Homeless and Ignored

http://www.wwltv.com/local/stories/wwl102407jbhomeless.1a2f81d93.html

As I have written before, New Orleans is still very much suffering from the ravages of Katrina. Our hearts go out to those in the California wild fires. After all, we know precisely how it feels to watch nature's rage devastate your home, your city or town, people you love. And I do not mean to take anything away from those people. They need help; they need to start over, many of them; and even the 'lucky' ones who did not have their lives, or all their worldly possessions destroyed, still will be haunted by this disaster for years to come.

We in New Orleans are not only haunted by the memories, we are still haunted by the devastation. There are simply not enough dwellings for all the people here. Landlords continue to raise rates on apartments, some barely livable, because they can. People had inadequate insurance on homes, or their policy holders have claimed exclusion after exclusion. The Federal government seems to have forgotten us. Prices on food and gas and utilities are up, because those who supply these things still want to meet their bottom lines. We don't have enough hospitals, or doctors, or nurses, and our mental health facilities are laughably inadequate.

We always had a high poverty rate. Now the plight of the working poor is so severe that one cannot survive on minimum wage. Many schools are still closed. Where does one put one's children, in order to seek work? One of the reasons so many stayed behind during Katrina was that they didn't have a way to leave the city. Pre-Katrina, we had a very good public transportation city. My family hadn't had a car in all the years we've lived here. But in our post-Katrina world, the bus routes are sharply curtailed. There are fewer buses, the schedules are far slower. People who didn't have transportation then don't have it now, and that makes things such as getting to school (no, most of our schools don't have school buses unless they are privately funded by parents; the kids get bus tickets for the public buses) and getting to work difficult.

By some estimates, the number of our city's homeless has doubled post-Katrina. Some are workers who came to help with the rebuilding, and now can't afford to live here. Some were put out of FEMA trailers. Some lost family, and came back alone. There are many reasons that these people have fallen on hard times. Imagine if you woke up tomorrow and your home, and all you owned, was gone. Your job is gone. Your friends are gone. Your family is scattered. Could you start, alone, from scratch and rebuild your life? If you could, then count yourself lucky. If you have enough of a bank account that you could immediately afford rent or house payments twice what they were yesterday, could immediately get a new car, new clothing, new appliances and dishes and furniture, could feed yourself and those around you, count your blessings. For many of us it isn't that easy.

So, what has happened to the homeless here? Well, if you do a Google Search on Homeless New Orleans City Hall, you'll get a lot of hits. This summer, as an attempt to bring the plight to the forefront of the city's priorities, the homeless set up a sort of protest/safe camp in Duncan Plaza, a little park across from City Hall. It was only supposed to be for a weekend, originally, to bring attention to the situation. But while the Mayor's Office didn't do anything except organize a bit of food for them that weekend, the police have not forced them to move. So they are still there, and are forgotten. And now we are entering the time of year where we have frequent cold snaps. It got into the 40s last night. Our fall, winter and early spring weather is very changeable. It can be 80 one day and 30 the next. These people are freezing. And hungry. And tired. And dirty.

So, what do I want readers of this blog to do? I want you to help, any way you can. You can send letters to City Hall, I'll include the address. You can send help. These people need food, clothing, tents, sleeping bags, soap, toiletries. I'm willing to collect things and hand deliver them, but obviously I don't want to post my address here. If you want to help, email me at maggietcat@gmail.com and we'll work out something. Or send boxes directly to The Homeless c/o City Hall. Include anything that you think will help, from toothbrushes and soap to granola bars to underwear, socks, tee shirts, coats, blankets, and so on. They don't have to be new items (well, maybe the underwear should be). It doesn't have to be expensive. Send me beans and rice, and I'll take pots out to them. Send them paper plates and bowls and plastic utensils. Here are some items I think would really be appreciated:

Inexpensive blankets: Microfiber material is inexpensive, warm, and best of all doesn't need to be hemmed or finished. Cushion your packages with yards of it.

There are bed/blankets that you can make if you are handy, from bread bags. Have your kids collect them, or even make them, at school.
http://www.bagbed.com/

American Science and Surplus (sciplus.com) has all kinds of really inexpensive items that could make a huge difference to someone homeless. Here are just a few (and no, I don't work for them, just love their catalog).

