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Dispatches From New Orleans:
One Mama's Experiences Post-Katrina and Beyond

As the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina approached last month, a beacon on so many levels of what we had collectively survived, it was easy to survey the still-tattered landscape of the city and surmise that little in the way of progress has emerged in the year since Katrina. New Orleans has always been a study in contrasts—the charming tourist Mecca, a living symbol of joie de vivre, beneath which festered a dark undercurrent of violence, corruption, and dysfunction. But in recent months, the hope and optimism that fueled the return of many residents has steadily diminished, replaced in its wake by depression, despair, and anger.

Much in the city remains undone. Thousands of still-abandoned houses continue to fester—a vast playground for rats and other vermin; public services such as working traffic lights, trash collection, mail delivery, the landscaping of public spaces, a reliable (or helpful) police force, a functioning judicial system, accessible medical assistance—in a word, all that we take for granted in this country—are, at best, inconsistent, and, at worst, nonexistent; the notoriously bad public school system continues to limp along as individual charter schools forge valiantly ahead like dogged lanterns in a blanket of fog. And the universities are struggling. Early optimism has given way to downsizing and the threat of further downsizing, while administrations appear, almost across the board, to have taken the opportunity presented by widespread chaos to consolidate power, fortify their numbers and fatten their checks. To add insult to injury, property taxes and insurance rates have, for many of us, doubled in recent months. Meanwhile, rather than present a reasonable, coherent plan for recovery, the recently re-elected mayor appears too preoccupied with traveling, fundraising (or his own political coffers) and celebrating to bother himself with the inconvenient little job for which he was elected.

Many New Orleanians who returned have either left, or are actively looking to leave, in anticipation of further decline—a steady brain that is depleting the city of human resources. New Orleans could become an island for very rich white people and a wasteland for the largely black and Latino poor. And yet the city continues to attract its share of would-be, earnest saviors, urban pioneers, and young energetic professionals who have moved here from elsewhere to lend to a hand. Celebrities pass through, with a starry splash, express concern—and shock—at the stagnant state of affairs a year later, in a symbolic and real effort to uplift this handicapped economy and environmental mess. During the summer, Brad Pitt came to tour the lower ninth ward and participate in plans to rebuild the city smart and green. Word on the street is that he is also making a film (always a boon for the community, regardless of the quality of the screenplay). Spike Lee's presence and work here, the final product of which was the impressive and emotionally wrenching When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts, was a significant and respectful testimony to the strength and suffering of the community. Jude Law, in town for the premiere of All the Kings Men, is allegedly making his way through storm-ravaged neighborhoods this week, in an effort to further publicize our regional crisis.

After careful and ongoing scrutiny, however, I have concluded that it is mainly the natives of New Orleans, a unique genre of American, who are determined to stay and make a go of it. I have heard members of their rank assert, repeatedly, "This is my home, and I can't imagine living anywhere else" (an anathema to one such as myself who was born on the west coast, raised on the east coast and has lived, as an adult, in both north and south, as well as briefly abroad). It is this spirited sector of the population who, I believe, really will continue to rebuild for themselves, regardless of what help is forthcoming or what local corruption continues to flower. The reason? The same careful and ongoing scrutiny has led me to only one really plausible response: family.

The way families exist together here is highly unusual in contemporary American society and, I would venture, rather sacred. Namely, they ritualize the fact of simply being together, and being together in a very old and aesthetic space, whether that be in the form of neighborhood crawfish boils, Sunday dinners, Mardi Gras parties, or frequenting the same tavern, the same po-boy shop, the same French Quarter restaurant, the same market, the same stoop that they and their parents and their parents' parents have always inhabited. Children are raised here steeped in a tradition that brings them together with relatives, for nearly any and every occasion, to break bread, breathe the night-blooming jasmine, and ruminate about their lives.

And so, it is this attitude—born of the ritualized enjoyment of a particular space and engagement with the people within it—which I have adopted in an effort to make the most of my remaining time here, however long that may be. My husband Chris and I now speak about the real possibility of leaving at some point to raise our son Dylan somewhere more conducive to a healthy childhood. Until then, we are striving to live in the moment and savor what is still good about this place.

Right around the anniversary of Katrina, as people and the media were gearing up to contemplate the horror of it all, I suggested, on an evening, that Chris, Dylan, and I go for a stroll. It was the end of a typically hot New Orleans summer day and Chris and I were equally tired and cross. Dylan, still brimming with energy, aimlessly kicked his soccer ball about the living and dining rooms of our house, as we sat in the kitchen, fanning ourselves and drinking beer. Just as Chris was about to scold him for a second or third time, it occurred to me that we might take Dylan up to the levee, two blocks from our house, where he could run freely, kick his ball, and expend some of that pent-up little boy zest. Chris looked at me as if I had proposed an intricate form of bodily torture, but reluctantly agreed, and we proceeded to put on our shoes and lock up the house. After an initially rocky start, in which both of us had to call to our overly enthusiastic son to stay on the sidewalk and avoid the unpredictable dog prancing around behind a neighboring fence, we successfully navigated our way down the street. When we reached the bottom of the levee, we had to chart a path up the hill through overgrown grass (one of the many neglected city services), but once we made it to the top, our mood began to shift.

It was twilight and the temperature was cooling down. We followed the tire tracks littered with white shells, between columns of thick grass, at the top of the levee. Dylan kicked his soccer ball and took off ahead of us, thrilled to be moving freely. I ran after him threatening, playfully, to steal the ball, and causing him to laugh hysterically, as he struggled desperately to stay in the lead. Chris walked behind us, his expression softening as he watched Dylan and me careen giddily down the path. Ahead and behind neighbors walked dogs and babies, jogged, or strolled at a leisurely pace with a sweetheart or friend. In the distance lay our indisputably stunning view of the Mississippi River and, across from it, the French Quarter and Central Business District, now lit up and projecting a skyline of modest, yet, nevertheless, impressive dimensions.

New Orleans is not Chicago, but at night, and from a certain angle, it presents a lovely profile. With little difficulty, I overtook and passed Dylan, who screamed in frustrated delight. I kicked the ball, it flew past him, and Chris joined the fray, punting it back to me. In this way, we proceeded on our walk towards the ferry landing and edge of Algiers Point. There Dylan gazed across the murky water, at the ferry approaching us, and pointed beyond it, to the Aquarium, recently reopened and, once again, stocked with fish. I looked further downriver at the St. Louis Cathedral, twinkling reassuringly on the edge of Jackson Square. The natural beauty of the city, persisting despite, or because of, everything seemed to penetrate and relax our exhausted psyches. I took Chris's hand as we trudged back down the hill and into the evening air, thick with the smell of night-blooming jasmine. "Dylan, wait for us!" Chris shouted, as Dylan scampered ahead. I inhaled deeply. "Yes, it will be a shame to have to leave this place."

column added on 2006-09-23 :: ::

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