first anniversary
When I was in high school, heck even when I was in college, I used to celebrate my “one month anniversaries” with boys. One month anniversaries used to be significant. And in high school (even college), every month of a relationship brought new depth, new adventures, new connection. The older you get, the less significant the passing of a month becomes. These days, when Jason and I end up apart for a month (or more) during the summer, it’s sad, I miss him, but I don’t feel like there’s huge significance to the “time lost.”
This weekend was the one month anniversary of our relationship with Katrina, with Florida, and with exile. We celebrated it by ignoring it. To this moment, neither of us has brought up the fact that we’ve been away from home for thirty-one days. This month, this relationship with displacement, strikes the same chord that high school relationship anniversaries did. After a month of dating, it was hard to remember what life was like before the boy, hard to imagine life without him. After a month of exile, memories of home are fuzzy, the “old normal” routines a bit hazy. Perhaps this is self-preservation, the same way that we tend to forget the pain of breakups over time. Perhaps I’m forgetting the actuality of home in order to prepare myself for the reality of it.
How have we passed the past month? To be honest, we’ve spent a great deal of it sleeping. Unless we’ve had something to do in the morning (check out of a hotel or work at Habitat, for example) or something keeping us up all night (the coverage of hurricane Rita), we’ve regularly clocked 10-13 hours of sleep a night. Depression? Avoidance? Exhaustion from stress?
In recent weeks, just about once every four or five mornings, I’ve woken up and started crying even before I’ve opened my eyes fully. The conversation that ensues is the same conversation each time:
“What’s wrong?”
“I want to go home.”
“We can’t go home”
“I know.”
So, a month after Katrina, what do we know about home? We know that our area did not flood. We know that a window blew out in our attic. We don’t know if my car is okay or even still there. We know that some people have returned to the “dry” areas of New Orleans to find their houses smothering in mold; we know of others whose cars have been totaled this way. We know that electricity is on near our neighborhood, but most likely not in our neighborhood yet. We know that the water is not drinkable and that you can’t even wash your hands in it. We know that the Walgreen’s down the street is open for business, is stocked with Halloween candy, and is allowing customers to charge their cell phones in their photo department.
We know that my school sustained only minor damage and that clean-up has already begun. We know that I will be paid through October, and that most of our students plan to return to New Orleans either in January or for the 2006-07 school year. We know that school will most likely start again on January 3, 2006, but it may start earlier in some capacity.
We also know that if another hurricane enters the Gulf, an evacuation of New Orleans would be harrowing. The I-10 East bridge, which we took to get to Florida, was washed out during Katrina. New Orleans’s perilous position during hurricanes was not just in its geography, but also in its lack of viable evacuation routes. Now we have fewer. Last we heard, there are no gas stations open for business in our area. And of course, we have the weakened levee system.
Mayor Nagin announced once again today that he will allow our neighborhood return to the city starting on Friday. The announcement comes with several admonitions. In fact, the official announcement begins: “On behalf of Mayor C. Ray Nagin and the City of New Orleans, welcome home!” and then goes on to say “(1) You are entering the City of New Orleans at your own risk…”
We will most likely start heading back some time this weekend, with at least one or two stops along the way. The city is under a 6pm-8am curfew, and we will want to arrive well-rested, but with plenty of time before the curfew kicks in. Keep checking in on my blog to get the final decisions.
Finally, I can’t possibly sign off on this email without again expressing my gratitude for the love and support we have received along the way. People as far away as Australia and Great Britain and the Czech Republic have sent us money. We’re currently staying in a condo owned by a couple I’ve never met. I’ve heard from high school friends I haven’t heard from SINCE high school.
I am so lucky. So grateful.
And I’ve not yet really blogged about being in Punta Gorda because I’ve had a tough time figuring out the right words to describe this community.
On August 13, 2004, Hurricane Charley came ashore in Punta Gorda. Charley was a Cat. 4 and was aimed directly at the Tampa Bay area, 100 miles to the north. Few people here evacuated. Just hours before the storm was supposed to hit, Charley took a sudden southward turn. Around 67% of homes in Punta Gorda were destroyed.