Mylar Warmth
They have the look of something designed for the space program. They're mylar, a paper-thin shiny metallic sheet, that comes in handy when your car breaks down in winter, or when you're separated from your climbing group on the slopes of Mt. McKinley. Barring that, they're also a perfect material for a do-it-yourself cold-climate Halloween costume-near impossible to rip by hand, but cut easily with scissors. There's no padding, so they wouldn't be too comfy on your bed, but they sure are warm. They both come folded about the size of a wallet. The Blanket is 52" x 82", the Sleeping Bag is 34" x 84".

91007 EMERGENCY BLANKET $2.50 EACH
91432 MYLAR SLEEPING BAG $5.50 EACH

Sleeping Pad
Campers put these pads under their sleeping bags to insulate themselves thermally and ergonomically from the hard cruel ground. They call them "Insulite" which sounds like a brand name and they are military grade. We don't know if the items we have are seconds from that company or somewhere else, but we can't tell the difference. They are at least 20" x 60" and are 3/8" thick dense foam rubber. We have light blue, dark blue khaki/green and mauve/purple, from which we shall pick your purchase. One side is glossy with more closed pores than the other. We have used them, and they are great! Feather light too at only 20 oz. Good as light duty tumbling or exercise mats as well.

24668 SLEEPING PAD $6.95 EACH

Go Native
This straw/bamboo/tatami (we're not sure what to call it) mat is tightly woven but flexible. The 70" x 24" mat rolls up to a compact 2-1/4" dia. Unroll it on the beach, porch or picnic table. Natural color, with light green or pink binding (our choice).

34031 BEACH MAT $3.25 EACH

Be A Standout!
Wear bright orange PVC to enhance your visibility and reduce the likelihood of tire tracks across the toes of your sneakers. The 24” long vest is 39” around, plus the 11” ties in front. A couple of reflective stripes encircle the vest. The hooded rain poncho is 38” long x 51” across, with snaps on the sides.(The poncho is more pink than orange.) Both the vest and the poncho are one-size-fits-all, waterproof and reusable. Throw a couple in your trunk, and hope you never need them.

35972 SAFETY PONCHO $2.95 EACH
35919 SAFETY VEST $1.95 EACH

Ovular Foam
Very nice oval- shaped thingies made of an almost Nerf-like foam. Supposed to be headrests for pick-up trucks. But we also see them as camping pillows, kneepads for gardening and floor-waxing, even a perfect stadium seat if your tush ain't too big. 15" x 8-1/2" x 1-3/4" thick; we'll choose from an assortment of colors.

27664 FOAM HEADREST $2.00 EACH

Tough Paper Trays
And lots of ‘em. These coated paper trays are microwave-safe. In fact, they’re very much like the ones used for some commercial frozen entrees, but we draw the line at claiming they’re food-ready or food-safe. At these prices, though, they’d make great lab trays, paint palettes or craft containers for schools—or any place else you need a lot of tough little disposable trays. They measure 8” x 6-3/8” x 1-3/16” deep and are off-white inside, bright orange/red on the outside.

36322 DISP TRAY, BULK $17.95 PKG(240)
36231 DISPOSABLE TRAY $2.95 PKG(30)

Tubs for Stuff
Originally intended for hospital use (Think Nurse Cratchit. Think cold, wet sponge baths.), these 12” x 9–1/2” x 4–1/4” deep washbasins have rounded ends and flat lips. The #5 plastic is that wonderful institutional–yellow color. But they’re indestructible, short of melting them, and they nest when not in use. Use them to store your craft supplies, the kid’s action figures, the cat’s squeeze toys. Or take up nursing.

91728 YELLOW WASHBASIN $1.00 EACH

Drag-A -Bag
If a suitcase can have wheels, why can't a shopping bag have wheels? Now it can! This bag, which can be folded into a 12" x 7" x approx 2" thick packet with a convenient carrying strap, can become a stuffable 26" tall x 12" x 7" carrier. When the bag and its woven handles have been unfolded, and its (2) short legs and (2) 3-1/2" dia wheels have been rotated into place, it rolls right along! It's sturdily constructed of heavy-duty, see-through green plastic, and it's perfect for shoppers, teachers, tradesmen, anyone.

