high ground, because it has access to walking trails along the levee, and because it is still diverse. We attended a neighborhood association meeting recently and when we left, I was glowing. I sang carols with Miss Maebell--a real, live old person living in the neighborhood. Simon and I painted pet rocks at the kiddy-table. We met diverse and kind neighbors. I glowed.
(...Here's where that previous, unfinished, post ends. I will continue the tales of our journey towards a home of our own soon.
In the meantime--I love you all, dear readers (Mom, Dannielle, and Mickey). Merry Christmas! Mickey, I hear that Henry's "sacbutt" (sp?) is in the shop. Nevermind--we'll make kick-butt music, all the same.)
Here's to a day of glowing! Oh, how I love to glow!
I have been feeling a lot older this Christmas. At the midnight service last night, I ran into the mother of a girl I used to babysit. Her daughter is now 23 and living with her boyfriend. Our usual Christmas traditions have taken either a hiatus or have permanently ended this year (a Christmas Eve dinner we've gone to since I was nine.) And we fought at the dinner table last night; not an adult event, but one that felt, somehow, like the result of us all getting older and more stubborn. It appears I have become my father's daughter to the umpteenth degree--and while I love him, the mean-streak I've developed is not a gene we wear proudly. We fought over who left the lights on. Yes, really. And now I want to go home. I'm hoping the gluttony and spoils of the day (I am always, always, spoiled when I come home) will change my mood.
Before we left, things were much more jolly. I'd started a post which I never finished. Here are its beginnings (from the 22nd):
Ah, the holidays... this is what I needed. Simon is in the kitchen (where a man belongs! ; ) making spaghetti, we've got family with us, and we spent a lovely day--strolling the Quarter, riding the Algiers ferry across the Mississippi, and (loudly) singing carols in Jackson Square.
Yesterday was not as jolly. It rained for hours and hours on end, and when we drove down to Holy Cross to see the house we've been considering buying, we discovered six inches of water covering the street and saturating the yard.
I was sad. We'd fallen in love with a house that the Preservation Resource Center will be renovating--a lovely little shotgun that was in the same family (whose German name suggests they may have been part of the substantial German immigrant population in Holy Cross) for 85 years. She's small, but the PRC has planned an addition that will allow us room for a family, and she backs up onto the now-abandoned site of Holy Cross school, which could become something wonderful--like a community center--or something lame (condos). Buying in Holy Cross is a gamble for many reasons. But for a couple of teacher with a hefty load of school-debt in tow, it's our only option--and it's one we're happy about, actually.
We'd discovered Holy Cross after I published a piece on my friends' website--a piece about realizing that we're a) grown-up and b) middle-class, and at the same time c) unable to afford a home on high ground in New Orleans. The neighborhood where we rent has become populated by a bunch of aggressive investment realtors out to make a buck off of renters, and also aggressive gentrifiers who call the police when they see more than two black people sitting on a stoop together. There are no longer children, and the artists that once populated the Marigny/Bywater can hardly afford to live here. While we CAN afford to live here (thanks to our kind landlords who are also dear friends), we don't want to live in this whitewashed neighborhood any longer.
The neighborhood association meetings here are mostly bitch-slapping bouts focused on aesthetic matters like roofing-style or policing dog-poop. In the months immediately following the storm, neighbors shrieked about their cable taking too long to be restored, and it felt, well, embarrassing.
Many of the most active neighbors here remind me of my entitled Tulane students--how they are ignorant of others' suffering, and therefore have an exaggerrated sense of their own suffering. Just as I chose to leave Tulane for a (less prestigious) job at UNO (where I love the students), I know want to leave the cat-fights here for the community we've found in Holy Cross.
Of course, there are also the more obvious reasons to leave our neighborhood: no parks, no green space, and one very loud train that we were once used to but that now seems all of a sudden to be louder, closer, and running more frequently. There's a sometimes-violent bar on the corner, too. And the traffic and the noise. And the house under perpetual renovation next door. And there's the wasted money on rent. Plus, I think we're just ready to go.
So anyway I wrote this piece for my friends' site, and in writing it I did research on what houses in the city we COULD afford. I put $150,000 as the price limit (too much, actually--we can't really afford that much) and found nothing but gutted and flooded homes. I kept looking, and soon two pretty renovations appeared in the Holy Cross neighborhood.
When I mention Holy Cross, folks generally want to know where it is. Holy Cross is a mile and a half east of us, just on the other side of the Industrial Canal. It's in the lower ninth ward. Yes-- that lower ninth ward. That is usually enough to have people asking why we would want to live there.
We want to live in Holy Cross because we can afford it, because it is on relative high ground, because it has access to walking trails along the levee, and because it is still diverse. We attended a neighborhood association meeting recently and when we left, I was glowing. I sang carols with Miss Maebell--a real, live old person living in the neighborhood. Simon and I painted pet rocks at the kiddy-table. We met diverse and kind neighbors. I glowed.
(...Here's where that previous, unfinished, post ends. I will continue the tales of our journey towards a home of our own soon.
In the meantime--I love you all, dear readers (Mom, Dannielle, and Mickey). Merry Christmas! Mickey, I hear that Henry's "sacbutt" (sp?) is in the shop. Nevermind--we'll make kick-butt music, all the same.)
Here's to a day of glowing! Oh, how I love to glow!
Monday, December 18, 2006
Rest In Peace, Gus!
On Saturday--my Dad's birthday and the day of our annual holiday party--my mom called to say that our family cat of 17 years had been attacked by a dog in the driveway. They had to put him to sleep. Gus (short for "Generally Useless and Stupid") was a good cat. Fat and unhappy, but he gave the love freely, for sure. I picked him out with my dad when I was thirteen.
Gus did NOT deserve to go that way. Unfortunately, that he did means that this cat-lady is now even more anti-dog than I already was (the licking, the humping, the smell--I just have never really "gotten" dogs).
This is not the first cat I lost to a dog. In 1999, shortly after I moved into this house, I woke to hear a brawl outside. I was living alone--Sam was off travelling--and I got up, put on a robe, and went out to find four dogs emerging from the yard next door. I called for my cats--Poydras and Georgie--and only Georgie came. I remember I wnet in and grabbed some cat food to shake--the usual way I'd get the cats to come inside--but Poydras still didn't come. I felt like I heard a whimper at one point, but I still couldn't find her. After about an hour, I went back to bed, hopeful that Poydras was merely off with a new buddy.
The next day, when Poydras still didn't come when called, I walked around the neighborhood with the cat food. I remember that when I came home, I saw a stray in the yard next door. It was eating something dead. I went into my backyard, climbed a chair, and discovered Poydras--dead and being picked at by a stray. I wailed. I mean I wailed and wailed and wailed. My dear friend and fellow cat-lady, Jackie, came over and helped me bury Poydras. It took me a long time to recover from that one. In fact, there are certain images, certain memories (knowing, for instance, that my baby could hear me calling but couldn't answer) that I try not to recall. Losing Gus to a dog brought all of that up.
So this dog's name was "Beethoven," and it was his birthday, too. Evidently he belongs to the schizophrenic son of some neighbors who have struggled over whether or not to have him euthanized because he had already mauled another neighbor's cat (that one survived but now has just three legs). This we learned when they called to apologize about Gus and to ask for advice about what to do. It seems the son has not been doing very well lately, and the parents worry about what the loss of his dog would do to him. So they shared this on my parents' answering-machine, and now my mom is struggling with their own grief--and now the burden of knowing their own struggles, too.
Now, I am ultra-senstitive to the needs--and rights--of the mentally-ill. But I am frankly a little angry that the family chose to share this with my mom. An unfortunate trait that I share with my mom is perpetual guilt. We are empathetic to a fault. So I know exactly how she is feeling right now--torn. But why did the family have to share this? I'm sure they are genuinely struggling with what to do, but it almost feels manipulative that they would share this with my mom, who really should only be concerned with how to keep that dog away from other families' pets. My advice to my mom was to call and tell them that the decision to euthanize would have to be their own, but that we would like the dog to be removed from the neighborhood. Maybe they have friends or relatives with some land--and hopefully no helpless cats or kids around.
