displaced

new blog

2007-09-02T23:32:00.001-07:00

I've moved over to a new blog. Trying to more to actively celebrate my new home. Still homesick for New Orleans, but I feel very lucky to have ended up where I am. Come visit me here.

Four Months Later

2007-02-07T14:51:00.000-08:00

I’m going to skip the whole self-loathing “I haven’t blogged in four months” BS. It’s not like people were reading this anyway. But before I get into what’s happened during the past four months, I’d like to bring your attention to a quote from my last, September 30th, blog. It read:

If I wanted damp and bone-chilling cold, I would have moved to Maine or Vermont.
I think I’d like Maine or Vermont a lot. The only thing that keeps me away is,
you guessed it, the damp and bone-chilling cold.

And the long and the short of it is that I was sold a totally false bill of goods when it comes to Kentucky and weather. When I woke up on Monday it was 5 degrees. It didn’t get above 15 that day. We haven’t seen 30 in at least a week. I’m thinking that the word “mild” in terms of “mild winters” means something radically different here in the Midwest than it does in, say, Louisiana. Maybe it means “mild” as in, “It’s mild enough that the squirrels don’t freeze mid-motion like little furry lawn sculpture.”

In the past four months:

Jason and I have officially called off the relationship. We’re still best friends, we’re still roommates, but we’ve done away with the flimsy, in-name-only couple-dom.
I spent Christmas with the family on the Outer Banks.
I painted the kitchen “Kimono Blue,” or, as I prefer to call it, “Painter’s Tape Blue.”
We rearranged the living room.
We finally got the dryer fixed—in November!
Spent Thanksgiving with Jason’s family.
The Democrats took both houses.
I finally joined the 21st century and got an iPod—thanks to Mom and Jason.
I signed on for another summer with CTY. This summer I will be teaching Literature & the Arts at Saratoga during the second session.
We bought an outdoor fireplace.
I have not been back to New Orleans.

I’ve been toying with starting a new blog, but I don’t really want to do away with this one—after all, I am still stunningly, maddeningly homesick. I’ve basically decided that it’s going to take me a full year to get over the New Orleans blues. And maybe that’s doing me a disservice—to resign myself to having the mean reds for a year. But honestly, I think I had to cut myself that slack. I was starting to feel really crummy about my lack of drive to embrace my new home fully.

I love Louisville (except for the weather). I love my house. I like my job. And I can’t think of another city where I’d rather be (except New Orleans). And I realized a little while ago that the problem was not with Louisville. The problem was with me. I’m missing a piece of my heart, and that’s okay. It’s acceptable. I will, no doubt, get over it. I just need to get through the mourning period. (That being said, I know people who’ve mourned husbands for less time than I’ve mourned damned NOLA).

The temperature of things to come

2006-09-30T09:45:00.000-07:00

The other day I asked one of my students, “Does it always rain this much in Louisville?” He gave me the hairy eyeball and said, “How did you think it gets so green here?”

Hm. I guess I should have put two and two together. It just never occurred to me to make the connection.

The first time it rained after I moved, I remember feeling a sweeping wave of relief. For the first time in 10 months, I could watch a downpour and not think about cheesecloth levees and ancient creaky pumps. I didn’t feel compelled to hop online and check out local message boards to see if anyone was concerned with rising water. In fact, the rain was a good thing. We’d just planted a few things in the garden; the rain would help them take root.

But around a month after moving in, the rain became a headache again. One particularly bad storm opened up leaks in the kitchen and bathroom ceiling. And for the next month or so, every storm made them worse and I spent way too much time wrangling with home warranties and repairmen. Pots and bowls and towels and stress.

Two weeks ago, I finally hired a maintenance man from work to fix the roof to the tune of more than $1000. The next storm came—the one that made national news for killing 8 people in the state—and new leaks popped up. He came back this week and fixed it. And it’s rained at least four times since then, and the house has stayed dry.

Ah the joys of homeownership.

The rain itself doesn’t bother me much. Now that I feel fairly certain that my ceiling isn’t going to cave in, I can appreciate the fact that the rain is, indeed, what makes Kentucky so green.

[The only remaining rain-related headache is that, shortly after we moved in, our clothes dryer went on the fritz. I’m sure it could be repaired, but after it konked out, in a wave of both nostalgia and environmentalism, I went out and bought a old-fashioned umbrella clothesline. It’s actually kind of charming. There’s something very Zen about hanging out your clothes. No energy used. Clothes last longer. Some of the clothes dry with fewer wrinkles (and some dry with more). But now I have to watch the weather forecast to determine when I can do my laundry. And there have been whole weeks when I’ve had to get very creative with my wardrobe because I had no clean clothes.]

What stuns me, though, is the cold.

It’s still September for godsake! Lows in the low 40s? I can’t get behind that. (By the way, between the time that I started this blog entry to this moment, the blue sky with puffy white clouds has darkened and it’s started raining). I refuse to put on my heat, so last night I bundled myself on the couch in long underwear, a sweater, and another long sweater that used to be my “winter coat” in New Orleans. And a blanket. And when I went to bed I covered myself in a bedspread, a thick down comforter, and a blanket. And I wore long underwear to bed.

Some people love it when they can break out the sweaters and the turtlenecks. I’m not one of these people. I am a t-shirt and jeans kind of girl, which means, I’m happiest in t-shirt and jeans type of weather.

Many of my colleagues (mostly, the ones who were involved in my hiring) insist that the Louisvillian winters are not so bad. But those who don’t know me and don’t know my deep and passionate loathing for the cold tell tales of weeks without sun and damp bone-chilling cold.

If I wanted damp and bone-chilling cold, I would have moved to Maine or Vermont. I think I’d like Maine or Vermont a lot. The only thing that keeps me away is, you guessed it, the damp and bone-chilling cold.

This is going to be a challenge. I’m definitely going to need more long underwear. It is still, by god!, only September.

How I spent my August 29...

2006-09-09T08:37:00.000-07:00

... among the living dead.

It’s been a while. I can’t count the number of times that I’ve started a blog entry and just stopped. Some of it was homesickness. Sometime in mid-August, just about the start of school, I got hit with a heap of the blues. I explained to friends and family in emails that it wasn’t Louisville’s fault; I’m as happy here as I have been since Day One. It’s New Orleans’s fault. Just can’t shake that city. Maybe I never will.

And some of it was the start of school. Again, not my new school’s fault. So far, three weeks into the school year, I am very, very happy. There are kinks and quirks, and it’s going to be a year of adjustment and learned-from (hopefully) mistakes, but as a whole I am still surfing the Honeymoon period. For the most part, I’m happy, impressed, and reasonably comfortable. It’s my old school’s fault. Specifically, the old faculty, my old students, the old total ease with which I walked the halls and did my job.

Or maybe all of this is my fault: my own fear and rejection of change.

Anyway, backtracking…

Part of the blues was spawned by the Anniversary. Not being THERE on August 29. I wore my “Be a New Orleanian, wherever you are” t-shirt to work and showed my Advanced Comp class a slideshow of my pictures from New Orleans. But the day passed so quietly; it was very lonely, more so, I think because Jason does not share my same ache for the city. (Although, at times that evening, he spontaneously reflected on the past year in a surprisingly heartfelt way).

How did we celebrate the Anniversary, which is also his birthday? By going to dinner at a Cajun restaurant, eating crawfish tails and drinking Abita Turbo Dog, and watching the walking dead file by.

Louisville is weird. In fact, the “shop local businesses” campaign’s slogan is “Keep Louisville Weird”—but, it doesn’t seem like the locals need reminding. One of the many weirdnesses is that this city seems to have some (yet undeterminable) attachment to horror movies. There are many events in the city that celebrate this oft uncelebrated genre. One of these events is the Annual Zombie March. On August 29 (8/29) at 8:29pm, around a hundred or so zombies gather at the corner of Eastern Parkway and Bardstown Road and march up Bardstown to Big Dave’s (aforementioned Cajun joint) where they converge for drinks and live music.

For weeks we’d seen stickers around town proclaiming “8:29… the end is nigh.” This was, of course, a bit unsettling to those of us for whom 8/29 and “the end” are already too closely linked. The week before 8/29, we saw a poster for the event and decided that there was no better or more ironic way to usher in this first Post-K year.

So, as the Weather Channel played re-runs of Katrina coverage on the TV above the bar, and as we sipped our Turbo Dogs, the undead streamed in, and I thought, yes, a little over a year ago, I felt just like they look. Still and all, unsettling. Click here to see more pictures from the Zombie Walk.

Moving on. Spent Labor Day weekend in New England. Whirlwind tour to visit Ma, Beth and famiglia, and my grandmother Vange. I dreaded the Labor Day travel (and the TSA security headache), but I was surprised at how smoothly it all went. Good to get away—no vacation at all this year, unless you count a 2-day trip to IKEA in Chicago—and great, as always to see family, no matter how brief a stay.

Ma’s in the hospital right now (or about to get released) after a fairly serious thyroid surgery. And I’ve decided that my addiction to television shows like “House” is definitely detrimental to my sanity. While medical dramas haven’t convinced me that I should straighten up and live a clean, healthy, active life, they have planted the idea that you can go into a hospital with a hangnail and come out with the plague. So far, it looks like Ma’s surgery wasn’t “House”-worthy, and I worried for nothing.

School has been very good. I’m struggling with teaching a new subject. Whenever I mention this to other teachers they come out with the adage: “Just remember, no matter how little you feel like you know, you know more than the kids.” And sometimes I’m not 100% sure that that’s true. I’ve spent more time researching Puritan literature this month than I have working on the house, planning my classes, and having fun combined. And believe me, while some research is fun, Puritan literature… well, it’s not so much fun. My growing dread is that I’ve spent all this time researching Puritan literature, and I’ll be done teaching it in a few weeks and have to spend as much time researching the next until. I’m on this train until… gosh, mid-spring I imagine, when I finally reach a period of American Lit I’m familiar with.

At McG, teaching was not just a job, it was a lifestyle. We were a family, a very dysfunctional one. The pressure to live your job was palpable. The “best” teachers were the ones who lived and breathed the work. And “keeping up with the joneses” meant giving over your August-June to the students and the school.

At LCS, this just isn’t the case. The school empties out after last period. If I stay even 45 minutes after school, I’m haunting empty hallways. The teachers don’t seem to be friends, at least not in an extracurricular sort of way. To some degree this is excellent; there’s no sense that the school is hungry for your soul. The pressure to give every last bit of yourself was institutional at McG. This school seems to respect your… well, your life. And that’s a lovely thing, but it takes some getting used to. That being said, I miss my dysfunctional family something awful.

It’s funny, I write these blogs in MS Word and then upload them onto blogger, and when I save them on my computer, I label them “hurricane journal # whatever.” This is #31. Will my post-K life always be a “hurricane journal”? I’m reluctant to change it. On the 29th, when I showed my Advanced Comp kids the Katrina pictures, I showed them a US map from the Times-Picayune that showed the spread of the Katrina Diaspora as of July 1, 2006. Houston and Atlanta are covered by huge dots representing the tens of thousands of New Orleanians still there. Louisville has a pinprick. I circled the dot and wrote, “Ms. Chipman.”

Diaspora is such a pretty word. A “scattering.” There’s no better label for me, I think. I am, I have been, scattered.

"She was the star"

2006-08-13T09:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent the day at the Louisville Zoo. It was a great day, kind of a luxury with all this school work looming over my head. It's a nice zoo. More like a park with animals. It's bigger, I suspect, than the Audubon Zoo, and it has a wider array of animals. But it's not as nice, not as well laid out, and some of the animal environments seem a little dull for the animals. They do have a tremendous gorilla habitat (Dian Fossey, of "Gorillas in the Mist" fame, was from Louisville). But I went to the zoo to see the penguins.

(That comment makes sense to those of you who know I have several weird obsessions, sharks being my alpha obsession, pengiuns following a little behind at beta.)

It was, alas, a little disappointing. A nice enough environment, but only a handful of rockhoppers. Rockhoppers aren't among my favorites.

But still, it was a great day. Had lunch and ice cream. Pet the goats in the petting zoo. Checked out the cool vampire bat exhibit. After watching a few episodes of "Meercat Manor" on Animal Planet, the meercats were hilarious to watch. And after five hours, as I was getting ready to leave, I realized I'd missed a turn and missed a half dozen exhibits, so I made the rounds one last time.

On May 22, I wrote a joyous little blurb in this blog about the penguins' return from the Monterey Bay Aquarium to the Audubon Aquarium. They came by Fedex, and you could track them like little packages on the Fedex website. Patience, the 23 year old matriarch of the pengiun flock (do they call them flocks?), had been the star of the aquarium-- a penguin tamer than most housecats, who nuzzled on and cuddled with their keeper, Tom Dyer, every time he entered their environment. In June, I went to visit the penguins for my first post-K trip to the Aquarium. I cried when I saw them; heck I cried a dozen times while there. But it was Patience that I really wanted to see."

Last night I got a text message from Jason, who is working at a seminar in Nashville. It said, "Just met someone from Fedex. Said there was sad news about Patience. Google it."

Patience passed away from old age in late July. Every time i think about it, I get a huge lump in my throat. She was very old, three years older than the high end of her expected lifespan. But still, it's just so very sad.

There's a charming article about it here on NOLA.com. Even in California, Patience was the star. The article's author, Sheila Stroup, writes:

She was such a hit that volunteers printed up T-shirts with her picture on them to raise money for the Aquarium of the Americas. And when it was time for the penguins to come back to New Orleans, they joked about sending one of theirs disguised as Patience and keeping her in Monterey.
"Like anyone could play her part," Tom said.

First day of school

2006-08-11T04:53:00.000-07:00

Well, it's officially my first day of work. On my Blogger home page, I have an illustration of the current terror alert level color coded to match Seseme Street characters. Today's level is "Elmo/Ernie/Bert." And that pretty much matches my anxiety level. Not because of the thwarted plot; the left wing kook in me finds it all so hard to believe-- planes? again? and volitile explosives that could have been detected by any number of the chemical nose-thingies they have in airports? C'mon folks, are they really that unimaginative and foolish? Maybe...

Anyway, my anxiety level is Elmo/Ernie/Bert because I'd rather have my fingernails pulled from the quick than walk into a room full of people I don't know and be the new kid on the block. My stomach is in knots and I'm terrified. Plagued by all the "what ifs."

Plus, I'm not a morning person. I've never seen 745am in Louisville before (it's nice). Give me a few more hours of sleep (although I slept surprisingly well last night) and a few more iced lattes, and I might be more congenial.

Into the lions den... new city, new state, new school, new kids, new colleagues, heck I don't even have my tried and true subject matter to cling to... American Lit? Yikes. (By the way, I'm half way through the new book called The Mayflower-- excellent read).

As Lynn Samuels always says, "I'll be back tomorrow... as long as we're all still alive."

2006-07-31T09:14:00.000-07:00

The drawback of watching too many design shows on HGTV or DIY is that they make you feel wholly inadequate. (Okay, I know there are multiple drawbacks to watching too many design shows. And yes, me watching a design show in my still-marginally unpacked home is very much like me watching the Food Network while eating Kraft Mac and Cheese.) Last night we watched a “Flip That House” where a man in Atlanta bought a run-down, cat infested, hellhole and wholly gutted it and renovated it and sold it in 14 days for a $40K profit. I went to bed thinking “I still can’t walk down my hallway because of all the boxes.” Sure, it’s TV, but it’s reality TV. Ha.

Six shot dead in New Orleans this weekend. I took a day off from reading the news after that one. It’s just too much. Of course, last week, we had our own brush with murder on the national news. In the end, though, it turned out to be so… Midwestern.

Last weekend, the corridor just north of here in Indiana (note: the closest town in Indiana is closer to me than the next closest town in Kentucky) was “terrorized” by a “sniper.” Three cars shot at on the highway, one unfortunate man from New Albany murdered. Not to minimize it—it is a horror, after all—but it turned out to be some disgruntled teen, universally praised by his neighbors in his tiny Indiana town for being the kind of kid who would help you shovel your walk in the winter, going postal after a disagreement during a hunting trip. His older relatives demanded that he help gut (or whatever hunters do) the deer; he refused; they berated him for not doing his share of the dirty work; he took his rifle and went to an overpass and shot at cars to “let off steam.”

Can’t dignify that by calling him a “sniper.” Despite protests to the contrary, he’s just a bad kid. And now he’s a murderer.

Doesn’t make the news any less horrible. It just makes it less terrifying, to some extent.

Ma’s visit was great. Did too much shopping and not enough sight-seeing. Ma gave us a gigantic new four-poster bed as a housewarming gift. It’s a monster, but it’s beautiful and comfortable. Big improvement over my hand-me-down bed and my 10+ year old mattress.

We’ve been slacking a bit on the housework in favor of doing more stuff about town. Went to a music festival this weekend. My New Orleans snobbery definitely shone through. The Forecastle Festival is supposed to be one of the biggest events in Louisville, but at least in my opinion this town has a lot to learn about throwing a music fest. Even the weeniest ones in New Orleans, the little neighborhood doo-dahs, is an Event.

If I had to put my finger on what was wrong with the Forecastle Festival it would be the lack of diversity. Two days of 12 hours of music, but all the same kinds of bands. Alt-rock, emo, punk, moody melancholy stuff. So the lack of diversity in music invited a lack of diversity in crowd. I felt straight-laced and mainstream in comparison. But the Fest also features 100 or so artists and dozens of activist groups. With the lack of diversity the activist groups were preaching to the choir and the artists weren’t making terribly many sales. What a missed opportunity, in my opinion. Open up another stage, feature some more universally appealing music, offer more food (one food booth!!), and bring the artists an audience that can afford their work and bring the activists an audience that needs to hear their message.

That’s just my opinion.

We’re walking distance to a comedy club and seeing that one of Jason’s clients owns a comedy club in NYC, it seemed natural to check it out. The headliner was a Columbia grad (much younger than me), Steve Hofsteader, but the show was really stolen by the second act—Stuart Huff. It was a good night, and for $10 more fun than a movie (not that I’ve seen a movie in, like, six months!).

Went to Cherokee Park, the grande dame of the Louisville (“City of Parks”) parks system. Designed by Olmstead, the park is more of a forest with paved paths. Gorgeous, hilly, a bit too hilly in this scorching heat! But it’s less than a mile from us, and in cooler weather will be a fantastic place to hike and picnic and just spend a day.

Otherwise, just your average checking out restaurants and bars and coffee shops. Dabbling with house stuff. I’m determined to get it fully functioning and straightened up by the time school starts. And that’s in TWO WEEKS!

Two weeks. Where has the time gone?

Two posts

2006-07-17T23:13:00.000-07:00

Monday
I started an entry on Saturday night that I didn’t finish. So first you’ll see the truncated narrative for Saturday and then you’ll get the mini update for today. To your left is a mural in my neighborhood. Note the fleur de lis in the upper left corner. The fleur de lis is the symbol for both the city of Louisville (named after Louis XIV of France... still not sure why) and New Orleans (Louisiana, France... )

Saturday
It was another beautiful day in the neighborhood.

There are times I wonder if I am so silly happy with this place because the last seven or eight months in New Orleans were so darned hard. It’s quite possible that my elation with life in Louisville is simply a post-traumatic euphoria. I say that, but tonight we had dinner with a couple who moved to Louisville three months ago from South Florida, and they’re just as enthusiastic as we are. Of course, they, too, lived through four hurricanes—albeit milder ones—in the two years they were there. Still and all, Brett and Beth were all giggles and bubbles over this place too.

Strange but nice evening. This year at WRW (Jason’s 10-day writing workshop in Erlanger) the guest literary agent, Peter, told Jas that one of his best friends had just moved to Louisville and that we should look him up when we moved. Jas did and Brett invited us to dinner tonight along with another couple whom he’d never met—other friends of friends. It was like a big, weird blind triple date. But you know, it took me a long damned time to be invited to dinner at someone’s house in NOLA. Here, two weeks. Pretty nifty.

A few days ago, Jas and I were listening to the radio and we discovered that this weekend was the last weekend of this racing season at Churchill Downs, so yesterday we took the day off from home duty and headed out to the track. What a fantastic day! I’ve probably been to the Fairgrounds in NOLA a half dozen times or so— and I have to admit that I missed the corned beef sandwiches—but there’s really no comparison. Churchill (who bought the Fairgrounds a couple years ago) is majestic. It just feels important and historic. Jason joked about the fact that when the track reopens in the fall, he’ll be there every day, and unlike at the Fairgrounds, that “threat” seemed credible here.

We got there around 2pm for a 230p start and cased the joint. It’s HUGE. It was a stinking hot day, but there’s ample shade. And for $2 general admission, man, you can’t beat that with a stick. On Fridays they have a “happy hour” from 4-7pm with $1.50 beers and hot dogs. If you don’t bet a penny, you’re looking at a whole day that’s cheaper than a movie and popcorn. Of course, if you DO bet… well…

I was exceedingly proud of myself. We stayed for 10 races and I bet every single one from $2-$10. I stuck $20 in the self-wagering machines when I got there, and when I cashed out after race 10, I had $22.40. I was never up much—at one point I had $39.60, almost double my money. One of the races I bet, I bet $2 win-place-show on a midlevel longshot and won $26. When I went, I told myself that I was willing to lose $40, so coming out $2.40 ahead was a boon.

Around race 9, the sky turned a sudden black—it was 630p or so… speaking of which, I am astonished by how late it stays light here… we don’t have full dark until almost 10pm. So after race 10, we decided to call it a day, and we’d no sooner run to our car than the sky opened up and there was thunder and lightening and flooding. The ten minute drive took us twice as long and by the time we got home the phones were out and the satellite was out and the thunder was a constant rumble. Midwestern summer storms, a new weather condition to get used to. The storms lasted until almost 10pm and when I woke up this morning I saw that a massive tree limb had been felled by lightning a block away and had blocked the northbound lane of Baxter Street. I yard sale hopped today and saw three other similarly blocked streets.

Monday
Ran out of gas with that entry. Sorry for that. Ma arrived today for a five day visit, and while Jas’s family visited the weekend we moved it, it was so nice to have our first true visitor. Jas’s family saw the very rough outline of the house; Ma’s seeing a more decorated, more actualized abode.

This weekend we spent $80 at Lowe’s buying plants. End of season sale, we got a steal. I was tickled pink that in Louisville we’re able to grow both Crepe Myrtles (a ubiquitous tree in New Orleans) and lilacs (one of my favorite plants—there were a ton around when I was a kid in New England). The yard is Jas’s pet project. Sometimes I wish he was as invested in the inside of the house as he is the outside of the house. He’s always out there mowing (bought a rotary mower at a yard sale), watering, and digging.

Check out my pictures of Churchill Downs here.

2006-07-13T22:25:00.000-07:00

I don't know where the time has gone. Tomorrow, we will have been here two weeks and it hardly seems possible. For the most part, it's been a really fantastic two weeks. The house is starting to come together, although the nickles and dimes are really adding up. I'm still surprised at how much space we have, even though two of our three storage areas are unusable. The garage leaks like a sieve from the roof and the basement floor also leaks (or seeps or what have you). The tiny shed is only slightly damp, so we've stashed airtight storage boxes there.

Every day is some small progress. Yesterday was a particularly bright sunshiny day for me as I managed to finally get Igor, my car, "legal." Igor's had issues for months and months. On Monday, he got new tires and a new headlight. Tuesday, he got a new sideview mirror (he was sideswiped twice over the course of a couple of years parked on the narrow streets of NOLA-- during the last few months in NOLA his mirror was held on with packing tape). And yesterday, I went down to the County Clerk's office and registered him. It was beautiful, stark contrast to getting things done in New Orleans. I was in and out in twenty minutes. My paperwork was a little "off" and the clerk just shrugged and fudged it. I gush only because in the last week that I lived in NOLA, I spent a total of 8 hours in various New Orleans offices trying to update Igor's registration only to finally give up because I had too much moving stuff to do.