35142 BAG W/WHEELS $5.95 EACH

Surplus Sacks
Good 'uns, though. We'll pick a white or an olive-drab cloth military laundry bag for you. They're lightly used but clean and 28" x 18" with a drawstring at the top. If you've already got a laundry bag, they're just the right size to be camping pillowcases. You don't take your pillow camping? Try it. Maybe you won't lie there wishing you were home.

37056 LAUNDRY BAG

Inverted Lid
We suspect this clear plastic bathtub shaped "bowl" was made as the lid for some horrible airplane food dish. It is very light weight, flimsy even, 5-1/4" long x 2-3/4" wide 1-3/16" deep. Hold frog parts in it in biology. Mix craft glop in it. Hold sequins while sewing, or watch parts while seeking the source of ticking. Great to cover one large stalk of celery stuffed with cream cheese and placed on a dish of your choosing.

30905 FLIMSY BOWL $2.00 PKG(50)

If you don't want to help New Orleans homeless, think about the homeless in your own community. It doesn't cost much to help someone. I think of the story, I believe from Contact by Carl Sagan. In it, some disturbance has caused a beach to be covered with dying starfish. A little girl runs up and down, frantically flinging as many as she can back into the sea. Her father watches for a few minutes, and then says, "There are so many, you can't possibly make a difference." She replies, "It makes a difference to the ones I save."


So, email me, or send your mail, or better yet, your usable items to our homeless. And make a difference to the one you save.

Duncan Plaza Homeless
c/o New Orleans City Hall
1300 Perdido St.
New Orleans, LA 70112

(504) 658-4000

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me."

Then the righteous will answer him, "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?"

The King will reply, "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me."

Matthew 25:35-40

My Son Kurt

(Note: I found writing about Katrina, and the second anniversary, much harder and more upsetting than I first thought. So, until I once more screw my courage to the sticking place, today I'm going to post an essay I wrote about my son for his college applications.)


Kurt has always been, and still is, a wonderful child. I could not have asked for a better son, and I'm very happy just to be a part of his life. He has what I consider to be the qualities of a truly gifted human being. Aside from his intelligence and good humor, he is also incredibly creative, deeply compassionate, and so empathetic that it seems almost impossible for him not to see some good, or at the very worst, the reasons for the bad, in people. Every day I look to him as an example, and hope to be more like him.

From the time he was a tiny boy, he's had the single-minded determination to be a director. The first TV he watched wasn't Sesame Street or cartoons, but That's Entertainment. He was fascinated by it, and was dancing his little bottom off in his playpen before he could walk. When he'd fall, he'd fling out his arms, as if he meant that to be the grand finale. When he was about two years old, he saw a Sesame Street bit where Kermit was directing a muppet production of Oklahoma, and of course his cast kept getting it wrong, singing Eklahoma, Aklahoma, and so on. Kurt asked me what Kermit was doing, and I explained a director's job to him. From that day forth, he wanted to be a director.

Shortly afterward, he started asking my husband and I what all the words at the end of movies said. We explained credits to him, that it was a list of the cast and crew, all the people who put together a movie. So after every movie he saw he asked us to read the credits to him, until he learned to read and could do it himself. When he played with his action figures and stuffed animals, he didn't pretend they were fighting or going on adventures, he pretended that he was making a film about a battle, or an adventure, a horror story or a romance. And he'd work for weeks on one film, every day giving us reports on how it was going, production problems (he even had an imaginary producer, Cindy West), and the difficulty of special effects or lighting or even the weather.

Three of his imaginary movies were particularly memorable. The first was Attack Pack, the Movie. He had figures that looked like cars and tanks and trucks, but if you manipulated certain levers, they'd change into wild beasts that were half-machine, half-animal. He was, and is, the most even-tempered human I've ever known. He never threw tantrums, he was always willing to negotiate, and it took a very extreme situation to really anger him. That's why one day I was so surprised to hear him in his room, yelling and throwing toys around. I think he was around four at the time, I know it was before he started school. So I went in, concerned, of course, and asked him what the problem was. He shouted, “I hate critics! Two thumbs down, the book rated it a bomb! Kids seem to like it, but everyone else said it was one of the worst movies ever made!” So, trying not to laugh at him, I left him to continue his rant about critics and the reviews of Attack Pack, the Movie. I was amazed at the depth of his involvement, not only that he did spend weeks talking his way through a movie, but that he even got bad reviews.

