For Better or For Worse

Last night was one of those magical New Orleans evenings. A rocking Cajun band, couples swirling around the dance floor, the moon shining over the bayou, food and drink flowing freely, and a beautiful bride and groom who brought people from all over the country to share their love for each other and this city.

The ceremony took place on a wide pedestrian bridge that spans Bayou St. John near City Park and the New Orleans Museum of Art. My darling daughter was the flower girl and walked down the aisle, smiling and holding the hand of the ring bearer, a sweet little boy holding out his hand and announcing, “It’s raining.” (A few drops did not spoil the event, thankfully.) Her dress with blue flowers was a little too big and his pin-stripe suit was a little too small. They looked perfect together. And it was a miracle to me that they performed their job so beautifully, with a crowd of people on either side, standing and watching their every move. My shy little girl was beaming, and I had tears in my eyes.

Of course, she got a little restless during the ceremony, so my attention was a bit distracted. But it was a lovely tribute to the couple’s relationship and to the city’s recent hardships. The prayer included a plea for federal help, and a moment of silence was observed for those who lost their lives in the hurricane.

Beginning with that moment of silence, the evening got me thinking about so many people who are gone from New Orleans. In addition to the hundreds who died, thousands have moved away, most never to return. I have already mentioned our dear friends who have ended up in the D. C. area. But there are also many friends and colleagues who, it is becoming clear, will not come back. As I walk the halls of the Liberal Arts building on campus, I see the familiar names on office doors, and it is hard to believe they aren’t just sitting inside. From the outside of the building you even can see right through the windows into their offices, which look just as they left them back in August. In one, a book lays open, face-down on the desk, as if the owner will be right back to pick it up and start reading where she left off.

Last night was a reminder of our pre-Katrina lives because it brought together many old friends who have moved away, but all of them in the past year or so before the storm. I have often wondered what it must be like for those who got out before all hell broke loose. I know about ten people who happened to move on to greener pastures in the past two years. One of them told me she felt terribly guilty for leaving, a kind of survivor’s guilt. She had never planned to move away from New Orleans, but she had recently met a wonderful man and decided to join him in his home in Kentucky. Another colleague and his family decided to leave New Orleans because they didn’t want to raise their daughter here. They returned to the New Mexico desert, and he left academia. Certainly they have been thanking their lucky stars. Or do they credit their fortune to premonition?

Our friends who got married last night moved to Boston last Spring. Shortly after Katrina, they decided they would go ahead with their plans to get married back in New Orleans. Apparently, many were concerned about their choice. But they pulled it off beautifully, despite having to choose a new location as well as a new hotel when sites that were planning to re-open in time were not going to be ready. This was the first event since Katrina for the historical Pitot House, where the reception was held. It is a lovely Creole home with balconies, a front garden, and a large side-yard for the tent and tables and dance floor. It was a gorgeous evening, all captured by a photographer from the newspaper (who said he was more used to photographing dead people, a reference to his work during the aftermath of Katrina) and an artist who set up his easel and painted a large canvas with many of the evening’s elements: the bridge, the balconies, the moon, the bride’s long, flowing gown, even a little girl in a dress with a blue bow (our daughter).

Waiting in line for the bathroom, I heard one of the guests from California say that someone she told about her upcoming trip to New Orleans was shocked, as if she were making a trek into a war zone or a wasteland. I suppose this is the image much of the world still has of us. But everything last night contradicted such a picture. There was not a single reminder of the destruction. The fence had been repaired and the storm debris was long-gone. But underlying everything was this sense that what we were doing was momentous, not just for the couple but for the city as well. People from the surrounding neighborhoods came out to watch the ceremony on the bridge and the short second-line procession to the Pitot House. I’m sure they enjoyed the music emanating across the bayou, glad to see that another sign of life had returned. For now is again the time to celebrate and consecrate. A wedding is a beautiful beginning, and all of the New Orleanians there must have felt the promise it held for all for of us. For better or for worse, we are committing ourselves to this city. After years of flirting with New Orleans, I am finally ready to take the plunge.