August 2009
A sleepless night drive into the city, we arrived around 8 in the morning. The sun had just popped up and it had not quite risen to the balmy august weather of New Orleans yet. While we waited for the memorial service in the Ninth Ward we walked around the neighborhood to see how things have progressed.
The lower ninth ward at this point has become a juxtaposition of itself. Along Tennessee St new houses developed by Brad Pitt’s “Make it Right” foundation. Many houses are finished with their owners proudly sitting on the front porch and offering a friendly “How do ya do?” as we walked by. Many more homes are in the middle of construction. A little farther down many of tje homes are still gone, only over grown plots of grass and baron concrete slabs. But often still we found the remains of homes never to be reclaimed by their owners.
A little farther down we found a homestead called “New York 2 New Orleans” It appeared exactly as one would imagine a hippie commune from the 60′s would be. Many scruff men in overalls gathering around with their women. Chickens roaming the yard scavenging for grain.
As the heat and humidity began to set in the memorial service began. After many harrowing speeches and tears, everyone began to file in behind 4 national guardsmen on the westbound lane of Claiborne Ave. The drums, trumpets, trombones, and tubas wailed as the main line kicked in, with the second line right behind, following with elaborate dance and attire.
Caught in the majesty of the moment I barely realized where we were going. Right to the top of the Clairborne bridge. This was a problem for me as I am avidly scared of heights. Panic sank in, trying my best to ignore my fear of heights and take in what was going on around. A reef was walked up the bridge by survivors of the floods. As they wiped their tears they threw the reef over the bridge in honor of their missed loved ones.
Shortly before I had ever set out on this trip I was having a conversation in the smoke shack at work with a co-employee. We struck up a conversation about New Orleans from which he used to live in.
He asked “Have you ever had your Deja Vu, when you were down on na’wlins?”
“No” I replied “Please explain”
“Everyone down their has it happen to them once.”
I didn’t think much of it at the time, just chuckled and went about my way.
Then it happened. Now maybe it was self proficising, or possibly the combination of heat exhaustion coupled with sleep deprivation, but it happened. An older lady was attending the memorial proudly holding a sign proclaiming her resilience in her new home on Tennessee St. In her finest whites she had almost a bitter sweet smile on her face. I walked up to ask her how she felt about the recovery of her neighborhood.
Then it hit me, I was immediately transcended into the 1950′s. It was strange, indescribable. Like I had flown back in time. Suddenly she became youthful, the cars became the old rounded boxed Chevy’s of yesteryear. The landscape untouched by the ravages of the storm. Then, in a flash, I was back. It left me speechless.
We spent the rest of the day seeking shade and cold beer. For later that evening we had a hurricane party to attend in Mississippi.
That afternoon we drove to Slidell to meet up with my uncle who works up there as a tattoo artist. He informed us some friends of his were throwing a hurricane party at their home on the gulf shores in Waveland, MS and we were invited.
When we arrived we were greeted with hospitable hosts and a canoe full of beer. Their house sat maybe a half mile from the shore. Occassionaly we would pocket a few beers and head down to the ocean with my uncle to absorb the crisp, cool, ocean air and marvel at the wonders of the gulf.
For the most part the neighborhood was empty. A few homes sat here and there, but still many vacant lots. Our new found friends told us this block was once filled with houses on every lot.
After a while, they asked if I would be interested in seeing the video they recorded as they waited out the storm. The footage started out simple. Everyone enjoying themselves, drinking beer and chatting the night before. As morning broke water began to crest into the doorway. This in itself was quite shocking as the house sat on a 10 foot mound, and was itself at least 5 feet from the ground. The water continued to rise through out the house until they had to seek refuge in the second floor of their home. I was told that the water was neck deep on the first floor at it’s highest.
But no less, they push on. As many of the people I had met this year in the gulf region. This year seemed different. For this year everyone had a sensibility to them that Katrina has passed, and slowly the wounds are healing. Many of the wounds are still open, still trying to heal. But at least the wounds were no longer gushing rivers of blood and heartbreak.
Though I hate to use the phrase given its connotation to the confederate south. You could easily say “The south will rise again” when you speak of the everyday folks down there just trying to make their way through life.
4 years later many houses still sat as they did after Katrina
Home built by Brad Pitt's "Make it Right"
Home built by Brad Pitt's "Make it Right"
Second Line coming down the Judge William Seeber Bridge
Now here we are, about to embark on the fifth anniversary of hurricane Katrina. I can only hope that the feelings of last year persist and the process of rebuilding continues. But with the Gulf Oil spill, these notions can be uncertain. I guess I’ll find out when it’s time to roll back down to my home away from home.