New Orleans is down, but definitely not out. Like the guy who valiantly staggers to his feet, gripping the bar while slurring, “And another thing, buddy-” after having his ass handed to him in a brawl, New Orleans is not over. Not by a long shot.
I thought I would return to utter destruction. I thought that the past few days would be the most painful of my life. Hurricane Katrina has caused me her fair share of sadness and has also, at times, shaken my belief that everything happens for a reason. But the two days I spent in New Orleans two weeks ago were some of the best of my life.
I thought everyone would be broken. And the city is.
It’s impossible to walk down the streets because the enormous piles of debris block the path. It’s as if every house has vomited out its contents, starting with furniture and ending with the walls. A brief lesson in New Orleans topography: the land nearest the river is highest, and it slopes down towards the lake which borders the city on the north. If you lived more than a few blocks from the river, you got water. Imagine if everyone who lived farther than two blocks from the Willamette had everything on their first floor obliterated.
People who had only three inches of water are gutting their houses. It’s not the water – it’s the mold that climbs to the ceiling and ruins literally everything but glass and metal.
There is debris everywhere. Much of the garbage in the dumps was picked up and distributed liberally around the city. With the exception of Audubon Park, which looks beautiful (thank you, Oklahoma National Guard!), there are no streets, no yards and no sidewalks without at least a small heap of garbage.
I woke to the sounds of my downstairs neighbors’ mountain of belongings being picked up by giant claws and dumped into an accompanying garbage truck. “Oh, that’s a cute comforter,” I thought to myself as it dangled, along with jeans and a stuffed camel, from the grip of the construction equipment.
Out in Lakeview, near where the canal broke, things are even worse. Oak trees that had trunks six feet across lie prone, browning in the sun. The black water line stretches as far as the eye can see – a perfectly level mark of the “toxic gumbo” that flowed into our city. Driving at night is like driving in the country because all the streetlights are out, yet you’re surrounded by buildings.
Amidst this mess, my room was fine. Aside from a ruined throw pillow that was under a leaky window, everything sat in the same place where I left it. The outfit I’d worn on my last night of work was still strewn across the floor; a half-written letter sat on my desk, collecting dust. It seemed incredibly unfair that my stuff was unharmed while so many others had lost so much.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t nice to have my own clothes and my photo albums back, and I know that if I had lost everything, it wouldn’t make any difference except to me. I know it’s just stuff, but sometimes it’s not. There are things that have so much more value and meaning than could be reported on an insurance loss sheet.
But, in the midst of all this, I found something that I never expected. Remember after Sept. 11, when everyone felt unified, and trivial events were no longer important? Everyone in New Orleans has experienced a watershed event that will change us forever, and I have never experienced such a sense of community and solidarity as I did there.
People called out to me as I walked down the street. They wanted to hear my story. They wanted me to hear theirs. They wanted to serve me lunch, and some truly wonderful individuals presented me with some cigarettes.
People who had lost everything were concerned about how I was liking Oregon. They wanted assurance that I would be back, and when I told them I would, they asked me to stop by and visit when I got back.
At the overflowing bars – some things never change – people toasted New Orleans, each other and even the hurricane that gave us so much perspective. We drank to the past, and we drank to the future. There is nowhere like New Orleans, and it will never be the same city. We don’t know what’s coming, but no matter what it is, we’re New Orleanians and we’ll always be a part of it.
“Screw the ones that don’t return – we didn’t need them anyway!” was a common theme, but I think most people will be back.
I’m not sure I’d put it that strongly, but it’s hard to imagine my life without New Orleans. It’s my hometown, and I’ve learned so much -good and bad -from the past two years there.

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