steps in both directions
So much has changed since we got back to New Orleans. Our block now bustles with activity, there are at least two coffee shops open in our neighborhood—one brand new, we’ve seen a bunch of our McGehee friends and spoken to people that we see all the time but have never gotten to know. There are grocery stores open until 6pm (rather than the usual 24 hours); the curfew here closes the bars and few open restaurants at midnight, not 8pm as when we first arrived (again, rather than the usual 24 hours). Progress.
It’s funny though, talking to returning friends and neighbors, everyone has a different take on being back. Some are overjoyed, optimistic, heartened by what they’ve found when they’ve come home. And some are sad, brokenhearted, dismayed.
Unfortunately, more often than not, I fall into the latter category. When I was “in exile,” I truly believed that when I got home—no matter what I found—everything would be okay. I’d feel better being home, less stressed out, able to understand better and better grasp what lies ahead. I was so wrong on that.
And I say that after a week, after never venturing more than two miles from my home—into only the least-effected neighborhoods. I have not yet viewed the horrors of the 9th Ward or the Lakeview area. I’ve seen homes destroyed, yes. There’s even a home not too far from here marked with rescuers’ spray pain “Two Dead Outside, One Alive Inside.”
Truth be told, I can go weeks and weeks without ever leaving this two-mile radius. Actually, more frequently than not I stick very close to home. Everything I need is here. Grocery stores, coffee shops galore, restaurants of all types, my favorite bars. So it’s not odd that we’ve stuck so close to home. But this has been a more conscious decision.
We’ve been more social than we’ve ever been. In fact, I’m almost embarrassed to admit that Monday we had our first dinner guests over—ever. Carla and Bob from school christened our hospitality. And last night we had another friend over for dinner and “Lost” watching. This increased domesticity is in part due to the fact that in the past week, I have spent just about every waking moment cleaning. Slight exaggeration, but only slight. I’m not Martha Stewart, by any means. Heck, I’m probably not even Rod Stewart when it comes to keeping house. But there was a feeling of solidarity or oneness with this city as I scrubbed my kitchen floors for three hours, on my hands and knees. “It’s cheaper than therapy,” I keep telling Jason.
The most recent news from school is that I will be teaching one section of seniors and one section of freshman. This makes me feel somewhat better—at least I will be in the classroom. I’ve heard from several friends who have been asked back full time, and I’ve heard about others who have not. Part of the gloom of all of this is that I’ve seen school as my “second home” for four-plus years. I truly thought I would spend the better part of this week there, helping out, cleaning up. But I just don’t feel like it’s the welcome place it’s always been for me.
I’m sure many people have had this experience, and this is at least the second time I’ve been through this (when will I learn?), but it’s been very sad to come to the realization that no matter how much school seems like a family to me, it’s really a business. So much of my energy and time in New Orleans is invested in school. All of my friends in the city (truly, no exceptions) are friends from work. I spend more time at work than I do anywhere else. I live, breathe, eat, and sleep school, for the most part, from August through May/June. And no doubt, this has manifested in a frustrated sense of entitlement lately. As someone who has been so invested in the school for the past four years, I feel like I ought to have some say, some input, a voice in the future of the school. I’m not alone; all decisions have been made by a tiny handful of administrators—as far as I know, no teachers have been asked to help plan… Perhaps this is a good lesson to learn. Maybe if I’m lucky it’s the last time I’ll have to learn it.
There seem to be very few opportunities in New Orleans for volunteers. I’m sure many of you have been following the national news about how so many of the contracts for rebuilding New Orleans have been going to out-of-state companies. It’s almost as though the same thing is happening on the humanitarian level as well. This Saturday, we’ll participate in a Clean Up Magazine Street thingie organized by locals. That will do my soul some good. I haven’t been able to get in touch with the local Habitat folks, and all of my “bright ideas” for doing community service have been somewhat frustrated by my new school situation. I’ll keep plugging away, though.
Of course, the national New Orleans news you are probably more likely to have heard has been about the NOPD beating of a 64 year-old retired school teacher on Bourbon Street. Chilling and depressing. More depressing still because it occurred after Katrina—in light of all this hope to build a “better city.” Instead what we have with this is the worst of the Old New Orleans. The worst of the Old New Orleans: the horrible public school system, the political and police corruption, and the crime. All those things that we hoped would ebb away with the receding flood waters.
On a lighter note, I actually took a picture of a mailman and my FULL mailbox today, I was so happy to see mail service return to the city. Silly, I know, but the smallest things can please me these days. Now, if we can just get the garbagefolks back, I’ll be waiting on my porch with a six-pack of beer!