Financial hardships aside (I might mention that Igor's facelift and paperwork were to the tune of $600+), I'm pleased as punch to be here. The people remain wonderful-- even just casual conversations with bank tellers can turn into 20 minute discussions of why they're sure I'll be happy in Louisville. I guess that's something that's neat and novel about Louisville; I've yet to meet a Louisvillager who doesn't like living here. Even pre-Katrina, it seemed as though 50% of NOLA's residents counted New Orleans-bashing as one of their favorite hobbies. I always gravitated to the people who loved New Orleans as much as I did, but the negative nancies were everywhere.

And the city is just so gosh darn pretty. Today I took a field trip across town to the Habitat for Humanity Restore (if you've been reading the blog for a while, you'll remember that I volunteered at a Restore when I was in exile in Punta Gorda in October). And driving home through the winding, tree-lined, hilly streets listening to the excellent public radio station, I was just blissed out. (Part of the bliss was finally being able to drive my car again, too). We had two days of rain, but today was sunnny and hot-- but not stinking hot. In fact, last week, we went three days without using the AC.

Shoot. My battery is almost dead. Just as well, I think I'll draw myself a nice bath and then head to bed. Long story short-- still thrilled with the move.

The Humble Abode

2006-07-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

I took these photos during my home inspection last month. I was wary of posting them before I closed on the house for fear of jinxing my housebuying mojo. But I figger, we've lived in the house a week-- it hasn't burned down or been repossessed, so it's time to share.

Believe me, I'd love to show the "after" photos, but there isn't a single room that's ready for her close-up. The front porch looks amazing and is the closest to "done," but we're still using portable camp chairs for furniture. The bathroom is done-ish, but the curtains don't match the shower curtain.

Every day there are hours to be spent on hold trying to get things turned on and switched over. And every day there are nickles and dimes to be spent on things that we didn't know that we'd need. But you know, there are few things as satisfying as sitting on your own couch in your own home and watching a Red Sox game on your own tv. Go Sox!

Mi Casa Es Su Casa

2006-07-04T10:12:00.000-07:00

(written July 3)

I keep staring at this blank Word document (never type directly into Blogger—you’re bound to lose it) wondering how to begin.

Sin of omission: I will spare the blog all the harrowing details of the financial and other bullcrap issues involved with closing on the house. Just in case you’re wondering, yes, anything that can go wrong at a closing most likely will. Even if you’ve done everything right. Even if the seller is only a mid-level jerk, not an ass with the key to the executive washroom of jerk-dom. Suffice to say that I drew my only two bank accounts to a zero balance in order to pay for the house, and maybe bounced a check in the process. My two real estate agents have vowed to boycott my lender and the Better Business Bureau may get involved. Thank goodness it’s a holiday week and I don’t have to think about all this until Wednesday.

But she’s mine. On June 30, I became a homeowner. And around midnight that night, I sat on my front porch and watched the fireflies dart around my front yard and cried.

Fireflies. In my yard. At dusk, my front lawn is like a blinking phosphorescent sea. Joy.

I have been floored by the unexpected joys of Louisville. I thought I’d be happy here. Happy or maybe just okay. But in the past three days I’ve been a-twitter with love for this place. It may wear off, it may wane, but right now it’s bliss.

The first unexpected joy has been my neighbors. Within hours of arriving, we’d already been visited by three neighbors. We didn’t unpack til the 1st of July, and that day we had more visitors. One with a stack of take-out menus. One with an offer to help us unload. And our next door neighbor came by late in the afternoon with a case of Bud Light, a 12-pack of Mountain Dew, a large pizza, a cooler, a bag of ice, and a bag of Fritos. (I was in the bathroom when she came by, but when I found out, I commenced to sobbing again). They’re old and young, singles and families. The three houses to our right are occupied by the same family—sort of. A daughter, her parents, and the third house belongs to the daughter’s soon-to-be-ex-husband. Right now I’d say we’ve met 80% of the people in a five house radius. Never in my life have I met such friendly people—both in my neighborhood and just around town.

The next unexpected joy has been just how much there is to do within walking distance. On the night that I closed on the house, we were too pooped to unload the UHaul, so we walked the neighborhood and bar-hopped. Within a 10 block walk north or south on the main road by us, I think it would be safe to say that we have more than 75 restaurants, coffee shops, and bars. If you add the other two big roads near us, that number is well over 100. Within six blocks of my house, we have three coffee shops, an independent movie theater, around 15 restaurants, a grocery store, two drug stores, several boutiques, an ice cream store, a gas station, a post office, and several banks. And I think, if you push another block, we have a public library as well.

The expected joy, I suppose, is how deeply significant it feels to become a homeowner. I have to constantly remind myself of this fact as I am unpacking.

It’s been 95 every day here since we moved. Hell on the unpacking. We went through five bottles of Gatorade the day we unpacked the truck. We’re down to just the stuff in the cars, but again today we’ll have to wait til dusk to get it done. (Dusk—I’ll never get used to this—comes around 915pm. It’s not dark here until after 10pm. Reminds me a bit of Ireland, except in Ireland it didn’t get dark until after 11pm during the summer.)

I’ll post more pictures of the house as soon as I have internet at home. Hopefully within the next few days. Time to go home and resume the settling in.

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans? #1

2006-06-24T21:14:00.000-07:00

A year and some months ago, Jason's mom, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew vacationed in St. Pete, Florida. I was teaching, so I couldn't go, but Jason took off midweek and went to spend a few days with them on the sofabed in their resort room. While he was there, he and his mom went shopping for plants. Jas came back to New Orleans with a one-foot tall hibiscus plant.

When Katrina loomed, we took all the plants inside and assumed we'd be back in time to tend to them. Five weeks later, we returned to find most of the plants alive, but in bad shape. The hibiscus plant had lost all of her leaves. But we put her back outside and now she's a little leggy, but she's at least five feet tall (I know this because her topmost branches are about at the top of my head). More importantly, she has become a habitat, for lack of a better word.

It's only been in the past month or so that we've realized that our hibiscus has been the nightly resting place of a green anole. Of course we have no way of knowing if it is the same anole every night, but I think it's a safe bet. Last weekend we had a yard sale and spent the boring hours watching the anole molt and eat his own shed skin.

What's perhaps most remarkable about this lizard is that he moves to the hibiscus after dark and sleeps and almost cannot be awakened. Tonight we couldn't find him and Jason began picking dead leaves off of the branches of the hibiscus only to discover the anole cleverly camoflaged just under the leaves he removed. He's there right now, and I am tempted to test him by petting him, but I don't want to disturb him.

Like a chameleon, he can change colors-- from green to brown to almost blue. Tail included, he's about 8 inches long. He sleeps upside down and I can't understand why all his blood doesn't rush to his head. Jas and I have talked seriously about leaving the hibiscus behind when we move. If only we knew that the new apartment occupants would understand.

I will miss our green anole. All of them, the many dozens around our apartment. When we were evacuated, we talked about them all the time... what's happened to our lizards? We've not named this one, but pre-K there was a house gecko who spent many evenings in our apartment (so many that Jas once left out a Nyquil cap full of water for him) who we named Larry. We've seen "Larry" since Katrina, but never in the house.

I'll miss all these creatures. It's like the Discovery Channel around here sometimes.

T minus... eh, I don't do math

2006-06-24T09:51:00.000-07:00

"Manic" is the best word to describe me these days. High highs and low lows. Kind of reminds me of those first few post-Katrina weeks-- except the lows were lower, and so were the highs. Every time I reach a low, I wallow a bit and then eventually pull myself out of it by saying, "You just have to get through these next few days."

I'm hoping my new home is big enough for me to retire in, hope I'll always be able to walk up those few front steps, because I don't think I have it in me to move ever again. (Eh, yes, I know what you're saying, "You're only 32, Chip. Stop being so melodramatic." And you're right. But still. Remember the last time you moved? How melodramatic were you?)

Still haven't gotten the final word on financing yet; although I'm preapproved there's still all these hoops to jump through and it's making me nuts. But the truck is rented for Wednesday, and we'll be on the road that evening, so either I'll have the keys and be moved in on Friday, or we'll be wandering around the midwest with a full truck and two cars. And a holiday weekend to contend with. Whose crazy idea was this? (Not mine.)

As soon I feel less panicky about the house and the financing, I'll post some more pictures of the house. In the meantime, keep your fingers crossed for me.

Getting closer...

2006-06-15T12:06:00.000-07:00

Around a week ago, I got a call from a telemarketing survey. I was walking, at night, from my house to a bar, alone, and I decided, what the heck, it might make me feel safer to be talking to someone on my dark walk. The questions started out about auto insurance, but then, at the end, they switched to questions about my "quality of life." I was surprised how many of the questions geniunely upset me.

One of the questions was: "On a scale of one to five, one being 'doesn't describe me at all' and five being 'describes me exactly,' how would you rate this statement: 'I believe that if something bad can happen, it probably will.'" I think I lied to the lady when I said "Three." I think I'm more of a four or a five.

I bring this up only because I'm having a really tough time being excited about the fact that in just a little while I'll be a proud homeowner.

Betsey called me today to tell me that the seller accepted my offer and accepted the terms of the offer. He's in the process of making all the repairs that I've requested right now.

At every turn during this process, I've felt this awful mixture of thrill and dread. Dread when the inspector came, dread that he'd discover that the house was rotting, about to fall down. And after a two and a half hour inspection, thrill when he pronounced the house "In really good shape for a 100 year old house." Dread when Betsey told me I should make my offer contingent on the seller repairing some of the things that were wrong with this place. Increasing dread when it took the guy three whole days to decide. And thrill fifteen minutes ago when he agreed.

I guess I won't feel stable until the keys are in my hand and we're getting ready to slap some paint on the walls. (Okay, at this very minute I feel a little bit better. I just went to the listing online for the house and it says CONTRACT PENDING. That's nice.)

But here's a picture of my hopefully future Home Sweet Home. Pretty cute, huh?

Greetings from Louisville!

2006-06-11T14:31:00.000-07:00

According to the city’s marketing campaign the correct pronunciation is officially “Looavul.” Just so you know. Funny to go from one city whose name’s pronunciation is up for debate (“Norlins” is my preferred pronunciation) to another. Back in the good old days I lived in places like Stonington and Tampa and New York City (although I suppose there are those who are “New Yawkers”).

Well, I think I’ve officially seen more than 50% of the touristy stuff in the city. Still haven’t been to Churchill Downs (not dressed for it—there are races today and, at least in Norlins, Sunday is dress-up day). Still haven’t been to the zoo.

Started the morning at an Irish Festival on the river. Fun, but it was cold and rainy and poorly attended. Plus they weren’t serving Guinness today or I was there too early for beer (is there such a thing?). Then I headed to the Muhammad Ali museum, which is SO impressive. A definite must-visit for anyone who visits me. Even if you’re not a fan of “The Greatest” (and I am), it’s worth it just to see what a really exquisite museum looks like. Dropped by the Louisville Slugger Museum (although I didn’t go in except to the gift store). Then to the Arts & Crafts museum, which I did fairly superficially. Then I drove up to 4th Street Live, which is a couple of downtown blocks dedicated to bars and restaurants and clubs. It’s like… hm, I’m struggling for a comparison. Like Disney’s Pleasure Island although not as diverse? Sort of. Mostly chain places like the Hard Rock. But there are a couple cool “theme” places like a hip bowling alley and a really nice pool hall. Then I drove around and around and basically got lost a dozen times. And it’s only just now 5pm. Pretty full day.

On the house front—after all, that’s why I’m here—the big news is that I am not buying the house I came up here to buy. It was cute as heck and in a great neighborhood, but it was also really run down. As with a lot of houses from the turn of the century (last century) someone, at some point, decided to screw up a perfectly sweet Victorian. They dropped the ceiling, but with plaster, not tiling, and did a really shabby job of it. The walls were cracked and the floors were warped. Some of the ugly stuff was simple and cosmetic. Some of it was structural. I can handle the cosmetic stuff, but not the structural.

Anyway, Betsey, my real estate agent, had another house lined up for me, and as soon as I walked in the door, I knew I was home. Simply put, the house screams New Orleans. Depending on the room, the ceilings are (I’m guessing) 12 or 14’ high. Hardwood floors in every room. It’s another Victorian, but a different style. A side-hall shotgun. One story. And the backyard is almost twice the size of the house’s footprint. You could actually build a whole house and then some in the backyard. (My wheels are turning on that one!).

The inspection is tomorrow morning, so I don’t want to say any more about it until that’s done. But Jason was absolutely right, this is my neighborhood. Walking distance to just about everything I could possibly need. Parks and big trees. And when I swung by last night for another look my next door neighbor was watering her lawn listening to A Prairie Home Companion. My kind of folk.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Placed?

2006-06-09T08:43:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow morning, I'm leaving on a last-minute trip to Louisville to look at a house. I won't say too much about it; I don't want to jinx it or get my hopes up too much. But Jason and his mom spent all day Wednesday looking at houses that I'd picked out from the internet, and the last house that they came to (after 11 others!) was, in both of their opinions, "it." At the very, very least they insist that they've found "my" neighborhood and this house is a really good deal.

So the wheels have been set in motion. Yesterday I submitted a low-ball offer contingent upon me seeing the house and approving.

This is far from a done deal, but as I said the wheels are turning. Will try to update this from Louisville if I have time. I'll be back in NOLA on Tuesday morning.

Nine Months Later: A Visit to the Municipal Yacht Harbor

2006-06-05T16:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve yet to figure out how to properly caption photos in Blogger, so I’ll have to work this entry backwards. Hopefully, I’ll get this right.

Yesterday, Saturday, it was—as it has been for weeks—steamy hot (over 90) and sunny. I’m so tired of packing. At last count, I’ve got 40 boxes packed—and that’s not even half the house. Packrats, both of us. Revolting.

Anyway, after going to a streetfair that was too hot to enjoy, I decided that a “free” (minus gas costs) way of keeping busy and cool was to take a drive. I hadn’t been to the lake front since Katrina—again, it’s that fine line between needing to know and gawking that worries me.

As many of you know, when I was married, shortly before the divorce, Blake & I bought a sailboat. I barely made any use of it; we had some pretty awful pre-divorce moments aboard the boat (which I named “Sprezzatura”), and soon it became symbolic of everything that was wrong with the marriage. So despite the fact that I really loved the boat, I stayed away.
So Saturday, I took a field trip to the Municipal Yacht Harbor where we used to keep “Sprezzatura.” And below, if I do things right, you’ll see pictures of what’s left of that neighborhood.

2006-06-05T16:10:00.000-07:00

At the entrance to the MYH, one of many sunken sailboats, completely submerged and unsalvaged. In order to get to the MYH, you have to drive around a park on a one-way street. At some places, the street was nearly impassable because of boats literally piled atop one another on the side of the road. As I drove in, I swore I would re-take the route on my way home and stop and take a picture. But when I left, I was too sad to double back.

2006-06-05T16:07:00.000-07:00

This is the pier where we had our boat docked. Our boat was docked at the very end, in slip 33W, if I recall correctly. If you can see in the distance, I couldn’t make it to the end of the pier to see how our slip fared because there is a sailboat lying completely across the pier. The boat partially lodged on the pier in the foreground is the “Green With Envy.”

2006-06-05T06:24:00.000-07:00

“The Green With Envy” mauled with gaping holes. A boat bumper, meant to protect the boat, lodged in a gash.

2006-06-05T06:22:00.000-07:00

In the distance, boathouses—houses with boat slips for speedboats beneath them. Most were hollowed out by the storm, on the second story. There are some signs of rebuilding—maybe a half dozen or so showing work done. Most—there are probably (I’m guessing here) sixty—are still in ruins.

2006-06-05T06:20:00.000-07:00

These next two pictures show where there used to stand three or four lakeside bars. Slightly cheesy beach bars like you’d find on the Florida coast. We’d been to Jaeger’s and the Dock on several occasions. It was a great place to watch the sunset and drink a beer. Nothing left but the pilings.

2006-06-05T06:18:00.000-07:00

On the way back to the car, I shot this photo of a boat across the sidewalk. The sidewalk is around one story above the lake.

Mostly quiet on the southern front

2006-05-30T23:39:00.000-07:00

After accepting the position at Louisville, I fell into a bit of a funk. I guess, when it comes down to it, I was weighing how "worth it" it was to remain invested in my final month or so here. I have oodles of free time now and there's so much on the domestic front to do to prepare to leave. But, this is the time of year, too, when people come out of their hibernations and start having fun. For a week or so, I just hid out. Bought some boxes, did some packing, destroying the apartment in the process. But then I realized I had two options, I could stay in hiding and quietly slink out of town, or I could go out, be with people, and take the risk of making and/or cementing friendships that it will make me incredibly sad to leave.

So, in the past few days I've tried the social thing. I went to the aquarium with a friend from work. She's a science teacher. We walked from her house, a few blocks away, to La Boulangerie (french bakery) Sunday morning and then took the bus from there. The aquarium had just opened on Friday, and it was crowded, but it wasn't bad. I'd been planning on going anyway, but I was so happy to have gone with her. It made it seem not so weird that I was all weepy and choked up because she was too. We made a bee-line for the penguins. I can't tell you how happy it made me to see them. And a little sad, too. A little sad to be there knowing what devastation the aquarium had seen just nine months ago. Actually more than “a little,” but you just have to try to push beyond that and be happy that its back. But even though it looks basically “normal” again, there’s no real way to totally get rid of the fact that I know what happened there, and what happened was horror.

I imagine it will always be the same way with the Superdome and the Convention Center too. I can’t drive by the Convention Center without a chill of the willies.

Then the science teacher and I had lunch at Fiorella’s in the Quarter and headed back home. It was such a nice day. She’s such a nice person. And she reads this blog, so it’s strange to write about her, so I won’t. I’ll just say that it was one of the nicest afternoons I’ve had in a really long time. Perfect way to spend a Sunday.

And then that evening I met an emerging friend from the MFA program for drinks. (I know, two social events in a single day, what’s the world coming to?). It was a night that could have gone either way. We’ve only talked in twenty minute spurts before class or during the breaks in class. But he was, hands down, the best writer in the class, and we have lots of things in common. And I’ll be damned if we didn’t spend four hours drinking beer and chatting. And he’s exactly the kind of person I was thinking about when I worried about making new friends I’d be sad to leave. Absolutely one of the most fascinating people I’ve met in a long time.

Now that I think about it, it’s strange to write about anybody else in this blog. I’d love to be specific, talk about what makes this guy so unusual… and people do it all the time, don’t they? Talk openly about their lives (which I do) and the people in their lives on their blogs? Isn’t that what blogs are for? I guess I talk a little about Jason, but not in specific ways. And he lives with me. It’s kind of hard not to.

Anyway, I forgot how nice it can be to meet a new person. The MFA program has yielded at least three, maybe four or five, new friends. It’s been a long time since I really got to know a new person. And in the past four months or so, I’ve had around three unforgettable, long conversations. That’s precious. Those multiple-hour getting-to-know-you conversations. On the upside, hopefully the move to Louisville will give me more opportunity for those.

Monday night I met a bunch of the MFA-ers for drinks. We used to meet after Fiction class at the Parkview Tavern, and we’ve continued the tradition since classes ended. I got there late, around 1030p or so, and the crowd was already in full form. Within an hour or so of me getting there, someone had broken out a set of bocce balls and started a game on the neutral ground. Apparently this happens frequently, but I’ve always had to leave early to teach. I didn’t participate, but it made me happy knowing that after midnight there were people lawn bowling on the neutral ground.

At the Parkview, I finally met Josh Clark (see, I feel like I can mention his name because he’s already a “public figure”). Turns out he used to work at Flanagan’s, the bar downstairs from where Blake used to run his guesthouse. He actually knew Blake and reminded me of this crazy story from when we first started dating. There was a guy who rented a room for an entire summer (at least I think it was a summer) and the guy turned out to be a hit man from Canada in hiding. Anyway, it’s about time I met Josh. He knows Jas, he published French Quarter Fiction in which my friend Lorin has a story, and he used to date the mom of a student of mine who I was particularly close to. And, of course, I’m sure I saw him at Flanagan’s. (In case you aren’t familiar with the name, he’s a local publisher/writer type. Wrote a particularly scandalous piece for Salon.com from the trenches right after Katrina. Basically your run-of-the-mill local literary celebrities. But if you haven’t bought French Quarter Fiction yet, it’s damned good. And his introduction is really damned good.)

Other than that, have had some long talks with school folks. Seems like most of them are shocked that I’ve been so gracious considering the circumstances. Even my close friends. And it’s made me realize a couple of things. First of all, I’ve always known that I have a bit of reputation for being a “rabble rouser.” It’s never bothered me. I’m a convicted person and I stand behind my convictions, and I think that’s okay. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that people thought I would raise holy hell over being basically laid off. But the little demon on my shoulder tells me that if I am such a convicted person, why didn’t I raise a bit more of a ruckus? I can’t remember who I said this to, but I recently compared it to being in a bad relationship. Why fight to stay in a relationship when the other person clearly doesn’t care about YOU? (I’ve done that before, so the question isn’t entirely rhetorical.) I’ve heard the same thing from too many people: “You should be more pissed off than you are.”

And in retrospect, I suppose the one thing that really does piss me off was that the fate of my employment seems to have been decided by one or maybe two people who have consistently shown poor judgment in other aspects as well. I mean, if this were “Survivor” and the faculty had gotten to vote someone off the island, I’m sure I wouldn’t be going. But it wasn’t democratic, and that’s the way businesses work.

That being said, those one or two people are in charge, and they continue to make what I feel are really bad choices. Some of the school folk have said, “It may just be that you’re getting out before the shit really hits the fan.” And I lean toward believing them. But even in my most bitter moments, I don’t want that to happen. I still love the school (just like I’ve still loved some crappy boyfriends). And I want the school to see a post-Katrina renaissance. The girls deserve that, and so do the fantastic faculty. (Although, I wouldn’t mind seeing a bloodless coup evolve)

Speaking of coups, I’m just digging Al Gore these days. I heard part of an interview with him on Fresh Air today. Terry Gross asked him, basically, why he relatively gracefully accepted defeat after the Supreme Court ruling in 2000, and he said, (I’m paraphrasing), “I decided to accept the rule of law. Once you take it to the judiciaries, and they rule against you, your only option after that is a coup.” Man, I would have liked to have seen that. I would have been out there with my pitchfork.

I don’t know. I just don’t think I’m a Hillary Clinton kind of gal. Joe Biden knocked my socks off on some interview or another, but I don’t know enough about the guy. I think I’d be behind a second-coming of Gore. Seems to me he’s developed both a mission and a sense of humor since 2000. The two things noticeably absent from his campaign. Kerry? What was I thinking? I’ll tell you what I was thinking: Get Bush the hell out of here. Seriously though, Kerry wasn’t all bad. And I do honestly believe that this city would be in far better shape now, and would have been in far, far, far better shape on August 30, if Kerry had been in office. How do I know? It couldn’t BE worse. He HAD to have done better. Even if he’d spent August 28-September 10 on his yacht in Nantucket. Seriously. He would have done less harm by windsurfing.

How bad is it? Well, hurricane season is less than 48hours away. And although I live in one of the best neighborhoods in the city, one of the dry areas, the “sliver on the river” as it were, if you turn the corner from my house and walk a block, there is still a two story house, flattened. The roof is on the ground, and you can still see the kitchen cabinets. The front porch of the house still leans against the house next door. It’s been nine months. And outside the bar that we go to every week, you can still play bocce ball on the neutral ground at midnight. Because there’s no traffic, no street cars, and few people home. It’s charming in some ways, and horrifying in others.