Sigh! It all just sucks a whole, whole lot. I know it was hard on my dad, too, who in the usual dad-fashion handled everything very well but said to me, "If I see that dog outside again... that's it." I share that unfortunate trait--blind rage--with my dad. And I know that if I were to see that dog, I'd have a really hard time not wailing on him something good. I am really tolerant, and very understanding of flaws and mistakes and all of that, but if someone or something hurts those I love, all that love and understanding gets compressed into rage, rage, rage. It's worse after the storm, too. So the bottom line is that the dog needs to go before Simon and I go to Atlanta for the holidays at week's end.
So on Saturday, while I made spinach dip, stuffed mushrooms, red-and-green cornflake treats, and hot cider, I put on a sad CD and allowed myself a good cry. Later, around the campfire, my friends listened to my rummy speech about the cat and we all "cheers"-ed to Gus and poured a little booze out for my kitty-homey. I have really very excellent friends.
There's so much more to tell--about our plans to move, about the state of the city and all things Katrina--but I am drained from the cat and dog episode, and also perhaps from the long semester. Now that I've had a few days to decompress, I feel more tired, not less. I have been slowly wrapping gifts, sleeping late, contemplating taking on any of the myriad tasks on my long list, and getting a whole lot of nothing done. Maybe it's the gray weather and all the fog. Maybe it's that I am really just tired and need to listen to my blues and sleep while the gettin's good. Who knows. For now, I'll make my way to the mountain of dishes in the kitchen, drag myself to a going away party that promises to be sadder than hell (another friend who's decided to leave the city...), and get up at the McCrackin' of dawn for a dentist's appointment.
Tis the season!
(This, by the way, is our Christmas tree. Last year we got a real one because they were giving them away on Canal. This year, no more free trees. It appears even Santa has Katrina-fatigue. This one still gets the job done, though--and an added bonus was that it attracted buckmoths. Buckmoths come from the wretched and poisonous buckmoth caterpillar that rains from oak trees in New Orleans. While they are generally just vicious creatures, they make excellent ornaments! There: that's a cheerier ending!)
(This, by the way, is our Christmas tree. Last year we got a real one because they were giving them away on Canal. This year, no more free trees. It appears even Santa has Katrina-fatigue. This one still gets the job done, though--and an added bonus was that it attracted buckmoths. Buckmoths come from the wretched and poisonous buckmoth caterpillar that rains from oak trees in New Orleans. While they are generally just vicious creatures, they make excellent ornaments! There: that's a cheerier ending!)What I MEANT to say was 'TIS THE SEASON!!!!
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Today was uplifting, thanks to my ESL students. It was our last class, and so we gathered for a party. Kanyaluk brought a spicy Thai "salad" (even the salads in Thai food are meaty); Prudencio brought a bubble-gum tasting lemonade from Peru; Naun brought sandwiches from the shop where he works as a line cook; I brought myself--and a stressed-out self at that.
The semester is ending, and so I have been swamped with grading piles of student papers and fielding panicked phone calls of students who should've decided to care a long time ago. These are my UNO students--and while some of them seem grateful for my teaching, they are nowhere near as enthusiastic about learning as my ESL students are. I will miss the ESL group, and I hope I'll have time to volunteer in the spring.
In addition to the happy fact that the semester is ending is our upcoming annual holiday party. This will be the fifth year I've thrown the party--and it may be the final year that the party will be held at this address. Our backyard is the perfect place to entertain. It's big, and the branches of a large oak tree in the back yard spread over the entire space. That canopy keeps us cozy in the winter air (yes, it does get cold in New Orleans), along with candles and a camp fire (and music and friends and hot cider with rum).
I get almost weepy thinking about leaving this backyard behind, but Simon and I have decided to move. The housing market has begin to favor buyers, and we have decided that 2007 will be a good time for us to move. We wish we could stay where we are, but the home has sentimental value to its owners. Of course, it does to us, too. But we'll be able to put down new roots, to make new connections.
I have such an attachment to place... I think it is the Taurus in me. And the Gemini in me flits about and is unfocused. I have so much to say, and yet I really need to get to bed and prepare for another day of school madness. I look forward to updating the blog soon--particularly to sharing the details of the beginnings of our search for a home--our first home!--in New Orleans. And I promise to add pictures, too.
Until then. (Love you, Mom. Don't forget to send me the recipe for gumdrop cookies!)
The semester is ending, and so I have been swamped with grading piles of student papers and fielding panicked phone calls of students who should've decided to care a long time ago. These are my UNO students--and while some of them seem grateful for my teaching, they are nowhere near as enthusiastic about learning as my ESL students are. I will miss the ESL group, and I hope I'll have time to volunteer in the spring.
In addition to the happy fact that the semester is ending is our upcoming annual holiday party. This will be the fifth year I've thrown the party--and it may be the final year that the party will be held at this address. Our backyard is the perfect place to entertain. It's big, and the branches of a large oak tree in the back yard spread over the entire space. That canopy keeps us cozy in the winter air (yes, it does get cold in New Orleans), along with candles and a camp fire (and music and friends and hot cider with rum).
I get almost weepy thinking about leaving this backyard behind, but Simon and I have decided to move. The housing market has begin to favor buyers, and we have decided that 2007 will be a good time for us to move. We wish we could stay where we are, but the home has sentimental value to its owners. Of course, it does to us, too. But we'll be able to put down new roots, to make new connections.
I have such an attachment to place... I think it is the Taurus in me. And the Gemini in me flits about and is unfocused. I have so much to say, and yet I really need to get to bed and prepare for another day of school madness. I look forward to updating the blog soon--particularly to sharing the details of the beginnings of our search for a home--our first home!--in New Orleans. And I promise to add pictures, too.
Until then. (Love you, Mom. Don't forget to send me the recipe for gumdrop cookies!)
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Tomorrow I will celebrate my tenth New Orleans Thanksgiving. Usually my parents and brother drive from Atlanta for the holiday, and we go to the Blue Room at the Fairmont Hotel to gorge ourselves on their buffet. Two years ago we did this, and I remember my mom and I, with maybe a few too many glasses of freely-poured champagne in us, danced the Ball and Jack (?) to Bob French's band.
Last year my family stayed in Atlanta (I think--I can't really remember, though... what is happening to my memory?) and we celebrated with friends at their Uptown apartment. There was turducken and lots of stuffing and plenty of friends and booze, but no pies, veggies, or cranberry sauce.
This year my friend and officemate, Matt, will hold the party back at his house (he lives in Mid-City and while his home wasn't flooded, he wasn't able to move back until the new year). I'm making a stuffed mushroom appetizer, a caramel pecan pie, and a cherry pie. Simon's making stuffing and roasted brussel sprouts. We'll cart the food over to Matt's, enjoy a cocktail, and then head to the fairgrounds for the races.
I don't have much to say about the holiday. I'm not feeling particularly thankful. I'm getting over a bad cold and sinus infection, and this weekend was a very bad one in our house on Rampart Street.
For starters, the bar two houses away that I'd hoped would not reopen after the storm has, and it's been hoppin'. This weekend the noise kept me awake, as did the arguments that spilled out onto the sidewalk.
Additionally, our next door neighbor on the west side--whose house is perpetually undergoing repairs or renovations of some sort--has hired a drunk to renovate his house (presumably because he can't afford or won't pay for legitimate contractors). This guy neglects the work all day and then comes in and starts banging away once his hangover has worn off--usually around 8-10 pm. I was kept up every night this weekend with the banging, and Simon, who was away at a conference, had to resort to leaving threatening messages on Mike's cell phone.
I looked up the New Orleans municipal code and learned that construction in residential areas cannot begin before 7 am and must cease by 6pm. Mike has NEVER adhered to code, though, and in this post-storm city, you're hard-pressed to even get a cop to answer the non-emergency number, much less respond to such a complaint. So I put in my ear plugs and piled pillows on my head and finally fell asleep to the thumping sometime around 2am on Friday, since I couldn't very well go over and ask the drunk worker to knock it off (or maybe I could have, but given my extensive experience with drunk people, I think I can safely say that this guy would no be cooperative and might have even been motivated to break a few things to show me what's what). One need look no further than the pile of Budweiser cans this guy's thrown from the window into the side alley to know that he's not super-concerned with the feelings of others.
So when I picked up Simon at the airport on Sunday, one of the first things I said was that I want to move. I have never said this before. I've rarely even thought it.
