The Chihuahua speaks

I can’t decide if time is passing slowly or quickly these days. I’m astonished that it’s already November, four days into the month even. Some days so much happens, I accomplish so much, that eight o’clock at night materializes and I feel like I should have long been in bed. Some days are a blip. Those “damn!” moments of lost hours. I can’t believe I’ve been back at school teaching for two weeks. I can’t believe that it’s only 10:46 pm.

Jason came home yesterday, for all of sixteen hours. He's gone again for at least another five days, if not nine or more. Jason's never been a big fan of New Orleans, but these days he can't stand to be here. I can't blame him entirely, and truthfully, he's saddled with a ton of work that is taking him elsewhere. I'm doing better than I thought I would alone in this city. I thought for sure that I would be frightend and more sad than I am. But I have to admit, last night, when he was home, I was strangely tired all night, as though I'd just been waiting for him to come home so I could get a really decent night's sleep.

I had a lovely ten-minute chat with a passel of seniors today about how easy it is for them to forget that 80% of their city is MIA. They’re thoughtful about it, keen to express their relative complacency with the situation, but overall it makes me a bit uncomfortable. These were our best and brightest students that I was talking to. Girls who are comfortable being introspective and self-critical, girls who look for ways to better examine the world around them. It’s so easy here, though, to go from your almost-normal home to your almost-normal school and suffer only a bit of annoyance that things aren’t exactly the way they were when you left them. For the most part, I’ve been so impressed with the way that so many teachers are actually trying to “teach” the hurricane. Our history faculty especially has all but abandoned their curricula to look at current events. But I’m disappointed that so many of the girls (and adults!) are so keen to settle with being pissed off that there’s not very much to do in the city these days.

Witness the city’s collective obsession with the status of the exiled New Orleans Saints. Good Lord, if there was ever an instance of misplaced concern, it’s this. Have you heard that Tom Benson, the 78 year old owner of the Saints, physically assaulted a member of the press and then vowed not to go to any of our “home” games for the next two years (“home” games referring to those played in Baton Rouge) because he fears for his life??? Sweet God Almighty, the city is in a tizzy. It’s at the front of every news broadcast. And hell, I like sports, been to a half dozen Saints games at least, but c’mon people.

I complain, but it’s not like we have anything else to really rally behind.

I said in my previous post that I’d talk about the state of the city. And the honest-to-goodness truth is that the state of the city is… huh? Best that I, certified news junkie, can tell is that there’s a whole lot of nuthin’ going on here. Yes, in the oasis that is Uptown, the quality of life improves every week. Places reopen. The world becomes cleaner and less smelly. But I (avowed conspiracy theorist) can’t help but wonder if someone high up isn’t dragging his heels about the rest of this place on purpose, so that Mother Nature has time to reclaim these ruined places for the wetlands that they should be. (And by high up, I clearly don’t mean W, seeing that we know he has zippo regard for the environment. God, perhaps? Or Bono? Yeah, okay, that’s just a little joke.) Working with Hal has shed light upon this Catch-22. Residents in the flooded area are struggling to save their homes from further damage, but prevented from doing any actual rebuilding because no one is sure what they’ll need to do to get reinsured. Some have said that houses below the floodplain will need to be raised above the 100 year flood level. For even the most wee of houses that means an investment of at least $30,000. Some have said you’ll be able to get regular insurance, but not flood insurance if you don’t raise your home. Right now you can’t get permits to do anything. So 80% of New Orleans is frozen in stasis. You can gut your home, but you can’t put it back together. Some reports have said it will be as “little” as 90 days before these people get answers, some reports have cited a figure of two years.

There is no plan. There are no public schools open. There are no solid plans to open public schools. No plans to bring back business. This week more than 50% of the faculty of Dillard University was laid off. Xavier University also laid off 80 faculty members. These are our two historically black colleges; Xavier sends (used to send) more black students to med schools than any other college in the country. Two weeks ago, Audubon laid off 700 employees, to the shock of the general population of New Orleans who had no idea that Audubon had more than a couple hundred staff.

All this is a gentle transition back to the state of me.

The “me” news for the week is that I’ve started to send out resumes elsewhere. I actually started last week, but am only willing to ‘fess up now. The guilt is enormous. Shattering. Not to mention the fact that every time I feel the smallest sliver of excitement about pursuing new avenues, I plunge into Dobby-like emotional flagellation (sorry to all those who are not Harry Potter fans for the obscure reference). I hate to leave this place. I’m so passionate about its recovery. But passion and optimism are not hand-in-hand in this case. I feel hopeless about my job opportunities here. And, to be wholly honest, I’ve been so thoroughly demoralized by what has happened at school, I do not think that I would accept my old job back if it was offered. If it was just me—if I felt somehow like I was the only person who’d been mistreated or wronged by the school—I might be okay with sucking it up and finding that morsel of resilience inside of me that would allow me to push on. After all, it’s an amazing place, this school. Amazing children, and above all else, amazing faculty. But the faculty has been battered, and really I feel like I was one of the least wounded among them. Those of you who know me well (even too well) know that I’m a frickin’ terrier when it comes to things I feel passionate about. My ex husband used to call me “The Chihuahua.” I love this school. I love the people who make up the faculty of this school. And I am resolute in my belief that they (we) have been wronged. To assume my old position (were it offered to me, which could easily not happen) would be to admit a tacit acceptance of the policies of the administration. For better or worse, I can’t do that. It may be a flaw in my character; I’ll accept that. It breaks my heart—I think only those who are passionately pursuing careers in education can understand how much—but I think my days at this school are numbered.

If you go back to my post of September 8, you’ll know that Pre-Katrina, I’d had thoughts of leaving New Orleans. Truly, these were thoughts centered on the fact that I’d chosen the wrong career path. No, not wrong. Just not final. I had the itch. Wanderlust.

We’ll see what comes of this. The weirdo optimist in me hopes that one morning I’ll wake to the news that New Orleans has a concrete plan for restoring the lost historic neighborhoods, reforming the pathetic school system, supporting both tourism and progressive business, and re-establishing the city as a cultural hub.

This afternoon I passed a recently-opened local stationary store. They had a banner outside that read “Return. Rebuild. Rejoice.” It made me cry.