Current Events

2006-05-23T19:23:00.000-07:00

Apparently, I'm blogging again.

Big doin's today in the ChipSitz household. Not all good, unfortunately. We'll start with the bad news.

Today as I was digging up documents to apply for a loan, I checked my bank account balance online and discovered that some knucklehead has kidnapped my debit card number and charged over $3500. All in the past two days. Around $750 in pre-paid phone cars and online subscriptions (read: porn) and the rest in-- get this-- gemstones! So maybe he's (perhaps I shouldn't assume it is a "he") is dialing up the online ladies and then buying them jewelry?

I'm not in panic mode yet. Brien at my local branch of my bank was aghast and immediately freezed my account. He swears that the bank will have the funds back in my account on Thursday and then investigate from there. Ah... credit card fraud. I just have to trust that things will work out. Otherwise, I'd be hurling my dinner right now.

A warning to any of my NOLA friends who may still be reading my blog: Do NOT keep your SBA loan $ in your debit card account. Thank GOODNESS, I transferred $4000 of it to my savings account and used another $4000 to pay down some credit cards. Otherwise, Mr. Lucky Bling-Bling might have drained me of $8000 more.

That being said, the good news is that I've been preapproved for a home loan of $120K with a 5% down payment. I had NO idea that all this could happen so quickly! I've been emailing back & forth with a real estate agent, and she seems to be "getting" my taste (slowly). It may very well be that I won't have to find temporary housing while I look for a place. If things slow down, Jas & I can live with his family for a wee bit while we close on something.

This will be my house, though. At least for now. If I'd needed help securing a loan, Jas would have gone in with me, but seeing that I can get one myself, it seems like a better idea to not make this investment together. Should we permanent-ize the relationship some day, we can change stuff as need be.

Discovered today that Louisville is #7 on America's Most Livable Large Cities. That makes me happy. Any city that produced Maker's Mark, Muhammad Ali, Hunter S. Thompson, Bob Edwards, Diane Sawyers, Johnny Depp, Ned Beatty, and WC Handy can't be all bad. Okay, it produced Tom Cruise, too... I'll just have to believe that that's a hiccough.

If anyone has any advice about buying a home, let me know. I know NOTHING, and I have to admit I don't even know what questions to ask this mortgage guy. He just seems so nice... I'm afraid I'm being a sucker. But the interest seems good, and the fees are acceptable... Anyway, let me know.

I've had too much coffee and it's 9:30pm. I should go home and decompress.

Patience!

2006-05-22T09:01:00.000-07:00

I know, I know... suddenly I've become "blog girl" again. I don't know what comes over me sometimes. But I just got an email from the Audubon Aquarium. Today Patience (the world's cutest and tamest penguin), her 18 penguin friends, and the gigantic sea otters Buck & Emma are headed back home from the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Via Fedex! And you can track them like packages!

If you don't think that's one of the sweetest things you've ever heard, there's something wrong with you. Have a nice day!

Clowns and Cows and Gandhi

2006-05-21T21:21:00.000-07:00

After listening to talk radio today, I realize that my previous post may be confusing. Sigh. There's some among us now who are griping about Nagin's win (understandable) and feel as though his Gandhi statement implied that he was "comparing himself" to Gandhi. Sigh. He was not. Lord. It was just a good quote. Really.

So, for the record, everyone in my household voted for Nagin. In fact, I'm pleased to say that my household was nearly 100% in accord with the election results (I voted for Councilwoman Renee Gill Pratt; Jas voted for Stacey Head. Head won.).

As far as I'm concerned, some random guy-on-the-street on the evening news explained best why one would vote for Nagin. He said, "I kind of like the fact that he puts his foot in his mouth every once in a while. It just goes to show you that he's not all talking points." Nagin is the most honest politician this city (or state) has seen since I've lived here, and I'm sure the old timers could go back decades before they could find another honest man or woman.

Today I bought a new laptop. For the first time in years, I'm in charge of my own technology acquisitions. After spending an embarrassingly long time researching, I basically impulse-purchased a Gateway MX 3228 at Best Buy. So far, so good. I've named her "Clarabelle." Because she's a Gateway and that sounds like a cow's name-- in fact, I think there was a cow named Clarabelle on some kid's cartoon or something-- and Lew Anderson who played Clarabelle the Clown (above) ... ah, I don't know why I bother to explain these things.

I've sent some emails out to real estate agents in Louisville. We'll see how that goes. It's a little scary, but I'm just about fed up with being a renter. And in L-ville it's almost ludicrous to rent. The rentals are actually more than most mortgage payments-- at least the payments I'd be looking at.

Other than that, I am patently ignoring the fact that I am leaving this city soon. Jason and I had a nice LONG night out on Thursday, hitting a lot of our favorite French Quarter haunts. Cafe du Monde. Flanagan's. Molly's. Coop's for dinner. Crescent City Brewpub. Harrah's (yes, we're both closet gamblers). We even hit a new place-- an all night diner called Huey's. Well, it was new to us. I successfull blocked out the whole "this could be the last time..." dark and drearies. After all, we generally do a late night in the Quarter just about every month or so. Why should this be different? But still.

It's the physical move itself that has me in knots. We are a shockingly packratty couple. Our home is packed to the rafters with stuff. And while I am the messier of the two, by far, Jason is absolutely married to every gram of stuff that he's accumulated. I would just as soon chuck 90% of my stuff than move it. We still have a gawdawful uglissimo silk flower display that he took from his grandmother's funeral in 2002. Okay, maybe he can keep that one. But trust me, there's some crap...

Anyway, back to a safer topic: politics. Yesterday morning Jason joked that we shouldn't vote now that we knew we were leaving. It was a joke, but still, I can't help but think of all those displaced voters-- more than 24K of them, who may not be returning. I'm so glad those absentee votes were nearly perfectly split (Nagin got around 175 more). Otherwise, we'd be in election-challenge hell right now. As it is, there's enough grumbling and griping to go around, but at least things can move ahead.

Four More Years!

2006-05-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

Nagin quotes Gandhi in acceptance speech: "First they ignore you. Then they laugh at you. Then they fight you. And then you win."

My New Kentucky Home

2006-05-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

It is with both a heavy heart and a renewed sense of excitment about my future that I report that I have accepted the position in Louisville.

It will take some time to fully sink in, but I am really happy with the decision. In the end, I had to decide between four job offers, none of which would have been a "bad" choice. I do think I made the best choice I could have made.

Thanks to all for the love and support.

I will always be a New Orleanian, though.

Decision time looms

2006-05-14T20:16:00.000-07:00

By this time in three days, I will have made the decision about where I will be spending the next X years of my life. Part of me is really excited. Part of me wants to burrow into a hole somewhere, sleep for days, and hope that in my absence someone makes the decision for me.

The bad news is that none of the possibilities seem Fabulous. The great news is that none of the possibilities seems like a Bad Choice. All have their pros and cons. And as cowardly as this may seem, I am hoping that one of the possibilities comes through with the proverbial “offer that I can’t refuse” so the decision is easy and brainless.

So, here are the top three contestants in the Where’s This All Leading To? Contest. Presented in no specific order. Actual school names obscured because I’ve seen too many news articles about people getting in deep doo for blogging about jobs.

Contestant One: Miss Washington DC
Miss DC is the only wholly known entity in the group. I’ve been offered the job and the financials have been discussed. Miss DC is a very prestigious all-girl’s school (the only all-girl’s school in the lot) in the heart of the city. The job would be teaching 10th and 11th grade English. The money offered represents nearly a 50% increase in my wages. Unfortunately those are in DC dollars and not New Orleans dollars. Regardless, it means a small step up for me financially.

Miss DC’s reputation is as a very competitive, very affluent school. She’s gorgeous and has excellent, impressive facilities. I loved her faculty; they were young, brilliant, and enthusiastic. Her English Department Chair is so sweet that if I do say no, I will feel incredibly sad.

The pros:
1) The school represents a big step up on the prestige ladder. The school’s name is one that is very recognizable.
2) DC is a great city. There are too many pros to list about DC.
3) I would be in the same city as my cousin Sarah and her husband. Instant social life and renewed family life.
4) It’s a 7 hour drive or a long Amtrak ride home or to Boston and my mother and Sarah’s parents could rideshare to visit.

The cons:
1) Though there’s a 50% increase in my pay, my rent would go up 100% easily.
DC traffic and commuting… nightmare to this girl who’s had a 5 minute commute for 5 years.
2) DC IS a great city… but I have my qualms about whether it’s MY city. Lots of suits, lots of yuppies, not very much in the way of bohemia and arts community.

Contestant Two: Miss Louisville, Kentucky.
The dark horse contestant. I’m not exaggerating when I say I was trying to think up an excuse NOT to visit this school from the moment I said that I would. Right up through getting off the plane and checking into the hotel. Hoped I’d get sick. Hoped I’d get in a car accident (minor, no injuries) on the way to the airport.

And yet… Miss KY is a co-ed, Pre-K-12 school. Once an all girl’s school, it went co-ed in the 70’s and celebrated its 90th anniversary this year. Incredible campus with a brand new, high tech upper school building. The job is teaching 11th grade and a Composition elective. A little bigger than my current school. There’s a big “changing of the guard” going on—new headmaster next year and new upper school head. They seem to be heading in good directions. Very much like the high school that I attended—similar vibe all around.

I have not actually received an offer, but I believe one is forthcoming. It will be a blow if they call me on Tuesday and say, “We changed our minds.”

The pros:
1) The real selling point here—hold your hats, folks—is Louisville. I was shocked to find that Louisville is gorgeous (despite the fact that it rained the whole time I was there) and has a thriving arts scene.
2) The cost of living in Louisville is so attractive that I think we ALL should move there. If I moved, I would not be looking to rent, but to buy a house.
3) These folks have pursued me relentlessly and paid every expense that I incurred to visit.
Unless they offer me what I make currently or less, this will be a step up in lifestyle for me.
4) Louisville is 70 miles away from Jason’s family. And Kentucky is really convenient to a lot of neat places.
5) Miss KY offers its faculty very impressive development scholarships. Just about everyone on the faculty that I met had “just gotten back” from studying mythology in Greece or poetry in Tibet or culture in Japan. They’re instituting an exchange program with China in 2006-07 and two of the faculty I was working with were leaving for China on Wednesday.

The cons:
1) It’s still Kentucky, folks.
2) The faculty is amazing, but older and very established. This would not be the same “instant family” that my school was or that Miss DC might be.
3) Um, there’s still the issue that there is not yet an offer on the table for me.

Contestant Three: Miss Local
Miss Local is a co-ed, Pre-K-12 school in the suburbs of New Orleans. Despite the proximity, I knew very little of the school before I went for two days of interviews. It is, I’m afraid, the least impressive of the schools and would represent a lateral move for me. The job is 10th grade and yearbook advisor. It’s a more low-key position than any of the others because yearbook is a class, but with little prep for me. It’s a competitive school with good use of technology and a lovely campus.

There’s no money on the table. I’ll find out their offer tomorrow at 2pm. I doubt that they will offer less than what I am currently making. The problem is that I’d rather not stay where I am, apartmentwise, and rents have increased by 50% in New Orleans. I’m not 100% sure I CAN stay where I am, as my landlord is a nutcase.

The pros:
1) Staying in New Orleans. And while that’s the only major pro, it’s so important to me in so many ways.

The cons:
1) Lateral move.
2) What if, God forbid, there’s another hurricane?
3) It’s a 20 minute commute at least for me right now.

So that's the contest, folks. Feel free to weigh in with your advice between now and Wednesday. As I said, perhaps Miss KY or Miss Local will make an offer that I cannot refuse. Miss DC's offer was good, but I can refuse it.

I'll post my decision shortly after it's made.

Festing is a Verb

2006-04-30T19:12:00.000-07:00

Nothing like a good day of festing to put things in order. Okay, that’s hyperbole; I’m exaggerating the curative powers of festing. (note: this year’s Jazz Fest slogan—I don’t think they normally have a slogan— is: “Behold, the healing powers of music.” Isn’t that beautiful?) Festing doesn’t set things in order, but it sets my mind in order some.

Tonight the termites started swarming. It strikes me as very early. Jas said that he couldn’t remember the termites swarming before the stinging caterpillars had all died off before, and I think he’s right. Although the stinging caterpillars are mostly gone now; the ones that are left are as long as my middle finger and as thick as my thumb. I mention this only to remind myself that NOLA has always been odd and wild.

I have a new Best of the Fest. Been going, what? Nine years? Seen so many of the greats: Ray Charles, Sting, Paul Simon, DMB, the Counting Crows, Fats Domino, John Hiatt, Bonnie Raitt, Keb Mo… But no one, no one, has—and maybe possibly could—top Bruce Springstein’s performance today. I was beyond bowled away. I’m not even a big fan. Or even a fan! It was the most joyful, most uplifting, and most special concert. Honestly, only the U2 Joshua Tree concerts that I saw can really top it.

Springstein just released a new CD with the Seeger Session Band. It’s all old folks/Pete Seeger songs. Jas downloaded it last week and we’ve been listening to it all weekend long. Some of the songs are very familiar (“John Henry” and “Froggie went a-courtin’”) and most of them are at least songs you’ve probably heard before. And it felt like so many of them were so applicable to New Orleans right now. “My Oklahoma Home” about a man who lost everything in a twister (“My Oklahoma home has blowed away”) and “We Shall Overcome” and “Eyes on the Prize.”

To that, he added the only recognizably Bruce song of the day: “My City in Ruins.” And it was like being in church. The whole audience was silent with their hands in the air (“Come on, rise up. Come on, rise up.”). In his encore, he played a ballad version of “When the Saints Come Marching in.” And in the middle of the set, he played an old Seeger song whose lyrics he modified to fit Post-K NOLA, and the crowd went nuts:

Well, the doctor comes 'round here with his face all bright
And he says "in a little while you'll be alright"
All he gives is a humbug pill, a dose of dope and a great big bill
Tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live?

He says "me and my old school pals had some mighty high times down here"
"And what happened to you poor black folks, well it just ain't fair"
He took a look around gave a little pep talk, said "I'm with you" then he took a little walk
Tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live?

There's bodies floatin' on Canal and the levees gone to Hell
Martha, get me my sixteen gauge and some dry shells
Them who's got got out of town
And them who ain't got left to drown
Tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live?

I got family scattered from Texas all the way to Baltimore
And I ain't got no home in this world no more
Gonna be a judgment that's a fact,
a righteous train rollin' down this track
Tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live?

Behold, the healing power of music, eh?

Just before Bruce, Elvis Costello and Allan Toussaint played. Awesome stuff. Toussaint’s stuff sounds just like Elvis’s stuff. So natural and perfect together. What impressed me most is that Toussaint called Elvis his “blood brother,” and said that he’d never met a man with a bigger heart, and at the end of Bruce’s set Bruce talked about how honored he was to play on the same stage as Elvis and Toussaint, and he said not only is Elvis a great musician, but he’s the “sweetest man in the world.” Well now, I want to adopt Elvis. Or marry him.

Between sets, a plane flew around the Fairgrounds with a banner reading “IMPEACH BUSH.”

Behold, the healing powers of festing.

Many moons in between

2006-04-28T20:45:00.000-07:00

What if Al Qaeda blew up the levees
Would New Orleans have been safer that way
Sheltered by our government’s protection
Or was someone just not home that day?
- Neil Young “Let’s Impeach the President”

Ah faithful readers, I’m sure I’ve all but lost you by now. Good bloggers don’t go close to two months without blogging, I’m sure. It’s just been a heckuva two months.

I don’t even know where to begin and it seems trite and lousy to put these past however many weeks into a synopsis, but I must.

At the end of March, my grandmother passed away. Nana had been ill for a long while, and on the 18th of March, my mother called me and told me that I had to come home ASAP. I’d already booked a trip to Providence to do some interviews with high schools up there, so I extended my trip and was on the first flight up to New England. I am grateful to have been with her when she died on the 20th. On the same day, my mother’s 18 year old cat died as well. It was, as you can well imagine, an incredibly difficult time. It took me weeks to “process” it all. And I’m sure I’m not done yet. But my family has changed, and frankly, I’m sick to the core of change these days.

The interviews in Providence went incredibly well, I thought. I fell madly in love with the Met School—a public alternative high school. Unfortunately, today I found out that I did not get that job. I’d all but counted on getting it. I thought the only problem would have been with money. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for two minutes, but then I pushed it aside. Move on, you know? It’s been a long time since something that I wanted said “no” to me. I’ve lived a charmed life in that regard. Even when it came to college, I got into the schools that I wanted to get into. Anyway, move on.

Since then, it’s been a blur of catching up on the week of work and school that I missed, and of other New Orleans activities. The Tennessee Williams Fest and French Quarter Fest were fantastic. One “up” side of knowing that my days in New Orleans are numbered has been the fact that I’ve done my best to take advantage of the city as much as possible.

This weekend and next are Jazz Fest. Today was the opening day. The crowds were enormous—it was a great Fest lineup today. I saw Bob Dylan and Keb’ Mo and Ani DiFranco—three acts I’d pay big bucks to see on their own.

This past week I flew up to DC and interviewed at the Cathedral School for Girls. Stayed with my cousin and her husband and had a fabulous time. In two weeks, I’ll fly up to Louisville, KY to interview at a school there.

The mayoral primary was last weekend, and I’m fairly pleased with the way that it turned out. Nagin and Landrieu in the run-off. I’d be okay with either, but my allegiance remains with Nagin.

I apologize for the lack of feeling in this entry. I’m still rattled by not getting the job that I wanted and tired from Fest-ing all day. Hopefully I’ll be better from hereon in.

Happy Belated Mardi Gras

2006-03-03T10:52:00.000-08:00

A belated Happy Mardi Gras to you all.

It was, I venture, one of the better Mardi Gras that I've had. Fat Tuesday's weather was sunny and gorgeous-- mid-70's at least. We slept in a bit, started the march down St. Charles around 11am or so. Met up with Sarah & Greg on Canal Street just in time to catch a bunch of the Rex parade (unfortunately sleeping in meant we missed all of Zulu). Ventured through the Quarter to the Marigny parties. Eventually, despite exhaustion and being a bit "partied-out" we made it to the Maple Leaf Bar uptown, where we took in a Rebirth Brass Band show that night.

My friend Erin took 250+ pictures on Mardi Gras day. I took... none. Sorry.

The entire, truncated, season seemed more fun than usual. Perhaps because it was truncated. Perhaps, too, that we had out-of-towners to make sure that we did stuff that we might normally miss. Hit a Radiators show at Tipitina's. Went for a nice dinner at NOLA's restaurant. After NOLA's Jas and I decided to hang a bit longer in the Quarter and catch a cover band (a very good one) at Kerry's Irish Pub. We caught almost every parade-- or at least I did.

Good stuff. And thankfully, Mardi Gras was largely without incident this year. The only deeply, deeply disturbing thing was that a man was found shot dead in his car around the corner from my apartment on the night that we decided to "hang out a little later" in the Quarter. Had we left NOLA's and gone straight home, we would have been home. And what's driving me crazy is that there has been zero follow up news except for that tiny article linked above. We've yet to ask around the neighborhood to see if anyone knows anything.

Today I am thorougly pooped. Yesterday I had to work my normal 745am-830pm Thursday schedule at McG and UNO. Plus, I had a five page paper due today. So I've been on overdrive for... well, honestly I've been on overdrive since, like, last Thursday. Sarah & Greg are headed back to the city today for one more night. Actually, I don't know if they're staying the night or heading out this evening.

I've made plans to head up to Providence on the 23-26 of March to do at least one interview. Unfortunately, even though I was told otherwise, it turns out I picked a bad weekend to go. Several of the schools that are considering my application are on Spring Break. The good news is that Beth is due to have her baby that weekend, and if the gods and the baby are compliant, I might just get to see his/her debut! Regardless, even though it is going to be a whirlwind trip, it will be good to see my family. Nana has been struggling lately, and I needed to make a trip up there ASAP anyway.

Most likely, I'll have to make a second trip in April to swing by some more schools. This job search is not only a second job, but it requires a second income! After going through these motions for the past five months, I am almost ready to just scoop up a job at Barnes & Nobles and call it a day.

Hope all is well with all of you on the outside. In case you're keeping track, our mayoral ballot is now up to 14 names, our levees are still not fixed, and hurricane season is three months away. Mardi Gras day, ironically, was also the six-month anniversary of the storm. I can't think of a better way to have spent that anniversary.

Sparta Salutes

2006-02-18T16:18:00.000-08:00

ABOVE: (L) My spot, as I first saw it. Normally the crowds here are at least four or five people deep. (R) The bigger, but still smaller, crowd on Prytania and Napoleon.
BELOW: Two of the Krewe of Sparta's satirical floats. The parade was called "Sparta Salutes." (L) Sparta Salutes: The Federal Government. "They Fiddle While We Drown." (R) Sparta Salutes: Neptune, God of the Sea. The One that's in our Living Room.

Pirates and Spiders

2006-02-18T15:35:00.000-08:00

Happy Mardi Gras!

No, really. Happy. Sort of.

At the very least, I’m starting to remember what happy feels like. Kind of like getting a whiff of a licorice scratch-and-sniff sticker and thinking, “Huh, it’s been a while since I last had a stick of black licorice, but I can kind of remember what it tastes like.”

Sometimes I think it’s the weather. That things take a slightly balmy turn this time of year. And Mardi Gras is nice—even though, I’ve always protested that I’m really not a Mardi Gras kind of girl. But this year, it’s clearly a different sort of thing entirely.

But really, it’s just a simple matter of being so busy I hardly have time to admit the gloom into my life any more. I’m too busy to spend much time feeling crappy. That and I finally, blessedly, have the overwhelming weight of being in panic mode over my finances lifted off my shoulders. (Hence, the busy).

I am now an official employee of the University of New Orleans Athletic Department. I am, in short, a brand-spanking-new Privateer. (I love the sound of that. Next week, I’m raiding the UNO bookstore and buying a bunch of Privateer paraphernalia.) ARGH!

Ah yes, I know what you’re thinking. Stop it. I like sports. Really, I do.

I am an academic mentor for student-athletes. That means that I am given a caseload of around 20 kids who are struggling in college, and I have to mamma them. Meet with them once a week or so, keep track of their grades, review their notes with them, that sort of thing. I start next week. And while, at first, I was highly skeptical of whether or not I wanted the job—I remember teaching the football players at Hannan; the tough cases were way less than fun— then I found out what they were paying me, and then I met my boss Hope, and now, well, woo-hoo! I’m a Privateer.

Grad school has been (almost) exactly what I’d hoped it would be. I have one totally bogus on-line class (it’s a requirement for the degree). Fiction Workshop and Non-Fiction workshop. My fiction class has been incredible. Eight really bright, talented writers. The teacher is the head of the MFA program, and she’s a pleasant surprise. I’m less impressed with my NF workshop. I am not a fan of the memoir, and there’s something really blechy about a 23 year old writing a book about his/her life. I mean sure, it can be done, and it can be done well. But at 23, I knew bupkis about life. Hell, at 32, I still know bupkis—just more of it. But I’ve studied with the teacher before, and he just tickles me.

I did, however, forget how much work grad school is. Knocked me on my keister at first. And of course as a writing student, it’s all writing. Tons of it. Every day.