Just about everyone I've met here has stories like you wouldn't believe-- being trapped for hours in a closet, having the ceiling fall down on them, hiding under mattresses, ducking out of the way just as the windows burst inward. Every time I hear a new story, I cry. And inevitably, the storyteller says "No, no, don't cry. We're fine, and you'll be fine too." Amazing survivors here. I couldn't have hoped to be exiled to a more sympathetic community.
We’ve found incredible solace being here. These people are an inspiration. We’ve met many of them at the Celtic Ray, an Irish pub down the street from our condo. The owner, Kevin, a Dublin transplant, never closed and the Ray became the center of the community in the days following the disaster. During the first few days, despite the fact that his bar was in ruins, Kevin gave away food, beer, and water. After that, for weeks he charged at cost. For some reason, the Ray had the only working phone line in the city for several days after Charley, and Kevin tells stories about the line of people waiting for the phone that snaked out the door. Julia, a regular, told us a story about how her family of six (including an 8-month pregnant sister) took refuge in a closet with the door held shut by her infirm father for hours. About emerging during the eye to see daylight through the roof, only having to retreat again when the western eyewall hit. Eddie, a retired guy from Philly who we met last night, told stories about racing from room to room in his condo as the windows smashed and great chunks of ceiling fell on him and his wife.
Punta Gorda has been the best thing that’s happened to us since we left home. The city is still in ruins. Homes boarded up. Apartment doors still marked with spray painted notes made by rescuers who went door to door looking for survivors and dead. Washed out businesses, buildings still roofed in blue tarps. But there is no self-pity here. And the abundance of concern and love and support we have received from people who have suffered losses much greater than hours… such a blessing.
We will leave here with a heavy heart. And while, under “normal” circumstances, Punta Gorda would not be a place that moved me or inspired me in any way, I suddenly feel like I’ve found a home away from home. We will be back. Without a doubt. We’ll be back when Kevin finally re-opens the Temple Bar, the bar next door to the Ray that was so damaged that it could be another year before all the repairs are made. We’ll be back to visit with Julia and Max and Tess and all the people here who have taken us in and made us friends.
So thank you, to all of you, who have sent a bit of your love my way. We are well, sad but well. And we are looking forward to going home.
This weekend was the one month anniversary of our relationship with Katrina, with Florida, and with exile. We celebrated it by ignoring it. To this moment, neither of us has brought up the fact that we’ve been away from home for thirty-one days. This month, this relationship with displacement, strikes the same chord that high school relationship anniversaries did. After a month of dating, it was hard to remember what life was like before the boy, hard to imagine life without him. After a month of exile, memories of home are fuzzy, the “old normal” routines a bit hazy. Perhaps this is self-preservation, the same way that we tend to forget the pain of breakups over time. Perhaps I’m forgetting the actuality of home in order to prepare myself for the reality of it.
How have we passed the past month? To be honest, we’ve spent a great deal of it sleeping. Unless we’ve had something to do in the morning (check out of a hotel or work at Habitat, for example) or something keeping us up all night (the coverage of hurricane Rita), we’ve regularly clocked 10-13 hours of sleep a night. Depression? Avoidance? Exhaustion from stress?
In recent weeks, just about once every four or five mornings, I’ve woken up and started crying even before I’ve opened my eyes fully. The conversation that ensues is the same conversation each time:
“What’s wrong?”
“I want to go home.”
“We can’t go home”
“I know.”
So, a month after Katrina, what do we know about home? We know that our area did not flood. We know that a window blew out in our attic. We don’t know if my car is okay or even still there. We know that some people have returned to the “dry” areas of New Orleans to find their houses smothering in mold; we know of others whose cars have been totaled this way. We know that electricity is on near our neighborhood, but most likely not in our neighborhood yet. We know that the water is not drinkable and that you can’t even wash your hands in it. We know that the Walgreen’s down the street is open for business, is stocked with Halloween candy, and is allowing customers to charge their cell phones in their photo department.
