Katrina fifth anniversary

Five Years and Counting
By
Debbie Lindsey
When once asked if I would ever parachute from a plane or climb a mountain I replied with a “Hell no! Hurricane season provides me with more than enough thrills and chills”. I sounded sensible and cautious. But what I meant was that I looked forward to our annual convergence of storms. I too was a thrill seeker—but one that passively waited to be sweep into adrenaline overload. That was until August of 2005 when all my previous experiences with hurricanes amounted to no more than a kid’s bumper car ride – Katrina was a plane ride that dumped me out without a parachute. The thrill was gone.
I thought we would die that day. Yet her roar was worse than the bite she gave us. And after she passed we thought all any of us had were a few scratches and nips. But she had enlisted an engineering sham and an indifferent government and rode roughshod over depleted and fragile wetlands. The disaster just continued to grow even after she was long gone. For six days, despite being on high ground, I thought we were screwed. But we made it out just fine, frightened and only a little worse for wear. Many, too many were not so lucky.

I have often written in this column about ‘The Event’. I talk about it constantly, stare transfixed at the many remaining water lines, view documentaries again and again. I am a veteran of this ‘Thing’. Yet, I have come to discover more and more the gifts that I have received from it. I can NOT put gratitude into the heart of someone who lost loved ones in those waters or on a bridge trying to find safety only to be shot by men who dishonored their vow to serve and protect. My water line was two inches high from the sidewalk; my friend’s was two inches from her ceiling. Try and tell her that there is a silver lining. Ask the folks from Buras, Lakeview, the Lower Nine, or Bay St. Louis if the glass is half full or half empty—they’ll tell ya it doesn’t matter, the crap is toxic anyway. And sometimes lemons just don’t make lemon-aid.

But if you are one of the just slightly dampened ones, if you didn’t have to bury someone or gut your home and your heart, then…you and I have the luxury of finding some good among the ruins. Make no mistake, dry or wet, rich or poor we all suffered deep and lasting wounds, never again a stranger to depression and the resulting prescription bottles. We all live among the ghosts. Yet, if you listen, the ghosts tell stories of a world nearly lost and in need of respect. I found that I was given a second chance to pay those respects to my city and her people.

A couple of months ago when asked by my editor to write about the positive encountered since Katrina I was full of feel-good things to say. Jazz Fest was approaching; the after glow of the Saints victory was still evident; Treme, our city’s new ambassador, had just premiered on HBO; and our new and potentially good mayor was here--everything was smelling like Jasmine. It was spring 2010 and it was looking like that light at the end of the tunnel was getting brighter. That glass half full was starting to look kinda tasty and it seemed time to fill her up again. But then the glass cracked.

It is early summer as I write and submit to a June 10th deadline for this issue. An oil storm is upon us and hurricane season has officially begun with some serious implications. I do not know how this will read in August. So with ‘not knowing’ as my guide I will precede with the positives I gained from Katrina as I may need them again and again as I continue to enjoy the privilege of living in this uncertain place.

The storm brought to bear the sheer ugliness of some folks and the callousness of governments. A disaster will damn sure excavate the evil as well as the good in people. Yet I came to appreciate that there are more decent people than not, ironically it took so much human failure, ineptness and greed to come to this conclusion.

I was a bit jaded because for the most part, I had only tourists to inform my worldview of human nature until Katrina. I allowed the Bourbon Street driven Spring Breakers to represent all students and twenty-somethings. And my only exposure to card carrying “Christians” were those who spewed hate and bigotry during Mardi Gras and Gay events. I often allowed the extremes, the caricature of tourists to delineate all our visitors.

But the sheer magnitude of volunteers that began immediately to come (and keep on coming to this day) and to help us is something to behold. I’ve seen thousands and met hundreds of those folks who consistently respond to my thank you with “It was our pleasure”. I witnessed faith-based groups putting their Christianity into practice givin’ hell to mold-infested houses. Met a couple on their honeymoon who came to help rebuild; but, it’s the young people and students swapping beach vacations for menial labor assignments in some truly godforsaken places that got to me. These guys had our back. They taught me that the hope and idealism I feared was long gone is alive and well. And let’s not forget the post storm visitors who came to spend and support our butchered economy.

And now it all begins again. A different storm. This one even more insidious, one that we ourselves contributed to—there is blood, oil on all our hands. Will we learn from this? One can only hope.

To those who championed our city I hope that you have the reserves to continue because god knows we will need more heroes in the coming months, months that will stretch into years, perhaps decades, as we deal with this latest assault. All I can say is that it took me twenty years and the near decimation of a city, an entire region, rich in culture, quirks and verve to know what’s worth fighting for. Let us ready ourselves—it’s gonna be a long haul.

Comments: debbie@whereyat.com
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