Word seems to have gotten out that I had a nasty run in with an alleged brown recluse spider. And yes, the rumors are true. The story, in short:

Several Fridays ago, I was working with Hal, getting his home ready to move back in. I started sneezing and getting a sore throat, so I took a break, went to Walgreens, and picked up some Cold-Eze. Woke up very early on Saturday morning with a full-blown cold—runny nose, sore throat, fever, chills, aches, the works—AND two enormous welts, one on each forearm. I took some Comtrex, drank some water, itched the welts a bit, and went back to sleep. When I awoke, the welt on my right arm had spread an angry red and the welt on my left arm had blossomed into a giant blister—around the diameter of a quarter and the height of a stack of maybe $1.25 worth of quarters. I spent days in misery. Even my toes hurt. For two weeks, every time I ate my stomach clenched up in terrible cramps. I went to the doctor and she (who is very sweet) treated me like a sideshow attraction. She thought it was the coolest thing she’d ever seen. To be honest, even though it hurt, and it’s still gross and still healing, it is pretty cool. Like being bit by an alligator or something. The upshot is, I will probably always have a scar to remember the incident by. And a cool story. And if you ever have a cold and a spider bite at the same time, you should go see a doctor and not assume that the chills, the aches, and the fever are due to the cold and not the spider bite. I’m sure I would have felt much better if I’d gotten medication sooner.

The job search has been interesting. I’ve had phone interviews with two schools in Providence, and I am in the process of planning a trip up there to meet with the schools in person. Interestingly, both of the schools with whom I’ve had this second phase of contact have been schools that I’ve sent “cold call” resumes to—not schools referred to me by the independent school search firm. It is kind of depressing to know that I have sent referral letters to more than 25 schools and haven’t heard a peep back from any of them.

Jas has been out of town a bunch lately, and he’s out of town now. Last week he was hob-knobbing with celebrities in NYC; this week he’s in San Jose. (How sad is this? We had to Google San Jose because neither of us had any idea just where in California it was going!). He’ll be back on Monday. My cousin Sarah and her husband Greg are heading to NOLA for Mardi Gras. It will be my first time having out-of-towners around during MG, although they aren’t bunking with us. I can’t think of a better MG to play host.

On the local political front, I’ve lost track of how many people have decided to run for mayor. I’ll miss Brother Ray when he’s gone. A gigantic grassroots push for a consolidated levee board passed in legislature as an amended bill that creates two boards (instead of more than a dozen local boards)—one for the East Bank of the Mississippi and one for the West Bank. Still a big honking improvement. Unfortunately many of the other bills that would have shown the world that we have our act together did not pass.

My latest pet peeve is listening to/reading national news. We’ve become a blip on the radar screen. It is monumentally sad to know that “Katrina fatigue” is a bigger news story these days than Katrina outrage. I know that 90% of you who read this blog are out of towners, so just in case you’ve been scratching your head wondering how we’re doing in NOLA, let me just clear things up and tell you: THINGS DOWN HERE ARE STILL TERRIBLE.

I’m honestly really concerned about my cousin Sarah visiting. She went to Tulane and loves New Orleans. I have a feeling it’s going to be really sad for her. And this will be my first time seeing Post-K NOLA through the eyes of a woman who hasn’t seen it yet. (I should probably drop her a note and give her a little heads up about that).

The state of things is hammered home to me every time I go out to UNO. UNO, located right off Lake Ponchartrain, has only barely recovered. Many of the buildings still don’t have phone service. Only one cafeteria is open. The room where I had my first NF class had a tarp-covered ceiling. We moved to another room, and that one had plastic covering all the missing windows and no flooring. There are two ways to get to UNO from where I live, and both are through vast, uninhabited, uninhabitable wastelands. It’s lousy and it hurts my heart.

And finally, I went to my first Uptown Mardi Gras parades this afternoon. I drove because it was cold and misty and parked a few blocks away from my “spot.” (Everyone in New Orleans has a Mardi Gras spot. Mine is on Napoleon & Magazine.) When I arrived at the spot, I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. There were the floats, the small marching band was playing and waving their flags… but there were maybe no more than twenty people in my spot. And my spot is a good spot. Usually we’re at least four or five people deep. I put my blinders on and barreled ahead, toward St. Charles Avenue. The whole way, all I could think was: “If this is what it’s going to be like, this is going to be much more sad than it is happy or fun.” I was really, really shattered by it, choking down tears, totally ignoring the beads sailing over my head.

By the time I got to Prytania & Magazine, the crowd had thickened to almost its normal size. And I planted myself there and had a good time. But the four parades were done in an hour. Only two or three marching bands per parade. And I still can’t make up my mind whether it made me happy to be there or sad to see our diminished numbers. Next weekend will be different, I’m sure. There will be at least some tourists in town. But I’m just not sure that this Mardi Gras is going to be the jubilant catharsis that I thought it would be.

Insert Wizard of Oz Cliche Here

2006-02-02T13:19:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, you just have to pull the blankets over your head and pretend that you're safe as houses.

I haven't been sleeping well lately, so it was no surprise when a clap of thunder woke me last night around 2am. Jason was still up, reading in bed. Before I'd gone to bed more than two hours earlier, he'd warned me that there were angry red blotches on the doppler radar heading in our direction. Last weekend, we lost power for close to eight hours during a rain storm with barely any wind, so as the storm got closer and louder and windier, we both remarked how odd it was that the power was still on.

Around 2:30am, the wind started to scream and at least three or four bolts of lightning hit in the immediate neighborhood within the span of ten seconds. A few seconds later, the power went out.

Jason jumped up and found the crank radio we bought in Florida the day after Katrina hit. He wound it up and the Emergency Broadcast System warned of a funnel cloud approaching the Carrollton area in just a few minutes.

Honestly, I can't remember there being a tornado in New Orleans. A few years ago, there was a rumor of one-- but I don't know if the damage was every really determined to be tornado, wind, or hail-related.

The picture above is a house in Lakeview, already damaged by Katrina, destroyed by last night's tornados. The person on the left is a colleague of mine whose house in Lakeview was flooded during Katrina. According to the news, the Airport sustained more damage last night than in the hurricane.

The power is back up now, but it wasn't when I left for work at 7am. Rumor has it that the New Orleans power grid is shot-- hence all the recent outages. Even though only a fraction of the residents are back, the system is overloaded from the new influx of people since the universities reopened.

Just another unsubstantiated rumor, I suppose. And there's enough to be concerned about without worrying about rumors. To whit, the Gulf temperatures are currently five degrees warmer than average off the coast of Louisiana. Where'd these tornadoes come from? The Gulf.

Update on first week of grad school to come soon.

Only good news

2006-01-20T09:16:00.000-08:00

Ah, how wonderful. A chance to post only good stuff.

Last night my friend Scott's wife gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Ian Richard is the newest New Orleanean, but not for long.

As I type, my friend Carolyn is in labor preparing to welcome her second child, Jennifer, into the world. (At least, she thinks it's Jennifer-- those ultrasounds have beeen known to be wrong).

And last week my high school friend, Melissa (from Massachussetts), gave birth to her first child, Jackson "Jack" Samuel.

All of this begs the question-- what the heck was going on in May?

Welcome to the world, Ian, Jennifer, and Jack!

UPDATE: Jennifer Ann was born at 12:03pm today! Less than 14 hours behind Ian.

Shout out from The Chocolate City

2006-01-17T10:53:00.000-08:00

I don't normally make it my business to apologize for other people's mistakes. Especially people I don't know. Especially politicians. But I'm having a hard time keeping my mouth shut about this particular "whoops."

Today when I logged on to AOL to check my email, the banner news read: "'God is mad at America'" New Orleans Mayor Sounds Off." Yesterday, Garland Robinette, local talk-show host extraordinaire, cancelled all of his call-in interviews in order to take calls from ticked-off locals who were in a lather over Nagin's, now infamous, MLK Day "Chocolate City" speech.

Brother Ray is in a pickle, to be sure.

So, here's the extent of my apology on behalf of Brother Ray: Brother Ray said some stupid-sounding things that made for really lousy soundbites, and for that I am heartily sorry. Moreover, I'm sorry that news organizations nationwide have taken portions of his speech and broadcast them wholly out of context and have made Brother Ray look like a stark-raving mad fool.

The end.

What astonishes me is that 99% of the people I've heard sound off on the "Chocolate City" speech have not heard the speech. In fact, I'm starting to believe that I'm one of a teeny weeny minority of people who actually took the time to listen to the speech in its entirety. It was published today in the newspaper, but hidden and in small type, away from the article that talked about how much heat Nagin has taken for his comments. Unfortunately, as of right now, the speech is unavailable on the internet, otherwise I'd repost it here.

The speech was delivered to approximately 60 people prior to an MLKjr march. The tiny crowd was almost 100% African-American. He set up the speech by saying that in light of the shootings at Sunday's second-line, he didn't know how to talk about unity. The morning of the speech, he struggled, and "then [he] decided to talk directly to Dr. King."

He continued: "Now you might think that's one Katrina post-stress disorder. But I was talking to him and I just wanted to know what he would think if he looked down today on this celebration. What would he think about Katrina? What would be think about all of the people who were stuck at the Superdome and the Convention Center?... and he said, 'I wouldn't like that.'"

The speech continued as a litany of questions addressed to Dr. King. What would he think of the policemen who blockaded the Mississippi River Bridge to prevent people from leaving Orleans Parish during the storm? What would he think of Black America and Black New Orleans? What would he think of Black leadership in a America, back-biting and cutting each other down? What would he think of the "knuckleheads" who shot people during Sunday's second line? What would he think of the black-on-black crime that plagues our city? What would he think of the 70% of children being born to single mothers?

Dr. King's response, always, was "I wouldn't like that."

"Dr. King, if he was here today, he would be talking to us about... the problem was have among ourselves."

Then, yes, he launched into the "God is mad at America" section of his speech. Yes, he did claim that God had sent these hurricanes because He was mad at us. That God didn't approve of the war in Iraq. And yes, perhaps that was a bit off-the-wall. I'll give the critics that (although, I too believe that God doesn't approve of the War in Iraq. Amen to that). But he continued: "Surely [God] is mad at Black America, also. We're not taking care of ourselves. We're not taking care of our women. And we're not taking care of our children... "

He closed with the infamous "Chocolate City" declaration: "We ask black people: it's time. It's time for us to rebuild a New Orleans; the one that should be a chocolate New Orleans. And I don't care what people are saying Uptown or wherever they are. This city will be a chocolate city at the end of the day. This city will be a majority African-American city; it's the way God wants it to be. You can't have New Orleans any other way; it wouldn't be New Orleans."

Make no mistake, I am an Uptowner. And yes, Nagin made the mistake of painting with a broad brush here. But I'm smart enough to know what he means, and I take zero offence. Because, frankly, since the day the Hurricane hit, there have been plenty of folks-- and most of them Uptown-- who have seen this disaster as an opportunity for cleansing. And that's just a damned polite way to mask horrible racism.

New Orleans is a Chocolate City. It's always been that way. And it should be that way again. Nagin was telling the good folks at the MLK Rally that they should stop pissing away their time griping about the racist attitudes that will (unfortunately) never go away, stop wasting their energy with conspiracy theories about how the powers-that-be want to whitewash this city and keep the black people from coming back. His concluding words were: "It's time for all of us good folk to stand up and say 'We're tired of the violence. We're tired of black folks killing each other. And when we come together for a second-line, we're not going to tolerate any violence.' Martin Luther King would want it that way, and we should. God Bless all."

His speech was a call to action to the black community to fix the problems within the community. His promise of a Chocolate City was indeed just that-- a promise that he would not give up fighting for the return of Black New Orleaneans. He was, in my mind, telling them not to worry about that-- to worry, instead, about the problems that they had control over.

Critics have said over and over: "If a white mayor promised that a city would be a vanilla city, he would be drawn and quartered." And perhaps that's true, but just as wrong. If hundreds of thousands of white Americans were displaced from their home and forces beyond their control were trying to keep them from returning, a mayor who champions their return should be hailed as a hero.

So, I'm sorry that Brother Ray is no Dr. King. Dr. King would have put it better for sure. But I think Dr. King would have shared Nagin's underlying sentiment. And I'm sorry that the media are crucifying him for comments taken out of context and away from the intended audience.

New Orleans by the Numbers

2006-01-17T10:32:00.000-08:00

Today's Times-Pic published a fairly exhaustive list of current New Orleans statistics.

Pre-Katrina Population of Orleans Parish: 462,269
Current population: 134,400
Percent change: -71%

Pre-Katrina Hotels/Motels open in Metro Area (includes 'burbs): 265
Current: 100
Percent change: -62%

Public school student population in Orleans Parish, pre-K: 64,270
Current: (approx) 12,000
Number of public schools in Orleans Parish, pre-K: 117
Current open: 18
Percent Change: -81%
Number of Orleans Parish school employees scheduled to be laid off on January 30: 7,500

Pre-Katrina general acute care hospitals in Metro area: 20
Current: 12
Percent change: -40%

Hospital beds, pre-K: 4,000
Current: 1,700
Percent change: -58%

Electric Service in Orleans Parish, Pre-K: 212,761
Current: 86,678
Percent change: -59%

Restaurants in Orleans Parish, Pre-K: 3,718
Current: 768
In Metro area, Pre-K: 6,651
Current: 2,114
Percent change in Metro area: -68%

How do you keep on keeping on?

2006-01-15T21:06:00.000-08:00

Today three people were shot at a second-line parade meant to welcome home people to the city.

This is the New Orleans that was. How can it still be the New Orleans that IS?

After 9/11, I truly, passionately believed that we would be a better generation, a better country, a better people. And, to be honest, we're worse. Much worse.

I believed that post-Katrina, we would be a better city. Rich, poor, black, white-- we suffered the same. We all suffered. How could it be that hearts were not turned? How could it be that souls were not saved? It's heartbreaking.

Can we truly expect that the powers-that-be will look upon our city with hope and with kindness after this? How do we go forth pleading for our survival when this is what our survival has wrought?

I ache for the New Orleans that was, and for the New Orleans that should be.

Yesterday, I spent hours with Hal talking about how important it was that the powers-that-be look kindly upon his neighborhood, a neighborhood that, according to the most recent maps, will be a park unless he and his neighbors can rally enough support in the next four months to save it. We are all in battle with the politicos to save New Orleans... and today's events have set us all back... can we reclaim our stand? Our moral and ethical standing?

This may be the New Orleans that I know... the city that drives people away (including Jas) by the masses... I will keep the faith, y'all. This doesn't have to be who we are or where we are.

Three days ago, I came home from work at 4pm. In the distance, I heard the sound of Xavier Prep's marching band practicing. It was, no joke, the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. It was the sound of return, rebirth, rejoicing. It was the promise of Mardi Gras to come. The sound of teenagers returned. The sound of New Orleans in all it's creaky trumpet glory. Hope. Joy. The sound of long-absent students who have come back to this city to laud the return of the rest of the city. Bliss, man. I welled up with tears and shook my little booty on my front porch until I could hear them no more.

THIS IS HOW WE KEEP ON KEEPING ON, folks! And I will...

Goodbye 2005

2006-01-07T14:13:00.000-08:00

Greetings and Happy New Year!

Never before have I felt so much that a new year is bringing a new beginning. It’s not a romantic feeling of relief or epiphany. It’s not as though the clock set her hands upon midnight and then wiped my slate clean or anything. It’s just been the gradual realization that this year will bring new things to my life, for good or for bad—hopefully good, and I need to make room.

Jason beat me to the most eloquent New Year’s letter. He sent it out to the Writers Retreat Workshop community and I’m going to post a bit of it here. Hope he doesn’t mind.

When can we say the new year isn't new anymore? I wrote my first 2006 check today so we're still fresh. At some point we do wrap-up the new part of new and it's just 'happy year.' Why drop the happy? Maybe that's what happened to 2005. Couldn't we catch-up later in the year and greet one another with a "happy year?" Like a check-up.

I know this, though: 2005 can bite me. I understand many of you had milestones this year. Fabulous moments. I don't know anyone for which 2005 was the best year ever, but I'm sure it was for someone. Maybe someone in... I can't even think of a country where there weren't riots, wars, famine, or other signs of the Apocalypse. That's gotta' stop and if the "authorities" won't do it, we gotta' figure out how to do it for them.

I suppose I'm biased as I watched a community, a world-renowned city, fall apart. WRW lost an angel in Jo Kohn. We watched over 150,000 deaths in the Indonesia area as the year started, we count the dead in New Orleans even today. Yes, they are still finding bodies (around 1200 so far). The city is coming back, though. While only 24% of the citizens have returned, they estimate 40% will return within the month. That will be the plateau. That will be the new New Orleans. Nothing has happened to the levee system as our government has fallen apart beyond recognition. I would say there are only five to six months until hurricane season begins as last year our first storm made a direct hit on New Orleans in June (TS Cindy). But, for the second time in history, a tropical storm, Zeta, has developed in January. It won't make any kind of landfall, but I'm not sure we can say hurricane season begins in June if it really never ended.

We spent New Year's Eve in the Mid-west, in Minnesota, to attend a dinner and a three-hour show with the cast of Prairie Home Companion. We left St. Paul, MN., the morning of January 1. The temperature was 32, the snow was piled six or seven inches, the lights the previous night along Summit Ave were gorgeous. Garrison Keillor said St. Paul never looked more beautiful, and I don't know how it could. Arriving back in New Orleans on January 2, around 11:30am, it was 81 degrees. …

On his blog (www.bigbonedmovie.com) our friend Roman says that he isn't making any real resolutions this year, and I admire that. Good resolve. I've never made them myself because I find them restrictive. If I change my mind and decide in March that I do want to put on ten pounds, drink more, take up smoking, stop writing, be more mean to friends and family, I don't want a list making me feel guilty about it.

However, after New Year's Eve in St. Paul, I changed my mind just a bit. There aren't concrete lists to be made, but I think it is healthy to reevaluate just about now. Billy Collins, the poet, read during our New Year's Eve party, and he talked of how a new year is sort of a second birthday:

Everyone has two birthdays
according to the essayist Charles Lamb
The day you were born,
and New Year's Day (from his poem New Year's Day)

Garrison said he was inspired while in the New York City subway to resolve to follow the guidelines to riders: If You See Something, Say Something.

It's in this vein that I make a resolve. Not necessarily to say something when I see something because I usually end up in trouble for what I've said. But we each sculpt our own lives by chipping away at the enormity of choices that face us. I haven't sculpted enough for myself this past year. Few years? As a result, I probably haven't done enough for others. I think it works this way. We take care of ourselves and others reap the reward.

No lists. Just a chisel, an honest look, chipping away. And, much like what Roman wrote, it comes down to eating, sleeping, laughing, working, loving. More of it all. Chipping away at the choices. I'd add college basketball to that list. More college basketball.

I've always partied on New Year's Eve, I've always had a countdown, and there was always a ton of noise. This year, at 11CST (but midnight on the east coast) Keillor stopped the show and we all hummed Auld Lang Syne for the first U.S. arrival of 2006. It was so quiet. The most reflective thirty seconds of my year. But near midnight in our world, in the Central Time Zone, Keillor talked about life and his year as the crowd stood. Then he looked down, then he looked up, leaned into the microphone and in his unique style said in a near whisper, "Happy New Year."

It came in a whisper this time, not a countdown nor with a bang, and I thought, "Finally, 2005 is history." So, happy birthday. Let's try again.

I’ll just leave the New Year reflections there. He did a good enough job for both of us, I suppose. One thing I truly am thankful for is that I have a very thoughtful cohort.

Christmas was a lovely 4000+ mile road trip to New England, Indiana, and Minnesota. Even during the evacuation, I was always most at peace when on the road. Rubber on pavement, temperatures rising and falling as we drive, gas station stops for crappy coffee, Shake and Steak in the middle of the night. I’ve learned that a comfy blanket is a passenger’s best friend; Jason keeps the heat down low so he’s not lulled to sleep. I bring my Las Vegas throw pillow. Sirius satellite radio is the greatest gift to roadtrippers since the 24-hour diner.

I’ve been more joyful since I’ve been home than I have been since August. Perhaps the level spoonful of family time evened me out a bit. Saw Beth, beautiful with baby in belly. And my grandmother Vange, who received a laptop for Christmas (this should help me keep my language in check). And nearly the entirety of the Massachusetts and Connecticut Clans. Nana has not been well and is not well, so it was an especially meaningful Christmas with her. It was the first time I saw my family since the hurricane, and there was a decidedly different feel. People hugged harder, the standard greeting stressed the “are” in “How are you?” I said in an email to friends that it was a bit like being back from the dead. Lazarus.

School began on Tuesday, and if it weren’t for the fact that working part time keeps my piggy bank echoing, I might actually really like my “new” job. (It’s amazing how empty your fridge is when you have no money. Right now—I kid you not—my fridge contains: pickles, mayo, salad dressing, soy sauce, mustard, parmesan cheese, a half bag of month-old shredded cheddar, a month-old block of muenster, a pitcher of water, six beers, half a pint of milk [still good], two eggs, a stick of butter, and two half-empty bbq sauces.) I teach two 12th grade English classes, four days a week, and a half-credit Drama class two days a week. I have Fridays off, and I’m done with work by noon on M-Th.

Starting at the end of the month, I’ll be taking three classes at the University of New Orleans. After much finagling, I managed to beg my way into their Masters of Fine Arts program (“But we never admit people in the Spring.” “Come on, now, we can’t say ‘never’ any more in this city.”). I think this will be a great thing. Keep me busy. Keep my idle hands away from devil’s work. Maybe get me “really” writing again. It will be good to be among like-minded people, away from teaching, away from the house. I applied for financial aid and because they base aid on the previous year’s tax forms, the government’s FAFSA form says that I ought to be able to pay $10900 out of pocket. That was good for a nice, long laugh (right now, that is equal to more than 10 months of my current take-home pay). Honestly though, even pre-K, I couldn’t possibly have paid that much—I don’t know how my students do it. (Thankfully, UNO is considerably less than $10900 per year).

As predicted, New Orleans is indeed much busier these days. And while the curfew was lifted while we were away for the holidays, I haven’t seen any significant changes since I’ve been back. It’s the same, tiny city, only more crowded. Our first trip to the grocery store was almost comical. No milk left except gallons of skim and whole. No bottled water at all. The broccoli bin looked like Animal from the Muppets had climbed into it and devoured the lot (it was on sale). Yesterday I went to the store to find it sold out of both rosemary and thyme.

A few of the stoplights near my apartment have been fixed. But the one on Napoleon and Magazine still blinks, and the newcomers to the city don’t know that for the past four months we’ve been treating the blinking light as a four-way stop. I’ve seen four near-accidents at that crossroads since I’ve been back; newcomers flying through their blinking yellow even though it was the other person’s “turn to go.” I admit, one of those near-misses was my own. I slammed on the brakes, hollered a mild obscenity, and then held up four fingers to the driver (four, not one). “HEY! FOUR-WAY STOP!” I yelled, articulating the words carefully, so he could read my lips through the windshield. His lips made a surprised little “oh” as he drove by and saw my pre-coffee, 7:30am, fit. I think he got it.

We haven’t ventured out on the town yet. I’ve been trying to make good on my resolution to “be better to the world around me” by starting with my apartment, which, even on a good day looks like someone’s junk drawer exploded. (There ought to be a law against two packrats cohabiting). The best my apartment ever looked was in the weeks after we got home from Katrina exile. I spent the better part of two or three weeks cleaning. And now I’ve spent the better part of two or three months messing it up. My other resolution is unarticulated but has something to do with procrastination (I’ve been putting off finding the right words for it). So, I started with the really ugly jobs like finally disposing of the wall-sized entertainment center we inherited from Jas’s bachelor pad in favor of a smaller sleeker corner unit I bought in the New Haven Ikea and then matching all the stray CD’s with CD cases. (Also on my resolution list—listen to less talk radio and more music).

Politically, things seem to be getting a bit better in the city—perhaps too little too late, but I’m going to try to be a bit more optimistic than that. Work on the levees will begin soon, decisions are in the works as to where to put FEMA trailers in the city (no, for those of you who’ve been keeping track, I’ve still not gotten any money from FEMA), Bush is coming again to visit this week… sigh. And Mardi Gras is on, for sure. Routes have been ironed out, the schedule has been slashed by six days, and if the New Orleans New Years celebration is any indication, it will be a celebration of renewal and joy.

