Waiting for Rita

It is 2:07 pm, when I would normally be wrapping up the school day, and here I sit at home and at my computer. It was announced yesterday, before we left, that schools would be closed today. We have not yet processed all the fear of Katrina and her aftermath, and now we must react to new fears of Rita.

There is a routine in areas that are consistently visited by the threat of hurricane. You watch every depression that forms during the season and monitor its progress. We know the names of all major storms in the past … oh, 50 years, at least …as well as we know the names of our family members. They are like members of the family – the unwelcome relatives who show up without invitation at family gatherings; the ones who sit at the table with bad manners and vulgar conversation, totally spoiling what should have been a warm, wonderful, and cherished family memory.

Katrina left far too much of herself behind and now Rita is going to do the same.

I didn’t evacuate this time. I think I am far enough east, somewhere here between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, and I know I am high enough to be safe from flooding. I felt getting on the road, in the way of others who had to evacuate, might not be the best course, this time.

The morning started warm and drizzly, with the smell of the ocean in the air. That’s usually the first thing I notice. Our typically humid atmosphere takes on the eerie feeling of being closer to the ocean than we really are. I can’t say with any accuracy just how far I am from the gulf, but figuring how far it is from here to Morgan City and then from there to the gulf … and figuring how long it takes me to drive to Grand Isle … well, I guess I am about 150 miles inland. Far enough not to smell the ocean under normal conditions.

The drizzle has segued into a more steady rain and just minutes ago tornado warnings were issued for the parish. I am concerned about that. I will continue to type and reflect while listening for the roar of the train that would indicate it is time to run downstairs, seeking the safety of the cinder block walls of the laundry room, calling for Moose and Bella to follow me or get left behind.

I went out early this morning, while the drizzle was still light enough to barely notice, and moved all the patio furniture inside, along with the potted plants and anything I could carry that might become a flying projectile later on this evening or overnight. I moved the garbage cans into the garage and did a visual check of the yard for anything that might get caught up in the winds and thrown through a window. All part of that routine I mentioned earlier. There are limbs, still, from Katrina that I had intended to burn – before the “no burn” order was issued, due to the drought following the storm. I can do nothing but leave them where they lay.

There is a bit of wind outside, blowing intermittently, not overly gusty at the moment. My apartment is upstairs, surrounded by big old oaks. I always say it is like living in a tree house. There is no one in the main house. The Katrina evacuees returned to their homes near New Orleans last week and are going to ride this one out there. They had no water in their homes with Katrina and feel they will be dry for this one, too – but I insisted they keep the extra key in case they needed to get out in the middle of the night.

They aren’t on the same side as the water that is now re-entering New Orleans, overtopping the levees, re-opening breaches in the levee walls. They should all be safe.

I am more concerned about my neighbors to the south of me … all those little fishing villages with the French names – Pointe-au-Chene; the Fourchon; Chauvin; Dulac. The TV is already showing the roads in those areas completely covered with water. Not still water, but rapidly moving water that looks more like an angry river than an overflow.

It seems southern Louisiana is undergoing another major cosmetic change, before the scars of the last surgery have healed. What will we look like when the bandages come off, when the waters recede? What more will we have learned?

Schooldays

Today ended like so many other schooldays – days from last school year, when I came home in the afternoon and bustled around to do a little housework, ate a quick sandwich and washed a load of clothes before or after tutoring a student in math or reading or occasionally some other subject. So much like so many other days, except today I continue to carry feelings that I don’t like having; feelings I cannot even express, yet, except for the obvious.

Today was the first day we returned to school after the hurricane. Plans had been made to register those students who had come into the parish for evacuation. No one could predict exactly how many students were here, but we are a small parish – a farming parish, nothing much but sugar cane growing along the side of the road. There are the remnants of sugar mills that once refined hundreds of tons of sugar each year; a few insurance offices, a couple of attorneys, the city hall, the courthouse, a Popeye’s Fried Chicken and a few grocery and hardware stores. We have but four traffic lights in the entire parish. It is a truly rural community.

