LOGO LOGO LOGO LOGO LOGO LOGO LOGO LOGO

COLUMNS

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

On many levels, life in New Orleans post-Katrina is about death. For many people, that death is the literal physical death of family or friends, whether during the storm or in the health crisis that has ensued. Many are struggling with the death, so to speak, of their flooded homes, and all of the attendant possessions and memories therein. Many have suffered or are witnessing the death of careers. But everyone in New Orleans now lives with the death of an environment and of life as they knew it before.

So, it's not surprising that children are also struggling, perhaps prematurely, with death anxiety. It is also logical that the extent of this anxiety might exceed the normal childhood apprehension of mortality that results from the death of one's grandparent or the death of a pet. This said, eight months after Katrina, my son Dylan seemed to remain blissfully and somewhat miraculously oblivious of death and, by extension, blissfully anxiety free. That is until one fateful day the zoo.

Dylan and I set out one Saturday in May to see the many animals that consume so much of his time and attention as toys and in books. And, after making our usual loop around the enclosures of the "African Safari," pausing in ritual pitstops to observe lonely elephants, sleeping white tigers, lackluster lionesses, irritable camels, hidden leopards and a statuesque Toucan, ever perched in the same position and on the same branch, Dylan announced with conviction that he wanted to ride on the carousel. So we made our way over to the ticket booth, purchased a ticket, and waited in line. The way it works is that if a child is under a certain height a parent or other guardian is required to stand by the child while he or she rides at the cost of only one ticket. So, Dylan and I climbed together aboard the colorful merry-go-round, replete with zoo animals of every shape and size. Dylan carefully scoped out the leopard he wanted to ride and, after strapping him on, I climbed onto a neighboring ostrich, confident that Dylan was positioned securely atop his jungle cat, from which I was only an arm's length away.

As luck would have it, mommy was busted by the employee scanning the carousel to ensure that everyone was properly situated. "Ma'am, you need to stand by your son," the man in uniform advised me brusquely. I blushed as I slid shamefacedly from the ostrich's back and assumed my position by Dylan's side. I feel certain that Dylan observed my discomfort, especially as I explained to him somewhat tensely, and before I had had a chance to think, that the man thought it would be dangerous for him to ride alone.

Nevertheless, the moment passed and the two of us moved on to other sights and sounds. That is, until I sat with him on his bed at the end of the day, folding a sheet around his tired body and kissing him lightly on his forehead. "You had to get off the ostrich," Dylan remarked. "Yes. Yes, I did," I answered, bemused. "The man at the zoo thought it might be dangerous for you to ride alone, but really I think you were fine." "What other things are dangerous?" Dylan pressed on, ignoring my attempt to reassure him. "Well, gosh, I don't know...I mean, lots of things are dangerous; that's the nature of life," I stammered. "Crossing the street without looking both ways is dangerous. That's why you should always always wait to cross the street with me or your dad, um, driving cars can be dangerous. That's why mommy can't retrieve your toys while she's driving... yes, lots of things are dangerous, but as long as you're careful, you'll be okay." I was becoming palpably nervous. "Tell me about the hurricane. Tell me about going to Texas," Dylan proceeded, not missing a beat.

I paused to catch my breath. "Well, every year there's a hurricane season, and we happen to live in a city near the water, sooooo, we sometimes—but only sometimes—get a hurricane, you know, a really big storm, and have to leave for a few days while the hurricane passes through, but last year, the city got a really, really big hurricane and some of the city was broken. Remember? And so we had to stay in Texas, with Uncle Aaron and Aunt Brenda, for a while." Dylan contemplated my expression, the rush of my words. "But you should know that you will always be safe with us. I mean, we will always evacuate—you know, leave—before the hurricane gets here," I hurried on, hoping to contain the damage, reverse the tide. "And our house is really safe. Very strong. Like the brick house in The Three Little Pigs. You remember that house, don't you? Strong." Dylan seemed to consider this. "Read me a book," he answered, finally, presenting me with a welcome segue out of the conversation.

But the exchange left me unsettled. I felt certain that the incident on the carousel had triggered in him a budding awareness of death and related anxiety. When, however, I consulted with a play therapist I know, recounting the conversation and what had occurred previously, she observed, simply, that Dylan was asking whether or not he was safe. Well, sure, I thought to myself. But what lies beneath our desire for safety but an incipient knowledge that, ultimately, none of us is safe or protected because—ding ding ding—every one of us dies? And was it not appropriate for Dylan to connect this nascent awareness to the hurricane, that big, unwieldy symbol of finitude? Moreover, it was I who had, unwittingly, provided the catalyst for this grim recognition, a fact about which I felt extensive remorse.

My worries were appeased somewhat a month later in conversation with two colleagues, who are also mothers, at the National Women's Studies Association's annual convention. Both of these women have sons, one close to Dylan's age and the other a year older, and both of them assured me that their sons know and have known about death for some time. Neither of them seemed particularly pleased about this reality; one, in fact, noted that her son, who had learned of death through an episode of Caillou, had become noticeably depressed at his newfound discovery. But still, I reflected to myself, ignoring her description of her son's despair, it's not as if Dylan is the only one of his age to make such a leap.


What I learned a week later, days after I had returned from the conference, was that a "real" apprehension of death, one that is conscious anyway, looks quite different from Dylan's introspective line of questioning. That one doesn't, in fact, apprehend death either easily or openly.

One evening, while Dylan and I were discussing the characters in the Disney movie Finding Nemo, on which he had found a fairly insubstantial little book at the local library, Dylan asked if Nemo was a girl. "Well, no, honey," I answered. "Nemo is a boy." "No he's not." Dylan insisted stubbornly. "Nemo is a girl." "No, really, honey, trust me on this one—Nemo's a boy." "He's a girl!" Dylan repeated, his voice growing louder. "Well, why don't we just go watch the movie?" I offered smugly, gesturing towards our DVD collection. "Okay," he agreed readily. So, while Dylan settled on the couch, I put Finding Nemo into the DVD player. In the first few moments of the film—those memorably disturbing ones just before Nemo's mother and all of his siblings are obliterated in several swift bites—Dylan proclaimed cheerfully, "SEE! Nemo is a girl!" "No, Dylan," I explained gently, "that's Nemo's mommy." "Nemo's mommy???" Dylan asked, mystified.

Oh lord, I thought. Disney's penchant for killing its mothers was finally coming home to roost...We had been watching the movie for nearly two years and I had always felt relieved that Dylan did not appear to notice. Now, he seemed alarmed and confused as he watched Nemo's father whimper as he cradled that last little egg. "But what what—WHERE is Nemo's mommy?" "Well," I replied thinking that I had to tell him the truth and nothing but, "Dylan's mother was eaten by that creature." "WHY?" Dylan gasped. "Why was she eaten by that creature?" "Well, I guess it was hungry," I responded, wincing internally. "WHY? WHY IS THAT CREATURE HUNGRY?" Dylan cried insistently. "Well, I don't know," I answered. "WHERE ARE THE EGGS?" he pressed, scanning my face. "They were eaten, too," I confessed, feeling genuinely sad at the cruelty of the world. "WHY?" Dylan wondered again. "I want Nemo's mommy back!" This continued off and on for another half an hour at which point I suggested that we turn off the movie and get ready for bed, a proposal to which he quickly agreed.

And on this night, as I tucked him in and kissed his forehead, Dylan was strangely quiet. I cursed Disney and cursed myself for our seemingly conjoined roles in his flustered awakening. Could I turn back the clock, in all of us, I thought, I certainly would.

column added on 2006-06-25 :: ::

>> columns listing