But I am tired of living two houses up from a loud bar with a violent history, and next door to a house entering its fifth year of renovations (in the seven I've lived in our house), and across from a vacant house, and next to another vacant house, and down the street from the train (whose rumblings would register on the Richter scale and have sent massive cracks travelling across our ceilings), and in a white-washed neighborhood now full of overpriced homes owned by real estate investors (not people who actually LIVE in the neighborhood)--a neighborhood with no diversity, no children, and no sign of being financially accessible to Simon and me, well, EVER. I am just feeling so fed up with it all (and so tired of listening to my own broken-record rants, as I am sure you, too, dear reader/Mom are) that I just want to GET AWAY!
Maybe I DO need to count my f-ing blessings.
Maybe I just need a break.
I don't know what I need, but I'll tell you what: When you are living in this city, and when you read articles like this one, or this one, or this one, well it can be hard to feel thankful.
I know my mom is reading this and wanting to come here and spoil me and do my laundry and my dishes (thanks, Mom. A good and healthy spoiling might do me some good, even.)
But what I could really go for right now is a quick peek at the future...
Will we be okay? Will the bar down the street ever be less loud, less violent, or (oh my word, miracle of all miracles) closed? Will the house next door ever get finished (and when it does, will we be able to hear every burp and fart of our neighbors as we now hear from the drunken carpenter?) Will our neighborhood ever again be racially diverse? Will we be able to afford to live on high-ground, or anywhere in this city? Will we be okay? Or will I, another year from now, be ranting, pathetically--still feeling sorry for myself, still wanting my mommy, still wishing the recovery would hurry up and start to feel like one.
Here it is: I am thankful for even the smallest of recoveries--Thanksgiving back at Matt's house, the re-opening of the Fairgrounds, getting over this cold. Now, bring on the big ones...
Last year my family stayed in Atlanta (I think--I can't really remember, though... what is happening to my memory?) and we celebrated with friends at their Uptown apartment. There was turducken and lots of stuffing and plenty of friends and booze, but no pies, veggies, or cranberry sauce.
This year my friend and officemate, Matt, will hold the party back at his house (he lives in Mid-City and while his home wasn't flooded, he wasn't able to move back until the new year). I'm making a stuffed mushroom appetizer, a caramel pecan pie, and a cherry pie. Simon's making stuffing and roasted brussel sprouts. We'll cart the food over to Matt's, enjoy a cocktail, and then head to the fairgrounds for the races.
I don't have much to say about the holiday. I'm not feeling particularly thankful. I'm getting over a bad cold and sinus infection, and this weekend was a very bad one in our house on Rampart Street.
For starters, the bar two houses away that I'd hoped would not reopen after the storm has, and it's been hoppin'. This weekend the noise kept me awake, as did the arguments that spilled out onto the sidewalk.
Additionally, our next door neighbor on the west side--whose house is perpetually undergoing repairs or renovations of some sort--has hired a drunk to renovate his house (presumably because he can't afford or won't pay for legitimate contractors). This guy neglects the work all day and then comes in and starts banging away once his hangover has worn off--usually around 8-10 pm. I was kept up every night this weekend with the banging, and Simon, who was away at a conference, had to resort to leaving threatening messages on Mike's cell phone.
I looked up the New Orleans municipal code and learned that construction in residential areas cannot begin before 7 am and must cease by 6pm. Mike has NEVER adhered to code, though, and in this post-storm city, you're hard-pressed to even get a cop to answer the non-emergency number, much less respond to such a complaint. So I put in my ear plugs and piled pillows on my head and finally fell asleep to the thumping sometime around 2am on Friday, since I couldn't very well go over and ask the drunk worker to knock it off (or maybe I could have, but given my extensive experience with drunk people, I think I can safely say that this guy would no be cooperative and might have even been motivated to break a few things to show me what's what). One need look no further than the pile of Budweiser cans this guy's thrown from the window into the side alley to know that he's not super-concerned with the feelings of others.
So when I picked up Simon at the airport on Sunday, one of the first things I said was that I want to move. I have never said this before. I've rarely even thought it.
But I am tired of living two houses up from a loud bar with a violent history, and next door to a house entering its fifth year of renovations (in the seven I've lived in our house), and across from a vacant house, and next to another vacant house, and down the street from the train (whose rumblings would register on the Richter scale and have sent massive cracks travelling across our ceilings), and in a white-washed neighborhood now full of overpriced homes owned by real estate investors (not people who actually LIVE in the neighborhood)--a neighborhood with no diversity, no children, and no sign of being financially accessible to Simon and me, well, EVER. I am just feeling so fed up with it all (and so tired of listening to my own broken-record rants, as I am sure you, too, dear reader/Mom are) that I just want to GET AWAY!
Maybe I DO need to count my f-ing blessings.
Maybe I just need a break.
I don't know what I need, but I'll tell you what: When you are living in this city, and when you read articles like this one, or this one, or this one, well it can be hard to feel thankful.
I know my mom is reading this and wanting to come here and spoil me and do my laundry and my dishes (thanks, Mom. A good and healthy spoiling might do me some good, even.)
But what I could really go for right now is a quick peek at the future...
Will we be okay? Will the bar down the street ever be less loud, less violent, or (oh my word, miracle of all miracles) closed? Will the house next door ever get finished (and when it does, will we be able to hear every burp and fart of our neighbors as we now hear from the drunken carpenter?) Will our neighborhood ever again be racially diverse? Will we be able to afford to live on high-ground, or anywhere in this city? Will we be okay? Or will I, another year from now, be ranting, pathetically--still feeling sorry for myself, still wanting my mommy, still wishing the recovery would hurry up and start to feel like one.
Here it is: I am thankful for even the smallest of recoveries--Thanksgiving back at Matt's house, the re-opening of the Fairgrounds, getting over this cold. Now, bring on the big ones...
Monday, November 06, 2006
No, I haven't mentioned Zack Bowen's murder/suicide. Nor have I written loyally or regularly or much at all. I found tiring all of the focus on that gruesome event, and the suggestion that it somehow had to do with Zack and Addie's being "Quarter Rats". As if moving to New Orleans from out of town and choosing to extend one's adolescence (arguably for too long) makes one crazy and therefore capable of murder. More than anything, Addie's murder seemed to me to be the result of the dangerous psychological scars that her boyfriend bore from his previous military days.
And then there was another murder—this one on the UNO campus—that involved a veteran of the military. He was a former chaplain's assistant, and now we're hearing suggestions that his demise may have been the result of meeting with a male prostitute. My officemate and I talk about this and he says simply, "Men can be scary," but I find the undertones darker. It seems that the men in the military are not just "uneducated," as Kerry would have them, but perhaps they are also compelled to volunteer by histories of their own that they feel they can't discuss openly. It's moments like these that make me grateful for my husband, the passive Brit. I often tire of his logical debates, but I'll take that any day over violence and secrecy.
When I talked to my mom about the Zack and Addie murder/suicide, I told her that we, here, found it all very awful, but that there was something about the way we've ALL been psychologically altered, post-K, that makes us a bit more able to understand how one's disappointment or disillusionment can quickly and uncontrollably turn to rage. No, we do not understand what compels one to murder and cook one's girlfriend. We understand how irrational reactions to anger can seem to possess you. I know this, at least. I've mentioned in entries past my own struggles with rage. A broken window. Screaming and banging and saying things that, when I think of them later, appear to have come from a woman speaking in tongues. This is a post-K thing for me. Before, it was more sadness than rage, and I think I'd rather the sadness, thank you.
And then there was another murder—this one on the UNO campus—that involved a veteran of the military. He was a former chaplain's assistant, and now we're hearing suggestions that his demise may have been the result of meeting with a male prostitute. My officemate and I talk about this and he says simply, "Men can be scary," but I find the undertones darker. It seems that the men in the military are not just "uneducated," as Kerry would have them, but perhaps they are also compelled to volunteer by histories of their own that they feel they can't discuss openly. It's moments like these that make me grateful for my husband, the passive Brit. I often tire of his logical debates, but I'll take that any day over violence and secrecy.
When I talked to my mom about the Zack and Addie murder/suicide, I told her that we, here, found it all very awful, but that there was something about the way we've ALL been psychologically altered, post-K, that makes us a bit more able to understand how one's disappointment or disillusionment can quickly and uncontrollably turn to rage. No, we do not understand what compels one to murder and cook one's girlfriend. We understand how irrational reactions to anger can seem to possess you. I know this, at least. I've mentioned in entries past my own struggles with rage. A broken window. Screaming and banging and saying things that, when I think of them later, appear to have come from a woman speaking in tongues. This is a post-K thing for me. Before, it was more sadness than rage, and I think I'd rather the sadness, thank you.
