|
|
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Today ought to be special, I suppose. Memorials and celebrations and moments of silence are scheduled around the city. People from the left, right, and dead center will speak from countless podiums about successes, failures, and, on occasion, conspiracies. But honestly, at the end of the day, it'll be just so much hogwash: decaying wreaths, empty bottles of booze, and speeches that didn't convince anyone of anything they didn't already believe.
I might feel different if August 29, 2005 meant something to me, but fact is, I can't remember much of it. I'm pretty sure I woke up before anyone else and made a pot of coffee, let the dogs out, and flicked on CNN. I know I caught glimpses of a reporter stationed in the CBD, giving millions of people false information about New Orleans' history and geography. I also saw tantalizing but ultimately crappy videophone images of the Superdome. And after a couple of hours of that, I remember Jonno and I went shopping.
Seriously, people: shopping.
So while we were strolling through Lafayette's mostly deserted mall, distracting ourselves with clothes and electronics and the occasional fellow refugee, thousands upon thousands of others were rushing to their attics, preferring darkness and stifling heat to the even darker, dirtier rising floodwater. I don't like to think of myself as someone who seeks refuge in denial or avoids life's problems; I prefer to believe that I'm just the sort of guy who focuses on the task at hand and doesn't obsess about things he can't change. But on that day, August 29, I had the luxury of burying my head in solid ground, and I took full advantage of it.
Monday, August 28, 2006
This is when it happened. This is when we left: early Sunday morning, the 28th--so early that it might as well have been Saturday.
Everything went so fast. Friday morning we were joking about the storm, lamenting the fate of Pensacola, which looked to face yet another direct hit. By Friday afternoon, the storm's track had changed. That night, I went to see a play some friends had written, and although turnout was good, there was something more oppressive in the air than run-of-the-mill August humidity. I filled up my car with gas, just in case.
Saturday morning was worse: Katrina was stronger, and the predictions dire. I went through the motions of a normal day--cancelling, however, a highly anticipated canoe trip because of the impending contraflow. The gym was nearly empty that afternoon. Riding home on my bike, I saw cars being packed with stuff, people, pets. The usual neighborhood sounds of radios and kids and dogs were replaced by the whine of electric drills securing plywood to windows.
Jonno and I, we didn't know what to do. Neither of us had ever evacuated before, and we're both stubborn. When someone or something tells us to get the hell out of the way, that only makes us dig in more.
We halfheartedly made some preparations. Reserved a room at the Hotel Monaco. Took artwork off the walls. Then I sat on the sofa, and he sat at the computer, and for a long time, we didn't speak.
At 10:00 that night, something changed. I don't know what. I walked to the back of the house and we looked at each other and we said "We have to go, and we have to go now."
We didn't call anyone. We didn't tell a soul. We didn't want to give people yet another cause for alarm. We'd been downplaying the storm all day, trying to make everyone feel calm. It'll veer to the east like always, we assured them. We've never left before, we said, and we're not leaving now. To go back on that would've just made people worry more, and at that point, we were all worried enough.
Then, of course, there were the practical reasons we kept quiet. We didn't have room for everyone in our car, and even if we did, we couldn't invite everyone to our friends' house in Lafayette.
Now, of course, we know how stupid that was. We should've called. We should've checked in, just to make sure everyone had a plan. We would've made room in our car, no matter how many folks needed to go. Drew and Don would've welcomed anyone we brought along. Our friends are important and wonderful and giving, and we were stupid to leave them out.
But, 20/20 hindsight. As it was, we threw the rest of the artwork upstairs, packed some toiletries and a couple of days' worth of clothes, threw the dogs in the car, left the cat a goodly supply of food and water (another major mistake), and at 12:10am, we said goodbye to our house, hoping it would still be standing in 48 hours and not wanting to think too much about the alternative.
The drive was smooth once the dogs calmed down. Traffic flowed nicely, and it only took about three hours to reach Lafayette--an hour longer than usual, but given the fact that people were clocking eight hours just to reach Baton Rouge the previous afternoon, we considered ourselves fortunate. We called as we were driving in, and Don--whom we'd barely met--graciously came out to meet us. We shuffled through the dark house already packed with people, trying not to disturb the folks sleeping in the den as we made our way to the guest room that would become home for the next six weeks.
After we awoke, Drew and Don took us to a beautiful new museum in Lafayette. It was less to see the art than to get our minds off things. Looking out at the bright afternoon sky through the building's glass walls, I saw bands of clouds spiraling up from the Gulf in long, stiff arms. The sight made me feel like I'd been kicked in the stomach: nauseous and winded and dizzy. I get the same feeling today when I see trailers for Katrina-themed TV specials. Acknowledging loss can be a shock to the system.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
A year later, and clearly, no one is satisfied. Residents are unhappy with the mayor, the feds, and to a lesser degree, the governor. Whites are unhappy with blacks, blacks are unhappy with whites, and no one is happy with the Hispanics except the contractors, who are unhappy with everyone who inhabits the Most Offensive Architectural Eyesore This Side of the Pecos (aka City Hall). Spike Lee is unhappy with the Times-Picayune. And those stinky hippies over at Common Ground.... Well, they're just unhappy. Not enough hacky-sack, I suppose.
Of course, all this sadness and tsoris could be mitigated with a good plan and some good communications skills. Unfortunately, our city leadership fails so miserably on both counts that the infamous Hundred Day Plan cooked up by C. Ray Nagin (the "c" stands for "cueball"!) can't even be found on the aptly named City of NO.com. Maybe he'll get around to that in the next 365 days.