The fridge saga continues. My Dear Landlord showed up on our front porch yesterday, proudly Vanna White-ing a disassembled fridge. “Look what I’ve got for you!” It was a little old, there were little bits of mold, the hinges were rusted… but it was a fridge, and it supposedly worked. But it STANK. Dear Landlord insisted that the owners had cleaned it out prior to Katrina, so it was just musty smelling from being closed so long. So Jas set about hosing it out, scrubbing it, Lysol-ing it. We even took q-tips to the vents. And we dragged the sorry broken beast inside—and it STANK.
Long story short, turns out that Dear Landlord and the landlord next door traded the use of DL’s chainsaw for one of the rotted out, but hosed out, fridges from next door. The very same fridge, in fact, that our neighbors have been complaining violently about for days (they couldn’t get it out of the house because it was too big to fit through the doors). The very same fridge that our neighbors did NOT clean out before the hurricane. We nailed DL with this and his excuse was that he was trying to get us a fridge quickly. So we hauled the rotten thing out again. A good three hours of lost time cleaning and hauling a rotten beast. As penance DL brought over a half of a bottle of tequila, margarita mix, a tray of ice, and a lime.
And I swear to high heaven, AS I was typing this, we heard DL barge outside and start yelling “Hey are you selling those?” Jason went outside, and there was DL attempting to FLAG DOWN the very same pick-up truck that we’d just watched removing the rotten refrigerators from the retirement home down the street. His response: “I just thought those might be in better shape.”
Ahh the wee daily dramas.
Amusingly enough, we’ve made good friends with the elderly landlord next door. His name is George and he’s living in Alexandria, LA after he retired from teaching Art at one of the competing schools here. I brought him and his helper four beers yesterday, and now I’m their best friend. He just told me a great story about how this neighborhood used to be called “Rickerville” because Old Man Ricker owned all the land. He had two dogs named Leontine (the name of our street) and Octavia (the street two down from us). George just drove off for home after spending two whole days fixing up the apartments next door. Ah, dream landlord.
Sorry for all the minutiae. We’ve got a lot of that these days. From the mice that have invaded our grocery store (they’re just about the cutest things I’ve ever seen, the size of a half-dollar and fuzzy wuzzy) to debates over whether or not the city is going to extend Daylight Savings Time for a while so more construction can get done. Small potatoes all of it.
But life here is baby steps. I’m going to babystep inside and take myself a nice long shower.
It’s funny though, talking to returning friends and neighbors, everyone has a different take on being back. Some are overjoyed, optimistic, heartened by what they’ve found when they’ve come home. And some are sad, brokenhearted, dismayed.
Unfortunately, more often than not, I fall into the latter category. When I was “in exile,” I truly believed that when I got home—no matter what I found—everything would be okay. I’d feel better being home, less stressed out, able to understand better and better grasp what lies ahead. I was so wrong on that.
And I say that after a week, after never venturing more than two miles from my home—into only the least-effected neighborhoods. I have not yet viewed the horrors of the 9th Ward or the Lakeview area. I’ve seen homes destroyed, yes. There’s even a home not too far from here marked with rescuers’ spray pain “Two Dead Outside, One Alive Inside.”
Truth be told, I can go weeks and weeks without ever leaving this two-mile radius. Actually, more frequently than not I stick very close to home. Everything I need is here. Grocery stores, coffee shops galore, restaurants of all types, my favorite bars. So it’s not odd that we’ve stuck so close to home. But this has been a more conscious decision.
We’ve been more social than we’ve ever been. In fact, I’m almost embarrassed to admit that Monday we had our first dinner guests over—ever. Carla and Bob from school christened our hospitality. And last night we had another friend over for dinner and “Lost” watching. This increased domesticity is in part due to the fact that in the past week, I have spent just about every waking moment cleaning. Slight exaggeration, but only slight. I’m not Martha Stewart, by any means. Heck, I’m probably not even Rod Stewart when it comes to keeping house. But there was a feeling of solidarity or oneness with this city as I scrubbed my kitchen floors for three hours, on my hands and knees. “It’s cheaper than therapy,” I keep telling Jason.
The most recent news from school is that I will be teaching one section of seniors and one section of freshman. This makes me feel somewhat better—at least I will be in the classroom. I’ve heard from several friends who have been asked back full time, and I’ve heard about others who have not. Part of the gloom of all of this is that I’ve seen school as my “second home” for four-plus years. I truly thought I would spend the better part of this week there, helping out, cleaning up. But I just don’t feel like it’s the welcome place it’s always been for me.