Monday, October 09, 2006
I do this a lot. I lose interest too easily. I have idea after idea after idea, but none gets pursued fully, if at all. Such is the fate of this blog, it seems.
But it’s more complicated than that. I am just a little Katrina-ed out. I was telling a colleague the other day how my empathy feels messed with these days. My students’ old standby excuses—dead grandparents galore, perpetually flat tires, unnaturally frequent episodes of bronchitis and flu—have been replaced by talk of sheet-rocking woes, or plumbing explosions, or power outages, or “there’s no cable/phone/internet access where I live,” or construction traffic, or road closures, or, or, or. All legitimate excuses, I suppose, but still. I feel angry at them for using the storm as an excuse.
This anger has come, lately, in the form of several episodes of straight-up rage. I’m talking crazy rage: head-spinning, out-of-body experience rage that is not in any way an appropriate response to what brought it on.
Luckily this hasn’t happened in the classroom, but it’s been hard. When I am getting my butt here on time every day, when I am doing my work by the deadline, when I am making my school life work while still living in the same city these kids are living in, I just lose my temper and my tolerance for excuses. So I didn’t lose my house. So I didn’t lose my belongings. So: These Days, this feels like a liability. I can’t start over.
So I am feeling stuck and not like writing. And I know that my three readers don’t want to hear sad stories, either, but it’s when I feel worst that I am drawn to the page.
Anyway, Simon and I are wanting to nest. We got married; now it’s nesting time. It would seem that we are in a grand position to nest, too. We both have stable jobs. Our income and affordable rent allows us to chip away at my student debt (slowly, slowly… we do have teachers’ salaries, after all). But we would like to own a house—and one in our neighborhood, where the home prices in our neighborhood have skyrocketed. For example: The guys across the street from us are selling their house for $325,000. This is the new price. It was listed at over $450,000. Another example: recently, friends of ours paid almost $200,000 for a one-bedroom house comparable to ours in size. It’s in much better shape than the one we’re in, but still. I mean, I had this notion that we could buy a house in my neighborhood for something like the housing prices were when I moved into the neighborhood (the house we’re in was purchased for well under $100,000.) But now it appears this dream of homeownership is out of our reach.
For the record (Mom), we are not really anxious to buy right now. We’re just looking ahead, and thinking ahead—and the view is not a good one.
I mention this because I looked into the Habitat for Humanity Musicians’ Village. There, one can purchase a brand new home (including major appliances), and pay around $500/mo for a 30-year mortgage. These are beautiful, structurally sound 2 and 3 bedroom homes that have beautiful New Orleans flair. Porches and stoops. High ceilings. Transoms. They are painted charming colors. They are New Orleans homes, but without the burden of age.
So considering Simon and I are too poor to purchase a new home in New Orleans—or any home that isn’t gutted or flooded or in a scary, scary place—I thought maybe we’d have a chance at the Musicians’ Village.
Wrong. A household of two cannot have an income of more than $24,000.
Anyway, so I’m listening to NPR and a piece comes on about this Musicians’ Village and this drummer chick who just moved here from out of town somewhere is talking about how she would have had to get a “real job” to afford a house in New Orleans, and how, like, even then it would be impossible to, like, afford anything, so, like, she’s really psyched for this opportunity and like, everyone should apply.
I find myself hating her. Like really hating her. I have this horrible conservative spell. I think, “So GET A JOB!” I resent her for being poor enough to get help. I resent her and her drum circle and her freedom and her interest-free mortgage (oh—and the price INCLUDES insurance, which is impossible to get these days). I resent her because she isn’t even a Fredy Omar or a Jeremy Lyons, or some super-hardworking, making-it-happen-musician; she was an amateur.
She was me, eight years ago—back when I was singing and hustling for tips at Pat O’Brian’s until four in the morning.
Now, though, I am grown-up, and I have a “real job” and I have a roof over my head—a roof I want to be my own. What is this? Why do I want so badly to own something when I know my landlords won’t kick us out?
I guess I just want to know that I can stay. I want to be in control of some part of our fate in that way—in this city that I love, for better or worse.
And here I am learning that the message in New Orleans These Days is this: if you are really really poor, there’s help. Or, if you lost everything: plenty of help. If, however, you are two dedicated teachers who work too much for too little, who have student loans out the wazoo, and who want, for whatever harebrained reason, to stay here, to teach these students, to live in this city, well then good luck.
I know this is a ridiculously oversimplified way of seeing things. I know, I know, I know.
Still, I don’t know why this upsets me so much.
I guess I am just really hungry for some stability, and it feels so impossible, so unattainable. I resent my wealthy gay neighbors. I resent the poor. I am having a middle-class crisis, right smack dab in the beginning of my middle age.
F-ing great.
But it’s more complicated than that. I am just a little Katrina-ed out. I was telling a colleague the other day how my empathy feels messed with these days. My students’ old standby excuses—dead grandparents galore, perpetually flat tires, unnaturally frequent episodes of bronchitis and flu—have been replaced by talk of sheet-rocking woes, or plumbing explosions, or power outages, or “there’s no cable/phone/internet access where I live,” or construction traffic, or road closures, or, or, or. All legitimate excuses, I suppose, but still. I feel angry at them for using the storm as an excuse.
This anger has come, lately, in the form of several episodes of straight-up rage. I’m talking crazy rage: head-spinning, out-of-body experience rage that is not in any way an appropriate response to what brought it on.
Luckily this hasn’t happened in the classroom, but it’s been hard. When I am getting my butt here on time every day, when I am doing my work by the deadline, when I am making my school life work while still living in the same city these kids are living in, I just lose my temper and my tolerance for excuses. So I didn’t lose my house. So I didn’t lose my belongings. So: These Days, this feels like a liability. I can’t start over.
So I am feeling stuck and not like writing. And I know that my three readers don’t want to hear sad stories, either, but it’s when I feel worst that I am drawn to the page.
Anyway, Simon and I are wanting to nest. We got married; now it’s nesting time. It would seem that we are in a grand position to nest, too. We both have stable jobs. Our income and affordable rent allows us to chip away at my student debt (slowly, slowly… we do have teachers’ salaries, after all). But we would like to own a house—and one in our neighborhood, where the home prices in our neighborhood have skyrocketed. For example: The guys across the street from us are selling their house for $325,000. This is the new price. It was listed at over $450,000. Another example: recently, friends of ours paid almost $200,000 for a one-bedroom house comparable to ours in size. It’s in much better shape than the one we’re in, but still. I mean, I had this notion that we could buy a house in my neighborhood for something like the housing prices were when I moved into the neighborhood (the house we’re in was purchased for well under $100,000.) But now it appears this dream of homeownership is out of our reach.
For the record (Mom), we are not really anxious to buy right now. We’re just looking ahead, and thinking ahead—and the view is not a good one.
I mention this because I looked into the Habitat for Humanity Musicians’ Village. There, one can purchase a brand new home (including major appliances), and pay around $500/mo for a 30-year mortgage. These are beautiful, structurally sound 2 and 3 bedroom homes that have beautiful New Orleans flair. Porches and stoops. High ceilings. Transoms. They are painted charming colors. They are New Orleans homes, but without the burden of age.
So considering Simon and I are too poor to purchase a new home in New Orleans—or any home that isn’t gutted or flooded or in a scary, scary place—I thought maybe we’d have a chance at the Musicians’ Village.
Wrong. A household of two cannot have an income of more than $24,000.
Anyway, so I’m listening to NPR and a piece comes on about this Musicians’ Village and this drummer chick who just moved here from out of town somewhere is talking about how she would have had to get a “real job” to afford a house in New Orleans, and how, like, even then it would be impossible to, like, afford anything, so, like, she’s really psyched for this opportunity and like, everyone should apply.
I find myself hating her. Like really hating her. I have this horrible conservative spell. I think, “So GET A JOB!” I resent her for being poor enough to get help. I resent her and her drum circle and her freedom and her interest-free mortgage (oh—and the price INCLUDES insurance, which is impossible to get these days). I resent her because she isn’t even a Fredy Omar or a Jeremy Lyons, or some super-hardworking, making-it-happen-musician; she was an amateur.
She was me, eight years ago—back when I was singing and hustling for tips at Pat O’Brian’s until four in the morning.
