Trapped…Mississippi…no internet…no booze…slowly dying…send help now…

An Open Letter to the Citizens of Lafayette

Please, don’t hate us.

You see, for nearly seven weeks, we New Orleanians have been dealing with issues of betrayal. At first we felt betrayed by the feds and the governor and our hometown officials. Now, as we begin moving home, we feel betrayed again, only this time the hurt is much deeper, much closer to our hearts, because it’s being caused by our friends and neighbors who have chosen to move on.

Sure, we understand that many people lost everything. We understand that many people weren’t having such a great time before the storm and should’ve left long ago. We proclaim loudly and at every opportunity, “I don’t blame anyone who wants to relocate.” But the fact of the matter is that New Orleans, like any city, is its people, and when people abandon a city, those left behind feel betrayed somehow. It’s made even worse in New Orleans, a city that doesn’t ask for fidelity, but lures you into it anyway.

Today, however, we find ourselves on the other end of the stick. Over the past weeks, you’ve all been overwhelmingly kind. You’ve opened your doors, shared your roads, and although our accents aren’t quite right, you’ve made us feel completely at home. Today, as many of us pack up and move back to our deeply scarred, beloved city, we suddenly feel as if we’re the ones who are doing the betraying. We’re leaving you, our hosts, after we’ve spent weeks getting to know you. Most of us knew the relationship would be temporary, but we’re still sorry to have to break it off.

So please, don’t hate us for abandoning ship. We can’t help ourselves. Besides, we’ll just be a few miles down the road. We’ll write and visit often, I promise. We’ll always think of Lafayette like we think of our favorite aunt: we don’t get to see her everyday, but when we do, she makes us feel like we’re family. Like we’re home.

Thank you. For everything.

Sincerely,

Richard

Well, I guess this is it. Almost, anyway. Tomorrow I’m going home for good.

Okay, technically speaking, I’m heading to Mississippi first, where I’ll take part in my brother’s wedding. (It’s brother #3, the one standing front-and-center in the photo on the left.) I’ll hang out with the family for a couple of days, maybe take the hounds up to the farm and let them run around, then drive to New Orleans on Monday. I’m not exactly sure how I’ll get into town, since the bridge from Slidell has sustained considerable damage, but I guess I’ll find a way.

I know it won’t feel like home just yet. I mean, hell, I haven’t been there for nearly two months. I’ve almost started to forget what it’s like, you know? I suppose nothing would seem like home after that long an absence….

But even after I work myself back into a routine, even after I can roll out of bed and walk to the coffee pot with my eyes closed tight, it’ll take a while for my neighborhood and the city in general to feel…comfortable. I know this, you know this, it’s nothing new. But it’s a little daunting, now that it’s right in front of me.

Still, there’s nowhere to go but forward. Bottom line: the city has changed, and we’ll just have to deal with that until we can fix it up like we want it. I figure it’s like everything else in life: if you think about it too much, you’ll freak out or fuck up. So I’m not thinking, I’m just doing.

Over New Orleans’ 287-year-long history, its inhabitants have employed a variety of phrases to greet folks on the street. Many have used the old stand-by, “How’d you do?” Others–including our city founders–have asked, “Boujour, ca va?” And of course, in the 9th Ward and beyond, they use “Where y’at?” Well, they used to….

These days, we’re back to “How’d you do?” It’s not quite the same as the original “How’d you do?”, which was always meant as a rhetorical question, with no proper response other than another “How’d you do?” The “How’d you do?” we’re asking today is past tense, and it refers to a specific event: “How did you do?” It’s also earnest. We really want to know how they did. Did their house flood? How much water did they get? Was anything salvageable? Where did you go? Are you coming back?

It’s a sudden, overwhelming, communal compassion that makes us ask, tinged with morbid curiosity. Funny thing is, the folks who’ve lost everything, they don’t mention it much. It’s those of us who did okay that’re the most curious.

Me, I ask because I’m holding out hope that my friends and neighbors across the city fared as well as I did. I know many of them didn’t, I know it’s stupid and naive and maybe even a little hurtful to ask. But if I keep asking, a part of me thinks that maybe people will just shrug and say, “Oh, we came out just fine. I’m headed to the Robert’s. You need anything?”, and life will go back to normal.

I’m generally a laid-back kinda guy. Most people would consider me easygoing, moderately patient, not so quick to anger. It takes a lot to get me riled up.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am officially riled up.

But why, you ask? The weather’s great in Lafayette, New Orleans is slowly creeping back toward normalcy, and cell phone service is almost what it should be. Isn’t that enough for you?