We know that my school sustained only minor damage and that clean-up has already begun. We know that I will be paid through October, and that most of our students plan to return to New Orleans either in January or for the 2006-07 school year. We know that school will most likely start again on January 3, 2006, but it may start earlier in some capacity.
We also know that if another hurricane enters the Gulf, an evacuation of New Orleans would be harrowing. The I-10 East bridge, which we took to get to Florida, was washed out during Katrina. New Orleans’s perilous position during hurricanes was not just in its geography, but also in its lack of viable evacuation routes. Now we have fewer. Last we heard, there are no gas stations open for business in our area. And of course, we have the weakened levee system.
Mayor Nagin announced once again today that he will allow our neighborhood return to the city starting on Friday. The announcement comes with several admonitions. In fact, the official announcement begins: “On behalf of Mayor C. Ray Nagin and the City of New Orleans, welcome home!” and then goes on to say “(1) You are entering the City of New Orleans at your own risk…”
We will most likely start heading back some time this weekend, with at least one or two stops along the way. The city is under a 6pm-8am curfew, and we will want to arrive well-rested, but with plenty of time before the curfew kicks in. Keep checking in on my blog to get the final decisions.
Finally, I can’t possibly sign off on this email without again expressing my gratitude for the love and support we have received along the way. People as far away as Australia and Great Britain and the Czech Republic have sent us money. We’re currently staying in a condo owned by a couple I’ve never met. I’ve heard from high school friends I haven’t heard from SINCE high school.
I am so lucky. So grateful.
And I’ve not yet really blogged about being in Punta Gorda because I’ve had a tough time figuring out the right words to describe this community.
On August 13, 2004, Hurricane Charley came ashore in Punta Gorda. Charley was a Cat. 4 and was aimed directly at the Tampa Bay area, 100 miles to the north. Few people here evacuated. Just hours before the storm was supposed to hit, Charley took a sudden southward turn. Around 67% of homes in Punta Gorda were destroyed.
Just about everyone I've met here has stories like you wouldn't believe-- being trapped for hours in a closet, having the ceiling fall down on them, hiding under mattresses, ducking out of the way just as the windows burst inward. Every time I hear a new story, I cry. And inevitably, the storyteller says "No, no, don't cry. We're fine, and you'll be fine too." Amazing survivors here. I couldn't have hoped to be exiled to a more sympathetic community.
We’ve found incredible solace being here. These people are an inspiration. We’ve met many of them at the Celtic Ray, an Irish pub down the street from our condo. The owner, Kevin, a Dublin transplant, never closed and the Ray became the center of the community in the days following the disaster. During the first few days, despite the fact that his bar was in ruins, Kevin gave away food, beer, and water. After that, for weeks he charged at cost. For some reason, the Ray had the only working phone line in the city for several days after Charley, and Kevin tells stories about the line of people waiting for the phone that snaked out the door. Julia, a regular, told us a story about how her family of six (including an 8-month pregnant sister) took refuge in a closet with the door held shut by her infirm father for hours. About emerging during the eye to see daylight through the roof, only having to retreat again when the western eyewall hit. Eddie, a retired guy from Philly who we met last night, told stories about racing from room to room in his condo as the windows smashed and great chunks of ceiling fell on him and his wife.
Punta Gorda has been the best thing that’s happened to us since we left home. The city is still in ruins. Homes boarded up. Apartment doors still marked with spray painted notes made by rescuers who went door to door looking for survivors and dead. Washed out businesses, buildings still roofed in blue tarps. But there is no self-pity here. And the abundance of concern and love and support we have received from people who have suffered losses much greater than hours… such a blessing.
We will leave here with a heavy heart. And while, under “normal” circumstances, Punta Gorda would not be a place that moved me or inspired me in any way, I suddenly feel like I’ve found a home away from home. We will be back. Without a doubt. We’ll be back when Kevin finally re-opens the Temple Bar, the bar next door to the Ray that was so damaged that it could be another year before all the repairs are made. We’ll be back to visit with Julia and Max and Tess and all the people here who have taken us in and made us friends.
So thank you, to all of you, who have sent a bit of your love my way. We are well, sad but well. And we are looking forward to going home.
posted by M at 10:39 AM
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