Now, someone has to cobble together a set of goals for the city, and given my current summer coiffure, I suppose I'm as qualified to do so as hizzoner or anyone else. I have therefore set out a five-point plan containing reasonable, achievable objectives, which will yield quantifiable results. They may not make everybody happy, but other than Laura Bush and Cicciolina [nsfw!], who really gives a crap about that?
1. Start demolishing buildings already. As a benevolent autocrat, I understand that some residents can't afford to gut or renovate their homes, and provisions will be made for such folks. However, the people who own Robert's on Elysian Fields, the Ford dealership on Carrollton, and dozens of fast food restaurants across the city.... Well, let's just say those Taco Bells are ruining my view. And I'm a man who likes a good view.
2. Retrofit all structures with solar power. Perhaps it seems uncharacteristically hippie-ish of me, but this part of the plan is important because (a) it'll diminish the very greenhouse gasses that heat up the planet that create the monster hurricanes that destroy coastal and near-coastal cities like ours; (b) with solar power, we won't have to worry about losing power during afternoon thunderstorms; and (c) there's no better way to encourage Entergy to go fuck themselves.
3. Prohibit predictable stories by the press. If I speak to one more reporter who says, "Yes, I understand that you're trying to get back to normal, but don't you find it depressing down there?", I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Under my plan, there will be a residency requirement for all members of the press: no one will be permitted write a word about the city without having lived in Orleans Parish for at least a year. After-dinner forays to Creole Creamery will be highly encouraged by not required. Norman Robinson and Alec Gifford will have their press passes permanently revoked.
4. Accept no more checks. New Orleanians have wasted far too much time in the past year. We waited for the storm to pass, waited for news of the city's fate, waited for rescue, waited for floodwaters to be pumped out, waited for the president to pay us a visit, waited to be allowed to come home. We don't need to spend more time hanging around, stuck in line behind soccer moms who can't be bothered to call in and activate their debit cards.
5. Enforce new-skool sharia law. I'm not talking about traditional sharia law, which would reduce the population of New Orleans to 13 or so within a few weeks. No, I'm talking about a new sharia, one to fit our city at this curious point in its history. For example, under my plan, if a city council member is caught taking bribes, the contents of her checking account will be given to an AIDS hospice in her district. A federal official found to be holding up disbursements of grant funds will be wrapped in duct tape and dragged through the streets behind a French Quarter donkey cart. The stupid, the stubborn, and those lacking common sense will be jailed and shipped to Alabama, where they may ultimately feel more at home. And if, perhaps, a group of people holds up an entire bar at gunpoint, they'll be shot on sight, drawn, quartered, and served in a variety of piquante tapas dishes.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
It's kinda late notice, I know, but WDSU is premiering its Katrina documentary, Song for New Orleans tonight. According to the listing, the show starts at 6:30pm, but since it runs 45 minutes or so without commercials, I'm guessing it'll really air between 7:00 - 8:00pm. But what do I know?
Anyway, the film is mostly about the Rebirth Brass Band: what they did before the storm and what they've been doing since. It's a hopeful piece, but it's realistic, too. And the music's incredible.
The best part, though, comes at the very, very end, in a quote from Charmaine Neville. I can't recall it verbatim, but basically, she insists that New Orleanians still living in far-flung parts of the world will soon come back to the city for good: they can't escape, she says, because we put something in their food.
It works on so many levels.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
I'm sorry, it's been a hellacious week.
Week and a half. Whatever.
Catching up on the work that's accumulated during my absence has been the hardest part. My co-workers picked up slack where they could, but that didn't stop a pile-up of rush-hour proportions in my voicemail and email inboxes. I'm beginning to think I shouldn't take vacations at all--and apparently, I'm not alone.
And then there's been some other stuff keeping me busy. Getting serious about rehearsals for the play we're producing. Finishing a handful of cleaning and straightening and construction projects around the house. Trying to spend quality time with the hounds. (As I'm typing this, Tania has brought over her favorite chew toy--a filthy, nasty piece of rope--and is practically yelping for me to throw it across the room, but of course, if I do that, I'll be committing myself to an hour-long game of fetch, and I haven't even had half a cup of coffee yet.)
I've also been busy re-adjusting to New Orleans. That's been a challenge, with every pile of garbage, every unmowed lawn, every un-gutted house evoking gnawing comparisons to the hyper-clean, hyper-cute, hyper-efficient San Francisco. If I'd vacationed someplace like New York or Los Angeles or, I dunno, Montreal--someplace with visible imperfections--it would've been easier to come home to a city that's imperfect in the best of times, and now is most definitely not the best of times. There's been progress since I've gotten back, and some good bits of news, and one of my best friends has moved home, and the weather's been surprisingly pleasant, and signs indicate that the city is finding its rhythm again, but it's still required a bit of adjustment being here, even after only a week and a half away.
The hardest part, oddly enough, has been returning to a house without Jonno. For the first several weeks he was gone, it was great--I had space and time to do stuff I've been needing to do, and I'm sure he felt the same. But then, after seeing him for a few days...well, you've heard the songs and the poems and the "absence makes the heart" blah blah blah. And even though we thrive on having spaces in our togetherness, even though that's the strength of our relationship, I miss him as much now as I did all those years ago, before we became "Jonno and Richard," when he was still living 1312.5 miles away in New York, when I couldn't sleep without hearing his voice on the phone telling me goodnight, when I couldn't have imagined that nearly ten years later, we'd still be together. The longing is surprising and disorienting and wonderful all at once. I'll be glad when he comes home.
|
ppl.
etc.
|