His next film was an attempt to redeem his reputation, one called Secrets of the Small Desert. In it, a young girl got separated from her parents and, while trying to find them, she stumbled upon a small, mysterious desert. A lion befriended her, and together they undertook a quest to find her way home. Along the way they met a wise old eagle who offered aid in the form of hints and adages. Kurt had many stuffed animals, but he had a few that were especial favorites. One was a goofy red stuffed bird named Chickie, with a fat, tailless oval body, two stuffed feet (but no legs) attached directly to her body, little stubby wings, a round neckless head with two black button eyes and a stuffed beak. When we watched the Academy Awards that year (a must-do tradition for Kurt and me), he frowned a bit at the end and said, “Oh, they forgot to include Secrets of the Small Desert.” The next day he told me the Academy had called, and were having a special luncheon to honor his movie. It was up for Best Picture, Best Director, and Chickie was up for Best Supporting Actress. I asked him about Chickie, and he said she played the wise old eagle. Before I could say a word about that silly bird ever passing as an eagle, he said, “she spent hours in make-up every day.” So he and his stuffed friends went to the banquet to receive their awards. Chickie, ever the one who kept him humble, said, “Well, you can forget about ever getting an Oscar for Attack Pack, the Movie.” However, he did come out with the director's cut of Attack Pack, the Movie, and took out all the romantic scenes. “They just didn't work,” he told me, “even the kids hated those parts, and no one could believe that animal machines would fall in love.” It was never a blockbuster, but the director's cut did improve the movie, and the bad reviews stopped.

The third really memorable imaginary film was entitled, The Monster King. He worked on this movie for most of kindergarten and first grade. It was very, very involved, and had several sequels, such as The Fire King and The Frost Monster. Many days as I met him at school, we'd sometimes decide to walk the long two miles home instead of waiting for the bus, just so he could tell me about the newest developments in his movie, and the classmates and teachers he was adding to the cast.

Unlike most children, Kurt never really pretended to be many different things when he grew up. He was always set on being a director. He was, and is, an avid watcher of movies, and from an early age admired directors' different styles. We had a Hitchcock summer, where we watched a different Hitchcock movie every week on the local PBS station. Kurt was amazed by the Master's ability to evoke such terror without really showing much gore. He greatly admired Steven Spielberg, and when he was tested for Talented in Theatre, told the testers that if he could be anyone in the world, he'd be Steven Spielberg. As he grew older, his list of favorite directors grew. Tarantino, the Coen Brothers, Kubrick all joined his list. He took film courses whenever he had the opportunity, such as with Duke University's Talent Identification Program, which he attended for three weeks every year for four summers. He came home very excited about film noir and other genres, and still loves to discuss all aspects of movies we watch, from lighting to cinematography to directors' thumbprints.

While he was being tested for the Talented in Theatre program after his kindergarten year, they suggested he be tested for Gifted as well. I was with him for some of the tests. In the vocabulary portion, the tester asked him if he knew what the word “brave” meant. He answered quickly, “It means when you are really, really, scared,” and the tester's eyebrows shot up, because he'd done so well on the rest of the vocabulary words. But he continued, before she could say a word, with, “but you do it anyway.” He's always had that deep understanding of the human condition, our motives, and our actions.

I can clearly remember his loss of innocence as well. The summer before he started middle school, sixth grade here, I had a massive heart attack. A month later, during his first week of middle school (and just a couple of weeks before 9/11), I had a triple by-pass operation. I still remember the hurt, haunted look in his eyes, when he realized that life sometimes had very rough patches, and no one was immune. He is an only child, and has always been very, very precious to us. And we've always had a very close relationship. My husband and I sometimes talked about the time when he'd enter his teenage years, knowing it was a time of hormonal changes and unfocused anger, a time of rebellion. But that hasn't happened in our little family. We still, daily, talk about anything and everything. We've made ourselves practice letting go, first to family in Florida without us, then to the Duke TIP program in North Carolina, and finally, the summer after Katrina, a trip to Austria sponsored by kids there who wanted to help some Katrina kids. Every time I've said goodbye, I've felt my heart break. (Kurt says he and I have Jello hearts, so soft and tender they can be cut with a spoon.) The days without him have seemed so long, not as merry, not as fun. But we know as parents that a big part of our job is to let him go, and to do it gracefully.

