My Window On The World

I’ve tried to tell you of our visit here through the words of others, letting them describe their mental snapshots of our time here. For what’s it worth, here’s my window on the world. I spent a lot of time seeking out residents, gently probing for their stories. I am, by nature, a happy person, given to laughing and smiling. It was hard to be me here some days.

My first glimpse of the Superdome, driving by the Convention Center, seeing the bridge where the prisoners of the Orleans Parish Prison sweated out the hot sunny days that followed Katrina brought on that sinking feeling in my stomach. My mind’s eye replayed snapshots from the coverage of the disaster. Crossing into the 9th Ward for the first time brought an onslaught of those images. Turning off St. Claude into the neighborhood, seeing all the lost homes brought me near to tears. That sense of loss turned to anger with each passing block. Tears welled up as I saw a little boy, maybe 6 or 7, walking his dog – with a breathing mask dangling from his neck and work gloves tucked snuggly in his back pocket. He was 4 or 5 when Katrina approached and government at all levels failed him. He was walking four blocks from the Industrial breach. To him, this is normal. How sad is that? Anger spurted into fury when I spotted a home with several spray painted messages: 9/11 – four dogs, two cats, gave water. 9/28 – same, left water/food. 9/30 – two dogs dead. Rest gone? I’m a complete sucker for animals.

Across St. Claude, a decimated fire house reminded me of the vulnerability of even those we call on to protect us. Then a house, tumbled in upon itself, a toilet on its side and clothing seeping through its blown out walls. Its dark shingles almost hid the message. I was standing before a home where someone had to hack through the attic and paint a plea on its roof. Where did they go? Did they die? Did help come in time? There is no way for me to know. So much has gotten better here in New Orleans, residents say, and things improve every day. It’s a slow process and made slower by a bureaucracy that is heartless and mindless, based on what I’ve heard firsthand. And sometimes, I wondered why they keep going. How do they not get overwhelmed? Maybe it’s because, in a way, this is part of their history. Sings one artist who grew up along the Gulf Coast: “If a hurricane doesn't leave you dead, it will make you strong. Don't try to explain it, just nod your head. Breathe In. Breathe Out. Move On.” The residents of New Orleans are doing just that when it becomes too much. The least I can do for them is to do the same and get back to work, cranking on my own little cog in system.