Now, though, I am grown-up, and I have a “real job” and I have a roof over my head—a roof I want to be my own. What is this? Why do I want so badly to own something when I know my landlords won’t kick us out?
I guess I just want to know that I can stay. I want to be in control of some part of our fate in that way—in this city that I love, for better or worse.
And here I am learning that the message in New Orleans These Days is this: if you are really really poor, there’s help. Or, if you lost everything: plenty of help. If, however, you are two dedicated teachers who work too much for too little, who have student loans out the wazoo, and who want, for whatever harebrained reason, to stay here, to teach these students, to live in this city, well then good luck.
I know this is a ridiculously oversimplified way of seeing things. I know, I know, I know.
Still, I don’t know why this upsets me so much.
I guess I am just really hungry for some stability, and it feels so impossible, so unattainable. I resent my wealthy gay neighbors. I resent the poor. I am having a middle-class crisis, right smack dab in the beginning of my middle age.
F-ing great.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
The good news—the Really Wonderful News—is that it appears we will not, in fact, have to deal with this Ernesto character. I am relieved.
So it is a little strange, today, how sad I feel. Yesterday I went grocery shopping with my girl Jackie, who wanted to go to Dorignac’s to buy Toad Hollow’s “Katrina Wine” for a collector’s item. On the drive to Metairie—that operating but awful suburb I’ve had to visit for life’s necessities so many times, post Katrina—Jackie and I talked about One Year things. She has to work today and is mad about it. She wants to spend the day finding closure, but no one at her work seems to care. Her boss is a native New Yorker who has evidently been complaining a lot lately about the city. “He hates New Orleans, he hates blacks, he hates everything,” she said. “I can’t take all the hate.”
Jackie was here for five days after the storm. I pointed out to her that although today may be the technical anniversary, it really all began over the weekend, and Sunday was pivotal for us all.
It was on Sunday, last year, that I last spoke to Jackie. She called me from an office in the CBD where she planned to ride out the storm. She was worried, but hopeful, and she was as prepared as I suppose she could be. She had enough water and food for three days, flashlights and plenty of batteries, and a boyfriend to keep her company. When I hung up, I remember feeling confident that she would be fine. I even felt a little jealous. I was in Vermont at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference when I heard about the storm and I didn’t make it back to New Orleans before my flight was cancelled and I scheduled a new one to Atlanta. I wanted to be there, for some reason, and there Jackie was—as she’d always been (during Georges, during Lily and Iris, during Ivan). When storms came knocking, I always run (yes—a good thing, I know). Somehow, Jackie’s staying this time struck me as fiercely loyal, if a bit shortsighted, and I admired her tenacity and her devotion to the city. I envied her for her adventures. While she had many a picture of hurricane parties-past, I had memories of long drives with unhappy cats and nights watching The Weather Channel at my parents’ house. Mine were unromantic stories.
As it turned out, Jackie had yet another adventure, but not one to be envied. After the storm passed at the flooding became evident, after I saw all of the Those Images (the dead woman in the wheelchair, the looting on Canal Street, the fires from water, the water, the water), I realized that my car keys were in a drawer in my house and that I hadn’t told Jackie. She had a way to get out, but by then all lines of communication were down, and so…
Later (on September 4th) she sent me this email, which I posted on my blog last year. It deserves to be republished:
Just a note to say Im alive.
i am extremely tramatized.
The anarchy,storm,flood water and the smell of rot in the city can not be put into words.
I am healthy except my stomach is sick and my feet are slightly infected from contaminated water.
My house is perfectly intact and all the trees fell away from it.
The French Quarter from Canal to Burgundy up to Poland Avenue is an island.
It is starting to smell like bodies and birds are starting to flock.
We didn't get water in our neighborhood until yesterday.
Ive become a pro at looting for food and all the neighbors get together.
I am now outside Baton Rouge.
We had to siphon gas to leave and it was stressfull with all the down trees and lines,military and gangs.
People in our neighborhood are walking on the streets with shotguns,axes,bats.
Houses are getting robbed and buildings are getting blown up.
People are hotwiring city buses and running them into houses
People are getting shot over gasoline and water.
I don't know who's alive and who's dead.
People from the neighborhood are taking canoes over St.Claude and France area to pull people out of water.
There are dead Children on Canal Street
Dog Packs are forming
I am mentally having some problems.
People are getting raped
New Orleans is the most scariest place on the planet
The cops are looting and drinking beer riding on the back of cars with rifles
Its under a police state
They are shooting people and taking away our weapons
We had a gun,ax,hooks,a staff,cleaver and a few knives.
I will be able to repond but please dont expect too much from me right now.
Im really over alot of this.
Masako-Couldn't even get past Claiborne to check your house. Water too deep.
Sarah-Your house is still intact-no damage Water receded,your car is there but someone put a screwdriver in the gas tank to get gas.
Robin-Couldn't get to your house because of water and violence.
Tark and David-Houses are fine as far as I can see
Steve Garafano-House looks ok but the brick fence is all over the road.One window may be broken.
People are robbing houses so this is only storm damage.
I do have photograps to download and will later but Im really fucked up right now.
Im having a hard time in society.
I hope we can all return.
i may have more stories later when I can.
The government are idiot. They left us to die.
Jackie.
Also-
Sarah we had to use your house for resources-thank you.
Friends that gave me keys to their houses-thank you.
You helped us survive.
Noone ever take anything for granted.
I am grateful for a flushing toilet
We had to use buckets and go to neighborhood pools to gather water.
I am grateful for ice
And for life.
There are still children there!
There are Old people
People with their limbs rotting
people lying on the street on mattresses.
Yes this is the bywater.
This was our home.
.................Jackie
Today, Jackie sent this email:
At this time last year I was in an office building downtown freaking out. At this exact time the wind howled,busted windows,rain came in through the ceiling and all I could think is that I would probably die. As I sit here emailing all my friends, I am feeling blessed to be here. Please take a moment today to reflect on all those who passed away or were washed away by the flood waters. Life is so short and fragile-tragedy doesn't care how old you are or what you look like. I am so happy to be alive. Truly,I can't believe it!
OK-I'm being sappy.
I'm just happy.
hey,that rhymed.
see ya,
Jackie
I replied:
I love you, Miss Jackie.
Sarah
So today it has been a year and I am doing the This Time Last Year thing, without wanting to. I woke up feeling appropriately sick. (My mom would probably say it’s psychosomatic. I think it has more to do with the cooties one gets from being around dozens of students. And, okay, maybe my immune system isn’t kicking and stress might have the smallest bit to do with it. But a cold is a cold and I am feeling more annoyed than anything.) I plan to stay in and try to recover. I wish I had to work, actually. I could go for the distraction. Maybe I will decide to emerge for some event…
And there are, indeed, plenty of events planned today. Jackie wanted to go to a march in the Lower Ninth Ward. Some friends are gathering on Bayou St. John this evening. Folks are ringing bells (yes, Commemorative Katrina Bells one could purchase from WWL TV to ring at the time of the levees breaks—I tried to get one, more for laughs than for ringing… I mean a BELL, come ON…but they were sold out). Wreaths are being laid. The President is at church on television. On MTV, a special about young people dealing with the storm (appropriately, in reality TV style) just aired. NPR this morning was all commemoration, all the time (yesterday I did, in fact, hear a wonderful “This I Believe” essay about “attachment to place.”) UNO is holding a ceremony that will surely end with a finger-sandwich reception. Anderson Cooper is said to be hanging out at Vaughn’s this evening. On WWNO, James Arey is playing classical music his listeners asked to hear today. On American Routes on Sunday, Nick Spitzer interviewed Elvis Costello, Aaron Neville, Allan Toussaint, etc. On The Today show this morning, Brian Williams was standing in front of Jackson Square. The newspaper and Nola.com are Katrina-covered. In short, today is All Katrina, All of the Time, and all of this is designed to commemorate. All of this is meant, as Jackie put it, to “bring closure,” which is something she says she desperately wants.