Yes, yes, of course it was–until some schmuck took it upon himself to respond to Lola’s story with the most shocking, reprehensible, unsolicited email ever. Please, allow me to share it with you:

I can’t tell you how relieved I was to learn that upon your return to your home, Lola managed to resuscitate herself enough to let you know not to continue to dig her little grave. Truly, that must have been a joyous moment for you. I’ve not met you or the kitty, but the news that she was still alive after having been alone for over a week brought tears to my eyes.

That having been said, I must say that it was an absolute abomination for you to even have considered leaving the cat alone during a hurricane. Although you thought it best to move your dogs to a place of safety, somehow you believed that your cat could fend for herself during the intense noise and water stoppage and potential looters rummaging through your house? I’m astounded at your insensitivity and your lack of foresight.

Assuming that you’ve spent more than just a few minutes with your cat, you must realize that cats are sensitive to strange or loud noises. They’re averse to any change in routine. They require clean water and regular food. And all domestic cats need love and attention and physical contact with their owners, no matter how much they’d have you think otherwise. For you to blithely pack up your dogs and assume that Lola would be all right by herself is stultifying. I do not know any of the details regarding your hasty pre-storm departure, but any other cat owner would have packed Lola up into her kitty carrying case before anything else. I know I would have. Even a domestic dog has a shot at surviving by himself in the event of an unplanned separation from his owner. Cats do not.

My cat is item number ONE on the list of things to relocate to safety in the even of an emergency. That’s because I regard him as my dear companion, my playmate, by nap buddy, my infant child, my travel pal and my confidant. If you do not regard your cat in this way, perhaps you’d best stick with your dogs, and give Lola to someone who appreciates the love and beauty and importance of an animal as lovely as she obviously is.

My hope is that you’ve learned from this experience. ALWAYS KEEP THE CAT SAFE. They don’t always make good decisions on their own.

–Jon

Of course, I just had to respond:

Jon:

Thanks so much for your stern words of admonishment. You know, despite being displaced from my home for a month and a half, having my friends suddenly scattered across the country with no chance to say goodbye, suffering weeks of uncertainty about my own future and that of the city I love, and generally being part of the worst natural disaster in US history, I wasn’t feeling quite bad enough about Lola’s ordeal. I’m overjoyed to receive such a supportive letter from someone who’s clearly been through comparable hardship in…where is that you’re from? San Diego? I mean, under normal circumstances, I might take your tone as condescending, ignorant, even idiotic, but given all the experience you’ve had with hurricanes and such, I’m sure you speak from an informed position.

Cheers,

Richard

Did I overreact? I mean, have I not made it abundantly clear that I know I made a mistake? Did I not adequately explain my efforts to retrieve her in the three weeks prior to my return home? I don’t know how many other ways I can say it: I screwed up, big time. I’ll try not to let it happen again.

And yes, I was going to include his email addy, just for kicks. But then, I thought, that might just give him more opportunities to annoy people. If you really want it, though, it’s yours for the asking….

Eleven Things I Can’t Wait To Do When I Get Home
[in no particular order]

• Order my winter beverage of choice–Absolut on the rocks, dirty–without having to explain what “on the rocks” and “dirty” mean.
• Weed my garden, or what’s left of it after six weeks of practically no rain.
• Welcome dozens of friends to my house for what is sure to be the Best Thanksgiving Ever.
• Watch the Krewe du Vieux from my corner, drinking myself silly before, during, and after the parade.
• Dance cheek-to-cheek with my boyfriend every time the band plays “If Ever I Cease to Love” at the Society of St. Anne ball.
• Assemble a cast, write a play, and direct it at One Eyed Jacks.
• Ride a bike absolutely anywhere, terrifying pedestrians along the way.
• Play a couple of games of bumper pool at Mimi’s, then walk over to Big Daddy’s for the real thing.
• Linger over two-hour dinners at Crepe Nanou, Tommy’s, Commander’s Palace, Cafe Degas, and Feelings. One-hour dinners will suffice at Pho Tau Bay and Deanie’s (assuming it’s still standing). I’d like to include Sid-Mar’s on that list, but its future is in question right now.
• Head to La Peniche for a hideously high-cal, high-fat blue cheese burger, only to realize that it’s Wednesday and La Peniche is therefore closed.
• Fall asleep on my own bed, surrounded by dogs, with the boyfriend in the next room, playing the Fiery Furnaces just a little too loudly.

Great. Just great.

About an hour ago, my Inbox disappeared.

