Surviving Katrina, Surviving Guilt
August 29th, 2007 marks the two year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and its legacy of devastation on the American Gulf Coast. I can’t believe that it has already been two years since my family and I were forced to evacuate New Orleans. Prior to Hurricane Katrina, I never lived in another city for a long period of time. New Orleans had always been in my home. Currently, I’m living in Atlanta, Georgia, like so many other Katrina evacuees. My family, friends and I have since recovered our worldly belongings and have resettled in different places all throughout the United States. Some of my other friends are still there in New Orleans, studying and sticking it out. I pray for them and my city. I pray that things will get better but I can’t help but feel like I have abandoned my hometown.
I went back for a visit in April 2007. It was wonderful. New Orleans seemed to be wounded but healing. It was springtime so all of the beautiful flowers were in bloom. The air was thick and humid—typical Southern heat. The old French cottage homes and Greek revival mansions were being repaired. The French Quarter was bustling with joy-seeking tourists, performance artists and musicians. The revelry and carefree spirit that New Orleans is known for has been resurrected. But beyond the French Quarter was my neighborhood—Gentilly. There was also the Ninth Ward, the area made infamous by the drowning of so many working class African-Americans. Compared to the fun and festivity of the French Quarter, the Ninth Ward and Gentilly seemed as silent as a tomb.
All those old feelings of anger and frustration began to resurface. I hadn’t been back for more than a day and I was already on the brink of tears. I thought if I could get angry so fast, how are the people dealing with this injustice? They have to experience it every single day. They have to experience the failing schools, corrupt politicians, shyster insurance agents out of control crime. They have to deal with the rapes, robberies and drug trafficking that have plagued the city since long before Katrina came to shore. If I could get so upset at a single moment of reflection—the truth that this current administration doesn’t care my city, its suffering citizens and the insanity of it all—how do the locals deal with it on a daily basis? I hope that God rewards their tears, prayers and work with his generous blessings because the people of the Gulf South are rebuilding it all by themselves.
My old next door neighbor decided to stay. Alhamdulillah, someone bought our house and they have decided to renovate it. My other next door neighbor’s has since been torn down. All that remains is an empty, grass covered lot. On each block of these neighborhoods, you will see abandoned houses, one after another. And on each block, one house, owned by determined strong-willed people, is newly renovated. They look like rubies in an endless sea of stones. My folks have since decided that they put in their many years into New Orleans and that it was time to move on. I, on the other hand, am still torn.
Part of me wants to return. Part of me feels guilty because I survived. By the grace of God, I survived! So did my family and friends. I remember those weeks when I tried my best not to entertain those nightmares of thinking of my father’s corpse floating in the water. I watched the news coverage knowing that I would see the face of an old friend or teacher who was stuck in their home at the Superdome or Convention Center. When I reflect on that turbulent year of trying to get back on my feet and getting used to life in Georgia, sometimes I feel like I made it out of there like a bandit. I lost all my worldly goods only to have them returned to me double, even triple fold. I’ve since moved on to a better life while thousands never had that option. Many New Orleans residents are homeless and left as prey for criminals who feed and are fed off of the misery of the desperate. Land grabbers are just waiting for them to give up their properties so that they can gentrify their neighborhoods for rich locals and tourists.
As a so-called activist and someone who claims to care about her people and her town, I still don’t know where I stand. I had always planned to leave New Orleans for a while so that I could discover other parts of America and the world. But this plan was based on the idea that I would have a city to go return to once my lust for travel and exploration was satisfied. Although I know that returning would mean the possibility of finding a job, dealing with a crime-ridden city and the malaise and depression of living in a place that care has forgotten—I still feel this obligation. It’s as if I’ve walked out on a marriage that’s hit a rough spot. And I don’t know whether feelings are normal or justified.
I guess I won’t have it all featured out until time and God’s mercy permits to understand it all. I had always envisioned owning a beautiful French cottage in Gentilly, sitting on the porch in the warm September sun, painting a picture and soaking in the humid heat. I miss so many things about New Orleans but I fear that returning at this point will be a mistake and that I will grow frustrated at the slow response and return to Georgia where there is some sense of normalcy. If God permits, I will return. If not permanently then at least as often as I can get there. I guess I do realize what it means to miss New Orleans.