In the meantime, I am thinking about A Year Ago At This Time. I am remembering devouring the news Back Then. I am remembering being dumbfounded. I am remembering not crying for a long time, having a kind of Can’t Believe It talk with Simon in my parents’ basement—one in which we lay next to each other and stared at the ceiling and tried to do the whole, “At least we have each other” thing. I am remembering that I didn’t find that as comforting as I wanted to. I am remembering that we grieved differently, which led to our almost breaking up, which led to our re-committing to each other, which led to Simon’s proposal, which led to our getting married in New Orleans in May. I am remembering volunteering for the Red Cross and how hard and wonderful that was. I am remembering being on the local news as a cliché. I am remembering coming home to our house intact, and being grateful and sad, still. I am remembering how hard it has been to lose a city and in some ways, how hard it is to still have your home—how unfocused and difficult our grief can be. I am remembering the night we returned, finding our tiny new cat, Ray, who survived this storm. I am remembering the refrigerators and the smells and the smells… I am remembering going into Tom and Brandi’s house. And the smells. I am remembering all of these things, and I am wanting closure, too. But I want closure when closure really exists. And it doesn’t. This is still happening.
Brandi sent an email today that I think perfectly sums up the frustration of living here (or trying to)—that captures the bureaucracy, the crap:
I went to bookclub yesterday and I was carpooling with a friend, Jennifer, who lives a few blocks over from our rental home. Jennifer also lives just one block away from our ruined Katrina home on Arts. Just as we were about to leave, Jen's husband asks about the dumpster in our front yard on Arts.
Me: What Dumpster?
Him: The giant purple dumpster parked on your front lawn.
Me (stupidly): There is no dumpster.
Him: I think I know a dumpster when I see one.
Me: Are you sure it's my house?
Him: Yep. You should probably check that out.
So, needless to say, I did. I went by the Arts house on my lunch break today and sure enough there is a huge purple stinky dumpster taking up most of my front lawn. Now, for those of you that haven't been around me lately, I am not my usual 'no worries' self. The anniversary of Katrina is effecting me more than I would like to admit, so at the sight of an ugly dumpster in front of my now-ugly-once-pretty house I almost starting crying. But wait, it gets better! I called the number on the side of the dumpster and this was my conversation -
Me: Hi, I'm calling from 4970 Arts. One of your dumpsters is in my front yard and I was just wondering why?
Her: Did you say 4970 Arts?
Me: Yes.
(sounds of typing)
Her: Oh, that house is scheduled to be demolished.
Me: WHAT!!!!!
Her: It's scheduled to be demolished.
Me: That's impossible. I own this house. I never gave anyone permission to demolish my house.
Her: Well, it's scheduled to be demolished.
Me: WELL, it shouldn't be!
Her: It's entirely possible that they've scheduled the wrong house to be demolished.
Me: Speechless. Jaw has hit the ground at this point and I'm having trouble breathing.
Her: Ma'am? Are you there?
Me: Yes. I'm still here. Listen to me, under NO circumstances is this house to be demolished without my express permission. In fact, it isn't to be demolished without notarized permission from me.
Her: I understand. Would you like me to call you back with the name and number of the contractor who scheduled the demolition?
Me: You bet your ass I would!
I realize at some point I will find this story funny, provided my house isn't demolished without my permission. Feel free to chuckle or cry - that's how we've been getting by in this crazy situation.
So, if you're wondering how things are in New Orleans and you believe some of the softball bullsh*t that Bush & Co. have been throwing out there, just think of this story. I live in a city where "it's entirely possible that they've scheduled the wrong house to be demolished."
Love to all,
B
Yes, we live in a city where it is entirely possible that one’s house is mistakenly scheduled to be demolished. We live in a house where the once-feared is now happening—Jack-O-Lantern neighborhoods (where only a few homes are lived in) are scattered throughout the flooded areas. Housing is still in desperately short supply (and rents have doubled and then tripled so that only contractors—not residents—can afford a home). Traffic lights remain broken. The power goes out sporadically. Billboards advertise contracting companies, phone companies, cable companies—all of them “dedicated to rebuilding a better New Orleans.” Driving is like playing Frogger, but with construction debris. The news—oh, the news: The Times-Picayune published a piece on the State of New Orleans One Year Later, and it showed figures of our “recovery” and spotty rebuilding. The New York Times has published a Week of Katrina to commemorate the one-year marker. On Nola.com, posters in the forums have begun a petition to recall the mayor.
Dude, when I think about it, it’s just plain nutty, living here. Nutty nutty nutty.
So we drink a little too much. We sleep a little too much. We complain and we don’t. We talk about it and we don’t. We remember and we don’t (or try not to). We do, and we don’t. It is one year later, and Katrina still very much IS. That’s the only way to describe it.
After all of that bitching and moaning, I would like to thank the family, friends, and loved ones who have showed concern and support throughout this. I hope your concern and support will stay with us as the storm continues to…
Mom and Dad: Thank you for opening your home to us of six weeks, and for helping to make it feel more like ours. At one point we thought we’d have to stay, and your love and unintrusive support made that feel like not such a bad thing.
Paul and Aalia (especially Aalia): Thank you for your emails and for staying interested in our recovery.
Tom and Brandi: Thank you for your companionship, even as you, too, are going through it
Tony Dalgo: Thank you for checking in on us even as you have your own house to rebuild.
Mary and Jerry Trice: Thank you for not raising our rent. We could not be here if you had done what so many of the landlords here have chosen to do.
Terrence: Thank you for your poem, for your love, and for staying in touch with us from Houston.
Chuck and Sally: Thank you for having us over for dinner in Atlanta—for listening and for giving us much-needed distraction.
Anderson Cooper: Thank you for interviewing dudes in fluorescent pink wigs, and for having a last name that rhymes with “pooper.”
Ivor Van Heerden: Thank you for rocking my world.
Bob Breck: You, too.
Nolafugees.com and Cookie: Thank you for laughter.
UNO: Thank you for reopening, and thanks, Dr. Schock, for getting me even a small raise.
Kim McDonald and Kris Lackey: Thank you for hanging in there, and for being such wonderful colleagues and friends.
Tim Green: Thank you for coming back to New Orleans to make your music.
Kufaru: Thank you for coming home—I hope your new one (wherever it is) is as music and love-filled for you as New Orleans was.
To the across-the-pond H__- family, the extended D__- family, and the K__- family: Thank you for thinking of us.
To the Clarks: Thank you for the use of your cabin (which gave us a much-needed escape when Rita was headed for us) and for having your annual Christmas Eve party.
To Susan, Beverly, Sherry, Peggy, and Mickey: Thank you for being surrogate moms and rockin’ women and for being a shoulder for my own mom, who has needed the support, sometimes, as much as I have.
Danielle: Thank you for reminding me to be less dark.
Anthony: Thank you for loving me still, even from Chicago.
Simon: Thank you for putting up with my crazy and for marrying me, anyway.
Jackie: Thank you for coming home.
I am probably forgetting some thank you’s, and I’m sorry for that. Whatever. Thank you.
I will try to continue to keep this blog going, and I will try—Danielle—to not be so dark about what I post here. I hope you will all keep reading, as the only thing that keeps me writing is knowing that one or two of you might be interested.
So it is a little strange, today, how sad I feel. Yesterday I went grocery shopping with my girl Jackie, who wanted to go to Dorignac’s to buy Toad Hollow’s “Katrina Wine” for a collector’s item. On the drive to Metairie—that operating but awful suburb I’ve had to visit for life’s necessities so many times, post Katrina—Jackie and I talked about One Year things. She has to work today and is mad about it. She wants to spend the day finding closure, but no one at her work seems to care. Her boss is a native New Yorker who has evidently been complaining a lot lately about the city. “He hates New Orleans, he hates blacks, he hates everything,” she said. “I can’t take all the hate.”
Jackie was here for five days after the storm. I pointed out to her that although today may be the technical anniversary, it really all began over the weekend, and Sunday was pivotal for us all.
It was on Sunday, last year, that I last spoke to Jackie. She called me from an office in the CBD where she planned to ride out the storm. She was worried, but hopeful, and she was as prepared as I suppose she could be. She had enough water and food for three days, flashlights and plenty of batteries, and a boyfriend to keep her company. When I hung up, I remember feeling confident that she would be fine. I even felt a little jealous. I was in Vermont at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference when I heard about the storm and I didn’t make it back to New Orleans before my flight was cancelled and I scheduled a new one to Atlanta. I wanted to be there, for some reason, and there Jackie was—as she’d always been (during Georges, during Lily and Iris, during Ivan). When storms came knocking, I always run (yes—a good thing, I know). Somehow, Jackie’s staying this time struck me as fiercely loyal, if a bit shortsighted, and I admired her tenacity and her devotion to the city. I envied her for her adventures. While she had many a picture of hurricane parties-past, I had memories of long drives with unhappy cats and nights watching The Weather Channel at my parents’ house. Mine were unromantic stories.