I’m not sure how it happened. I plugged in an external drive that contained, among many other things, backup files from work, including email. Then a weird, never-before-seen “Clean Up” dialogue box appeared. Some files were scanned–I don’t know which ones–and the box closed. When I went back to my Inbox, the 100+ emails that should have been in it were gone. All my stuff in subfolders is fine, it’s just my Inbox that’s missing.

You can imagine how thrilled I am just now.

So, basically, if you’ve written me in the last five weeks or so and you’re still expecting a response (I use my Inbox as a tickle-folder), it ain’t gonna happen. Sorry….

Well, the trip was pretty uneventful. We left on time, more or less, arrived in New Orleans hungry, and headed over to Slim Goodies, only to find Kappa locking up for the day (she was having to re-stock, meaning that the restaurant would be closed for the first time since she’s returned). Eventually, we found ourselves at Clover Grill, enjoying a tasty though seriously curtailed brunch menu and catching up with a few friends.

When we finally got to the house, it was essentially as I left it a couple of weeks ago–same windows out, same debris on the street. The only difference was that this time there was a new notice on our front door: a photocopy on plain white paper explaining that the SPCA had come by and fed our cat.

This, of course, is after I’d already rescued the cat. It’s also after I contacted the SPCA, the Humane Society, and every other pet care outfit in the country, telling them to take our house off the list because I’d already retrieved the cat I called about the day after Katrina hit.

It gets better. Even more entertaining than the lack of internal communication at the SPCA was their apparent desire to cause still more damage to our home: not content to enter the house using the same broken window the National Guard had used, the SPCA felt it necessary to dismantle the gate on the other side of our house, smash a windowpane, and break down a set of French doors. All for a cat that I told them wasn’t there.

Now, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful–I’m very, very appreciative of the SPCA and the Humane Society and every other organization that’s been hard at work rescuing animals for the last five weeks. And ultimately, the damage to our house is so minor that I can handle the repairs myself: I mean, I’m pretty handy with a screwdriver, and I can re-set and glaze windowpanes in my sleep. Still, it’s a little troubling to wonder how many animals might’ve died while the SPCA’s teams were attempting to rescue pets that should’ve been crossed off their lists….

The rest of the trip was thoroughly unremarkable. Jonno and I were in the house for all of 30 minutes. He grabbed things for his impending trip, I boarded up windows, re-locked doors, and re-set the security system–though given the fact that we own nothing lootable except for a quirky, seven-year-old TV set, it was probably all in vain. We said a quick hello/goodbye to the neighbors who were slowly returning to the ‘hood and who said they’d keep an eye on the place until I return full-time in a few days. Ta-da.

Funny thing is, even with all the mess on the streets and the general lack of people in the area and the understanding of just how long it’s going to take to get things looking “normal,” I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed again.

So far, so good.

It’s the first day in over five weeks that we’re officially being allowed back into our neighborhood, and Jonno is up running. I’d asked him to be ready to depart at 6am, knowing that the roads are going to be P-A-C-K-E-D packed–I mean, it’s essentially evacuation in reverse, without the benefit of contraflow. We’re taking the back way home, down through bayou country, but I still think we’re gonna hit traffic…. Anyway, Jonno’s awake and in the shower and it’s barely 5:30am. I wouldn’t be surprised if the National Weather Service issued a bulletin today indicating that hell has, indeed, frozen over.

Our plan is a pretty simple: retrieve some of Jonno’s things (he’s leaving town for a couple of weeks on Friday), patch up the missing windows, duct tape the ‘fridge and haul it to the street (we’re not even gonna try to clean the bitch), have some brunch with our buddy Kappa, and head on back to Lafayette before most people have gotten through their front doors. I won’t be able to go back permanently until I finish up a job here and participate in my brother’s wedding–all in all, about another week and a half–but it’s a nice first step.

So, a break from Katrina stuff. Just for a bit.

Today, I’m thinking about Bush’s newest pick for the Supremes. And I’m wondering if anybody else died a little inside yesterday as GW was going through his nomination schpiel, listing Harriet Miers’ community activities. He was bumbling along, rattling off things like the state Bar Association, the YWCA, Goodwill Industries, Exodus Ministries…. And I was all, like, wait, wait, wait: did bitch say what I think he said? Exodus freaking Ministries?

As it turns out, he did. I suppose it could be this Exodus Ministries. Or the slightly less creepy Exodus Ministries. But I hope to goddess that Miers wasn’t affiliated in any way with this version of Exodus, ’cause I’ve already got one ulcer working right now.

Does anybody know for sure? Oddly enough, The Advocate didn’t even bother to mention it in their somewhat phoned-in coverage of the story. But then, they’re not always the brightest kids on the swing set, if you know what I’m sayin’.