Who would have thought, a year ago, that the next Mardi Gras would mean so much to so many?
To people living in all parts of the world who now have more awareness of all things New Orleans and who, in their desire to express their solidarity, might for the first time be celebrating Mardi Gras.
Or to business owners in downtown New Orleans and in the French Quarter desperate for tourists to return and help create some semblance of recovery/normalcy.
Or to the victims and survivors most devastated–at least in the New Orleans area–who live just 3 miles away from the French Quarter and who are deeply conflicted and worried, or outright angry, that Mardi Gras celebrations send the wrong message to the country and the world.
Or to the media crawling all over the place like vultures on a piece of road kill. (Media attention in the region is necessary of course, and some are doing a balanced job of reporting. But those that are focusing solely on Mardi Gras, and will pack up and leave tomorrow, aren't helping the situation.)
Mardi Gras is on the brain. But for how long? How long will our attention remain after the last dirty beads and plastic beer cups are swept from the streets (for they will be swept from the commercial areas even while the rotting innards of homes–what once constituted the belongings, memories, and lives of thousands– still awaits cleanup even now, six months after the storm)?
A year ago I barely knew what Mardi Gras meant. Other than it was masses of people partying wildly in the streets. Throngs of inebriated women–and men– gleefully responding to the bawdy calls of, “show us your tits.” The goal? Strings of brightly colored glittering beads shipped in on containers from China. And somehow this all also had something to do with the Christian celebration of Epiphany, Lent, Easter, and Jesus. At least that was my meager and possibly somewhat inaccurate impression.
My only other association with Fat Tuesday , the climax of Mardi Gras, was that a church in the small town I once lived held a yearly Shrove Tuesday pancake feed. All day long volunteers sifted, stirred, poured, and flipped giant fluffy pancakes made from some jealously guarded secret recipe that had been handed down through the years. Church ladies--donned in white lace or 70's flowered aprons--served up these confections, which we dusted with powdered sugar, drizzled with lemon juice, and covered with cheap maple syrup all day long.
My kids and I looked forward to this tradition every year. Then four years ago we moved to a new community and have missed that simple little pancake feed ever since. Especially this year. Today I wish we had some place locally to go and be with others to celebrate tradition, and mourn and grieve together that which has been lost by so many, not just in New Orleans, but in numbers hard to comprehend all along the Gulf Coast. A pancake feed would be nice.
Perhaps this would be a good time to take a moment to pause and remember all the other many families and businesses and neighborhoods and communities and towns and cities so greatly affected, devastated, displaced, disintegrated, or physically disappeared by the sister storms Katrina and Rita and their cousins Neglect and Inadequate Response. These people need to be held in our collective consciousness as well. Say a prayer for them, or whatever it is your belief system prompts your heart to do. But let's not forget them.
In January my kids and I--along with a friend and her two children--traveled to the Gulf Coast to participate in a couple of relief projects. Because of the need to find volunteer opportunities that would be a good fit for our kids, we decided to focus our efforts in the New Orleans area. And New Orleans, instead of some other equally devastated area, became the focus of my thoughts.
I had never been to the south, much less the deep south. While following the media coverage of the catastrophe I found myself questioning the subsequent calls to rebuild New Orleans. "Why don't these people retreat? Just throw a white flag up to Mama Nature and say, 'I give. I retreat to higher ground.'" And, "How much money should we be throwing at this astronomical problem presented by geography and poor planning anyway?" I was pretty clear, because of these questions and assumptions, that I wasn't going to the region to help the people rebuild per say, but to be a support for them while they try to determine the course of their futures.
Boy was I in for a shock. First of all, no amount of online research, talk with friends and groups who'd been to the decimated region, or viewing of video and photos could prepare me for the amount, quality, and wide swath of the devastation that we viewed upon arriving on the Gulf Coast. Secondly, and more importantly, I was naively ill-prepared for the deep dark haunting beautiful painful meaningful incredible history of "these people" that I would encounter and be engulfed by while there and have been forever and profoundly affected by.
It was not about "these people." And it became quickly and painfully apparent, on a personal level I'd not anticipated, that something very valuable to our nation, and our humanity, was wasting, molding, rotting, fading away in the wake of the hurricanes and failed levees and inadequate (to be polite) response.