Kurt told me after his first summer at Duke that while he really enjoyed it (he took a theatre course that year), and while he really liked meeting other bright kids, he realized that no one would every really understand him the way I did. I think that may be one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. After my heart attack and surgery, I had heart failure for several years. Kurt has always uncomplainingly helped around the house, and helped me, in any way he can. He does chores with, if not exactly a cheerful heart, at least a willing one. He cooks, he does laundry, he sees to the pets (two cats and a dog who all adore him). The social worker at his middle school called me after the heart attack and asked if there was any way she could help. I asked her just to talk to him. I knew he was very upset, but sweet soul that he is, he didn't want to add to his father's, or my, burden. So she started a small group therapy session, including other children who were facing hard parental issues, divorce, death of a parent, and so on. He told me that he always felt lighter after he left her office, and recruited some kids who were facing difficult issues that hadn't been mentioned to the school. At the end of the year, the social worker called me. She said that she thought he was handing everything well. But she wanted to know if I'd mind if he continued the group sessions—not because Kurt needed them, but because he was so good at drawing out the other children. He never mocked them or made light of their troubles. If they cried, he didn't laugh, he cried with them. His suggestions, his compassion, his empathy made the group meetings better for everyone.

During his eighth grade year, his school nominated him as their representative for Cox Cable's Inspirational Student Hero Award. They told me they hadn't even considered anyone else, that Kurt was the unanimous, and only, choice for the award. We attended a breakfast award ceremony with him and his favorite teacher, and the other award winners. It was a wonderful day, and one I will always remember. He's always been my Inspirational Hero.

Kurt's first year at his gifted high school was rough, as is everyone's first year. From the loving womb of his elementary and middle school into the stringent academic world of his high school was a big change for him. At first, he felt overwhelmed, but he knuckled down and did what he had to do to stay there. There was never any question of him attending a different, easier school. Katrina hit right at the beginning of his Sophomore year. We were evacuated thanks to some very good friends. After criss-crossing the south, we finally ended up in Tomball, Texas. There were a choice of high schools there, as the private schools were waiving their fees for Katrina refugees. But Kurt insisted upon going to the big public high school. He said he'd been a public school student all of his life (albeit charter schools), and he wanted to see what other public schools were like. He found the work very easy, which was good, since we were all terribly stressed about being relocated. But once again he was a trooper, and made good friends there. He's always had some Obsessive Compulsive Disorder problems, and gets it from both sides of the family. On his father's side they are thumb-suckers, his father's grandmother went to her grave still sucking her thumb. We did some research, and discovered that for about 25% of those who suck their thumbs there is no “cure” and it is a life-long practice. So we always gently encouraged him to try to keep it a private thing, but to also understand that it wasn't his fault.

The social worker at the school in Tomball called me about it. She was concerned that the other kids might tease or bully him because of it. I told her he hadn't mentioned anything like that to me, but I'd ask him about it. When I did, he told me that no, most of the kids didn't mention it all, and in fact everyone there went out of his or her way to be kind. And the kids who did ask him about it did so out of curiosity. To them he explained that it was a form of OCD, and then went on to explain the disorder to them. So I called the social worker back and told her all this. She was very surprised, but after several seconds of silence said, “Well, good for him.” And that school, as with every school he's ever attended, was sad to see him go when we moved back to New Orleans at the end of the semester.

He desperately wanted to come home, not because people weren't kind in Tomball, but because he is a born and raised New Orleanian. It was vitally important to him that he graduate from his gifted high school. His birthday is in early February, so he's a Mardi Gras baby. From the time he was a year old he's loved the parades, the beads, the fun. His fifteenth birthday fell on Carnival Day, and we were able to get him on one of the trucks in the Elks-Orleanians Truck Parade. The family that hosted that truck were as kind as could be, making his costume, putting on his make-up, and inviting him to their home after the parade. They had a birthday cake, and made it a very special day for him, and he returned their kindness with gratitude and grace. He had too many beads (we'd been saving them since he was a baby, knowing that one day we were going to try to get him in a parade). He called home and asked if he could give his left-over beads to the family with whom he rode, and of course we agreed. And it never made a bit of difference to them, or to him, that they were black and he and I are, as my father-in-law says, “fish-belly white.”