Speaking of which, Happy Mardi Gras! The season began yesterday. King Cake for everyone.

Be well. Happy New Year.

Owning Ohio

2005-12-05T15:01:00.000-08:00

I’ve been quiet lately. And anyone who knows me, knows that quiet = bad. By the time I left for Thanksgiving, I was totally scraping the bottom of the hope barrel. It’s an amazing thing, depression. Haven’t really ever experienced anything like it before. Normally, I’m of the “snap out of it” school of thought when it comes to setbacks. Nowadays when I hear people (Jas, mostly) say that “happiness is a choice,” I want to throttle them. It’s not that I don’t know that they’re (he’s) right. It’s just felt as though that choice has been so very hard to make these days.

This weekend, we went down to the Quarter for the first time since we’ve been back. I know that sounds hard to believe, but I just wasn’t all that interested. And, I’ve had this misconception—as I am sure you have, too—that the Quarter was pretty much “business as usual.” And I just wasn’t ready for “business as usual.”

I was very wrong.

There’s nothing normal about the French Quarter. And it was wonderful and sad and beautiful and eerie.

We arrived around 5pm just in time to park (PARK!! IN the French Quarter! For Free?!), take a wander through the French Quarter Flea Market (the Farmer’s Market was dark and empty), and then stumble across a gospel concert by Shades of Praise being held in the neutral ground (median strip, for non NOLA-speakers) underneath the giant gold statue of Joan of Arc. And while everyone in the audience was lifting up their voices to the Lord, I started to cry.

Jas didn’t mention it til later. When he asked me over a beer at Molly’s by Bourbon Street why I’d cried at the gospel concert, I told him that gospel music always makes me cry, even on a good day. I tried to explain more—that it was just this precious, gorgeous moment—that it was a heart-wrenching and pathetic feeling—that it was an enormous gesture… but I couldn’t really find the words. And I still can’t.

The Pontalba shops had a Christmas stroll with plenty of liquor and cookies. We made mental Christmas lists (for others) and planned to return next weekend to shop. We’ve both sworn to buy only NOLA goods as presents this year.

We went into Johnny White’s the FQ bar that was on the news constantly as the only bar in NOLA that stayed open throughout the hurricane and evacuation (simple excuse: no locks on the doors—it’s always been a 24hr establishment). The bartender told us that the bar’s become a total tourist trap now with the notoriety.

Ended up at Flanagan’s—one of our normal hangouts. Cheap drinks, local color, good jukebox.

But so quiet. So nice to share the Quarter with locals. So sad to see nothing like business as usual.

The only sign of normalcy? The Jesus Freaks picketing Bourbon Street with signs proclaiming that all gays are going to hell. Nice to know they’ve crawled out of whatever hole they call home and graced us with their… grace?

I’m slowly making some progress on my plans for the next few months. None of my options are ideal, but I know now that the best thing that I can do for myself is to make a decision and make the very best of it.

I did have one realization that was very hard to come to. I realized that the thought of leaving New Orleans—no matter how appealing on so many levels—was the source of so much of my sadness. This is not to say that I’m here for good or that I don’t have some irons in the fire elsewhere. It is very likely that I will be leaving New Orleans sooner rather than later. But I’ve shifted my focus from leaving to staying. At least for now.

It’s been over a quarter of a year since Katrina hit. Feeling like I had to leave has felt like punishment.

I return again and again to the quote from Lafcadio Hern in my October 26th post: ... it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes, than to own the whole state of Ohio.

Not that owning Ohio was ever an option.

a bit of news and a bit of thanks

2005-11-21T14:21:00.000-08:00

Well, the second semester shoe dropped today. I’ve been told that I will remain part time for the remainder of the year. Not a big surprise. In fact, more surprising that I would be offered even part time as the administration has opted to beef up the course load of full timers. Now all full timers will be expected to teach five classes, not four. With the projections for second semester enrollment, if each teacher continued to have four courses, there would be no need for part time, but I guess it’s a matter of economics.

I told my boss I needed the Thanksgiving break to mull it over. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been so frustrated by the fact that once-upon-a-time this was precisely what I wanted. The second semester position involves only teaching seniors—ideal! But somehow it’s just not okay any more. I haven’t planned and saved for this change in my career, and the opportunities in New Orleans for meaningful part-time work are practically non-existent. Long ago, I fancied myself a future freelancer, but I’m not sure I have the rocks to take that on.

Anyway, lots of thinking to be done. Looking forward to doing that thinking with my belly full of turkey.

This weekend, I was lucky enough to attend what I think was the American premier of a British Channel 4 documentary called “The Hurricane that Shamed America.” Jim, the SO of my local best friend, Erin, used to work for Frontline, and worked as the American producer for this documentary (the British equivalent of 60 Minutes). Jim and Erin hosted a viewing party for thirty-plus friends and associates, complete with copious amounts of wine and food. Amazing to have so many like-minded people in a room. Interviews with Brownie and clips of Bush were met with hisses (truly, honestly, I don’t recall ever hearing so many people actually hiss. I thought hisses were the purview of melodrama and the Three Stooges). Mass sighs and sniffles at the sight of suffering. And I can’t help but wonder if a sort of mass-consciousness has been created in New Orleans. Yes, friends of my friends are more likely to be liberal. But could anyone in New Orleans have watched this documentary and not felt the same communal sadness and disgust? (I think the answer to my question is yes. I still see people driving around with “W” bumper stickers. I have a student, who lost her family’s 100+ year old home in Mississippi, who still displays a “W” sticker on her laptop. I don’t get it. I liken it to a beaten wife who remains loyal to her abusive husband.)

It was a good film. Apparently, it was not the film that Jim thought he was making because the BBC came out with their version of the story earlier—much of the stuff about the levees and the meteorology of the hurricane ended up on the cutting room floor (including the interview Jim did with Max Mayfield of NOAA, which he flew to Miami for). But the title explains the gist of the documentary—it focused instead on the fact that the government abandoned so many New Orleanians; that food and water were slow-coming (understatement). That the rescue operations were hindered by politics.

It reminded me so much of being in Ireland in the summer of 2004, listening to the way that Europeans perceived the US and our government. I can’t count the number of times I was told in many different ways: “We hate your president, but we also recognize that he doesn’t represent the general population of America. But if you re-elect him, we’ll be forced to think otherwise.”

This week was my most lucrative under-employed weeks so far. I worked for Hal twice and made $82. I babysat for Ivy on Saturday and made $50. I sold another article to Associated Content for $10 (review of local coffee shops). Hardly making up for lost pay, but any dent is a welcome one.

I’ve continued my uncharacteristic social life. Tuesday night we had beers with Hal at the Rendezvous Tavern (where I am now; how totally lovely to have Guinness and internet at the same place). Thursday, we went to dinner the midnight showing of the latest Harry Potter with Erin, Jim, Scott, and Carolyn. (Excellent movie. Jason’s favorite, although I preferred #3). Friday was the premier at Erin’s house.

Tomorrow or tonight, we leave for Indiana for Thanksgiving. I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to escaping to the “real world” for a few days. I’m one of the few who have been in New Orleans for the past couple of months without respite. Most of my friends have made forays into the outside since they’ve returned. This place remains a very depressing city (see my recent Subcrawl post on the suicide rate). But I wish I had a few more days before leaving.

Ah, sigh, all that being said, I’ve got quite a bit to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Certainly my safety and the fact that we suffered so little in the wake of this tragedy. (I’d say “my health” but I have been unsuccessfully battling the same cold/intestinal thing for the past three weeks almost). The love and outpouring of support from my family and friends. Perhaps even the kick in the seat of the pants that this hurricane has launched my way. Perhaps. We’ll see about that one.

Enjoy your pumpkin pie and stuffing, dear ones. Eat til your bellies ache to burst and then kick back and watch a little football. And know that you’re all in the heartfelt thanks of this strange girl’s thanksgiving.

Private Melissa, meet public Melissa

2005-11-12T07:17:00.000-08:00

Thanks to endless hours scouring Craigslist.com for work both here and elsewhere, I stumbled across a New York ad looking for writers for a culture blog. Unpaid, but I checked anyway. The first post I saw on the blog was about the passing of New Orleans restaurant owner Joe Casamento. Casamento’s is a tiny Old New Orleans hole-in-the-wall down the street from me on Magazine and Napoleon. I hadn’t known Joe died; apparently few people did. Just out of the “aw, shucks, Joe’s dead” factor, I decided to apply for the position. And I got it.

I don’t really know anything about these people or this blog. It fits in well with my love for pop culture, and the blog owner, Kim (who's based in LA. Odd that an LA-based blog was advertised in the NYC Craigslist and landed a Louisiana writer), was excited to have someone from New Orleans join the staff.

You know, there are people who make their living writing about their lives on weblogs? I find this extraordinary—unfathomable, actually. But, I suppose it’s a somewhat natural offshoot of the new reality-based entertainment culture. There’s a woman in Utah named Heather Armstrong who is supporting her family with her blog on motherhood Dooce. She’s hilarious—vulgar and a bit twisted.

Don’t worry, Ma, family, etc, I’m not looking to make this my next career move or anything. Yes, I know, I need health insurance, a retirement plan… and this current gig is unpaid. But I’m a little excited that people outside of my teeny sphere will be seeing some of my writing.

Anyway, the site, Subcrawl, is not family-friendly. There’s some slightly racy stuff on the site. My stuff will remain as it always has been, friendly for just about everyone except perhaps my grandmother. I’ll be focusing mostly on feet-on-the-ground stuff from New Orleans. Hope to highlight some of the stuff that’s not being widely reported in national news.

The private-meet-personal note is that this blog will be linked to Subcrawl, so it’s possible some strangers may be checking in. I won’t alter the content of this blog at all. It remains for family and friends to keep abreast of my life (and I haven’t the foggiest how many of you still check in). But if you want to see more newsy reporting from me, you don’t have to sift through the rest of Subcrawl; you can find a listing of all my postings here. I already have two postings. I’m going to go back over Displaced and make sure there’s nothing on the blog that gives out any family secrets—I don’t want to be David Sedaris or anything.

published

2005-11-09T19:24:00.000-08:00

I keep forgetting to mention that I published an article online. It's not some huge feather in my cap or anything, but last week the article did appear on the website's "Top Content" list. And I did make (very) few bucks. You can read it at: Post-Katrina, Uptown New Orleans Returns.

dogs and kids

2005-11-09T19:10:00.000-08:00

I don’t really know what has me so down lately. It could be the state of the city, the state of my life, or some combination thereof. Or it could be the looming prospect of leaving the city, and all the guilt and anger associated with that. But I have been just blue-to-the-point of black lately. Today it was somewhat better; yesterday was a big black hole. (“Yippee,” you’re thinking, “so glad I decided to read Melissa’s blog!” Yeah, well here’s a big warning, if you’re looking for Happy Me scan down until you find something about “Ivy” or “dogs.” Actually, some of the dog stuff is really sad too.)

Earlier, I talked to J and he said he’d be home tomorrow. But I just got off the phone, and due to flight complications, he’s decided to head to Galveston where the usual writing gang (Lorin, Brenda, John) is staying for the week. He’ll be home on Sunday instead. I’m trying to make it okay by saying that it spares me some serious housecleaning tonight. (I live like a bachelor when J’s not around). Instead of washing the sheets, I cracked open a beer. It actually is okay, to a certain degree; I emailed him yesterday and said that while I hoped he’d be home on Thursday, I’m not exactly a big honking joy to be around. And I get a lot of guilt-free work done when he’s away. But he’s been home for around 16 hours since October 24, and I swear those were the most peaceful 16 hours I’ve had in a while. As I said, WAY early on, maybe even in my first entry, J and I lead very independent lifestyles, and normally that’s just hunky dory with me. I like my “me” time, and I like living alone on occasion. And hey, we had more than enough “together time” the two months we were evacuated. But still…

So, how have I been filling my time? A whole lot of job searching, applying for freelance work, sending out hope-filled cover letters. So far, no bites. Went to a birthday party on Saturday, followed by a lovely hang-out-and-watch-Arrested-Development-on-DVD session at the home of some friends.

I have found some worthwhile volunteer work. Long story short, one of the students from Jason’s workshop is independently trying to hook up Katrina-rescued pets with their owners. She’s searching Petfinders and trying to track down owners, and she contacted J to see if he could help her from the New Orleans end. Of course, he’s out of town, so he passed my email on to her. She’s been sending me addresses, and I’ve been posting fliers on people’s houses. (Hi—we’ve found your pet… contact us at…) This work has taken me to some of the areas of town that were most devastated by Katrina.

Here’s an excerpt from the email I sent to Jeanne after my first foray:

One small step, I guess...

Here's what I found:

S. Scott street was a lovely little street. Gorgeous Victorian little homes in a not-bad neighborhood. The homes seemed (pre-K) well maintained. G's house got at least four feet of water inside. And the house itself was raised at least four feet off the ground, so we're looking at an 8-9 foot flood zone. Her door had several notices from her landlord, basically asking her to pay the rent or vacate. From what I could tell, she hadn't been back. But it's a double shotgun, and it looked like her neighbor had been back or was back (there were cleaning supplies on the porch). There was no one on the block to ask about her. The street itself was full of debris and I had to park a block away.

It took me close to an hour to get from there to the Independence St address because the streets were so bad. I don't know that neighborhood well-- it's the now infamous Ninth Ward. It was pretty much blind luck and a relatively good internal compass that got me there.

Ha, that I'm a writer. I certainly can't do justice to what I found on the way and when I got there. You'd have to know these types of neighborhoods in New Orleans to really understand-- they're just jam-pack-full of houses. No yards to speak of. Just tiny houses smashed into blocks with skinny streets. House after house of ruin. I did take a picture. I'll upload it tomorrow and send it to you. I knew I wouldn't begin to be able to explain.

It's a good bet that the Ts owned their house. There's a lot of homeowners in the area. It wasn't much of a place to begin with, to be honest. A square little white thing surrounded by a chicken wire fence. In front was a pen almost the size of the whole front yard. Likely the pet that was rescued was a guard dog. While it's impossible to tell what the neighborhood was like pre-Katrina, the presence of the large pen for a large dog right out front makes me think it wasn't very safe. The front door had been kicked out and there were at least two blown out windows. When I nailed the sign to the doorframe, I called inside and peeked. Furniture everywhere. There's a possibility that they'd been back and taken stuff though because the front room seemed strangely devoid of knick-nack type things. Either that or it was looters. Or the floods washed everything small into another room of the house.

What gets me is that the place had at least 9 feet of water. How did the dog survive in that pen? The 9th ward was under water for days. I just can't figure it out. I talked to a contractor who was working one block down from the Thornton's place. He said he didn't know anyone in the neighborhood, but the guy he was working for was coming back in an hour or so and the contractor said he'd have that guy check out my flier and contact you or PAWS if he knew where the Ts were.

The contractor in the 9th ward said, "This is a really nice thing that you're doing." And I said, "Well, I'm just the runner, this woman in Cincinnati is tracking down all the information." And he said, "You tell her she's doing a nice thing, too."

There you have it; whether or not these people find their dogs, a stranger in New Orleans sends his thanks. And so do I.

As a postscript, I found out today that G on S. Scott Street did hook up with two of her dogs… she had two more, and we’re looking for them now. Jeanne asked me to swing by the house again today, if I could, to report back on the condition of the home so she could share it with G. This was my email back to Jeanne today:

I just got back from G's house. She was there, and so was her mom (also G). Unfortunately I didn't get to meet Mom because she was at a neighbor's.

G was very nice and super appreciative (she approached me very cautiously thinking I was from her landlord's). She and her family stayed three days after the flood largely because Mom wouldn't leave the animals behind. They moved up to the second floor with the animals, and on the third day, when the water level hadn't gone down any, a neighbor (the "neighborhood hero," she called him-- who's named, interestingly, Tom Cruise-- I saw his business card, so it's not a misunderstanding) came by with a boat, got the family out, and went back for the animals which he moved to another house's second floor balcony with other neighborhood pets.

The family is now at a much smaller apartment in Kenner, and they've signed a 6-month lease. They're pretty miserable because they aren't allowed to have pets and the place "just doesn't feel like a home." The good news is that one of Mom's best friends owns a kennel nearby, and they think they will be able to house the pets there until their lease runs out. Mom really wants the dogs close by so she can visit them often.

I don't have much more to add to the descriptions except that Mom is really, really desperate for Lucho. (sp?). He's male, very stocky, around 14 lbs when Katrina struck. His hair gets curly (as does Munyaka's (sp?)) when he's not groomed. He's around 13 years old and his front legs are bowlegged. Munyaka is smaller-- 10lbs. She's the one with the hernia on her "bottom" (I'm not sure if that means bum or underside). The calico cat is a baby; she'd be eight months now, and un-fixed (the appointment for spaying was in September). She's a dark calico and according to G, very obedient. The older cat is very old and white and angora?

I didn't see this in the description you sent, but the dogs are all family. Munyaka is Lucho's mom and the found pets, Oso and Sweetie, are Lucho's kids (and therefore Munyaka's grandkids).

There’s more, but those were the interesting parts. It was wonderful to meet G today (I’m trying to not put too much identifying info on the web, so I’m abbreviating names). She was very sweet, very sad, but also very grateful and lovely.

The other nice reunion story that I have was the one that got me involved in the first place. (Note that so far no one’s been reunited directly from my work, but it’s nice to be a part of this successful team). The first contact I got was for a local French bakery owner—I was supposed to go down there on Friday after school to tell him we knew where his dog was, but Jeanne called him before I had a chance to go. When she talked to him, she found out that he doesn’t speak much English. And all this time the people who have been fostering the dog thought that the dog was stupid because he’d stare at them blankly whenever they gave a command—it turned out that he just didn’t “speak” English.

For some reason, the pictures I took of the 9th Ward didn’t come out. I’m okay with that. I wonder about the karma of catching other people’s misery on film, anyway.

On Tuesday night I babysat. I honestly can’t remember the last time I took care of a small child. Way back when we first arrived in town, I responded to an ad looking for a part time nanny. My hours didn’t mesh with the mom’s, but it turned out that she and I had friends in common, so she asked if I could babysit on occasion. Ivy is a terrific little girl—I think 17 months old. She babbles incessantly, but I understand only 1/10th of what she says. Wee ones are a ton of work. I forget that every time my biological clock goes berserk. (Speaking of which, we read a really cool book called Hippos Go Berserk together… little guys, these days, have some pretty fantastic reading material to choose from). And, whoo!, diapers. Wow. Ivy pumped out some seriously scary stuff. (Hey, this is all relatively new to me, or new again seeing that I haven’t babysat since high school). I’ll be sitting for Ivy again on Saturday. Her parents are wonderful.

So, that’s the update. I guess it’s not as gloomy as I thought it would be. My mood is far worse than my writing. I suppose my mood would be worse if I had to clean the house tonight (note to self: don’t save it all for Saturday night).

giggles

2005-11-06T19:30:00.000-08:00

It's been a long, long weekend. Not that that's a bad thing. I'm sure tomorrow morning when I wake up bright and early to go to school, I'll be wiped out and cranky that it's only Monday again. It's been a pretty full weekend, to be honest. Mostly full of working on cover letters and that sort of thing. Been trying to brainstorm some creative ways to make money during these slow times. So far I'm batting zero, for the most part. Sold a couple of things on e-Bay, but when you consider the time spent listing stuff and then the time spent packing stuff up and shipping it out-- it's pretty much minimum wage. As a giggle, I noticed that the few entrepreneurs around here who are making any money are doing it by printing up super-cute t-shirts, so I created a design of my own and posted it on Cafe Press. It looks like this:
I ordered a t-shirt and a bumpersticker for myself. Yes, I recognize that I pretty much spent what I earned on e-Bay. I'd have to sell a couple hundred of them to even make a week's worth of part-time pay, but heck, working on it made me happy for a couple of hours.

The whole waitressing thing didn't work out, but in hindsight it's probably better that it didn't. In just a couple weeks, I'd need four or five days off to go to Indiana for Thanksgiving. That probably wouldn't fly with a restaurant. Hal seems to have disappeared. I haven't worked for him for a week. I'm a bit in denial mode about my upcoming half-paycheck. I've spent a lot of time researching jobs and putting together resume stuff. Those have been some really miserable hours. There's nothing like seeing a job, knowing you're perfect for the job, and then putting together a cover letter and resume package that you know is just going to be one of hundreds received. I keep having to check myself-- I find myself practically groveling in my cover letters: "Please, please, please look carefully at this. I'm an excellent person and I need this job and I'd be so, so, so very good at it. Just ask me in for an interview and I promise I'll knock your sox off." Blech. (Hmmm... sox... Red Sox... I wonder if the Red Sox need help. I should add that to my list.)

The Chihuahua speaks

2005-11-04T22:11:00.000-08:00

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.

"Women must labor to be beautiful" -- WB Yeats, "Adams Curse"

2005-10-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

“Dirty. Ow. Hurt everywhere. Ow. Aw, snow.”

I sent this text message to Jason this afternoon when he sent me a text message asking me if I was working hard. The “aw, snow” was in response to the fact that it is snowing in the Boston area today. The rest of the message refers to the effects of my new part time job.

Today I officially began work as the assistant to a friend of mine who is a real estate developer. Hal offered me the job on Thursday, explained that it would be mutually beneficial. I’ve always wanted to learn about home restoration, and he needed an extra pair of hands. The homes we’d be working on were flooded, some as little as a couple feet, some as much as six or seven. And for the most part, they’ve already been stripped to the bones. What better way to learn about home construction than to work on the “innards” of a house.

It’s not a “real” job, by any means. I work when he needs me and when I have the hours to spare (these days, I have lots of hours to spare). But it pays well and I like that I am helping out a friend. In my mind, though, I had the job all trumped up to be some sort of HGTV or DIY home renovation episode. But, all romance aside, what I really am is a day laborer.

Today I spent a meager five hours doing hard labor clearing out all of the debris, fallen limbs, and trash from Hal’s office. And every single muscle in my body hurts. Hurts! Like crazy shaky horrid pain. Never in a million years would I say that I am “the delicate type.” If anything, I’ve always thought that what I lack in height I make up for in sheer brutish determination (that’s supposed to be a little funny, it’s okay if you want to laugh—but only a little, okay? I’m a pretty tough cookie).

But yowzers, manual labor is hard shit. It’s not the kind of work you’d do around your own house. Around your own house, you’d take it easier, take liberal breaks, lift and carry loads half as heavy. Because you ain’t getting paid to clean your own back yard. You’re on your own clock. You know you can go inside, have a tuna sandwich, and come back and finish the job.

It was fun, though. I’m using a very loose definition of “fun” here. Hal came and went, but when he was around he worked as hard as I did, and he took me out to a wonderful Middle Eastern lunch (you work up quite the appetite hauling crap around). That’s a good boss.

Here’s what I learned: If I had a choice of having to work in a cubical all my life or having to work at manual labor all my life, I would choose manual labor in a nanosecond. That being said, people who lift and carry things for a living have clearly sold their soul to the devil. No “normal” human being’s body can put up with that for very long. Dead rats smell deceptively like rotting fish. I spent the entire morning thinking I’d find a flounder in the back yard that had been stranded by the floods. No such luck. There is, in fact, nothing alive left in the flood-stricken area. I spent the day removing piles of branches, bricks, flagstones, roof parts, building parts, leaves, cans, and other flotsam and jetsam all the way down to the bare earth without ever once seeing so much as a slug or a spider or a worm or a grub. Nothing alive except the occasional fly. There were perhaps three sprigs of something green under all that debris—everything else was dead. Including the rat. I don’t know what that says about what was IN the flood waters. I also don’t know what that says about what could possibly now be in my lungs (when I blow my nose, black stuff comes out—oooh, that’s too much information, Chipman). And finally, if I ever have a chance of getting back into my size 2 jeans, this is it.

