Tale of two New Orleans

This is a tale of two cities, two worlds, two attitudes and too many emotions. I sit here trying to write a column that will not go to press for over a month. A lot can happen in a month… or not.
Currently 85 million gallons of drinking water a day is lost due to our ruptured infrastructure beneath our feet. Add this to 5,000 miles of leaking sewerage pipes within New Orleans and well, yes, a lot can happen in a day. We are in the worst drought in 111 years. A city of extremes.
Extremes of good occur daily here and that is confounding since it is so difficult to shift gears from anger to happiness. Just now a customer popped in my shop and I stopped typing to chat. She told me how wonderful our city is and how nice it was to see people helping each other. I looked at her like she was crazy. Why? Because it had just been one of those days, in fact one of those weeks. But her observation is the hope that we need and her compliments are the rewards for those who put on such a positive face for her, our guest, our visitor.
In a world of wars and people preying upon others I was profoundly shocked with those who came to us after Katrina.
They just keep coming… and along with them my shame and my profound gratitude. They are the guardian angels who sweep in to watch over our fallen homes; they are the good Samaritans who perform in the triage of our needs, and maybe, with their help, our recovery. They are the thousands of volunteers who have taken vacation time to come and gut it out with the mold. Or they are part of the thousands of young students giving up spring and summer breaks who risk their youthful good health to clean, clear, and cobble something from the debris that somehow represents a former home.
I am not given to saying anything that sounds remotely patriotic. You never hear me referring to “my fellow Americans” or using the word American to describe myself but I am so very proud of my fellow Americans for the deep concern they have lavished upon us. And not just kind words but kind actions. I have literally met hundreds of folks from all over this country that have come to help us, to roll up their sleeves, armed with tetanus shots and respirator masks, and sweat so that we might resume life in our beloved city.
These volunteers have restored my faith in humanity; given me a fresh view of faith-based actions; reminded me of the idealism and earnest qualities that youth can and do possess; and the strength that is often overlooked in our senior citizens.
Shame is something I mentioned feeling. Shame is not to be confused with humble. I am happy to be humbled by those who are helping. But am ashamed when tourists, here to spend well deserved leisure time and their hard earned, volunteer to clean up our litter. We may not all be capable of gutting, hauling, building but we all can pick up a broom and show some pride in what has been spared.
I just about tripped over my juxtaposition of shame and pride earlier today. Far too often my fellow Quarterites step blindly or indifferently over litter – litter that may seem innocuous in view of the horrific damage and debris we now face. But the way I see it: if we can’t even pick up (something as small as a go cup) after ourselves then how the hell can we expect the rest of the country to care. We can’t.
But back to the pride part.
There throughout the Quarter were hotel managers and staff getting down and dirty with their brooms. They were tackling everything from beer bottles to dirty diapers to condoms – they were tackling our indifference. And there ya have it – the confusion of our contradictions. Too many not being involved and others coming to the rescue. The love/hate, pride/shame thing is s such a constant I should just learn to ride this pot-holed, water leaking road of an adventure and get over it. But there is too much work to do and complacency won’t rebuild this city. Let’s hope the local hotels’ efforts this morning have sparked some motivation – they certainly had me rushing for my broom. I sweep away a lot of shame.
A tale of two cities. Did you ever think a name as pretty as Gentilly could give you goose bumps or remember men in fatigues toting big guns as a thing of beauty? Yet the hits and near misses we have endured have given new meaning and appreciation to men dancing in feathers or giant hot dogs rolling down the street. Our music never sounded better, our food never tasted quite so good. I never thought I would miss the pluralization of shrimp or actually enjoy a Mardi Gras for the first time. I got weepy just seeing all those beautiful port-o-lets lined up at the Jazz Fest.
So, there ya have it. A day never goes by without thinking this, the returning to New Orleans, was a mistake followed by pride in my water line and a thank you for being allowed to be here. As boyfriend succinctly sums it up: “We are living in the most amazing times, history is being made and some will learn from it and some will not”. It is a helluva road we are traveling