Kurt's always been very color-blind when it comes to racial heritage. Even now, he sometimes has a hard time determining someone's race, and will instead say something like, “her skin color is the same of (some common friend of ours).” One of the things that really bothered him about our suburban life in Tomball was that he missed seeing Indian and Asian faces. He saw a few black faces, more Latino, but really no others. It took him a little while to put his finger on what was wrong, until he realized it was the lack of diversity.

Our little family has always struggled financially. We felt strongly that it was important that I be a stay-at-home mom. It's hard to do in a city in this day and age. I've often worried that Kurt might feel cheated because he didn't have as many things, or fashionable clothes, or all the lessons and luxuries most of his friends have enjoyed by virtue of being from two-income families. But he told he that not only did he not miss those things, his friends envied him. He said his closeness to his parents isn't something that money could buy, and that no amount of things could make up for the relationship we have. That seemed to me just an amazing thing for an American teenager to say. And it is one of the reasons he wants to be a director, so that he can take time off to be with his children.

He has a solid group of friends, some of them going back as far as kindergarten. Finding them was a priority after Katrina. He has befriended those with autism, hyperactivity, and other problems, as well as those who are just smart and funny. He doesn't get along well with those who are prejudiced, or cruel, and has stood up to bullies often on the behalf of someone else. Everyday my greatest joy is seeing his beloved face. I cherish the time we have together, and our easy ability to talk about things silly and serious. I hope he manages to see his dream of changing the world through his movies, but his back-up plans to write or to teach will change the world as well. He is brave, respectful, funny and cute, intense, passionate about issues he considers important, a good and sympathetic friend, determined, kind, and just the sweetest soul I've ever known. Every day of my life I'm grateful just to be a part of his. Kurt is the most wonderful human being I have ever known, and the greatest blessing of my life.

Our Katrina Expedition--New Orleans to Texas to Florida, and Stops In-Between

Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from god.

(Bokonon, Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.)

I don't think any of us who were involved with Katrina will ever forget those chaotic times. We watched the storm approach the city, as we'd watched so many in the past. At first, she looked like a little thing, especially compared to some we'd weathered. We were having some troubles at the time (but then, don't people always have troubles, especially at the worst of times?). We were pretty broke, we didn't have a car, and I'd had a hysterectomy ten days before, and had only been out of the hospital for a little less than a week. I was still taking lots of pain medicine, and moving around a little every day, but mainly just resting, trying to heal. As a diabetic and a massive heart-attack survivor, all surgeries were, and are, serious and difficult with me. My OB/GYN called on Friday, to tell me she had a new prescription of Percocet waiting for me, just in case Katrina got worse. I am so very, very grateful she did.

As it happened (or, as a Bokononist* would say, as it was supposed to happen), my husband's job sent him home early that Friday, so that everyone could prepare for the coming storm. He stopped and picked up my prescription, since it wasn't one that could be called in but had to be rewritten for every refill. We wrote a check to the local grocery for what tape, batteries, flashlights, water, tuna, peanut butter and pet food we could find, and decided to ride it out. But when we got up on Saturday, the news was growing worse by the hour, and mandatory evacuations were being called by the city.

We are truly blessed with some very special friends. Despite having recently gone through a divorce, our good friend Rick offered to take us, our big dog, and two cats with him, his two sons (one older, one younger than ours) and their big dog in his minivan. We talked for a while, and decided to evacuate to somewhere in the Houston area. Despite feeling lousy, I spent the day on the phone and the computer, talking to hotels, and Rick, trying to find a place that would take us. About 2am on Sunday we finally found a place that still had openings, and took pets, in Navasota, Texas. Rick immediately reserved two rooms, and we decided to all get a good night's sleep, planning to head out late Sunday morning.