I’m sure many people have had this experience, and this is at least the second time I’ve been through this (when will I learn?), but it’s been very sad to come to the realization that no matter how much school seems like a family to me, it’s really a business. So much of my energy and time in New Orleans is invested in school. All of my friends in the city (truly, no exceptions) are friends from work. I spend more time at work than I do anywhere else. I live, breathe, eat, and sleep school, for the most part, from August through May/June. And no doubt, this has manifested in a frustrated sense of entitlement lately. As someone who has been so invested in the school for the past four years, I feel like I ought to have some say, some input, a voice in the future of the school. I’m not alone; all decisions have been made by a tiny handful of administrators—as far as I know, no teachers have been asked to help plan… Perhaps this is a good lesson to learn. Maybe if I’m lucky it’s the last time I’ll have to learn it.
There seem to be very few opportunities in New Orleans for volunteers. I’m sure many of you have been following the national news about how so many of the contracts for rebuilding New Orleans have been going to out-of-state companies. It’s almost as though the same thing is happening on the humanitarian level as well. This Saturday, we’ll participate in a Clean Up Magazine Street thingie organized by locals. That will do my soul some good. I haven’t been able to get in touch with the local Habitat folks, and all of my “bright ideas” for doing community service have been somewhat frustrated by my new school situation. I’ll keep plugging away, though.
Of course, the national New Orleans news you are probably more likely to have heard has been about the NOPD beating of a 64 year-old retired school teacher on Bourbon Street. Chilling and depressing. More depressing still because it occurred after Katrina—in light of all this hope to build a “better city.” Instead what we have with this is the worst of the Old New Orleans. The worst of the Old New Orleans: the horrible public school system, the political and police corruption, and the crime. All those things that we hoped would ebb away with the receding flood waters.
On a lighter note, I actually took a picture of a mailman and my FULL mailbox today, I was so happy to see mail service return to the city. Silly, I know, but the smallest things can please me these days. Now, if we can just get the garbagefolks back, I’ll be waiting on my porch with a six-pack of beer!
The fridge saga continues. My Dear Landlord showed up on our front porch yesterday, proudly Vanna White-ing a disassembled fridge. “Look what I’ve got for you!” It was a little old, there were little bits of mold, the hinges were rusted… but it was a fridge, and it supposedly worked. But it STANK. Dear Landlord insisted that the owners had cleaned it out prior to Katrina, so it was just musty smelling from being closed so long. So Jas set about hosing it out, scrubbing it, Lysol-ing it. We even took q-tips to the vents. And we dragged the sorry broken beast inside—and it STANK.
Long story short, turns out that Dear Landlord and the landlord next door traded the use of DL’s chainsaw for one of the rotted out, but hosed out, fridges from next door. The very same fridge, in fact, that our neighbors have been complaining violently about for days (they couldn’t get it out of the house because it was too big to fit through the doors). The very same fridge that our neighbors did NOT clean out before the hurricane. We nailed DL with this and his excuse was that he was trying to get us a fridge quickly. So we hauled the rotten thing out again. A good three hours of lost time cleaning and hauling a rotten beast. As penance DL brought over a half of a bottle of tequila, margarita mix, a tray of ice, and a lime.
And I swear to high heaven, AS I was typing this, we heard DL barge outside and start yelling “Hey are you selling those?” Jason went outside, and there was DL attempting to FLAG DOWN the very same pick-up truck that we’d just watched removing the rotten refrigerators from the retirement home down the street. His response: “I just thought those might be in better shape.”
Ahh the wee daily dramas.
Amusingly enough, we’ve made good friends with the elderly landlord next door. His name is George and he’s living in Alexandria, LA after he retired from teaching Art at one of the competing schools here. I brought him and his helper four beers yesterday, and now I’m their best friend. He just told me a great story about how this neighborhood used to be called “Rickerville” because Old Man Ricker owned all the land. He had two dogs named Leontine (the name of our street) and Octavia (the street two down from us). George just drove off for home after spending two whole days fixing up the apartments next door. Ah, dream landlord.
Sorry for all the minutiae. We’ve got a lot of that these days. From the mice that have invaded our grocery store (they’re just about the cutest things I’ve ever seen, the size of a half-dollar and fuzzy wuzzy) to debates over whether or not the city is going to extend Daylight Savings Time for a while so more construction can get done. Small potatoes all of it.
But life here is baby steps. I’m going to babystep inside and take myself a nice long shower.
posted by M at 2:52 PM
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