Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Not Again!

The cancelations are rolling in. Formal Katrina remembrances are being replaced by an unstoppable barrage of unwanted, terrifying memories. Productive work is now on hold. All eyes are on the Gulf of Mexico and the unseeing, unfeeling specter of Hurricane Gustav.
He has me churning already. His powerful winds and deadly aim at New Orleans are dredging up suppressed memories of midnight runs, stranded plans, and emotional partings.

An emergency meeting to batten down the hatches turned into a torrent of tormented remembrances. Pets are a problem. The elderly need help. Temporary office accommodations are available in Montgomery, Alabama.

The post-Katrina newcomers are staring at me, maybe a little mystified. I am waving my arms too much. My voice is strained, and my animation seems bigger than the situation calls for.

Someone voices the “no evacuation” sentiment. A Katrina survivor who fished his loved ones out of the flood jumps back in his chair, shaking his head violently. “No, sir! I’m not staying.” No one knows how to escape this gaping fissure running through our collective lives.

Lunch is now the hour of dark speculation and ominous prediction. “If we flood again, that’s the end for New Orleans. No one will come to help us.”

Everything in me resists. I don’t want to do this, not even think this.

But my mind steals inexorably to the edge of the cliff. I peer into a murky, imagined future where New Orleans has become the modern Atlantis after Gustav completes a deadly one-two punch.

Close the shutters again. Find the power drill and long screws. Cover the windows. Load the files. Fill the gas tanks. Remember how we missed the tools and computers last time. We know this routine.

Move the valuables to the second floor. Clean out the freezer. Take—what? Am I preparing for a three-day vacation or three weeks of waiting for the bowl to finally empty?

I am screaming inside—and shaking. My worst nightmare comes at me hour by hour from every quarter in vivid color with all the numbers perpetually displayed: 75 mph sustained winds, 4 mph WNW. These spinning currents are peeling off the scabs and breaking open the unhealed wounds of Katrina’s beating.

My usual “tropical storm confusion” about when to say what to whom is compounded by an unshakable sense of doom gripping the back of my neck. I don’t want to go there. How do I stop myself? What will this storm cost me? Everything?

Our levees seem so formidable when I push my bicycle to their crest. But they shrink to tiny scratches in the sand when viewed from these thunderheads. I feel panic. Did the Corps of Engineers fix those weak spots along the Industrial Canal? What about the MRGO?

My brother’s bedrooms are full, and our son has too much on his plate. We will evacuate to Texas, my wife has decided, so she can tend to her aging father for a few days. How many days, I wonder.

Someone is singing. My heart slows down. I cannot live in this emotional quicksand. My refuge in this storm of memories is a firm faith anchored somewhere beyond government, nature, and science.

I wrench my mind back to all the familiar faces, people that I love. Here lie the real values of my life. These I can protect. My possessions may be looted, soaked or mildewed, but if my loved ones are safe, I have scarcely lost a thing. This, too, I learned from Katrina.

Back to the task at hand. Make sure we have a good plan when the Mayor blows his horn. And this time we get on the correct side of the contraflow so we can actually go to Texas.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

The Omnipresent Storm

Friday the 29th is the third anniversary of the landfall of our omnipresent storm, Hurricane Katrina, the most powerful storm to strike America since scientists began measuring such calamities.

Hurricane Katrina was three times the size of Rita or Andrew or Camille in the sheer energy it generated, lifting the waters of the sea at least 10 feet above sea level for a span of 200 miles. This storm surge, 30 feet high at the midpoint, filled Lake Pontchartrain to unprecedented levels and toppled the walls of the city’s drainage canals at seven different locations.

And there you have it—Mother Nature’s swirling gift that just keeps on spinning.
Not a day goes by—maybe even a waking hour—that I don’t somehow encounter this storm in my memory. Driving through Lakeview I see a new home and think, “They didn’t elevate it much. I guess they’re betting on the levees.” I see a vacant lot where a home used to sit and wonder, “Is that family living nearby or still displaced by the storm?”

I walk our church parking lot and lament the loss of trees, poisoned by salt water, that we worked so hard to keep alive the first year at our new site. I’ll think to myself, “Where is that cabinet we used for display?” and then remember, “Oh, yes, we lost it in the storm.”

If my surroundings don’t remind me of Katrina, the people around me are sure to do it. Every conversation about education, healthcare, housing, economic development, or criminal justice has its Katrina component. I visited the Orleans Parish House of Detention a few days ago and was reminded that hundreds of inmates still live in tents—remnants of the great storm.

Someone moves away, and I think of Katrina. Someone new arrives, and I think of Katrina. Is this coming and going related to the storm? Often it is.

Pick any day. Three of the five front page stories in our local newspaper will likely feature some dimension of recovery from the storm. Brad Pitt is building homes in the Lower Ninth Ward. Potential locations for the new VA hospital are being debated. A billion dollars is available to rebuild Orleans Parish school facilities.
The great storm stalled directly above us and continually pumps its downpour on our city. Across the span of our individual and collective lives, we have had precious little relief from this barrage in these three years.

And there’s more to come. The reminders will not evaporate with the passing of August 29.

Am I stuck in this fierce wind forever? Can my mind ever paddle out of this flood?
It’s too soon to tell, I guess, even after three years. As long as gaping caverns in our streets threaten to devour my vehicle, I will think of Katrina. Until the new hospitals are part of our skyline, until the inmates are eight to a cell instead of 14, I will think of Katrina. Until the schools, the levees, and the vast stretches of flood-blighted neighborhoods are rebuilt, I will always think of Katrina.

And, I guess, if our new approach to public education really works, and students enjoy an environment more conducive to learning, I will enjoy some measure of gratitude for Katrina. If Charity Hospital re-emerges as a state-of-the-art haven for the sick, I will give thanks for Katrina.

For heaven’s sake, if the Saints win the Superbowl or the Hornets top the NBA, I am going to be thinking of Katrina—the difficulties we have overcome, the problems we have solved, and the joy we have experienced in the journey from what felt like a watery grave to what looks like a successful community bequeathing a spirit of courage and determination to coming generations.