With so many bodies, we all packed very lightly, just a couple of days worth of clothing, water, pet food and the cats' carriers. We had one standard cat carrier, since we rarely took both cats anywhere at once. But we did have an old guinea pig cage. My husband and son cleaned it thoroughly, and lined it with a towel. I packed up my insulin and heart medications and medical history list that I keep updated on the computer. We needed a cooler for my insulin, and other than that just took one small suitcase. We all thought we'd be back home in a couple of days.

The ride wasn't too bad, all things considered. We'd evacuated only once before, again with Rick and his family, for Hurricane Ivan. At that time they had two cars, and also evacuated their tenant, who had no place to go. That time too we'd headed for Houston. That was a nightmare trip, 26 hours on the road in bumper-to-bumper traffic, pulling over to pee in the bushes, going with out food or water except for brief stops. Finally, we'd left the interstate and had taken the country highways, which, despite being a longer route turned out to be faster. So this year we hit the highways right away. Despite all the people fleeing, it only took us about 10 or 12 hours to hit Navasota.

I took the front passenger seat, climbing in and out of the car, not to mention going down our front steps, were hard enough for me. I took a couple of body pillows, and used one for my back and another for the front to help hold my stitches together. My husband, the three teenage boys, both cats and both dogs all piled into the back. Our dog ended up lying on a suitcase, with her head on either the front cup holder or Rick's lap. Our little female cat was great, not a hint of complaint, and both dogs were good. Our male half-Siamese cat cried his head off in terror the entire trip. At one point Rick's dog, a big Lab/Sharpei mix, grabbed the back of his carrier and shook it, as if to say, "Enough! Shut up you whiny little s.o.b!" While we sympathized with her, none of us could really blame her.

Finally we hit the motel. Despite my pain-killers, I was worn out and in an awful lot of pain, and of course our rooms were on the second floor. So against doctor's orders, I was climbing concrete steps far too soon after surgery. We cleaned up a bit, went to grab a bite to eat, and decided to spend a day in Navasota so I could recover. It was hard to sleep that night, between our crowded room and all our worry over the storm. The last news we saw was hopeful, it looked as if Katrina might not make a direct hit on New Orleans. Still, I woke up very early, around 5am, and immediately turned on the TV. To my great relief, New Orleans was still standing. She'd taken a lot of wind damage, but seemed to be in far less dire condition than we'd feared. So the guys went out for a bit of sight-seeing (not that there was much to see in that little one-horse town), and I managed to get up long enough to go eat. That night, we decided to head back for New Orleans the next morning.

As on the day before, I woke up early Tuesday and again turned on the TV. To my shock and horror and heart-breaking disbelief, I saw our beloved city under water. My sobs woke the guys, who then went to wake Rick and his sons. We all felt shell-shocked. Our first reactions were not to worry about our homes and belongings, but all the people we feared dead. We knew how much of the city was below sea-level, and we knew who had stayed behind. Some stubborn folk, some thrill-seekers, people unwilling to leave their pets, but mainly those who had nowhere to go and no way to get there. New Orleans had great public service, we'd lived there over 20 years without a car. So all the people like us, who hadn't had a good friend, had been left behind. The poor had been left behind, because travel and motel rooms take ready cash. The elderly who'd ridden out Betsy and Camille and thought they could stand Katrina. So we worried, and wept, and spent the day in mourning, all traumatized.

Rick had family in Michigan, so that's where he wanted to go with his sons. We called all our relatives, trying to find someone who would take us and the pets, because we were determined to keep our little family together. My husband's parents in Florida said they could take us, but they didn't think they could make the drive all the way to Navasota. So Rick said he'd take us as far as Nashville, and my in-laws said they'd meet us there. Wednesday we were back on the road, and between the stress and tears, I was doing worse and worse. My son did get to see mountains for the first time in his life, and that was a small bright spot. We'd also passed through Kinder, Louisiana on the first leg of our trip. It was so small that if you blinked, you'd miss it, but it proudly proclaimed itself 'The Crossroads to Everywhere." So we made a bit of a game out of all the places we'd been since Kinder, Paris, Cairo, a slew of other towns with European and Middle Eastern names.