As it turned out, Jackie had yet another adventure, but not one to be envied. After the storm passed at the flooding became evident, after I saw all of the Those Images (the dead woman in the wheelchair, the looting on Canal Street, the fires from water, the water, the water), I realized that my car keys were in a drawer in my house and that I hadn’t told Jackie. She had a way to get out, but by then all lines of communication were down, and so…
Later (on September 4th) she sent me this email, which I posted on my blog last year. It deserves to be republished:
Just a note to say Im alive.i am extremely tramatized.
The anarchy,storm,flood water and the smell of rot in the city can not be put into words.
I am healthy except my stomach is sick and my feet are slightly infected from contaminated water.
My house is perfectly intact and all the trees fell away from it.
The French Quarter from Canal to Burgundy up to Poland Avenue is an island.
It is starting to smell like bodies and birds are starting to flock.
We didn't get water in our neighborhood until yesterday.
Ive become a pro at looting for food and all the neighbors get together.
I am now outside Baton Rouge.
We had to siphon gas to leave and it was stressfull with all the down trees and lines,military and gangs.
People in our neighborhood are walking on the streets with shotguns,axes,bats.
Houses are getting robbed and buildings are getting blown up.
People are hotwiring city buses and running them into houses
People are getting shot over gasoline and water.
I don't know who's alive and who's dead.
People from the neighborhood are taking canoes over St.Claude and France area to pull people out of water.
There are dead Children on Canal Street
Dog Packs are forming
I am mentally having some problems.
People are getting raped
New Orleans is the most scariest place on the planet
The cops are looting and drinking beer riding on the back of cars with rifles
Its under a police state
They are shooting people and taking away our weapons
We had a gun,ax,hooks,a staff,cleaver and a few knives.
I will be able to repond but please dont expect too much from me right now.
Im really over alot of this.
Masako-Couldn't even get past Claiborne to check your house. Water too deep.
Sarah-Your house is still intact-no damage Water receded,your car is there but someone put a screwdriver in the gas tank to get gas.
Robin-Couldn't get to your house because of water and violence.
Tark and David-Houses are fine as far as I can see
Steve Garafano-House looks ok but the brick fence is all over the road.One window may be broken.
People are robbing houses so this is only storm damage.
I do have photograps to download and will later but Im really fucked up right now.
Im having a hard time in society.
I hope we can all return.
i may have more stories later when I can.
The government are idiot. They left us to die.
Jackie.
Also-
Sarah we had to use your house for resources-thank you.
Friends that gave me keys to their houses-thank you.
You helped us survive.
Noone ever take anything for granted.
I am grateful for a flushing toilet
We had to use buckets and go to neighborhood pools to gather water.
I am grateful for ice
And for life.
There are still children there!
There are Old people
People with their limbs rotting
people lying on the street on mattresses.
Yes this is the bywater.
This was our home.
.................Jackie
Today, Jackie sent this email:
At this time last year I was in an office building downtown freaking out. At this exact time the wind howled,busted windows,rain came in through the ceiling and all I could think is that I would probably die. As I sit here emailing all my friends, I am feeling blessed to be here. Please take a moment today to reflect on all those who passed away or were washed away by the flood waters. Life is so short and fragile-tragedy doesn't care how old you are or what you look like. I am so happy to be alive. Truly,I can't believe it!
OK-I'm being sappy.
I'm just happy.
hey,that rhymed.
see ya,
Jackie
I replied:
I love you, Miss Jackie.
Sarah
So today it has been a year and I am doing the This Time Last Year thing, without wanting to. I woke up feeling appropriately sick. (My mom would probably say it’s psychosomatic. I think it has more to do with the cooties one gets from being around dozens of students. And, okay, maybe my immune system isn’t kicking and stress might have the smallest bit to do with it. But a cold is a cold and I am feeling more annoyed than anything.) I plan to stay in and try to recover. I wish I had to work, actually. I could go for the distraction. Maybe I will decide to emerge for some event…
And there are, indeed, plenty of events planned today. Jackie wanted to go to a march in the Lower Ninth Ward. Some friends are gathering on Bayou St. John this evening. Folks are ringing bells (yes, Commemorative Katrina Bells one could purchase from WWL TV to ring at the time of the levees breaks—I tried to get one, more for laughs than for ringing… I mean a BELL, come ON…but they were sold out). Wreaths are being laid. The President is at church on television. On MTV, a special about young people dealing with the storm (appropriately, in reality TV style) just aired. NPR this morning was all commemoration, all the time (yesterday I did, in fact, hear a wonderful “This I Believe” essay about “attachment to place.”) UNO is holding a ceremony that will surely end with a finger-sandwich reception. Anderson Cooper is said to be hanging out at Vaughn’s this evening. On WWNO, James Arey is playing classical music his listeners asked to hear today. On American Routes on Sunday, Nick Spitzer interviewed Elvis Costello, Aaron Neville, Allan Toussaint, etc. On The Today show this morning, Brian Williams was standing in front of Jackson Square. The newspaper and Nola.com are Katrina-covered. In short, today is All Katrina, All of the Time, and all of this is designed to commemorate. All of this is meant, as Jackie put it, to “bring closure,” which is something she says she desperately wants.
In the meantime, I am thinking about A Year Ago At This Time. I am remembering devouring the news Back Then. I am remembering being dumbfounded. I am remembering not crying for a long time, having a kind of Can’t Believe It talk with Simon in my parents’ basement—one in which we lay next to each other and stared at the ceiling and tried to do the whole, “At least we have each other” thing. I am remembering that I didn’t find that as comforting as I wanted to. I am remembering that we grieved differently, which led to our almost breaking up, which led to our re-committing to each other, which led to Simon’s proposal, which led to our getting married in New Orleans in May. I am remembering volunteering for the Red Cross and how hard and wonderful that was. I am remembering being on the local news as a cliché. I am remembering coming home to our house intact, and being grateful and sad, still. I am remembering how hard it has been to lose a city and in some ways, how hard it is to still have your home—how unfocused and difficult our grief can be. I am remembering the night we returned, finding our tiny new cat, Ray, who survived this storm. I am remembering the refrigerators and the smells and the smells… I am remembering going into Tom and Brandi’s house. And the smells. I am remembering all of these things, and I am wanting closure, too. But I want closure when closure really exists. And it doesn’t. This is still happening.
Brandi sent an email today that I think perfectly sums up the frustration of living here (or trying to)—that captures the bureaucracy, the crap:
I went to bookclub yesterday and I was carpooling with a friend, Jennifer, who lives a few blocks over from our rental home. Jennifer also lives just one block away from our ruined Katrina home on Arts. Just as we were about to leave, Jen's husband asks about the dumpster in our front yard on Arts.
Me: What Dumpster?
Him: The giant purple dumpster parked on your front lawn.
Me (stupidly): There is no dumpster.
Him: I think I know a dumpster when I see one.
Me: Are you sure it's my house?
Him: Yep. You should probably check that out.
So, needless to say, I did. I went by the Arts house on my lunch break today and sure enough there is a huge purple stinky dumpster taking up most of my front lawn. Now, for those of you that haven't been around me lately, I am not my usual 'no worries' self. The anniversary of Katrina is effecting me more than I would like to admit, so at the sight of an ugly dumpster in front of my now-ugly-once-pretty house I almost starting crying. But wait, it gets better! I called the number on the side of the dumpster and this was my conversation -
Me: Hi, I'm calling from 4970 Arts. One of your dumpsters is in my front yard and I was just wondering why?
Her: Did you say 4970 Arts?
Me: Yes.
(sounds of typing)
Her: Oh, that house is scheduled to be demolished.
Me: WHAT!!!!!
Her: It's scheduled to be demolished.
Me: That's impossible. I own this house. I never gave anyone permission to demolish my house.
Her: Well, it's scheduled to be demolished.
Me: WELL, it shouldn't be!
Her: It's entirely possible that they've scheduled the wrong house to be demolished.
Me: Speechless. Jaw has hit the ground at this point and I'm having trouble breathing.
Her: Ma'am? Are you there?
Me: Yes. I'm still here. Listen to me, under NO circumstances is this house to be demolished without my express permission. In fact, it isn't to be demolished without notarized permission from me.
