A letter about New Orleans from a New Orleanian

Following is a letter from an Ampula contributor on the recent crisis in New Olreans, Louisiana.

To Whom It May Concern:

What you have seen over the last week or so, is not the New Orleans I know. What you are seeing is a city under siege by desperate people in a tragic fight for and against time. How do you explain chaos? You don’t. I say I would never loot but if I got hungry enough I don’t know if I wouldn’t high tail it to the nearest supermarket to see what I could find. By the same token, I hope I wouldn’t stop by an appliance store to get a wide screen TV for an apartment engulfed by flood waters. The city of New Orleans has always been one divided by ‘isms’ -most notably classism and racism. For decades, we have hidden ourselves behind masks of friendly coexistence. Well, Katrina ripped off those masks and showed the world something we’ve been hiding. The City that care forgot had long ago become the city that forgot to care.

What you are seeing is not the latest disaster movie. You are seeing the real thing of what happens when people forget too much. When I relocated to Los Angeles, a little over fifteen years ago, I never imagined not being able to go back to the place I grew up in. Yet, I forgot my city and rooted myself in the traditions of California. Metering out my visits and taking for granted the fact that one day I might not be able to return to what I had known. Now, this is not possible. Our modest home was in what one might call a blighted neighborhood. My father, mother and the other fathers and mothers poured their souls into these homes. Always providing a place where their children and their children’s children could find refuge. Well, I’ve lost my refuge. The next time I go home will be to shovel out what remains of my parent’s life.

Odd, almost forty years ago, my parents had to dig themselves out of the grime of a Hurricane called Betsy. It was hard. They worked their jobs by day and after work, they returned to salvage what they could of a house they almost lost to a levee. They scrubbed and cleaned. The things they kept were as odd as the things they threw away. My mom salvaged my old teddy bear and Tonka trucks painting them for me to play with. They had to throw out the new stove and refrigerator they bought a month before Betsy engulfed their sparkly veneers. They saved pictures by drying them out in the sun and later discovering that the sun often faded the memories even more. Yet, they cleaned until their home was theirs again.

About fifteen years ago, my mom left my dad because their marriage couldn’t be dug out. My mom started over again at an age when most people are giving up on life. She left with the clothes on her back and an old car that constantly needed repairing. Within a few years, she was on her feet living nearby the house she once called home.

Five years ago, my dad died and my mom returned to the house she had left to find some peace of mind. It was still in the ghetto but it was hers and over the last few years, she worked to make it hers once again. Granted, it was cluttered with the accumulation of a life lived together and apart. Only one thing was certain, it was hers and hers alone. Just a few weeks ago her new life was taken away from her.

My mom was lucky. She describes herself as nervous. She wouldn’t dare stay any longer than the minutes of the initial warning. She packed a bag, grabbed some papers and got out. She retreated to the small town she grew up in. There, relatives sat with her watching, comforting and listening as they discovered her home and her city was lost. I talk to my mom daily now. She says she’s okay but there is always something in her voice that I don’t dare question. I barely broach the subject of relocation knowing both she and I are not really ready to cover this issue.

The New Orleans I know is represented by the extended family I have discovered over this very difficult time. People have unselfishly offered of themselves. I have received e-mails, envelopes and packages. Everyone asks about family and how they are coping. I know they ask about my mother and me. Yet, I also know they are asking about what was once my city. I am no expert. All I can say is, if a nervous seventy-five year old woman can start all over again why can’t a city as large as New Orleans do the same?

Thanks for asking,

Jim