At a Crossroads in New Orleans
Probably the main reason that I have decided to take up blogging is that I find myself approaching a crossroads right now. Katrina has irrevocably changed the lives of thousands, and my family and I are no different. So many were uprooted and tossed across the country and now find themselves starting over somewhere new. We have decided to go back for now, but it is unclear how long we will stay. Many of our friends who have not left are considering major, life-altering moves. We are all just taking a little longer to do it.
My husband stayed through the whole ordeal, and I have since returned to a ruined city, in order to keep working. While so many have lost their jobs, we are very lucky to still have ours. Without deep roots in New Orleans, our jobs are keeping us there for now. But for how long?
They say you either love New Orleans or you hate it, but the real feelings are more complicated than that. People who have grown up there have a deep attachment to the city. They are the ones you hear on the news saying without skipping a beat that they will rebuild New Orleans bigger and better, whatever it takes. Those of us who have moved to the city from elsewhere tend to be more divided--and we were before the storm as well. Sure, there are some who jumped right in and soaked up every experience they could. Others, such as myself, were more reluctant to embrace the city. My husband and I loved the culture, music, food, and people, but couldn't get past the crime, the corruption, the appalling schools, and the stark stratification between rich and poor. And, of course, there was always the threat of hurricanes. I have to say that for me, the fear of rising water made it impossible for me to ever feel safe there.
When I moved to New Orleans from the Midwest six years ago, I had no idea what I was getting into. I accepted a job as an English profressor without even visiting the city. Jobs in my field are so scarce that I did not have the luxury of weighing my decision. This was my one opportunity for the holy grail of academic positions--a tenure-track job. The fact that the department was not paying for campus visits was my first clue to the city's and the university's poverty. The second red flag was raised during my interview when the chair of the department asked if I'd ever been to New Orleans. "No, but I've only heard good things about it," I said cheerily. ("Be upbeat about everything" was the mantra I had learned while preparing for interviews.) One of the committee members shot me a surprised look and mumbled, "Oh really? I could tell you a few things." But the chair quickly changed the subject. Those words have rung in my ears ever since.
Shortly after I arrived, the two junior members of the department filled me in. They took me out to dinner and what ensued can only be called a form of hazing. I heard every outrageous story imaginable--some about the department but many about this city that had become my new home. There were the crumbling schools with no air conditioning despite the subtropical climate, the highest murder rate in the country, the third-world living conditions, the constant muggings at gun-point, the ubiquitous rats and flying roaches. Last, but not least, I was informed of what all of America now knows, the rapidly disappearing marsh lands south of the city and the increased threat of hurricanes. "They say that if the 'big one' comes straight up the river and hits New Orleans the city will be wiped out," one of them told me. By the end of the evening, I could only laugh at their increasingly shocking stories. I couldn't believe the state they had worked themselves into. Surely these two are depressives who need help, I told myself. Really, I was not ready to hear their dire tales. I wanted to look on the bright side as I settled into my new home. But within three months I was battling flying cockroaches (they call them palmetto bugs, but they are nothing but cockroaches), my hubcaps had been stolen, and everyone I knew had verified my worst fear: that I was indeed living in a city that could any day be wiped off the face of the map.
When my husband got a good job with the paper the following Spring, we bought a house north of the lake about 40 minutes from the city. His new job required that he live in the community he was covering. We were happy to be together, but it felt like exile. While thousands of white folks had moved there over the years, fleeing the city's problems and many motivated by racism, we wanted to go the other direction. This was the kind of strip-mall suburb that was safe but mind-numbingly bland. We might as well have been living anywhere else in America. It feel light-years away from the unique culture that New Orleans had to offer. But we stayed put for five years, waiting to see if we could get out of Louisiana all together.
Within months of moving into our home, which was just above sea level, we experienced our first tropical storm (Allison). We woke up in the middle of the night to the most frightening sound I had ever heard--I can only describe it as Niagra Falls pouring straight onto our roof. We got up to look outside and found that our backyard had become a lake. Soon water began seeping in along the back wall. We frantically gathered towels and stuffed them against the walls. They soaked through almost immediately and we yelled at each other for more. But it was hopeless to try to stop the insidious seepage. And, of course, what we could see happening in the bathroom, we soon realized, was happening all along the back of the house, including under the rug in the living room. We were lucky. The water stopped coming and only the rug was ruined. But that night taught me how vulnerable we were, in a one-story home on the Gulf Coast that had supposedly never flooded before. Every year from June to November, I could never feel safe. And how can you make a life for yourself and your family if you are always waiting to be washed away? How can you raise a family and plan for the future if you are living with that kind of fear? The only way you can is to learn to ignore it. Many are still doing just that. But I no longer can.