Her: I understand. Would you like me to call you back with the name and number of the contractor who scheduled the demolition?
Me: You bet your ass I would!
I realize at some point I will find this story funny, provided my house isn't demolished without my permission. Feel free to chuckle or cry - that's how we've been getting by in this crazy situation.
So, if you're wondering how things are in New Orleans and you believe some of the softball bullsh*t that Bush & Co. have been throwing out there, just think of this story. I live in a city where "it's entirely possible that they've scheduled the wrong house to be demolished."
Love to all,
B
Yes, we live in a city where it is entirely possible that one’s house is mistakenly scheduled to be demolished. We live in a house where the once-feared is now happening—Jack-O-Lantern neighborhoods (where only a few homes are lived in) are scattered throughout the flooded areas. Housing is still in desperately short supply (and rents have doubled and then tripled so that only contractors—not residents—can afford a home). Traffic lights remain broken. The power goes out sporadically. Billboards advertise contracting companies, phone companies, cable companies—all of them “dedicated to rebuilding a better New Orleans.” Driving is like playing Frogger, but with construction debris. The news—oh, the news: The Times-Picayune published a piece on the State of New Orleans One Year Later, and it showed figures of our “recovery” and spotty rebuilding. The New York Times has published a Week of Katrina to commemorate the one-year marker. On Nola.com, posters in the forums have begun a petition to recall the mayor.
Dude, when I think about it, it’s just plain nutty, living here. Nutty nutty nutty.
So we drink a little too much. We sleep a little too much. We complain and we don’t. We talk about it and we don’t. We remember and we don’t (or try not to). We do, and we don’t. It is one year later, and Katrina still very much IS. That’s the only way to describe it.
After all of that bitching and moaning, I would like to thank the family, friends, and loved ones who have showed concern and support throughout this. I hope your concern and support will stay with us as the storm continues to…
Mom and Dad: Thank you for opening your home to us of six weeks, and for helping to make it feel more like ours. At one point we thought we’d have to stay, and your love and unintrusive support made that feel like not such a bad thing.
Paul and Aalia (especially Aalia): Thank you for your emails and for staying interested in our recovery.
Tom and Brandi: Thank you for your companionship, even as you, too, are going through it
Tony Dalgo: Thank you for checking in on us even as you have your own house to rebuild.
Mary and Jerry Trice: Thank you for not raising our rent. We could not be here if you had done what so many of the landlords here have chosen to do.
Terrence: Thank you for your poem, for your love, and for staying in touch with us from Houston.
Chuck and Sally: Thank you for having us over for dinner in Atlanta—for listening and for giving us much-needed distraction.
Anderson Cooper: Thank you for interviewing dudes in fluorescent pink wigs, and for having a last name that rhymes with “pooper.”
Ivor Van Heerden: Thank you for rocking my world.
Bob Breck: You, too.
Nolafugees.com and Cookie: Thank you for laughter.
UNO: Thank you for reopening, and thanks, Dr. Schock, for getting me even a small raise.
Kim McDonald and Kris Lackey: Thank you for hanging in there, and for being such wonderful colleagues and friends.
Tim Green: Thank you for coming back to New Orleans to make your music.
Kufaru: Thank you for coming home—I hope your new one (wherever it is) is as music and love-filled for you as New Orleans was.
To the across-the-pond H__- family, the extended D__- family, and the K__- family: Thank you for thinking of us.
To the Clarks: Thank you for the use of your cabin (which gave us a much-needed escape when Rita was headed for us) and for having your annual Christmas Eve party.
To Susan, Beverly, Sherry, Peggy, and Mickey: Thank you for being surrogate moms and rockin’ women and for being a shoulder for my own mom, who has needed the support, sometimes, as much as I have.
Danielle: Thank you for reminding me to be less dark.
Anthony: Thank you for loving me still, even from Chicago.
Simon: Thank you for putting up with my crazy and for marrying me, anyway.
Jackie: Thank you for coming home.
I am probably forgetting some thank you’s, and I’m sorry for that. Whatever. Thank you.
I will try to continue to keep this blog going, and I will try—Danielle—to not be so dark about what I post here. I hope you will all keep reading, as the only thing that keeps me writing is knowing that one or two of you might be interested.
Friday, August 25, 2006
We've made it into the cone .
My mother called today and said she'd been reading somewhere about the importance of green space to one's mental health. She hoped we could come up to Atlanta and to the north Georgia mountains again soon, she said. "We may be there next week," I told her. And with this Ernesto being who he is, we just may.
In other news, the UNO English Department faculty meeting was today--an event full of introductions, figures, and finger sandwiches. The enrollment numbers sound encouraging so far--12,000 students are enrolled as of today. That's down from 17,000, Pre-K, and our budget is based on a projection of 14,000, but we were told that the English Department is structured for just 12,000, so none of us should fear losing our jobs. Other numbers were less encouraging. New freshmen are down by 50%. Out-of-state student enrollment is at just 60% of Pre-K numbers. What one could say is that these numbers are good, all things considered. And so this is what we say. But this all depends on one crucial thing: that we avoid a storm this summer.
In fact, I remember back when our mantra was "January." Back then, we all felt like there would be some sort of Real Renewal we might see with the New Year--or maybe we just felt like, "If we can make it until then in the midst of this crap, then we can make it, period." I don't know. But our new mantra is "If there's no hurricane this year." If, if, if. If is hard to live with. And what is perhaps harder to live with is knowing that If really means When.
Over the past week, the Corps of Engineers has been running tests of the new pumps and locks. Imaginary Hurricane Butch is the menace they have been fighting, and with each of the runs-through, the pumps have failed. I don't know what this means for us, and what it means for our Ifs and our Whens. Simon and I feel reassured that our home will be okay, standing (or sinking) on relative high ground as it is. But I remember pictures Jackie sent me of the days immediately after the storm--the days when water stood on our street, too. When we returned, we found objects from the back yard had been deposited in the front yard. I can only imagine where the items from Tom and Brandi's Gentilly back yard may have ended up.
And so we watch this Ernesto, who has now been named. We are In The Cone, now, and it is a terrible place to be. I feel weepy from it. Scared. Tired. Worried. It really isn't a way to live, I guess. What is this f-ing love that keeps me here? How strong can it be? Stronger than Ernesto, I hope, I hope.
My mother called today and said she'd been reading somewhere about the importance of green space to one's mental health. She hoped we could come up to Atlanta and to the north Georgia mountains again soon, she said. "We may be there next week," I told her. And with this Ernesto being who he is, we just may.
In other news, the UNO English Department faculty meeting was today--an event full of introductions, figures, and finger sandwiches. The enrollment numbers sound encouraging so far--12,000 students are enrolled as of today. That's down from 17,000, Pre-K, and our budget is based on a projection of 14,000, but we were told that the English Department is structured for just 12,000, so none of us should fear losing our jobs. Other numbers were less encouraging. New freshmen are down by 50%. Out-of-state student enrollment is at just 60% of Pre-K numbers. What one could say is that these numbers are good, all things considered. And so this is what we say. But this all depends on one crucial thing: that we avoid a storm this summer.
In fact, I remember back when our mantra was "January." Back then, we all felt like there would be some sort of Real Renewal we might see with the New Year--or maybe we just felt like, "If we can make it until then in the midst of this crap, then we can make it, period." I don't know. But our new mantra is "If there's no hurricane this year." If, if, if. If is hard to live with. And what is perhaps harder to live with is knowing that If really means When.
Over the past week, the Corps of Engineers has been running tests of the new pumps and locks. Imaginary Hurricane Butch is the menace they have been fighting, and with each of the runs-through, the pumps have failed. I don't know what this means for us, and what it means for our Ifs and our Whens. Simon and I feel reassured that our home will be okay, standing (or sinking) on relative high ground as it is. But I remember pictures Jackie sent me of the days immediately after the storm--the days when water stood on our street, too. When we returned, we found objects from the back yard had been deposited in the front yard. I can only imagine where the items from Tom and Brandi's Gentilly back yard may have ended up.
And so we watch this Ernesto, who has now been named. We are In The Cone, now, and it is a terrible place to be. I feel weepy from it. Scared. Tired. Worried. It really isn't a way to live, I guess. What is this f-ing love that keeps me here? How strong can it be? Stronger than Ernesto, I hope, I hope.
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