highs and lows
Signs of life in our neighborhood. We’ve been pretty much alone on our block until today. Today just about everyone came back. The first coffee shop in our neighborhood opened. We nearly kissed the owner.
Our landlord returned home—he lives on the other side of our shotgun double—to find that on his side the ceilings had fallen in, in two rooms. So we are even more blessed than we thought. He promptly told us that we had to find our own fridge (more on fridges later); we’ve heard that the stores have a three+ week waiting list. That’s next week’s hurdle.
I’m sorry I haven’t updated the blog sooner. My relief at being home promptly gave way to emotional overwhelm. I am riding highs and lows, big time. And, I find myself, as I was at the beginning of this journey, at a loss for adequate words.
Here’s evidence. I tried to write a blog entry the day we returned and ended up running into a brick wall when it came time to describe my home turf. Here’s how far I got:
Wednesday October 5
We are so lucky. I write you know from the comfort of my New Orleans home. Our wireless internet is up and running. Jason is watching the Red Sox-White Sox game on satellite. Our home is cooled by air conditioning. We have phone service. It is, in most cases, the selfsame hovel we left behind.
When we saw glimpses of our neighborhood in pictures online and on tv, the sight brought us joy. It didn’t look “normal” by any means, but bounded by the frame, these isolated images told only part of the story. My few friends who have ventured even into the outer reaches of the city told me that nothing could prepare me for what I would see when I got here.
As we drove across the Causeway and the skyline of New Orleans emerged first in outline and then in greater definition, one of the first sights we could see was the pristine white dome atop the Superdome. And for that nano-freaky-millisecond, my heart leapt. Home. As it always has been. But as we approached Metairie, the first building we saw was a high-rise, its windows blown out, boarded up. A quick glimpse to the left showed the city skyline from another view, the burnt-orange wounds of the Superdome roof we’ve come to expect from news footage. Home. Different.
The drive down Causeway Blvd toward the River Road shocked me. Our mall, parking lot full of RV’s and tents. Blue roofs everywhere. Debris everywhere. Homes in ruins. But life. Traffic. People working outside.
River Road, bordered on one side by the Mississippi River levee, a road I lived two blocks from in my old married life, was one causality after another. A tree cut squarely down the middle of Matt & Naddie’s restaurant. Garages and carports collapsed on cars. The stained glass windows of the church around the corner from where I used to live blown out. Blue tarps on the homes of people who’ve returned, gaping holes in the homes where people have not.
The turn down Magazine was like a punch in the stomach. Audubon Park….
And that’s where it ended. At the park. What was running through my mind when I stopped was: “I’m getting emotional about trees.” Yes, it’s tragic. Yes, the park is a great loss. But… again, a loss for words.
So I don’t really know where to start now. A mix of joy and sorrow. It’s 814pm on a Saturday, and the weather is gorgeous. Cool and fally. I’m sitting on my porch and the National Guard just drove by and waved. They’re everywhere. Army. The Corps of Engineers. Gigantic cammo Hummers. Every time I’ve been in the grocery store, there’s a bevy of military people—most looking like teenagers—buying tooth paste and Doritos. Actually, I take back the “they’re everywhere” comment. They’re around. But at night this place is very quiet and deserted. Unsettling.
In the light of day on Thursday, we reassessed the house and were still very thrilled at the lack of damage. The neglect of nearly forty days was much clearer. We’d definitely been visited by four and six-legged friends while we were away, and our refrigerator began belching swarms of bugs. Our landlord swore he’d come home and “take care of the fridge” but by Friday he hadn’t shown up. I made a pot of coffee and by the time I took the pot off the burner and poured myself a cup, there were six flies floating in my coffee. On Thursday I’d started a mad sanitation—we have open cabinets and our visitors left presents everywhere—that I only just finished today. On Friday night, a friend dropped by with a broken dolly and Jason, who’s pinched a nerve, and I dragged the stinking, bug-spewing fridge from the kitchen. It was a massive labor, but today my kitchen is clean, largely bug free, and seems huge and wonderful with the lack of a fridge. (“Always look on the bright side of life…”)
I realize that I am jumping all over the place here. Such is my frame of mind.
Thursday evening I met up with Erin, my best friend and colleague here in NOLA. We had drinks at a local bar—so strangely “normal” once you walked inside. It was heaven to be with a local friend. Share stories, gossip, reiterate each other’s sorrow. Since then I’ve bumped into a whole bunch of school people.
Huh, another big hummer just drove by. We live on a narrow side street. And this is the first time I’ve seen military here after dark.
Anyway… the big news is potentially bad news for me. I received a call from my boss this morning that set my world in a bit of a spin. Only 200 girls have reenrolled at school for the October 24 re-opening, and she was calling to say that they may only be able to offer me a part time position. While I was shocked, I took the news pretty much in stride. I could get another part time job to tide me over until January. But when I asked about January, my heart fell. No, she said, she couldn’t promise me that I’d be switched to full time in January either. They just don’t know. And they won’t know until November. Kim said they were “looking” for a way to keep me on full-time, but no promises. She said I should think about what I want to do.
So, to say the least, I’m very sad. I understand, and I don’t feel angry really (although, there is some anger, I admit). We’re so very lucky to have a school at all. Our girls are lucky to be able to return. I was not the only person to receive this kind of call. Already there’s a post from a Lower School teacher who’s been asked not to return til January. I imagine a lot of the newer teachers will lose their jobs outright. Again, this shouldn’t have been a surprise to me, but I guess the school teaching community has done such a good job of keeping in touch and being supportive of each other that I was a bit lulled into believing that we’d have the same or similar community to return to.
