OUR WOMAN IN NEW ORLEANS (part two)
Guest Blogger Becky Updates Debbie's Story

Read part one here.

My friend evacuated from New Orleans Tuesday, 9/06 with her 86 year old step-dad, 20 year old son and wife, and six cats. They stopped in Gonzales, LA and left four cats at a shelter there, to be picked up as soon as possible.

The young couple and dad had a place to stay, and Debbie came to our house. She brought just a few small bags, along with her elder cat, and a kitten she rescued during the storm.

She got the kids and dad on a plane to Sacramento Thursday, and then left Friday with a couple from New Orleans; they were headed to somewhere near Los Angeles.

While she was here, I met a couple of dozen NOLA evacuees while driving them to various places. With one exception, they were in good spirits, which continues to amaze me. I stuffed my despair, in hopes of feeling useful while doing some small favors for those displaced.

I heard horror stories of Armageddon-like post-hurricane survival, told with humor and hope. Even while lamenting lost neighborhoods, schools, merchants and restaurants/bars/coffee shops, my friends spoke of dreams, plans and ideas for reconstruction and revival.

New Orleans will rebuild.

But can it ever be the same?

An interesting commentary from locals was about the Mardi Gras Indians. They speculated that the generations-old tradition of the Indians could easily be lost; so many people, while high in stature in their tribe, or krewe, are still desperately poor, and may have little chance to return to their home. They described the Indian’s fierce determination to participate in a cultural tradition, despite economic impossibilities: costumes are recycled every year, with sequins saved like gems. They also described those costumes as some of the very best of Mardi Gras, creative and wonderfully elaborate.

Another conversation focused on possible scenarios for the nouvelle New Orleans: an Amsterdam-like fantasy of canals; a smaller city with more art and less crime; a place of hard work and unfailing determination. There were a dozen more spin-offs of various themes. Hope was obvious, sadness yet to be visited.

So, I ask myself and the seemingly-fractured universe: can New Orleans ever be the same? How can it truly be the same, when so many are housed in air-conditioned, impersonal camps, possibly never able to return? I think I might be learning the concept of faith.

In the past few days, I never saw a single person from New Orleans cry.

And now that Debbie’s on her way to a forced vacation in California, and her cats are miraculously managing to temporarily integrate our household, and Baton Rouge is thronging with shell-shocked New Orleanians, we’re trying not to cry.

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