It was a fine week at school. It was so great to see the girls. I have 13 seniors, 12 freshfolk, and 4 girls in Drama. I teach only 1st, 2nd, and 3rd period each day, which is convenient. But the first day of school, when third period was over and I left school, I cried. You know, under any other circumstance, this arrangement would be cool. I have time to pursue my own interests (but under these circumstances, I am just plain ol’ uninspired. I haven’t written a word of fiction since Katrina hit). I get to leave school before lunch (but under these circumstances, I miss lunch terribly—it was always the one period a day you got to hang out with the grown-ups, catch up, and be social). I have whole afternoons free to get things accomplished, flit around the city (under these circumstances, there’s just not much to do or see—not to mention the fact that Jas is out of town, so I don’t even have a post-work playmate AND that I’m on half-pay, so I don’t have money to play with anyway). My classes are ideally small. I don’t have all the nasty “extra” duties that teachers normally have (carpool, detention, etc).

But in the end, no matter how cheerful I try to be about my situation, what matters most to me is that I miss being part of the community. All the literature on recovering from trauma says that you should surround yourself with friends, get involved with your community, give back to people, and get involved. Get back on the horse. Resume as much of your “old” routines as possible. And damned if this part-time gig doesn’t thwart all that in spades. My friends at school have been amazing. Looking out for me, checking up, calling me at home, and inviting me to do stuff. My seniors email me at home at all hours looking for help with their college essays. But it’s not the same. This whole week, I was at sixes and sevens with “routine.” Monday night I stayed up until 4am. (Don’t worry, I don’t work Tuesdays). On Tuesday, it felt every bit the same as having a “sick day;” I flitted listlessly around the house, ate lunch in front of the TV, stressed out until Erin invited me over for dinner. Oh… there’s a funny story there.

So Erin emailed me around lunchtime and asked me to dinner at her sister’s house, where she’s currently living (while her home is livable, in the basic sense, she has no gas—and it’s freezing now—and her neighborhood is completely desolate). She sent the address. When it came close to 6pm, I re-read the address and hopped in the car. I got around a mile down the road and realized I FORGOT the address. I knew the number but not the street. I did some quick thinking and decided it was on Camp St. I drove down Camp Street—that number didn’t exist AND it was in the wrong neighborhood. Okay, maybe it was First Street. Right neighborhood, but again the house number didn’t exist. Well, maybe I was wrong about the neighborhood and didn’t look carefully enough down the block on Camp St. Back to Camp St. No, no number. Maybe I didn’t look close enough on First St. Back to First St. No. I called Erin’s cell. No answer. My message began, “Erin, honey, I’ve lost my freaking mind….”

I got back in the car to head home to read the email. It was 630pm and my “hot” crab dip appetizer was cold. Thankfully, Erin called and let me know it was Second Street. I walked in the door and said, “Well, the good thing is that you don’t have to ask me how I’m feeling. The fact that I’m 45 minutes late pretty much sums it up.”

So that’s the state of me these days. Very achy, very spacey, a little sad, a little lonely, but in marginally better spirits (largely because I’m sick of being SO very sad all of the time).

State of the city to come soon. (Preview: Just about nothing new in the past two weeks)

wish I could take credit for this

2005-10-26T16:35:00.000-07:00

This letter to the editor in today's Times-Picayune.

"When Lafcadio Hearn moved to New Orleans in the 1870's, he wrote to a friend back in Cincinnati:

Times are not good here. The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under a lava flood of taxes and frauds and maladministrations so that it has become only a study for archaeologists. Its condition is so bad that when I write about it, as I intend to do soon, nobody will believe that I am telling the truth. But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes, than to own the whole state of Ohio.

Yes.

C. Ward Bond
Baton Rouge"

the state of things

2005-10-23T16:35:00.000-07:00

Ma always said “if you don’t have something nice to say…” Actually, I don’t really remember my ma ever saying that. But clearly someone’s did. Point being, I’m going to keep my trap shut about school for a while. The long and the short of it is that I had a horrid week at school—meetings and more meetings. It’s an incredibly sad and uncomfortable place to be these days. The only bright spots were seeing my friends again and catching up with the odd stray student who’d wander in (not that the students are odd—or not all of them, at least). My heart has indeed been broken.

But tomorrow is the grand re-opening. I’m looking forward to seeing my girls and teaching some poetry (finally). Who knows what’s going to happen with Drama? I’m going to throw a bunch of stuff against the wall to see what sticks. But every time I think about teaching Drama, I’m reminded of the actual drama teacher—a young woman who lost her home, whose entire family lost their homes—a teacher that all the girls love.

Right now I have Wilma on the brain. Or more specifically, Punta Gorda. As too often has been the case in the past two months, I’m utterly without words to articulate how sad I am that Wilma seems to be on her way to Charlotte County. Yesterday, I dug around in my dirty laundry until I could find my Celtic Ray t-shirt. It is a Hurricane Charley leftover and says, “We Never Closed. We Never Will.”

I’ve emailed the Celtic Ray and Julie and said my door is open to anyone who needs shelter.

Jason left last night for his road trip to Boston. He didn’t get twenty minutes out of the city before he hit a pile of debris on the highway and blew a tire. An NOPD and NYPD officer stopped and helped him put on the spare. He spent four hours trying to find a place to buy a tire and eventually just continued on his way on the spare. Made it all the way to Knoxville, but at 50MPH, it took him all night and into the morning. When I talked to him at 3pm, he was still waiting in the garage. Poor thing.

On Friday night, we drove out to the airport to pick up the car (a white mini-van I’ve nicknamed Great White) and had our first encounter with some of the worst damage. To get to the highway from our house, we had to pass neighborhoods of houses with waterlines over my head. The transition between “saved” neighborhoods and destroyed neighborhoods is almost a distinct line. Drive down Jefferson Avenue and pass block after block of green grass in the median (“neutral ground” in New Orleans lingo), the occasional blue tarp, abandoned refrigerators, and cars that look newly washed. And then suddenly, the grass is brown—if there’s any left, the trees stripped of leaves, the neutral ground is covered in trash and debris and white powder like snow from crushed sheetrock. Cars, parked in the neutral ground a good two feet off of street level, are grey or green or camel-colored from the water—some have distinct water lines on the doors, others are clouded all the way to the roof. And some are flattened.

This morning I woke up and wandered from Uptown coffee shop to coffee shop like Mary looking for an inn, trying to find one that didn’t have a line out the door. It’s such a weird bubble out here. By no means does it look or feel “normal,” as a whole, but in tiny bite-sized places you can start to feel like things may be “normal” soon.

But there’s so much abnormality. It takes a half an hour to get through the grocery lines some times. Even in the places where the traffic lights are out uptown, there are never snarls—just not enough people out and about. One of the weirdest, saddest things I’ve noticed is the swell of anger, the people—mostly couples—fighting. Last night around 1am, I heard a couple shrieking at each other down the street. Doors slamming. The woman crying. This is the second time I’ve heard a fight down the street, but I am not even sure if it was the same couple both times. Today I went to the FEMA office to talk about my denied application, and the couple sitting next to me with one of their elderly mothers started yelling at each other and the woman started crying and then she yelled at the old woman and her husband dragged her outside so “everyone wouldn’t know their business.” At the grocery store. In restaurants. Bars. In the bars, people get drunker. It used to be that you had to go to the Quarter to see more than one or two stumbling drunks in a night. Now they’re everywhere.

As I said in an earlier post, there are a lot of people who see things through a different lens. Who see all the good. And I have my moments, too. But then I find myself feeling guilty for my moments of “normality.” The fact that my classroom is just as I left it in August. The restaurants that are opening. The garbagemen who took away half (but only half) of the trash outside my house (and also took the trashcans themselves). The occasional mail delivery. In the confines of my apartment, it is easy to believe that everything is A-OK (with the exception of the swarms of fruitflies). I spent last night in blissful escapism, fending off the aching loneliness from Jason being gone, watching TiVo and cooking an entire bunch of asparagus and eating it all myself. But it was still 330am before I could fall asleep.

Today, I decided to face the demons. After a quick coffee at an as-yet-undiscovered new coffee shop, I hopped into my car and started the drive. I retraced our route to the highway on-ramp, this time in broad daylight, and then kept driving. Down Carrolton to City Park and then further on toward UNO. Just a few blocks off Carrolton, the road became nearly impassable—ruts and rubbish and dirt. Remembering Jason’s flat and that I had no spare, I turned around. Grateful, actually, for the excuse not to continue on. This isn’t the 9th Ward or Lakeview or St. Bernard Parish, we’re talking about now, places I barely know and rarely haunt. These are my routes. Angelo Brocato’s, where we get cannolis and coffee. Kanpai, the all-u-can-eat Sushi buffet. The route to Jazz Fest and the Art Museum. The route I took every day to grad school. The coffee shop I lived in while getting my Master’s. I brought my camera along, but couldn’t bring myself to take very many pictures. In fact, I only got out of the car once, in the parking lot of Rock N Bowl. There were so many people out—wearing dust masks or gas masks, loading armfuls of debris into dumpsters or pick-up trucks—it was a gorgeous sunny October day. You can check out the pictures here. I doubt I’ll be taking very many more. Newspapers and magazines and internet sites do a good enough job of documenting the state of things.

Thanks to all of you who have encouraged me to keep blogging. I will, for now. I have to be honest, I thought the “journey home” would be over by now. But it’s not. Home is more than four walls or even a city. Coming back here was just the beginning.

this is where we used to live...

2005-10-23T16:04:00.000-07:00

In 1998, I moved to New Orleans to be closer to my then-fiance, future ex-husband, Blake. We rented half of a shot-gun apartment on Camp Street-- an apartment that is just a block and a half from my current home. It was a bit run-down, but we loved it. Invested in a paint-job for every room-- yellows and sages and blues we eventually used again in the house we bought after we married-- and new linolium floors for the bath and kitchen. We even tried to buy the Camp Street house at one point, wanting to steal it away from the neglect of its current landlord, but we found that it was locked up in an ugly inheritance battle. We moved out when we bought our house, and soon after that our neighbors also moved. For the past four or so years, the house has remained empty. Last week, I was forced to detour down Camp from Magazine. Crews were trimming trees or fixing powerlines, I don't remember which. And when I passed the old apartment, my first home in New Orleans, I saw it in ruins. The roof and the floor a sandwich for everything within. The outer wall on "our side" of the house leaning up against the house next door. Today I went by to say goodbye. Obviously demolition crews have been at work. It's no longer even recognizable as a home, except for the foundation and the front steps. I'd hoped to take a pirate turn and steal away some small piece of the structure-- a bit of moulding or a sliver of the stained glass attic window-- but everything worth keeping has already been salvaged. A man and his three boys played basketball in the driveway across the street. He said "Hi" and I said "Hi" and then "This is where I used to live-- a long time ago, not now of course." He just shook his head, didn't respond except for a sad smile.

I haven't lived in that house for five years, but I still feel as though I've lost something. We were married while we lived in that house. That's the only house that my family has visited. The last time my grandparents traveled together was to visit us one Christmas, where we celebrated at that house. We got our first dog at that house. It feels so silly to be so nostalgic about a place that has absolutely nothing to do with the life that I now live.

drama

2005-10-17T19:49:00.000-07:00

I’m not really sure what I meant by the “best possible outcome.” Whatever I meant, I don’t think I got it. I’ve picked up a half-credit Drama class, but I’m still part time. One of very few part-timers. I wish I could process this more professionally, less personally, but I mourn more the loss of my former position—I mourn a sort of displacement from a greater community.

I’ve not yet talked money with the administration. I felt far too sad today to have that conversation. But as one of the seemingly very few people who’ve not received help from FEMA, I definitely have a lack of wiggle-room in the finances department. Right now, in New Orleans, jobs are plentiful in the service industries. I could moonlight at a bar or a restaurant or a coffee shop, but I have to start thinking of my own bigger picture. While I could make do, and possibly even be content, to juggle teaching and moonlighting until January, I just can’t see that as being an option until June. Truth be told, even doing it for the next few months makes me terribly sad. All this time and education and career-building… Do you want a single or a double latte?

And of course, I’m consumed by the fact that my sorrows are so minimal compared to so many others’. That sort of guilt grief or grief guilt that comes from not knowing how to process a setback that pales in comparison to the great losses around me.

Great White

2005-10-16T18:48:00.000-07:00

Ah, luxury! Last night Dear Landlord delivered us a brand-new fridge. He excitedly began to explain to us how he got it, but I made myself scarce once it became clear that it had something to do with threatening the manager of the local Home Depot. It’s best not to know. Anyway, she’s beautiful and clean and white and cold…

Jason cooked fried chicken tonight to celebrate. Oddly enough, he’s cooked every meal since we’ve been home. Sure, he cooks on the rare occasion, but suddenly he’s Martha Stewart. Maybe it’s his coping mechanism the same way that cleaning has been mine.

Tomorrow is the big meeting at school. I’m more nervous than I was the very first day I started at the school. Yesterday, it was posted on our blog that those teachers who wouldn’t be starting until January will not receive any paychecks after October, and that school will pay only the school’s portion of their healthcare. Totally tragic. In the past two weeks, every bit of news I’ve gotten from the school has disappointed me. It seems the very definition of “community” has been called into question here. I hope I am proven wrong, although it doesn’t seem likely.

I remain in basic isolation mode when it comes to exploring the more damaged parts of the city. It’s enough, still, to listen to the 24-hour call in radio—the stories of the displaced. The sad news of the homecomings.

On Saturday, Jason and I went to Café Luna to read the paper, and I bumped into a senior who I teach—or now taught. She’s in boarding school in Tennessee and will remain there. She has nothing to come home to; she was home, her mother explained, only to “say goodbye” to her house. I was supposed to teach her in an independent study. She’d already started reading Kate Chopin before we evacuated. Heartbreak. We must have hugged a dozen times.

While this week of meetings will be difficult in many ways, the real hard work will begin when the girls come back. Teaching English is a piece of cake compared to the other stuff that’s going to have to happen in the classroom and out. And right now, no matter what my feelings about school may be, I know that school politics is the least important part of my job.

Keeping my fingers crossed for the best possible outcome…

Pictures

2005-10-14T13:44:00.000-07:00

In the past week and a half, I've only taken 17 pictures. The fact of the matter is, I'm just not comfortable snapping shots of the real horrors here. It's too much like rubbernecking. So what you have in this slideshow are just little scenes of the return.

Click the title of this post to see the whole slideshow.

steps in both directions

2005-10-13T14:52:00.000-07:00

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.

highs and lows

2005-10-08T19:01:00.000-07:00

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.

first homecoming email

2005-10-08T18:45:00.000-07:00

Just in case you missed it...

I just wanted to let all of you know that we are safe, sound, and even more lucky than I have believed all along.

We returned home yesterday evening (I'll detail the return in a blog entry soon; I just want to address the personal stuff here) to find our home sweet hovel in pretty much the same condition in which we left it. We are blessed beyond comprehension, in my opinion. Last night, we fired up all of our services to find that we had electricity, a/c, wireless internet, satellite tv, gas, phone, and water. And today, the city announced that our water is "safe."

There is damage to the house-- most shingles gone, a window in our attic, gone, the flashing falling down, the gutters falling down. But with the exception of some four and six and eight legged intruders, a refrigerator we have yet to be brave enough to open, and a few other gross-yet-sufferable horrors, we're A-OK.

I'm still processing the bigger picture. In some ways the city is better than I expected, in some ways far, far worse. But so much hope everywhere.

I am so happy to be home. Our losses have been so minor, so insignificant comparatively. It will take us one more day or so to get our house up and "normal" and we're then going to turn our focus to helping our friends and others pick up and clean up.

Again, I am so so happy to be home. Thank you to all of you who have helped in any way along the way. Just hearing from so many of you has been such solace.

I'll save my global thoughts for the blog once I get my head around them. But I will say this: barring more hell and high water (and certain human intervention), this time next year-- maybe even sooner-- New Orleans will be some semblance of the city we all love. Come. Visit. Give it love. Amazing place, this home of mine. I'd love to share it with all of you.

starting home

2005-10-01T10:51:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, we'll start the trek homeward. We expect to get back into the city on Tuesday. We're anxious and excited. I'll keep y'all posted. First stop: Tallahassee.

xo

why New Orleans?

2005-09-29T21:10:00.000-07:00

After my most recent emails to friends and family, I received an email from an old high school friend who said he was interested in reading my blog because he hoped it would answer the questions on so many people’s minds: “Are people going to return to New Orleans? And if so, why?”

I wrote him back today and basically told him that I didn’t think my blog would answer that question, largely because it was not a question I ever asked myself. In fact, despite the fact that I have seen that question asked by the media of late, I’ve always dismissed the debate with no small amount of distain. How can people even ASK that question? It’s our HOME. Of course we’ll return. Of course we’ll rebuild.

But when my high school friend asked the question, I realized it wasn’t just ignorant, naysayers asking this question. I can’t really imagine why I thought that was the case. (I guess because I’ve heard this most often from places like Fox News and Dennis Hastert) My high school friend is brilliant and sensitive and the fact that he questioned made me feel like I needed to answer.

I need to preface my answer by saying that up until Katrina, I’d been 75% sure that this would be my last year in New Orleans for a while. (If there are any school colleagues reading this, please hold this information in confidence). I always thought I’d return, but I felt very strongly that if I didn’t start exploring the world again soon, I’d never have another chance. Another admission: I never in a million years wanted to be an English teacher. I became an English teacher sort of by accident, discovered I loved it, and decided to stick with it this long. But more than anything else, I really felt like it was time to try something new. I felt like I wasn’t doing enough with my life. And I was prepared to go. Not to mention the fact that no one in my family lives south of the Mason-Dixon, my grandmothers and extended family are elderly, and my best friend in the world, my cousin, lives in Boston (and now, post-Katrina, I’ve learned she’s pregnant). The Northeast seemed a logical place for me to go. Jason and I spent five days in Providence this summer, basically to see if it was someplace I could live (it was).

Jason and I were going to ride out the storm. Up until Saturday night, we’d decided that if things got too hairy, we’d “vertically evacuate”—we’d evacuate to a high-rise hotel in the Quarter. I spent hours online, on Travelocity et al, looking for a cheap hotel with a pool. I’ve been in New Orleans for 8 years and never evacuated. All hurricanes have been near misses or total misses. And when evacuations are called, people sit in traffic for tens of hours trying to get to some shit hotel in Jackson or Houston only to have New Orleans get a good hard rain, some wind with fallen limbs, and little else. Then those of us who have stayed have had to endure the curfews, the closed businesses, etc, until everyone (braving more traffic) returns home. So, we figured, if we went to the Quarter, at least we’d have some bars and restaurants to haunt.

On Saturday night, Katrina jumped from a 3 to a 5. And we started packing our bags. Sunday morning we jammed Tony, Jason’s car, full of everything that meant anything to us, and set off. I don’t care how brave or stupid you are (and I am both), you do not mess with a 5 unless you have to (ie, no transportation, no money to leave, hence all those left behind).

And when we drove out of the city Sunday morning, down I-10 past the French Quarter, the sight of the steeple of St. Louis Cathedral in the quarter set me off. And I started to sob. Deep down, I knew. I’d never left the city before during a hurricane, I was leaving now, and I knew I would return to something very different.

Why? Why New Orleans? What’s so special about it? I don’t even know where to begin. My answer probably won’t satisfy anyone. In order to truly understand, you’d have to crawl into my body and look out through my soul. Why?

I told my high school friend that the simple answer was this: love.

Love. Because. Because any adult who could live anywhere else in the world but still chooses to call New Orleans home does so because he or she knows that there is no where else in the world that would feel the same way New Orleans feels.

Because, throughout history, New Orleans has been the home of outcasts, artists, misfits, criminals, liberals, traditionalists, decadents, foreigners, riff-raff, pirates, the richest of the rich, the poorest of the poor, do-nothings, innovators, tyrants, and fools. And that spirit, all of those spirits, run through the very pipelines of the city still.

Because, I have visited just about every “great” city in the US, and I have seen none as beautiful. I live in the heart of the city of New Orleans—in most cities, living IN the city means living circumferenced by concrete, but all around me it is green. Giant live oaks, hundreds of years old, line the streets. Great, three+ story magnolia trees bloom giant dinner-plate-sized pale blossoms. Tall palm trees stretch to the sky raucous with the sound of wild parakeets—parakeets, wild and green and noisy. The nursing home across the street from my house has a jasmine-covered fence; during the warmest months, the groundspeople must trim the jasmine bi-weekly, as the branches snake onto the sidewalks, reaching to trip passersby with their warm-smelling, tropical vines.

Because the Mississippi is just blocks away from my home, teeming with giant barges and boats and tiny, muscular tugs. Just two weeks before Katrina, I was feeling kind of low, so I stopped off at Audubon Zoo (around 10 blocks from my house, where I have a yearly membership) and spent around an hour hanging out with the orangutans and gorillas (if you live in a city with a zoo or an aquarium, I HIGHLY recommend buying a yearly membership—there is very little cooler than deciding you have a half hour to kill and knowing you can just drop by and visit your favorite animal/sea creature without having to pay a dime). And then, still feeling low, I stopped home, packed my mini-cooler with three beers (as a practiced drinker, I know I can drink three beers in a reasonable amount of time and still be well enough to drive) and a blanket and a book (ironically enough, in retrospect, Rising Tide about the great Mississippi flood of 1927), and drove up to the riverside park in my neighborhood. The park is called the Butterfly—or the Fly to locals—I don’t know why. And I sat there for three hours, drinking and reading and watching the boats lumber by, and every time I get very very lonely for New Orleans, I think back to those hours. Those hours alone are enough reason to save the city. That a woman can go and sit by the river and drink a beer and watch the sun set and watch giant boats do their business and be content and chase her blues away with the beauty and peace of this city oasis.

Because, and I have no reason to elaborate on this, there is no city with more beautiful architecture. Different, yes. But not more beautiful.

Because New Orleans embraces its history—good, bad, and indifferent. Because you have to travel outside of city limits for a sense of newness and development and exploitation of resources.

Because, in New Orleans, people call you darling and sweetheart and love and cher and baby and girl and honey and—my absolute favorite—heart (pronounced “hawt”) and it’s not in the least bit degrading or rude. They say it because they assume from the get-go that they’ll love you once they know you and they treat you accordingly. Because, in this past month, when I respond to emails that my students send me, I begin my emails “Hi sweetheart” or “So nice to hear from you, babycakes” or “My darling” and they know that I mean it. Because, despite the horrors y’all have seen on the tv, this is a city of love.

Because y’all is such a great way of identifying the second person plural.

Because ANY night of ANY week ANY time of the year, you can find exceptional music not too far from ANYWHERE you are in the city. I am a sinner. I have not taken advantage of this fully in the past eight years. I have taken it for granted, and now that I am not there, I am so sorry for that.

Ditto for food.

Because at one end of my block is a great big Victorian mansion that is (was) for sale for $850,000 and at the other end of my block and around the corner there are Section-8 apartments. Because in any neighborhood in New Orleans you live side-by-side with millionaires and people who are on welfare. And that, my friends, is beautiful.

Because it is hotter than hell in the summer. Because of WWOZ radio and Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras. Because of the Rebirth Jazz Band and Preservation Hall and Trombone Shorty and the Blue Nile and the Neville Brothers and the Marsalis Family and Harry Connick, Jr. and Grayson Capps and the Flamenco scene and the Tango scene and the late beloved Buddy D. Because of the Landrieus and the Mannings and Tipitinas and Fats Domino. Because, this summer, I saw a free Michelle Shocked concert in the business district. Michelle lived in New Orleans for years and had to leave during her ugly divorce. This concert was her first return to the city. And every song she played was a peon to her love for this place. She cried. I cried. We all wanted her to come back home.