My husband stayed through the whole ordeal, and I have since returned to a ruined city, in order to keep working. While so many have lost their jobs, we are very lucky to still have ours. Without deep roots in New Orleans, our jobs are keeping us there for now. But for how long?
They say you either love New Orleans or you hate it, but the real feelings are more complicated than that. People who have grown up there have a deep attachment to the city. They are the ones you hear on the news saying without skipping a beat that they will rebuild New Orleans bigger and better, whatever it takes. Those of us who have moved to the city from elsewhere tend to be more divided--and we were before the storm as well. Sure, there are some who jumped right in and soaked up every experience they could. Others, such as myself, were more reluctant to embrace the city. My husband and I loved the culture, music, food, and people, but couldn't get past the crime, the corruption, the appalling schools, and the stark stratification between rich and poor. And, of course, there was always the threat of hurricanes. I have to say that for me, the fear of rising water made it impossible for me to ever feel safe there.
When I moved to New Orleans from the Midwest six years ago, I had no idea what I was getting into. I accepted a job as an English profressor without even visiting the city. Jobs in my field are so scarce that I did not have the luxury of weighing my decision. This was my one opportunity for the holy grail of academic positions--a tenure-track job. The fact that the department was not paying for campus visits was my first clue to the city's and the university's poverty. The second red flag was raised during my interview when the chair of the department asked if I'd ever been to New Orleans. "No, but I've only heard good things about it," I said cheerily. ("Be upbeat about everything" was the mantra I had learned while preparing for interviews.) One of the committee members shot me a surprised look and mumbled, "Oh really? I could tell you a few things." But the chair quickly changed the subject. Those words have rung in my ears ever since.
Shortly after I arrived, the two junior members of the department filled me in. They took me out to dinner and what ensued can only be called a form of hazing. I heard every outrageous story imaginable--some about the department but many about this city that had become my new home. There were the crumbling schools with no air conditioning despite the subtropical climate, the highest murder rate in the country, the third-world living conditions, the constant muggings at gun-point, the ubiquitous rats and flying roaches. Last, but not least, I was informed of what all of America now knows, the rapidly disappearing marsh lands south of the city and the increased threat of hurricanes. "They say that if the 'big one' comes straight up the river and hits New Orleans the city will be wiped out," one of them told me. By the end of the evening, I could only laugh at their increasingly shocking stories. I couldn't believe the state they had worked themselves into. Surely these two are depressives who need help, I told myself. Really, I was not ready to hear their dire tales. I wanted to look on the bright side as I settled into my new home. But within three months I was battling flying cockroaches (they call them palmetto bugs, but they are nothing but cockroaches), my hubcaps had been stolen, and everyone I knew had verified my worst fear: that I was indeed living in a city that could any day be wiped off the face of the map.
When my husband got a good job with the paper the following Spring, we bought a house north of the lake about 40 minutes from the city. His new job required that he live in the community he was covering. We were happy to be together, but it felt like exile. While thousands of white folks had moved there over the years, fleeing the city's problems and many motivated by racism, we wanted to go the other direction. This was the kind of strip-mall suburb that was safe but mind-numbingly bland. We might as well have been living anywhere else in America. It feel light-years away from the unique culture that New Orleans had to offer. But we stayed put for five years, waiting to see if we could get out of Louisiana all together.
Within months of moving into our home, which was just above sea level, we experienced our first tropical storm (Allison). We woke up in the middle of the night to the most frightening sound I had ever heard--I can only describe it as Niagra Falls pouring straight onto our roof. We got up to look outside and found that our backyard had become a lake. Soon water began seeping in along the back wall. We frantically gathered towels and stuffed them against the walls. They soaked through almost immediately and we yelled at each other for more. But it was hopeless to try to stop the insidious seepage. And, of course, what we could see happening in the bathroom, we soon realized, was happening all along the back of the house, including under the rug in the living room. We were lucky. The water stopped coming and only the rug was ruined. But that night taught me how vulnerable we were, in a one-story home on the Gulf Coast that had supposedly never flooded before. Every year from June to November, I could never feel safe. And how can you make a life for yourself and your family if you are always waiting to be washed away? How can you raise a family and plan for the future if you are living with that kind of fear? The only way you can is to learn to ignore it. Many are still doing just that. But I no longer can.
posted by Scribbling Mama | 1:59 PM
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