Aftermath

2 years. As I surf the “web,” I find countless references to the fact that it’s been 2 years now since hurricane Katrina slammed into the southeastern United States, leaving behind a wound both physical and emotional. She not only murdered, destroyed, and washed away so much in her path; she gashed open issues that we as Americans had swept away for years. Festering wounds on our own national identity came to surface. A simple web search for Katrina + California will find a scathing and bitter undercurrent of feeling from southerners regarding everything from liberalism to oil resources, from earthquakes to vegetarian diets. If anyone thought that the tensions between the north and south of the US were over, Katrina proved otherwise. When faced with the question, “how much should the federal government be expected to aid a city/state?” the answers were both inspirational and shocking. But, in the end, did anyone really come up with an answer? Louisiana has relied on the federal government for years and will continue to do so, but no one has figured out if that is responsible or warranted. Is it possible that in relying on the federal government we allow our specific cultural identities to be watered down? Is America one nation? Or is America a united group of nations? In the future, how should we look at ourselves?

Most people talking about Katrina are amazed that so much time has passed since the storm. They speak about the destruction they still face in their daily lives, the lack of assistance, the countless people that still wait for direction, or aid. Have we created a cult here? Is this the new American cult of disaster? Where we stand by helplessly always looking back to the point of our demise? Waiting for someone to give us an answer as to where we are supposed to head now? I personally can’t believe it was only two years! I hear two years and think, “ Really! God, it feels like decades ago!” How many people have I been since that day? An American Airman in South Korea, a future-wife, the other woman, a student, a bartender, a traveler; all these things I experienced, I have lived since “the storm.” My life goes on, and on, and on. What affect did this storm have on that? Is it perhaps that my response was to keep moving? I ran away from New Orleans once; I returned to a city torn apart and grieving, her wounds open and bleeding for the world to see. I found that I could do nothing to help her.

What was Katrina like for me? Everyone seems to want to describe the moment. The moment they realized the storm was really coming, the moment they saw the levees break, the feelings they had. Across the world, across continents, everyone who holds the city dear or close for whatever reason, was glued to a television set somewhere, desperate to know what was happening, how the this place was going to fare. I was not exempt from this group. I cried, a lot; didn’t we all? I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t work. Was useless like everyone else, but the one thought playing in my head like a broken record was, “I was trained for this! I can help! Just get me there.” Of course, upon my arrival I wasn’t needed, and could do nothing to ease the pain of my city. Heck! I couldn’t even get into my city. But, at least I was there. And that sentiment is why I had to separate from the Air Force, and it’s why I had to be back. The city kept calling to me, as it does. And that hasn’t changed. Even now, that I’ve run away yet again. It’s still home.

As I walk the streets of Edinburgh or London, do I see something alien? No, I see only the similarities. I see home everywhere I look. The café I go to, reminds me of Zotz; the bars remind me of Flanagan’s. New Orleans has a grip on my soul, as I’m sure it does to everyone who has been infected with the city. This is why people will fight to the death for it. This is why no one who has ever lived there questions whether it should be saved. But, how do you save a city that never wants to be saved? How do you save a place that exists to be on the edge? I don’t know. For me, I’ll be an ambassador. I’ll keep telling people to visit while knowing deep down I don’t have the intestinal fortitude to actually live there myself (yet). I’ll keep traveling the world, looking for answers. Looking for the reality about humanity I need to find to be able to answer the questions that face the city now. How do we deal with urban blight? Poverty? Crime? Maybe we don’t. Maybe the town will eventually die, but I don’t think so. I think like a three legged dog… she’ll just keep on running after bones. Limping about without a care in the world because what the pitying onlookers don’t realize is that leg wasn’t all that important anyway. It’s the soul that matters. And you can’t ever kill the soul of my city. She infects every human she touches, and she will live forever.