All that being said, there is a “because” that outweighs all others. New Orleans was all that and much, much more before Katrina. Simply put, we have no idea what New Orleans will be like now. There are whole neighborhoods, whole gigantic suburbs, that have been utterly destroyed by Katrina. Some of these areas are a mere 10 to 12 blocks from my home. Why do I need to go home? Why do I feel like I may need to stay regardless of my prior plans? Because, simply, if I don’t return, if people like me don’t return, then who will be the stewards of the city?

Already rumors abound—giant conglomerations trying to buy up giant tracts of land in New Orleans and environs. Housing developments where there were historic shotgun homes. Strip malls where there were parks. Box stores where mom-and-pops reigned. If “we”—the young, the intelligent, the ambitious, the culturally attuned—don’t return, New Orleans will become… well… Florida.

Why? Love. Why? This is home. Tell post-9/11 NYC that their city is a sitting duck for terrorists. Or the people of DC. Tell San Francisco they live on a fault line. Tell Hawaii they live in the path of a future tsumani. Tell Los Angeles, today, right now, that there are wildfires blazing outside of their city and they really should leave.

Home. Love. Loyalty. Passion. Home.

Throughout our history, people have shed blood, laid down their lives for HOME. For land, for place, for culture. Why should it be any different now?

first anniversary

2005-09-28T10:39:00.000-07:00

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.

wild kingdom

2005-09-27T00:02:00.000-07:00

As we piled into the car today for another day of pointless errands (to the Post Office to send a book to my mom, to the Red Cross so Jason could register—only to be chastised for even daring to dream that we could go home this week, to K-Mart to by tackle for a night of fishing aborted by rain), Jason glanced toward the canal and said “what’s that?”

“Bubbles!” I exclaimed, bounding from the car and down the dock in time to see the bubbles increase to Jacuzzi level. I waved my arms at Jason and he cut the engine and joined me just in time to see a form, like the bottom of a capsized bathtub, emerge from the brown water in the canal, and snuff the air like a St. Bernard.

Manatee.

So many times during my exile, I’ve felt the irony of finding refuge in a state that I’d run from screaming in frustration around eight years ago. When I lived in Tampa, I was not blind to the beauty, but I was aghast at the mis-fit between my personality and this state. I hated my life in Florida. I was miserable. Lonely. And there was such a disconnect for me. The strip malls, the giant housing developments, the conspicuous consumption, the overpriced everything. The glitz, the emphasis on newness over history, (again ironically) the desperate divide between the haves and have nots.

I am not ready to cash in my LA drivers license for a FL one. And I am still feeling the mis-fit.

But I have experienced some gorgeous hours here. As I mentioned very early on in my blog, one of my first post-Katrina joys came from seeing dolphin bound through the Intracoastal Waterway in New Smyra Beach.

Several nights later, on the last night of my stay in New Smyrna, Jason and I walked out to the end of the dock across the street from the Night Swan B&B in New Smyrna. It was around 11pm, and we were hoping to catch a glimpse of those dolphins in the lights of the bridge down the street. We stood there for a half hour or so, watching and waiting. And just as we decided to go in, I motioned to two eddies, weird currents, underneath the neighboring dock. We watched as these currents fought the natural flow of the water until they passed right underneath our dock. I was frantic, beside myself with excitement, but trying desperately to be silent (so hard, I actually pulled something in my stomach!). Two days before, Jason and a few other people had seen manatee in the waterway; I’d been inside napping, and I was so pissed at myself.

Just as the currents reached our dock, a mass of bubbles appeared and the fist-sized lump of a nose emerged. I just about peed my pants. Wonder. Childlike wonder and awe and joy.

For some reason, more than actually watching the manatee today—at least five or six surfacings in the space of a half hour of motionless watching—that night goes down in my top ten most amazing moments spawned by nature.

I added another moment to my top ten last night. Right now, we’re living on the Peace River in Punta Gorda, Fl. (Peace River—how lovely). And our particular inlet is bioluminescent. That, in and of itself, is an amazing thing. I know that there are bays and inlets in the world that actually glow starting at dusk for a few hours. My science knowledge is pretty slim; all I know is that, after dark, the fish and critters in our inlet glow when they move. We noticed this shortly after moving in, but Rita kept us inside mostly at night and it also kept the inlet stirred up which seems to abate the effect a bit.

Yesterday, Jas and I stopped at K-Mart to buy a fishing pole. All day long we hear and see fish jumping all over the canal. So last evening at 6p or so, we headed down to the dock and cast the rod over and over. Around 730p or so, dusk hit and we watched the canal light up with firefly-like fish. And then, almost precisely at 750p, it was dark and something just short of God happened.

The canal lit up with a veritable commute of fish—a river of fish, a sea of fish, an amazing swarming current of fish of all shapes and sizes of fish started moving parallel to the dock in the pitch black. Green, like fireflies, almost uniform in movement and direction. Sometimes we would see a giant fish sail by, the bioluminescence flickering off its fins, its giant fan-like tail. A fish would jump leaving concentric rings of light-stick glow in the water. Tiny shrimp, which underwater appeared like bees, were the only ones to buck the tide and swim in circles and counter-current until they bumped into each other and bounced off.

This magic hour lasted only, perhaps, twenty minutes. Not to diminish the beauty of every moment of the five and a half hours we sat on the dock and cast our rod fruitlessly into the canal—it was all beautiful, the glowing fish glowed still when we packed it in near midnight. But that twenty minutes was magic in the mass migration.

Our little kingdom is, in effect, pretty darned wild. You’ve heard now about the manatees and dolphins and the frogs. I mentioned the 4-foot black snake in my Habitat post, but we have a 3+ foot long one living right under our deck here. There are two alligators (at least I think there are two—Edgar and Ernest, I’ve named them) who patrol the canal in the early evenings (how they coexist with the manatee is a mystery). When Jas and I went to the Miami Seaquarium, we confronted wild iguana. At first we thought they were an attraction, wandering the park, until we saw HUGE wild iguana in a park by the aquarium. At Lorin’s, I saw buzzards (not a pleasant sight after you’ve been through a tragedy). And near Tampa, I saw cranes as tall as my shoulders wandering through a mall parking lot. Here in Punta Gorda, we also have herons and egrets and osprey. And fish… my goodness, at least in the light of bioluminescence look like sea monsters.

I’m sure I’ve forgotten something in this great menagerie. But beauty abounds. And there are people in the world who are lucky enough to live with it every day. Perhaps I am seeking it. Perhaps I am looking through child-eyes and loving it more than adults do. “Living” here I am reminded so often of my childhood, when I would spend hour upon hour on the dock in front of Vange’s house (my grandmother) fishing with earthworms for sunfish and the elation of the occasional wide-mouth bass. When I would spend whole days on the rocks by the dock down the street from Nana’s house with a crushed mussel or a snail at the end of piece of rope fishing for a pail of crabs that I would inevitably pour back into Long Island Sound to be fished out again in the morning. Last night I longed for a butterfly net to swoop into the water and pull out the strange sea-creatures that lit up the canal—just to be able to see them more clearly.

I don’t know. I just know that as beautiful as nature is here, as much as I sometimes muse that it would be nice to live here or somewhere like here, it doesn’t alter the fact that I’d trade all this beauty for my home. My lousy, crowded little apartment on Leontine St with my psycho landlord, even if it lacks power and potable water. I could be wrong; the caseworker at the Red Cross today told us that we should count on needing therapy after this—“Everyone here, after Charley, needed therapy. We’re all still in therapy,” she said. She told us not to underestimate how awful it’s going to be, even if our home wasn’t flooded (which it wasn’t), even if we’ve lost little (which we hope we have). The beauty around here offers a better promise to us. Perhaps that life is wild and weird and inexplicable. And horrible and lacking plan or plot. It just is.

Habitat for Humanity

2005-09-26T19:07:00.000-07:00

Booger. This morning, I spent 30 minutes typing a blog and when I went to post it, it simply disappeared. Lesson learned: type these in Microsoft Word, save, and then post.

Eh, keeps me from being too chatty if I have to type things twice.

Saturday, I spent the day working at Habitat for Humanity’s Home Center in Port Charlotte, Fl. I was hoping to work on a build so I could pick up some skills that could come in handy when I get home, but the last bits of Rita put the current projects on hold. The Home Center just opened in June; it’s essentially a thrift store version of Home Depot. All items are donated, both by individuals in the form of used and left-over materials (like the $15 fridge, which worked just fine and the cabinet door with “Carl is a But Head” scrawled on it in crayon), and by builders in the form of brand-new surplus (like the gorgeous $800 slipper-shaped, fire-engine red Jacuzzi). All proceeds support Habitat, which is a huge force in this community.

So Saturday I spent the day in service to three old guys named Dick, Ray, and Chuck, who worked me harder than I’ve been worked in eons. In fact, for the first three hours, I swept every inch of the facility. It was kind of an education, actually, as I swept up hundreds, if not thousands, of fascinating dead bugs, frogs, lizards, and spiders that looked like they could easily devour a small child. The rest of the day, I helped customers load appliances and windows and doors in their vehicles, rearranged the cabinet door section, and played tag with a 4-foor long black snake (Ray swore it wouldn’t hurt me, but told me that if I saw a small skinny snake, I should “run like hell” because they have pygmy rattlers on the grounds). I returned home bruised, bleeding from my knuckles and a gash on my foot from where a woman dropped her end of a window I was helping her carry, covered in dead bugs, and smelling like a racehorse. It’s Monday now, and I still ache in odd places (what did I do to my ribcage?).

At no time did I really feel like I was doing anything really important for humanity, per se, but at the end of the day, we’d taken in at least $8K, and it ended up being one of the better days of my exile thus far. It felt good to do something.

Today when I turned on MSNBC, I saw that NBC and Habitat had turned Rockefeller Plaza into “Humanity Plaza” this week and Habitat was building HOMES, whole houses to ship down to the Gulf Coast as part of a program called Operation Home Delivery in NYC, Los Angeles, and Jackson, Miss, with plans to expand to other areas. There was also a separate area sponsored by Children Helping Children, where kids were putting together “back yards in a box” (toys, seeds, plants, etc) and painting murals to place in Gulf Coast public schools (which drove me to tears—the murals read “Welcome Home Love the Children of NYC”).

A long time ago, people asked me where they could donate money, and at the time I just didn’t know who was going to end up doing the “good work.” The thing that I like about Habitat is that they need people power as much as they need money. I don’t have a lot of money to send to charities. I usually do my best to send around $50 to every cause that moves me, but that’s the most I can do on my salary. But Saturday, I felt like my seven hours of work was worth so much more than $50. So, if you have more people power than cash to donate, like I do, look up your local Habitat.

A Last Look

2005-09-21T23:12:00.000-07:00

I've been saying for a while now that I should start loading pictures on the blog. I've not exactly been shutter-happy on this trip, but I've taken a few good pictures. I'm working on getting them on an online photo album, but with dial-up, even loading a picture or two takes eons. (Ah, the creature comforts that I miss).

But I thought with this one. Just a picture I snapped as I walked out the door of 807 Leontine in New Orleans. My last glimpse of home. I recognize the fact that this looks like an AFTER picture, but we moved furniture away from walls, took things in from our rickety shed, and moved stuff off the floor.

Yes, that is a penguin in the far center. His name is Buckley.

From home to New Smyrna

2005-09-21T22:39:00.000-07:00

Theoretically, you should be able to click the link and view a very brief (21 photos) slideshow of my journey from New Orleans to New Smyrna Beach. I'll try to get another slideshow up soon.
xoxo

Invasion

2005-09-20T22:13:00.000-07:00

Unlike most people my age, it didn’t begin with the X-Files. The heart of a conspiracy theorist beat in my breast long before I saw Fox Mulder’s poster “I Want to Believe,” long before the tagline “The Truth is Out There.”

I’m not ready to sport a tin-foil yarmulke. Yet. But I’m pretty much of the “prove to me Bigfoot doesn’t exist” mindset.

I just finished watching Invasion, one of the few new dramas on TV that peaked my interest. From what I’d heard about it, it had two things going for it—alien invasion and Shaun Cassidy as a producer (he produced a forgotten exceptional TV show called American Gothic). Today, I realized it was also about a hurricane.

I never watched Lost last year until the last episode—and even that, I only watched the last 30 mins. But it intrigued me enough to watch it again. It’s pretty much the first non-news I’ve watched since Katrina. Excellent stuff. Gave me a stomach ache to watch—all that tension.

Anyway … Invasion began with a warning that due to recent events, people may be upset by the images of the fictional hurricane Eve. Jason was watching upstairs as I watched downstairs and we called out frustrations and discrepancies to each other. They’re letting the kids out of school in the middle of what looks like 50MPH wind? Look at all the cars on the road, what’s up with that!? A child Rose’s age would be old enough to know better not to go out in that weather.

And then finally, the most “upsetting” fictional image of hurricane Eve? Dawn breaks. Dad and Rosie are somehow alive and unscathed inside the truck after it flipped over at least once (in and of itself absurdly fictional). And what wakes them from their slumber? Help. Help in the form of the military. There. In the middle of the Everglades. Immediately.

Of course, this was Florida.

Truthfully, even without the lens of Katrina, the show was pretty lame. But it posits (I think; there was nothing conclusive in the first episode) that this particular hurricane Eve was not a weather-born event, but rather either something extraterrestrial or something constructed by the government.

And, you know, if today, as Rita became the third most powerful storm in US History, less than a month after Katrina clocked in at #4, you aren’t going “what the hell is going on here?”—WHY NOT?

No, I don’t think W and his cronies are manufacturing these storms to provide more no-bid contracts for Halliburton or to crank up oil prices so we have more excuses to drill in ANWAR. (After all, this storm seems poised to hit Texas). And the internet is full of religious zealots claiming that Katrina was God’s cleansing modern Sodom and Gomorrah of New Orleans—just in time to ruin Decadence Festival, New Orleans’s Gay Mardi Gras. (Again, I say, it looks like God hates Texas too). But Global Warming? Mother Nature, perhaps, not God, saying “No no no?”

Perhaps.

I’ll just say this—as I drove to the Circle K tonight, I had to swerve continually to avoid hitting the masses of frogs that carpeted the streets. Frogs. A—shall we say—plague of frogs?

Today I went to the Red Cross to see if I could volunteer. They took my name and number and added it to a massive list of potential volunteers. So, I swung by the Chamber of Commerce and was told that they hire a volunteer recruitment firm to provide them with free help. (Does seem odd to you, or what? Like I need to sign up at a temp agency just to find work that I can do for free?). Anyway, they directed me to Habitat for Humanity and an animal rescue shelter. I’ll give those a shot tomorrow.

In the meantime, I’ve been doing a whole lot of nothing, as usual. Watching the news, sleeping way too much. Aching to go home. Aching even more for something to do.

new look

2005-09-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

Bored by the old lay-out. I realized that I could add links to this one.

katrina insert story #1: Burt Fish

2005-09-19T22:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve purposely kept this small drama out of the blog because I know my mom checks the blog and I knew she’d be upset. (Hi Mom). But I also feel like it needs to go in the blog because I’ve been so negative of late, and this is evidence of small kindnesses done on my behalf.

One of the last nights I was at New Smyrna Beach, it was rainy. Around 10pm or so, I headed back to my room to go to the bathroom and I slipped on the wet stairs to my room with a wine glass in my hand. The glass shattered, shearing a huge flap of skin from my right pinkie finger. My social self took over. Blood poured from my hand, spattering the deck, the door, my shoes. I retreated to the bathroom and left a trail of blood behind me. I locked myself in and tried to rinse it off, not wanting to use the white towels. Jason happened in to the room around 10 minutes later, after I’d wrapped it in layers of Band-Aids. He insisted he should take me to the emergency room, but I argued. He was the host at the workshop. I told him I could walk to the ER (just three blocks away) if I needed to, but all would be fine, blah blah. Instead we hit up one of the workshop participants for some gauze and tape and we wrapped it up good and went back to the gathering. Around midnight or so, blood dripped from the bandage to the porch floor, so Jas piled me into the car and took me to the tiny ER.

We got there and waited and waited. Finally, Ellen from the Burt Fish Medical Center (to whom I owe a thank you note), saw me and said I needed stitches. She sent me to the check in area, and the woman there freaked when she heard I was from New Orleans and fed me answers as I checked in, trying to make the insurance thing as painless as possible (I hadn’t yet received my insurance card for this year). Around ½ hour later, Ellen came back and said that there had been a car accident and that there were only two doctors on duty and both were needed. She said it could be as much as 6 hours before I could be seen. So Ellen, against all hospital protocol, cleaned me up, put some sort of magic bandage on my hand and told me to leave it on for five days. She talked to the insurance lady and the two of them decided to delete me from the computer so I wouldn’t be charged for anything.

Five days later, Randy, Jason’s dad, who has some medical training, took the bandage off and rewrapped it. And now I have a somewhat deformed pinkie, but it’s all good. High drama for a girl who’s never had stitches before, never even (knock on wood) broken a bone. Small act of kindness.

lay off

2005-09-19T22:21:00.000-07:00

Honestly, I’ve been keeping my own private journal during this, and most of it has ended up on the blog—in fact 99% of it has ended up on the blog… but some of it is too angry, too political, too—as Rush Limbaugh would say, “left wing kook.” If this was a blog only for my friends, I could probably assume that my viewpoint was shared and appreciated. Actually, I shouldn’t say that. This summer I discovered that my bestest friend in the world—my younger cousin Beth (hi sweetheart)—is a card-carrying republican. Oh how heartbreaking. And my heart hopes that she has changed her mind in light of this. But anyway, I don’t want to alienate people who I have invited to this list…I can’t sit on this, though. If you are busy blaming the local government, please listen to a resident’s point of view and stop. When I say local, I mean the mayor. My jury is still out on the governor. I promise you, I am LOOKING for the bastard who dropped the ball. I am looking hard. But so far, it ain’t Nagin, folks. So far, he has been the voice of reason and the voice of the people of New Orleans. I could be wrong, I could be drastically misled. But while he isn’t exactly our Guiliani, he’s the closest best thing that we have.

lovely rita

2005-09-19T22:19:00.000-07:00

I’ve been so quiet lately that I’ve missed a whole bunch of good stories. So, rather than blah blah at you for pages and pages, I’ll keep the continuity and just stick the little stories in between my normal day-to-day stuff.

I’ll make sure I let you know which little stories are outside of the timeline.

Those of you who have been tracking my movements and, say, tracking the tropical activity in the southeast region, may have noticed that we seem to be, well, magnets. Yes, just as last week (?) we were brushed by Ophelia, tonight and tomorrow we will come in relatively close contact with Rita. Had we stayed in the Tampa area, we would have been free and clear, but Punta Gorda is far enough south that we should get some of the wind and rain from this hurricane.

My concerns about staying here were quickly allayed. This place is amazing. Truthfully, I feel like I am living in the very loving lap of luxury here. I am honestly driven to tears by how lucky I feel to be here. A gorgeous waterfront condo, beautiful sunsets, people who check in on us. It’s just good. In every sense of the word. I’m so glad I have a few days here—we bought groceries, can do laundry, can empty the car and repack it so it doesn’t look like a bomb went off.

Nagin wisely rescinded the repopulation order this afternoon in light of Rita. I am so glad to see him continue to be smart about this. He was smart, so smart, to say that the people who can move back should—who better to help recover the city than us? But he was also smart to say that Rita was too much of a threat to ignore. I feel bad, of course, for my friends who were intending to be first in line to get back in on Wed. That was never an option for me. But it would have been movie-eque—bad B-Movie-esque—had New Orleans been opened and then Rita flooded the city again.

effective advertising

2005-09-19T22:07:00.000-07:00

Tonight Jason and I went to Harpoon Harry’s for dinner—a very fun waterfront bar and restaurant. Tonight was Monday Night Football with the Saints vs. the Giants. The Saints lost handily.

The focus of the evening was Katrina recovery. And while the entire event was moving, just before halftime, I saw a commercial for Katrina fundraising that somehow knocked the very wind out of me.

It featured a series of NY Giants players wearing Saints jerseys. Perhaps the whole starting line. (For non-football watchers, usually at the beginning of the game the starting line-up is introduced by showing a picture of each player and the player’s voice saying: “Bob Brown. Louisiana State University.”) The commercial featured the Giants wearing Saints jerseys. The players said: “Bob Brown. New York Giants.” “Sam Smith. New York Giants.” Ending with: “Eli Manning. New York Giants.” And then the screen went black. White writing: “Be a Saint.” And donate.

And whammo. I was floored. It was a little confusing and I didn’t get it until I saw Eli Manning. Eli Manning who went to Newman, our (my school’s) biggest competitor (tho’ co-ed). Eli who is the middle child of a nearly unparalleled football family. Eli, who I hope, at the very least, felt a little bit shitty for beating the snot out of the Saints today.

Man, as stupid as it sounds, that ad drew more tears from me than all the very dramatic Red Cross ads I’d seen all week. And so in the middle of Harpoon Harry’s I was wiping away throat-closing tears.

As a woman who teaches pop culture in her spare time—a class devoted to the study of advertising and the way that it affects us—I pay special attention to ads. And I get a little disgusted at most of the charity ads these days. But that ad, man, messed me up.

Arrr!

2005-09-18T20:48:00.000-07:00

I'll start this post on a light note: Tomorrow, September 19, is Talk Like A Pirate Day. I, for one, will be doing my part. Not only is Florida pirate central in the US, but Punta Gorda, where we're heading tomorrow, boasts a number of pirate-related place names. We're hoping we'll find a number of like-minded pirate-types there. I highly recommend that you join me in celebrating Talk Like a Pirate day. Key words: Avast! Aye Aye! Ahoy! Arr! (ever wonder why pirate lingo has so many "A" words?) and of course Matey and Grog. I'm figuring a nationwide Talk Like A Pirate Day observance is at least as worthwhile as a National Day of Prayer.

It's been a while since I wrote a decent blog entry, and I probably won't swing it tonight either. Truthfully, there have been two reasons (1) lack of consistent internet access and (2) as any number of people who know me can attest to: when I get depressed, I get really quiet.

And I guess I wasn't all that depressed before. Horrified, heartbroken, angry, sad... I don't know the stages of grief, but I've been hovering somewhere in the "miserable" stage for the past week or so.

Rita is making her way toward the Keys and the projected path brings it too close for comfort to the Katrina affected regions. This brings yet another question mark to bear upon Nagin's plan to repopulate the city. The head of the recovery efforts, Thadd Allen, clearly doesn't think it's a good idea. No water, no power, no garbage collection, sewerage, etc. A number of people on the message board I've been following (www.nola.com Orleans Parish Board) have returned to NO only to leave again because it was so horrid. I'm particularly struck by people talking about the "stench of death." And finally, even if Rita mercifully misses us, our levee systems have been so damaged that, according to Thadd Allen, even a number of "closely spaced thunderstorms" could cause a new breach. And at least two of the most popular evacuation routes are impassable.

Okay, hopefully newsy Melissa will return in a few days or so. Love to you all. Ahoy, Mateys! Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day! Say a few "Arrs" for me.

quiet

2005-09-16T13:54:00.000-07:00

Sorry to have been so quiet these past few days. We have no internet at Jason's dad's house, so we try to sneak an hour or so at a coffee shop each day. And during that hour I devour every bit of news I can.

Tomorrow we'll relocate to mom's friend's condo in Oldsmar. Hopefully then I will have more frequent access to the internet.

The news: Our neighborhood is open for business as of next Wednesday. But we are unable to return until the 27th because Jason has a business trip to DC from the 23-27 of Sept, and I'm not comfortable being alone in the apartment while he is gone. This is a major bummer for me. I wanted to be back as soon as I possibly could. But reason has trumped this passion.