Predictions were vague, but expectations were for perhaps fifty new students. By the time I left this afternoon, after assisting with getting papers and folders sorted and dropped off at various places, I had counted 137 … and there was a stack of at least fifty more. And that didn’t include the students who registered at another site. This doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you put it in context, it reflects the magnitude of the displacement.

Donations had poured in for uniforms and school supplies – donations from children selling lemonade by the side of the road, boy scouts and girl scouts working together to collect spare change. Each family came through the center that had been set up for registration and filled out the necessary paperwork then went to the tables to choose three uniforms, searching for the right sizes, looking for empty rooms to try them on. Many of the children still wore a look of disbelief – as though they had been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep and were not yet sure they were really awake. As if they were hoping someone would tell them this is all a dream.

I sometimes found myself in the position of trying to make someone comfortable as they waited in long lines to get to see the right person to help them. I would ask them about where they were staying, where they were coming from. And I asked about their homes. I know they are homeless, but they are NOT homeless ... not in the sense that is usually imagined. They have lives – had lives. Lives that were lost through no failing of their own. They need to know that others know that. Sometimes they need to talk.

I spoke to a man from St. Bernard Parish. If you have been listening to the events unfold, you might know this is one of the parishes most heavily hit. Most of the parish is 8 to 10 feet under water. His home had been built on pilings, but the water still rose four feet inside his home. He recounted how, when he saw the water rising, he took his children to the attic. No sooner had he gotten them settled than he heard other children screaming outside. He ran out just in time to grab a child rushing past him in the swollen waters and to scoop another from where he had caught on a fence.

He took the two of them to safety and found two other men to assist him in looking for others. They tied themselves together with water safety vests and began going from house to house. As they found people they would carry them to the second story of a building nearby and continue to look for others. Finally they found some boats and the task became easier.

An older woman told of seeing an elderly man in front of her snatched away by an alligator. Another told of wading past the bodies of babies who had drowned.

At one point I just looked around the room, at the shear numbers of people in our small community who had lost, literally, everything they had worked their entire lives to build; people who had had dreams and had worked to make those dreams come true; people who had believed that if they worked hard for something it could be theirs forever; people who continued to look for hope with grace and dignity. Sometimes, however, I saw the despair that was fighting just below the surface, struggling to reach out and around them and to pull them totally under.

It was then I would walk down the hall to the ladies room, lock myself in one of the stalls, and cry for all the dreams that would never live again.

Who was it who said, “The worst pain of all is the grief for what will never be”?

Day Five of Fury

I read another comment today - this time from someone in the UK whom I summarily blasted - about the deplorable way in which New Orleans and Louisiana responded to the needs of their impoverished citizens prior to the storm, not taking the necessary measures to evacuate more people, save more lives. I am again appalled at the simplicity of thinking that generates these sorts of comments. The dilemma of poverty in America is not so simple, the blame neither so easily placed nor so readily deserved.

There were many reasons for people remaining behind to await the storm - very few had to do with the ability to leave, except where transportation was truly lacking, but rather with the lack of choice of where to go. The impoverished were offered transportation - to the shelter of the Superdome, which only afterward became a poor choice. In previous storms, the Dome has been a semi-comfortable shelter for many people. Not home, but not desolate. It was the best we had to offer, considering the unpredictable nature of the storm. What if the city had sent people in the direction the storm chose to take? What then? What would have been the analysis then?

And this storm was mightier, much mightier, than any storm for many years. For the first time in 25 years, I evacuated. I felt this one was different. I was scared, and I have never feared a storm in my life, having grown up with tornadoes and having lived these past years with hurricanes. I am one of those who sit on the porch to watch the fury of nature. But this one ... my god, it was big. So big. To see the map and this damned storm covering the gulf from shore to shore, filling it to overflowing, no sign of the ocean waters beneath ... and to see that eye, tight, powerful, holding on to so much force. And to see just how far from the eye were the winds. No one should have been able to look at that and stayed behind. No one. But anyone looking at that must have wondered, as did I, just how far must I go to get away?