"These people" have a history in the region I couldn't begin to presume to fathom even if I devoted myself to it for the rest of my life. But, after having traveled there, I can pose the following, to myself and anyone else who cares to listen: Imagine living in the same place your whole entire life. As did your family before you. And theirs. Imagine the histories and stories and traditions and neighborly and community connections. The beautiful, even through difficulties that may present themselves, tapestry that is woven by this kind of beingness in place and time. Imagine that it's all you've ever really known. And then imagine it being pulled out, suddenly and completely, from underneath you.
And just to dispel any persistent or lingering myths, this not so imaginary scenario didn't just happen to a bunch of poor black people. Yes, one of the hardest hit areas in the New Orleans area was the Lower 9th Ward. But to the east of the Lower 9th, separated only by a street, is St. Bernard's Parish, predominantly white.
And regarding the Lower 9th, to dispel another myth, while perhaps monetarily poor, according to the Greater New Orleans Community Data Center and the 2000 Census, they had a 59% home ownership rate (compared to 46.5% in Orleans Parish overall) . When one 75 year old Lower 9th resident was asked in 2003 about this high rate of ownership, she replied: "This was one of the first subdivisions that was designated for African Americans. The idea was just so wonderful to be able to buy a lot for $250, to build a house and be a homeowner. When my family first came here, we cut a street, a path really, to get back to this lot. In the Ninth Ward, you've got a group of people who have stayed because we wanted to - because we've got an investment in this community.” Imagine that, investment in their community.
As of the 2000 Census, St. Bernard's Parish was home to 67,229 people. Following the storm and flooding due to the failed levees, Parish president, Henry "Junior" Rodriquez, declared all of the parish's homes unliveable. And according to Wikipedia, "It should be noted that this is the first time in FEMA history that an entire parish/county had the severity of damage as St. Bernard received from Katrina."
It's easy for some of us to consider relocating. It is for me. I've done it. Several times. And driving through the unbelievably decimated neighborhoods of both locations left me in wonder at what great pool of tenacity and fortitude and desire these people draw from that enables them to even consider beginning the incredibly daunting tasks before them. I'm not sure I could do it. And, admittedly some aren't. But for most, it's not like that. These are a people of strength and character and history like I've never met before. And I was incredibly mistaken to have previously thought it was a no brainer, that they should just move on.
These people want to rebuild their shattered lives. In the place they've always lived. And being with them for just a short time, I began to understand why. And the value of their desire. And the importance of it-- to them, and to the rest of us.
They can't do it alone. And by no means does one celebratory Mardi Gras six months after the storm mean they are back on their feet. I now realize that their celebration is much more than glittering beads and drunken bawdy behavior. Their celebrations are of their incredible spirit. And today, what they want the world to see is not that their lives have been salvaged...but what needs to be, and is worth, saving.
We, in this country, pat ourselves on the back often for being can do, resourceful people. And we do have a history, although somewhat spotted, of helping others in their greatest hours of need. We would be gravely mistaken, following the greatest natural disaster to ever befall our nation, to turn our backs on our own. Or to just send $20 to a charity and feel we've done our share (though all those $20 donations do help). We need to hold our government, which was to be by, for, and of the people, to their bound duty. We need to ask why more and more money, $244,045,540,000 (as of 2:10 am PST 2/28/06) is asked and granted for a war in a foreign land, and more and more lives are needlessly lost to it, (I'll refrain here from further debating this mis-begotten war), and neglecting in the process, the very torn fabric of our own nation.
It's about money and priorities. Whose? is the question.
While volunteering with Emergency Communities in Chalmette one afternoon (which I highly recommend), there were a couple local street musicians entertaining the returning residents who were gathered for lunch. In between a beautiful set of songs, Rosaline stopped and said, "Not to be political, but it's been projected that to rebuild and shore up the levees it will cost 16.9 billion dollars. That's approximately what George W. Bush spends in Iraq every 90 days. Enough said." And then she smilingly and peacefully resumed her serenade.
Yes, Enough Said.
But yet, it isn't really enough. There is so much more to be said, to be done, so many people hurting and waiting...and so many stories. It hurts that words to actually convey the breadth of this thing are so inadequate. I could keep trying for hours and would probably not ever come close.
It's 2:40 AM here on the West Coast. Fat Tuesday. And I have a pile of pancakes to make for my family in a few short hours. Maybe I'll invite some neighbors over. New traditions to create and old ones to honor. And many people for us to hold in our hearts and not forget today...or after today.