No news on school.

Hope you all are well. You can look forward to rambling entries again soon.

xoxo

duct-tape guy

2005-09-14T12:29:00.000-07:00

The day that Michael Brown of FEMA resigned, Jason turned to me and said: "Hm. I wonder if Michael Brown was that guy who told us to stock up on duct tape to protect ourselves from a bio-terror attack."

"Hey, probably," I said. After all, it kind of sounds like something that a failed Arabian Horse Show planner might say.

Jason and I are at Panera Bread Co right now, utilizing their free internet. A moment ago, I nearly choked on my iced mocha.

"Hey Jas," I said. "Remember when you said that you thought Brownie might be the duct tape guy?"

"Yeah."

"Well, Brownie is not the duct tape guy. The guy Bush hired to replace Brownie is the duct tape guy."

DUCT-TAPE GUY: "I recommend that people returning to New Orleans have on hand one of those little yellow plastic margarine tubs for each family member. If you find that the air in and around your home is hard to breathe, strap one of these to your face. Parkay works best. Remember to place tub on your own face before strapping a tub to the face of children or elderly."

a bit batty

2005-09-13T14:03:00.000-07:00

Jason and I arrived in Boca Raton last night. Jason's dad, Randy, lives with his girlfriend, a cardiologist named Lori, in a gated community on a golf course. It's a surreal place; the kind of place where you have to show your ID to get in, where security guards will call you up in the middle of the night to let you know that your garage door is ajar, where the ground crew arrives with electric clippers the minute one of your bushes sprouts an errant branch. There are around 2200 houses in the community, divided into 14 different little enclaves. Randy lives at the end of a street full of identical pink houses with identical cathedral ceilings, identical swimming pools, and identical Saabs and Lexuses (Lexi?) in the driveways. Culture shock to the extreme.

Just an hour ago, Jason heard a press conference with Mayor Nagin where Nagin said that as soon as he gets test results back from the EPA, he'll be able to determine who can move back and when. This announcement is expected to happen on Thursday. Nagin said that it wasn't inconceivable that my neighborhood would be allowed back-- back to STAY-- as early as next week.

That could change everything. I'd love to be able to get back home-- a bit horrified by what I may find when I do. He said he won't allow people back in before hospitals are operational and grocery stores are open. But I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

I'm truly teetering on the edge of batty these days. I owe phone calls to so many people, but I am just not really up to talking about things these days. It's even a bit of a chore to be social with those people I have to be social with. I'm sorry. I promise, I'll pick up the phone soon.

Love you all.

slide show

2005-09-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

An incredible slide show of the course of the hurricane in the quarter.

Oh-- O

2005-09-08T19:57:00.000-07:00

I realize now that I have failed to mention the fact that I am in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. Yeah, look at the weather channel-- that big red blob of a tropical storm right off the Atlantic Coast of Florida? Well, she's named Ophelia, and the big red blob is... oh... right where I am. As I walked back to our room a minute ago to grab another beer, a great big tree limb fell not ten feet from me. Crash-crash-ker-thunk.

Oh sweet mysteries of life.

flip flop

2005-09-08T19:19:00.000-07:00

There seems to be less rhyme and reason to my moods these days. I guess to a certain extent that's due to the fact that before a couple of days ago or so, there were only lows to contend with. Lows and lower lows. Now I have my good moments (see the last post), my stupid happy moments. My stupidest happy moment today came when I spied a pod of dolphin frolicing on the Intercoastal Waterway in front of the b&b. I was blindsided by eight-year-old Melissa-ness; I morphed into a totally goofy little girl in an instant. Standing on the sidewalk, watching the dolphin play, clapping my hands, and babbling incoherent "yays!" every time I saw another dolphin breach. Yay! yay! Wow! Cool!

And then I had one of those "Oh, Chipman, you're in public" moments and stopped the clapping and kept the yays in my brain for only my other personalities to hear.

It was nice. Nice to know that small things still please.

Yay! Dolphin! Cool! Wow!

Yeah, not tonight, though. Tonight I'm in a funk. For no damned good reason either. Just blue blue indigo.

And I stress: no good reason. Had a lovely night. Tom Corcoran is here teaching at the workshop. Tom writes mystery novels set in Key West. I've read two-- Gumbo Limbo and Bone Island Mambo-- and they're really, really great. Much better than your standard genre drivel. His characters are wonderful and he does a fantastic job of setting. So I was pretty honored to meet him, and then absolutely enchanted by him once we started talking. It was a great night, listening to him talk about hanging out with Jimmy Buffet in the 70's (he co-wrote "Fins" and took the cover photo for 7 of Buffet's albums), about his "old college classmate, a journalist named PJ O'Rourke," and about his lifelong friendship with Hunter S. Thompson (he just returned from a road trip to go to Thompson's funeral/fireworks). And he's just a really nice guy, too. The kind of guy you wish lived next door.

And then the evening was over and I was checking the news-- and sure, it's bad news, but nothing newly bad-- and I sighed this great big sigh and Jason said "Oh, that's a big sigh, what's wrong?" And before I thought I said, "I just want to go home." Jas said: "What's wrong? Aren't you enjoying yourself... oh... you mean home."

I miss my life. And that's saying a whole hell of a lot because I wasn't 100% thrilled with my life when I left it behind on August 28. I was, as some of you know, in the midst of what I have been told to call my "one-third life crisis" (as opposed to my midlife crisis which means I'll croak in my 60's). Feeling the wanderlust. Feeling some wacked out existential crises things like "what do I want to be when I grow up" and "do I really have a purpose here on earth." I was, I daresay, rather unhappy. And now, geez louise, I would gladly reclaim that BS, I would gladly suck the very marrow of my one-third life crisis. Hell, I would love to go back and grade papers all weekend and have no life to speak of and be overworked and underpaid and listless and questioning and grouchy... just to have the chance to teach a damned poetry class. I never even GOT to TEACH a single poetry class this year. Never got to whip out my Yeats and stun the girls with the brilliance of "The Mermaid." Never got to see the little lightbulbs going off all over the classroom when the girls realized that they, too, could write sonnets. I want to go home and listen to my fricking landlord play crappy Southern Rock until 4am. I want to go home and live in the crowded, messy apartment-- you know, if we'd stuck out the storm and died in the apartment, rescuers would have noted that we were "eccentric pack rats" much like those news stories you read about elderly men and women who die and go undiscovered for months and are found in apartments with back-issues of the New York Times and Southern Living piled to the ceiling... Yes, I want that back. (Tangental note: Exile really shows you how little you need to live. I have designs on going home, shoveling out the apartment-- I shudder to think-- and seizing a life where all I own can fit in the trunk of a car-- it's doable.)

I want to go home. And that's selfish and self-centered and lousy for me to even think because so many people have nothing-- and worse, no one-- to go home to. But perhaps watching dolphins today triggered my child-mind, and now I am just a kid-- a 32 year old kid-- who wants to be in the place that she knows, doing what she knows how to do, knowing what will come next, tomorrow, next week, next month.

"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers"

2005-09-07T23:31:00.000-07:00

In my first post, I talked about waiting... about waiting for the right words to describe my sorrow and fears. For the emotions churning inside of me to organize themselves into articulatable (is that a word?) chunks. And over the past few days, I've added another mess to the chum in my brain: an overwhelming gratitute and wonder that defies all of my attempts at coherent thought.

Where are all these people coming from? I never had any idea that I had so many friends! It's just amazing to me-- I had no idea, none at all... (did I mention that I'm really not able to articulate yet?). Honestly, I don't think I have ever been so surprised by something in my life. I could babble and gush and thank and weep for hours over this.

First of all, we just finished up our week with Lorin and Brenda. Lorin and Brenda housed us, fed us, kept us occupied. And more than that, they sympathized, cursed at the television with us, assured us that we would never be without a home or an adjunct family, no matter what. And then they sent us on our way with belated birthday cards stuffed with money and love. I have adored these two women since the day that I met them (the same day I met Jason)... but their generosity has shattered me.

We have received offers of housing from every corner of the US. And it looks like we'll take up temporary residence at the home of a complete stranger to me-- a co-worker of my mother's has offered her vacation home in Oldsmar, FL to us. It's conveniently located and empty... and I just can't believe that some woman who doesn't know me cares enough for me to GIVE us her house for as long as we need it. (again, I babble, but this stuff is damned amazing to me)

A friend of Jason's sent an email to their mutual friends-- I don't know what it said, but suddenly people from Australia and England are sending us gas money! And just today I received two Target gift cards from teachers I worked with this summer. Unspeakably kind-- un-freaking-believably kind. I am so blessed.

And strangers-- a few days ago we were having a beer at a pub I used to frequent when I lived in Tampa, the bartender gave us free drinks. Two days ago, we were eating at a restaurant and the manager bought us nachos. Simple stuff. Little stuff. Amazing little acts of kindness.

I have heard from my old high school in CT. I have heard from students that I taught at CTY last summer. I have heard from an old high school classmate that I haven't talked to since graduation. I have heard from college friends that I haven't heard from in years. Everyone wants to help-- me, Jason, my school... whatever they can do.

Thank you, all of you. From the very basement to the attic of my heart, I am full up with love and gratitude for everything. From the kind words and thoughts to the generous offers and support... it means more than I could ever possibly articulate, even months, years from now I don't know if I'll have the right words for it.

You know, you get older, you get jaded, you think you know stuff. You think you can predict, assume, make reasonable guesses. Then things you thought were inconceivable start becoming reality-- and during this ordeal, at first all of those things were horrifying. But now I have seen inconceivable kindness, inconceivable generosity. Man, I knew nothing.

a burden lifted

2005-09-05T06:33:00.000-07:00

Last night our headmistress posted a letter on our website that assured faculty that the September payroll is up and running and that we will remain on health insurance. I found out around 11pm last night and the relief, however minor, was such that I did the one thing that I hadn't been able to do for a week-- I went to sleep like a normal human being.

So what now? More waiting, truthfully. Now that I know I'm still on the payroll, I'm at the school's beck and call. The news answered one question, but raised more. No matter how generous the school is, it's hardly rolling in money. If we're to open in January like Tulane and Loyola and only teach one semester, the school can't afford to pay us for a full year. Will we cobble together some sort of crazy school year that begins in January and ends in August? Will willing faculty be asked to relocate to schools that have taken in our girls?

The independent school response has been phenomenal. Schools as far away as CT and NH have offered to take our girls free of charge, many even donating uniforms and books. The Hocakday School in Texas alone has probably taken in fifty girls.

Anyway, this good news potentially frees me up a bit. Unless school calls upon me in some way, I can return to New Orleans when it is safe to help in whatever way I can. And if the best option is to settle elsewhere for a while, I can do so knowing that I won't have to flip burgers.

I say it again: I am so lucky. There is probably only a tiny, tiny fraction of those displaced who are as lucky as I am. All of my loved ones are safe. I have no property to worry about. I took those things that I truly care for. I am still employed. I have been staying with friends who have treated me in the kindest way possible. I have people coming out of the woodwork with offers of help.

Even on the day that we evacuated, it seemed as the gods were with us. Despite the fact that we took a wrong turn that cost us three hours, we were only on the road for 13. As we listened to the radio we were aghast at how many times we heard that we had just narrowly escaped something that would have made the evacuation difficult or impossible. First we heard that a bridge in Miss. had been closed, just a half hour after we passed over it. Then, as we drove through Ala, we heard tornado warnings for the counties we'd just passed through, tornadoes that passed right over the road on which we'd just been driving. Then the tunnel in Mobile became backed up with an hour long wait, around a half hour after we'd zoomed through it-- then it closed. Then a highway in Fl closed just after we'd driven through that area.

I can't believe it has only been a week.

sunday update

2005-09-04T15:57:00.000-07:00

Lorin has a back patio with a screened-in pool.  A little waterfall runs off and on into the pool, and I find myself needing to go to the bathroom every twenty minutes.  It’s either the sound of the water or the beer.  It’s Sunday; this weekend, Jason and I were supposed to go away for our shared birthdays (Aug 29 & 31).  I’d pretty much decided on a fishing camp on the water in Morgan City; I’d wanted to go to Biloxi to see Dwight Yokem in concert, but the room rates were too expensive.  And now, neither Biloxi, nor the rooms, nor Dwight Yokem is there.  Morgan City still stands.

As I type this, the red-boxed “Breaking News” on CNN.com is that police have shot and killed 5 members of the Army Corps of Engineers on a bridge outside of New Orleans.  Details to come.

Was it just yesterday, or this morning, that I felt for a nanosecond that things seemed to be getting better?

I’m so tired.  I don’t sleep well, and that has nothing to do with Lorin’s accommodations.  And I don’t sleep much.  And just being awake makes me tired.  But my God, any time I feel myself lapsing into anything that even remotely resembles self-pity, I feel like dashing my head against bricks.  And that in itself is exhausting, to be honest.  I guess this is what they call “survivor’s guilt.”

I really anticipated having some “news” this weekend.  But we’ve heard only briefly from our headmistress.  You can read her letter to the community here.  I got a personal email from her this morning; she told me to be patient and that she was assessing how much of the community was in Houston.  I’m gathering that there may be a satellite school in the works there.  Those of you who are really interested can read our faculty blog here.  This is where the faculty have gathered to share travel information and questions and love.  If you don’t already know, at school they call me “Ryan,” so you can follow some of my posts there.

I’ve checked out my block on Google Earth; the satellite pictures as of 8/31 and 9/1 show my house and my car.  They’re there, and there’s no tree damage, but that’s all I know.  The Whole Foods three blocks away is missing a good portion of its roof.  We read on the www.NOLA.com message boards that the Whole Foods and all the blocks between there and our apartment had been looted.  But at that time (two nights ago) the homes had been spared.

Every so often, I think of things I left behind.  But somehow in the rush of preparedness, I managed to fill Tony (Jason’s car) with so much of meaning.

I have the photo album that Vange, my grandmother, gave me on my 20th birthday full of original and irreplaceable pictures of my dad as a kid.

I have a few pieces of artwork that I did—crappy though they are.  I have the one piece of original art I’ve ever bought, a picture of an iris.  I bought it last summer for more than I could afford directly from the artist in a gallery in Bay St Louis, Miss.  A town that, essentially, no longer exists.

I have framed pictures of my dad.  I have framed wedding pictures of both of my grandparents.  I have the engagement ring that my dad gave my mom that has, since my divorce, hung on my wall in a glass box.

Jason suggested, as we were leaving, that we should just take everything in our closet and stick it in the trunk.  So I pulled armfuls of clothes out of the closet and shoved them in Tony’s trunk.  As a result, I am lucky to have a plethora of outfits (although not a single pair of pants), but I also have a ton of clothes that don’t fit me—clothes that stayed in my closet “in case I get skinny again.”  If you know of any homeless Katrina victims who are a size 0 or 2, let me know.

Update:  Now CNN says that the corps of engineers were not killed… the people who were shooting at them were.

My lifestyle is such that I am frequently away from home for months at a time, especially in the summer.  This summer I was away from home from mid-June through the first week of August.  Last summer, I was away from home the entire summer.  I am used to being away.  I’m sure Jason is too—he averages one trip every other month, maybe more.  But still… homesickness.

Last night, Brenda and Lorin and Jason and I went to the Tampa Theater and saw “Broken Flowers” starring Bill Murray.  I’m a huge Murray fan, and he didn’t disappoint.  And yet, I was the only person in our group who didn’t like the movie.  When they asked why, I could only say that I was not in the mood for that kind of movie.  The cynicism of everyday life doesn’t interest me any more.  I used to be a card-carrying cynic.  But all of that seems so shallow right now.

Links to editorials

2005-09-04T09:46:00.000-07:00

From Anne Rice, NYTimes 9-4-05

If you read one link, read this one: Open letter to the President, Times-Picayune 9-4-05. For those of you who aren't familiar with the T-P, please note that they are NOT a liberal media outlet, by any means. They are the sole daily in NO and tend to lean toward the right, at least when it comes to endorsing politicians.

And, for everyone who has said "How could they have known...?" Here's a Times-Pic series from 2002 called Washing Away. I'd also direct you to Mike Tidwell's book Bayou Farewell and the excellent Rising Tide by John Barry about the 1927 floods.

Straight from the horse's mouth: Michael Chertoff says that "Availablility of supplies is not the limiting factor" and tells NPR's Robert Siegal that the reporter that NPR has IN the convention center (who happens to be on the other line) that reporters are spreading "rumors" about the thousands of people without food in the Convention Center. Siegal also cites a 2001 report that a hurricane in New Orleans is in the top three possible natural disasters that the US could suffer.

Word from the extreme right. An editor at the Spectator is perhaps the very first person on the face of the earth to accuse the NOPD of being "PC." He says "New Orleans has been a wasteland of politically correct dysfunction for decades"-- Yes, I agree with some of what he says in here. Both Jas and I have mused on the fact that no one seems to blink an eye at the rising murder rate-- just about one a day-- in New Orleans. Yes, New Orleans has lost its way since the late 90's, when we seemed to finally have lawlessness and police corruption under control. And yes, there have been solid reports of police contributing to looting. But for every right wing pundit that gets his/her knickers in a knot about Jesse Jackson claiming that neglect of our citizens is a "race issue," you have another right wing pundit claiming that the failings of the city fall squarely on the black population. Uh, read Anne Rice's editorial for a less racist POV.

And when this is all over, perhaps we'll all be invited to sit on the porch

2005-09-03T01:17:00.000-07:00

I will, I swear, try to keep my political and social frustration minimized here. But I thought I would share a piece of a transcript from George Bush's briefing from Mobile, AL today (yesterday).

BUSH: ... We've got a lot of rebuilding to do. First, we're going to save lives and stabilize the situation. And then we're going to help these communities rebuild. The good news is -- and it's hard for some to see it now -- that out of this chaos is going to come a fantastic Gulf Coast, like it was before. Out of the rubbles of Trent Lott's house -- he's lost his entire house -- there's going to be a fantastic house. And I'm looking forward to sitting on the porch. (Laughter.)

GOVERNOR RILEY: He'll be glad to have you.

fresh air

2005-09-02T23:01:00.000-07:00

First of all, my cell service is down again. I had a few days of luxurious communication, but now it seems the circuits are jammed again.

We're staying in Tampa with Lorin, a mutual friend of ours from the Writers Retreat Workshop, which Jason runs. Our friend, Brenda, lives down the street. Tonight we had sushi with Lo and Brenda and Brenda's two amazing daughters, Liz and Anna. They're "little kids"-- I don't know, maybe 12 and 9 or so-- but they made me miss my students something awful. But I spent the night bonding with them over their summer experience at "Career Camp" at Sea World and our mutual love of ocean critters and pengiuns, and for a little while life felt pretty normal. It was great. They know what's going on, Brenda even said that Anna was composing an "angry" letter to George Bush, but they're too young to really know how to talk to adults about it. But I sensed that they're intense focus on entertaining me with stories of swimming with dolphins was a conscious attempt to reach out to me. The only mention of the hurricane came in a lull in conversation when Anna blurted out "You know, we're having a bake sale to raise money for the hurricane." I said thank you, and that was that. And it felt good to escape for a little while.

I just read that Tulane is cancelling the fall semester. All week long we've heard from students who are enrolling in schools elsewhere. Early in the week there was talk about setting up a sattelite campus somewhere-- most likely Houston-- but for reasons that are probably out of our control, I think it may be too late for that. My growing sense of things is that we too may be out of commission until January.

I don't know when official word will come-- our headmistress has been without cell service or internet since the hurricane, but is relocating to NYC tomorrow. It's been frustrating to have no "leadership" this week-- it's left our whole community wondering and grasping at straws.

And I don't know what this means for me. We have the next few weeks worked out. Jason's job, thank goodness, is relatively portable. But it also calls on him to travel quite a bit-- a challenge seeing that (A) he doesn't know where he will be travelling from and (B) I left my car behind (my poor Igor, I hope he is okay, but I have my doubts). While Jas and I have been a couple for years, we've enjoyed a great deal of freedom-- at least for the forseeable future, we're pretty much a unit in a way we've never been before.

My colleagues are scattered to the four corners of the US. Some are already looking for houses. All profess a committment to return to the school to finish this school year that is still in its infancy, but we're only in the first week of our exile. It makes me very sad when I start to crunch the realities of returning-- without a doubt our student population will be diminished, and the students who return will be hurting in ways that I cannot even begin to imagine yet. While I feel tremendous loyalty to my school, I feel much more loyalty to doing the right thing by these girls. And I love my colleagues so much because I know they share that sentiment and I have faith that the majority of them will return, even if they've relocated, to finish out this year, just so the girls have some semblance of normality.

We'll be with Lorin until Wednesday and then the three of us are off to the Night Swan B&B in New Smyrna Beach where Jas and Lo are leading a workshop. After that, depending on the developments from school, we may head to Boca Raton to visit Jason's dad (from whom he's a bit estranged, and whom I've never met). And then it will probably be time for me to make a life for the next few months. Any suggestions?

Love you all.

first thoughts

2005-09-02T16:22:00.000-07:00

I’m waiting. I’ve always been bad at waiting. Terrible at waiting patiently.

And yes, like every New Orleanian, every displaced denizen of the Gulf Coast, I am waiting for answers, for news, for concretes. And like every American I am waiting, and not very patiently I might add, for help to arrive in my city. For those who have the power to step up and do the right things, the logical things, the compassionate things…

But it’s Friday now, and I’m still waiting, and this time patiently, for the right words. I told a number of friends who emailed me early this week that I would send them a “proper email” as soon as I could. And I can’t.

As soon as I knew I would be displaced (although then I thought it would be briefly—weeks, not months), I knew I’d have a lot of people who’d want to know the hows and wheres and whats of my displacement. I decided that the best way to do that would be to establish a blog; that way I wouldn’t trouble people with newsy emails and anyone who was interested could check in at their convenience. I thought too that it would be nice to have a journal of the experience for myself.

And as I said, it’s Friday now and I’ve yet to put finger to keyboard except to respond to emails, briefly, and to search the internet, incessantly.

Writing has always been an escape, a catharsis. But for the past days, the act of articulation has seemed burdensome.

And I am waiting, too, for the enormity of this tragedy to finally be real enough to me that I am able to parse out my emotions. Grief, yes, more than I can possibly articulate. Anger like I have never felt in my life. Anger that I hope is common to everyone who tunes in the news. But there are other emotions there that I have yet to tap or yet to identify. Dichotomies of selfishness and selflessness, hope and despair, optimism and crushing pessimism.

But there has been a single sentiment that has eked through the morass in my brain, even long before I saw my city become alien to me, long before the ravages of nature turned into the savageness of unrest and criminal neglect. In the course of a lifetime, we are confronted by personal tragedies, even social tragedies, to which we respond “My life will never be the same. I don’t know how I can go on.” Death of loved ones, divorce, even the enormity of events like 9-11. But even as early as Monday morning, when the national news began to release image after image of places that I know and love fallen, under water, the lives of so many washed away—whole towns wiped from the continent—I felt humbled, tragically naïve, to have ever believed that any sorrow that I have suffered, either personally or sympathetically, could ever have made me feel like it would be difficult to “go on.”

And in the past days, it has gotten worse. My gut response was to the power of nature. I am now—we all are now—confronted with so much more to process. We’ve seen true evil. We’ve seen incompetence and neglect that is unfathomable. We have seen preventable suffering and death and despair that goes beyond our ability to comprehend.

Hopefully within the next day or two I’ll be able to start this blog properly—to use it to disseminate information about my plans, about the status of my school, about what people can do to help those who need help. Right now I have absolutely none of that information. We are safe in Tampa, displaced but not homeless in anything but the sentimental sense of the word. Heartbroken but so lucky. Grateful for the love and kindness of our friends and family. And despairing with helplessness and uselessness.