We drove, my daughter and I, for twelve hours. Due north. Roads to the west were jammed and roads to the east were still in the possible path for far too many miles for me to trust them. We drove north, into Arkansas; the first hotel available was 9 hours away. I have friends living a few hours beyond that, so we drove further.

I am sure the world will always believe that the poor were left to perish. But the world sees what the media shows and only that. After all, how newsworthy are the white folks who stayed behind because they didn't want to leave? Of course, that would put an entirely different spin on the story.

Not that poverty isn't an issue, but not for the reasons the media implies or the world infers. The reasons are much more complicated. I strongly believe that if the city had offered free lodging in hotels in Houston and Dallas and Memphis and had presented a streamlined charter bus with full-screen TVs for in-route movies, and all the food they could eat, very few of the impoverished would have remained in the city. The fact is, riding out the storm was a helluva lot more exciting than sitting it out in the Superdome.

I also strongly believe a certain contingent of those who remained behind in the center of the city did so in order to take advantage of the situation. If you are a thief and I tell you everyone in town is going to be gone for twelve hours ... everyone ... would you not stay? Yes, I am quite sure there were many of those who are looting now - for merchandise, not for food - who saw this as an opportunity.

As for the wealthy white population ... I suppose it is because they are so rich that so many are still awaiting evacuation, still in shelters, still wondering where they are going to live.Yes, the wealthy have more options. It has always been this way, and it will remain this way. With means comes opportunity. It is this that inspires people to achieve wealth. It is this that is the basis for our democratic, economically republic society. We have, as a country, denounced economic systems that prohibit or even limit the commerce that makes wealth possible. We actively seek to force our economic system and standards onto other nations. We can't have it both ways. If we have economic competition, we will continue to have those who achieve and those who do not. How can we, then, pass judgment when the system works in exactly this way?

Yes, the wealthy had a place to go and the means to get there on their own. The poor had the option of public transportation to public shelters. Many of the poor did stay because they could not afford to go anywhere but to these shelters, and shelters are not attractive in the best of times. I am curious as to what supports other countries - which are so quick to criticize - have in place to accommodate one million plus evacuees. I am sure we could learn from your example. What do you have set up to offer them as immediate, emergency housing? What do you have to offer for transportation to the sites, other than buses?

Remember, although we know these storms are coming, we cannot predict exactly where - and the when is predictable within only a few days, most of the time. I suppose a mobile evacuation site would be the answer. I suppose other countries have this - to accommodate one million plus people? And of course they have reserves of food and water stored there, with bedding and blankets? And doctors, hundreds of doctors and nurses, waiting for days, just in case ... And of course they have enough vehicles to provide the transportation?

As for the looting ... remember, most of those looting had nothing before the storm damage. Now many of them have wide-screen TVs. The local news media has made little reference to those who are looting for food, water, essentials, other than to say it is happening and to comment on the desperation. It is the looting for electronics, jewelry, guns, etc, that most of us living this madness have a problem with. And to tell you the truth, I have little problem with that. Where the heck are they going to plug in that big ol’ TV? How are they going to protect it from the rising water? How are they going to escape the typhus and other dreadful diseases they will contract from walking in that polluted water? My theory is, let them loot and drown with their plunder. But then, I have never believed we can "fix" everything. Some things are way too far beyond our control. Let nature take its course. It usually wins.

Was poverty an issue in the number left behind, the number left to be rescued, the number left to die? Of course, it is an issue. It is always an issue. Poverty has been an issue for years in this country. However, where was the indignation of the national leaders, the national black leaders, before the storm? How many millions of dollars have other nations sent to the US to save our starving children? How man of those in this country raising money for those in others have acknowledged that we have a huge problem with poverty and hunger and the diseases they beget right here on our one doorstep? Why did you wait until now to get angry about this? And when are you going to DO something?
.