Nothing is certain, of course, so I can keep up the hope that things will change in the next two weeks. But I also have a lot of thinking to do.
Our landlord returned home—he lives on the other side of our shotgun double—to find that on his side the ceilings had fallen in, in two rooms. So we are even more blessed than we thought. He promptly told us that we had to find our own fridge (more on fridges later); we’ve heard that the stores have a three+ week waiting list. That’s next week’s hurdle.
I’m sorry I haven’t updated the blog sooner. My relief at being home promptly gave way to emotional overwhelm. I am riding highs and lows, big time. And, I find myself, as I was at the beginning of this journey, at a loss for adequate words.
Here’s evidence. I tried to write a blog entry the day we returned and ended up running into a brick wall when it came time to describe my home turf. Here’s how far I got:
Wednesday October 5
We are so lucky. I write you know from the comfort of my New Orleans home. Our wireless internet is up and running. Jason is watching the Red Sox-White Sox game on satellite. Our home is cooled by air conditioning. We have phone service. It is, in most cases, the selfsame hovel we left behind.
When we saw glimpses of our neighborhood in pictures online and on tv, the sight brought us joy. It didn’t look “normal” by any means, but bounded by the frame, these isolated images told only part of the story. My few friends who have ventured even into the outer reaches of the city told me that nothing could prepare me for what I would see when I got here.
As we drove across the Causeway and the skyline of New Orleans emerged first in outline and then in greater definition, one of the first sights we could see was the pristine white dome atop the Superdome. And for that nano-freaky-millisecond, my heart leapt. Home. As it always has been. But as we approached Metairie, the first building we saw was a high-rise, its windows blown out, boarded up. A quick glimpse to the left showed the city skyline from another view, the burnt-orange wounds of the Superdome roof we’ve come to expect from news footage. Home. Different.
The drive down Causeway Blvd toward the River Road shocked me. Our mall, parking lot full of RV’s and tents. Blue roofs everywhere. Debris everywhere. Homes in ruins. But life. Traffic. People working outside.
River Road, bordered on one side by the Mississippi River levee, a road I lived two blocks from in my old married life, was one causality after another. A tree cut squarely down the middle of Matt & Naddie’s restaurant. Garages and carports collapsed on cars. The stained glass windows of the church around the corner from where I used to live blown out. Blue tarps on the homes of people who’ve returned, gaping holes in the homes where people have not.
The turn down Magazine was like a punch in the stomach. Audubon Park….
And that’s where it ended. At the park. What was running through my mind when I stopped was: “I’m getting emotional about trees.” Yes, it’s tragic. Yes, the park is a great loss. But… again, a loss for words.
So I don’t really know where to start now. A mix of joy and sorrow. It’s 814pm on a Saturday, and the weather is gorgeous. Cool and fally. I’m sitting on my porch and the National Guard just drove by and waved. They’re everywhere. Army. The Corps of Engineers. Gigantic cammo Hummers. Every time I’ve been in the grocery store, there’s a bevy of military people—most looking like teenagers—buying tooth paste and Doritos. Actually, I take back the “they’re everywhere” comment. They’re around. But at night this place is very quiet and deserted. Unsettling.
In the light of day on Thursday, we reassessed the house and were still very thrilled at the lack of damage. The neglect of nearly forty days was much clearer. We’d definitely been visited by four and six-legged friends while we were away, and our refrigerator began belching swarms of bugs. Our landlord swore he’d come home and “take care of the fridge” but by Friday he hadn’t shown up. I made a pot of coffee and by the time I took the pot off the burner and poured myself a cup, there were six flies floating in my coffee. On Thursday I’d started a mad sanitation—we have open cabinets and our visitors left presents everywhere—that I only just finished today. On Friday night, a friend dropped by with a broken dolly and Jason, who’s pinched a nerve, and I dragged the stinking, bug-spewing fridge from the kitchen. It was a massive labor, but today my kitchen is clean, largely bug free, and seems huge and wonderful with the lack of a fridge. (“Always look on the bright side of life…”)
I realize that I am jumping all over the place here. Such is my frame of mind.
Thursday evening I met up with Erin, my best friend and colleague here in NOLA. We had drinks at a local bar—so strangely “normal” once you walked inside. It was heaven to be with a local friend. Share stories, gossip, reiterate each other’s sorrow. Since then I’ve bumped into a whole bunch of school people.
Huh, another big hummer just drove by. We live on a narrow side street. And this is the first time I’ve seen military here after dark.
Anyway… the big news is potentially bad news for me. I received a call from my boss this morning that set my world in a bit of a spin. Only 200 girls have reenrolled at school for the October 24 re-opening, and she was calling to say that they may only be able to offer me a part time position. While I was shocked, I took the news pretty much in stride. I could get another part time job to tide me over until January. But when I asked about January, my heart fell. No, she said, she couldn’t promise me that I’d be switched to full time in January either. They just don’t know. And they won’t know until November. Kim said they were “looking” for a way to keep me on full-time, but no promises. She said I should think about what I want to do.
So, to say the least, I’m very sad. I understand, and I don’t feel angry really (although, there is some anger, I admit). We’re so very lucky to have a school at all. Our girls are lucky to be able to return. I was not the only person to receive this kind of call. Already there’s a post from a Lower School teacher who’s been asked not to return til January. I imagine a lot of the newer teachers will lose their jobs outright. Again, this shouldn’t have been a surprise to me, but I guess the school teaching community has done such a good job of keeping in touch and being supportive of each other that I was a bit lulled into believing that we’d have the same or similar community to return to.
Nothing is certain, of course, so I can keep up the hope that things will change in the next two weeks. But I also have a lot of thinking to do.
posted by M at 7:01 PM
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