Dispatches From A Displaced Mama: (part eight)
One Mama's Experiences After Katrina I am sitting in a neighborhood coffee shop within walking distance of my temporary home in Houston, working on my laptop, when a bird pounds into the window beside me and crash lands onto a patio table outside. There it lies, one wing extended, its small bird heart throbbing visibly. Immediately I tear up. This is life for me these days. So acutely aware am I of my mortality, of my imminent demise. One minute we are soaring along through the clear, bright air of a breezy October morning and the next we are broadsided by one of the world's innumerable walls. Why, I wonder, do we, individually and collectively, doggedly stoop to pick up the pieces of our lives post-accident, post-trauma, after any one of the little deaths that the universe volleys in our direction when we know that some day we will fall for good?
Later I attend a lecture on children and trauma at which the speaker, a clinical psychologist, tells us that the other meaning of the Chinese symbol for "crisis" is opportunity. I am with my friend Lynn, who is attending the lecture for her counseling work with displaced New Orleans families. Both of us are already familiar with the dual significance of the symbol and agree that its use, in the context of trauma, is almost clichéd. At the same time, we both readily admit to the power of the symbol, to the seeds of wisdom in every cliché. Lynn even goes so far as to suggest that she might use the image in the ongoing therapy she will do with students displaced by the storm. "I should ask them to draw it," she reflects aloud. I am left to consider how I may not have viewed my family's situation post-Katrina in a more positive or empowering light. What "opportunities" had I missed in the shambles of exile? Within a month after our evacuation, I had begun working, encouraged my husband to participate in a writing workshop, and enrolled my son in a reputable Montessori school. And we had managed all of that despite our second forced evacuation for Hurricane Rita. Had I not already met the challenge of tremendous adversity with courage and resourcefulness? Why, then, did the darker, more shattering aspect of "crisis," its initial impact, seem still to burn so intently behind my perception of things? The shuddering thump of a bird on the window. When I return home that same afternoon, I learn that my son Dylan has bitten a classmate, a behavior in which he has not engaged for many months. Although my husband reassures me that Dylan's teacher has urged us not to worry—that the episode is exceptional—he also mentions her observation that we might need to pay more or better attention to him. As if in confirmation of her advice, Dylan stages a violent tantrum that evening as Chris and I are locked in dialogue over dinner. His wrath seems disproportionate to its trigger (Chris's moratorium on crawling under the dinner table) and after we have cautioned and then threatened Dylan, together and separately, to no avail, I am compelled to take him aside and hold his wildly writhing little body, back to my chest, in a restraint until he calms down. We are both alarmed by this unpleasant turn of events and our sleep that night is fitful. The next day, we decide, as if in tacit agreement that a break in our family routine is needed, to drive down to Galveston beach with Lynn, her husband Sam and their daughter Sophie. They are planning to return to New Orleans for good in a week, and it is the last real opportunity Dylan will have to visit with Sophie until we, too, return in December. The day is sunny, but cool and a soft breeze caresses our tired bodies as we recline on the sand. Dylan and Sophie romp mirthfully across the beach, kicking up shells, and splashing through the surf. They are, I observe, entirely carefree. Afterward, we enjoy a lunch out on the terrace of a small but elegant Greek café. Everyone seems to heave a sigh of relief. The relief, I reflect, of survivors, battered by the stormy emotions wrought by displacement. It is, indeed, good to pause for this spontaneous celebration of community, to enjoy "the moment" as per the cliché. I remember to celebrate this same sense of communion later that afternoon as Dylan and I share an ice cream cone and then jog around a park in the afterglow of our sugary treat. I remember it again that night when I bathe him in the small shower of our makeshift apartment, as we color the wall tiles with special pens designed for the bath and read books that were sent to us by relatives during this time in exile to remind us that we are never alone. And I remember this, too—the hopeful and regenerative nature of community—as I look back out the window of my coffee shop to see that the bird has miraculously gathered itself into an upright position and fluttered to the ground to hop, and then fly away from the small crowd that had gathered anxiously around the periphery of the table in the moments after its tragic fall. |
Laura Tuley
 Laura Tuley is mother of one and teaches English and Women's Studies at the University of New Orleans and does graduate work in Counseling at Loyola University. She and co-editor Jessica Nathanson, are in the final stages of their anthology called Mother Knows Best: Talking Back to Baby "Experts." Read more of Laura's Dispatches From New Orleans column. search mamazine:
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