By the time we got to Nashville, we were all sick to death of being in a car. We'd alternated talking and listening to the radio, but the news just got worse and worse, and after a time we had to take a break from it. The in-laws had made reservations in Atlanta, and wanted to go there as soon as possible, so we only spent the night in Nashville. I was in agony, cramping, sick, my wound infected by this point. But everyone felt the need to press on, and so we did. We did take a little more time to rest in Atlanta, a day, I think. Some of my memories of this time are pretty scattered, I was taking more pills than I should have, but then, hysterectomy patients aren't supposed to criss-cross the South in cramped conditions, let alone climb stairs, hold dog leashes, and all the other rules I'd broken. I also broke down in tears oh, about every 15 minutes it seemed.

So we headed for my in-laws home in Fort Myers the next day, hoping to make it in one leg. By this time I wasn't sure I was going to survive the trip, and to this day I feel certain that I would have died if we'd had to have left our pets at home and taken the refuge of last resort in the Superdome. I also suffer from IBS, so after so much worry, so many tears, and so many days in a car, added to the things abdominal surgery does to one's innards, and the effect of narcotics on the digestive system, I was so blocked up that I couldn't pee any longer because my intestines were pressing against my bladder. I don't remember much of this last leg, a kindly lady heard me crying and complaining to my mother-in-law in the bathroom, and suggested some things from a pharmacy that might help. Once we finally reached their home, my husband immediately made a trip to see what he could get from the drugstore. I did manage to finally unblock my system, but that was an agony all its own.

Little did we realize then our journey had only begun. I'll discuss our pets in another blog this week, they did end up being regular little troopers. And I'll talk about where we went from Florida, far earlier than we'd anticipated. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about writing all this down, but it has helped. While many of those memories are fogged by pain and stress and drugs and tears, what I mainly remember is the worry over those left behind, and the kindness of people who saved at least my, the pets, and perhaps all our little family's, lives.

*Bokononist: A follower of Bokonon, the holy man in the jungle in Kurt Vonnegut's, Jr., most excellent novel, Cat's Cradle. If you have not read this book, I urge you to do so immediately. And if you don't get it, or like it, read it again and again and again until you do. Bokononism is based entirely upon foma, harmeless lies.
Live by the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy. (frontispiece of Cat's Cradle)
This site lists just the known Books of Bokonon: http://cns2.uni.edu/~wallingf/personal/bokonon.html

Living Katrina

The second anniversary of Katrina is Wednesday, August 29, 2007. Most of our local television stations are doing various programs that day about remembering Katrina. But for those of us in New Orleans (and most of the gulf coast), it really isn't about remembering that awful time, because we are still living it.

Fortunately, we are getting nationwide attention again, finally. I couldn't tell you how many times I'm asked online if everything is back to normal here, since we don't seem to be discussed much any more. I know CBS evening news is sending Katie Couric here for a series of specials this week, and Oprah is also doing a new show about us on Wednesday. I'm hoping there is a lot more national attention, and would ask all of you to do your best to watch something about the sad state of affairs in which we still live.

Two years later there are still blocks and blocks and blocks that look like warzones. Many abandoned homes are now so overgrown they look like jungles. There are still piles of debris everywhere, even in the 'cleaned up' areas. FEMA trailers, despite all the health hazards discovered about them (unacceptable levels of formaldehyde, some of them just blow up, some are falling apart, etc.), they are still a ubiquitous part of our landscape. Sometimes in the midst of destruction, one can see one or two brave families trying to rebuild...and they face theft, arson, and worse since they live in practically deserted areas. Other abandoned homes have been taken over by drug lords and crime rings, turned into crack houses, or just used as shelter by the homeless.

Our crime rate is through the roof, with murders a daily occurrence. We don't have enough nurses, doctors, or psychiatrists and psychologists to deal with the depression with which most residents still struggle. Domestic abuse is up. Suicide is up. We are trying to regain our equilibrium, but it is very difficult. I recently read a short story (and don't remember the name or author, I'd be glad to give proper citation if anyone who reads this knows) in which he said, "New Orleans was struggling along, pretending it was still the Big Easy," or words to that effect. We want to be the Big Easy again. We want to be fun and funny, happy and healthy, goofy and good-crazy and not quite understood by the rest of the world the way we were...before. But it is very hard.

Prices have gone up on everything. Rents are so high, up hundreds of dollars from prices before the storm, because too many people still don't have viable housing in a neighborhood that isn't plagued by the criminals who've come to town to take advantage of our over-burdened police force. There really isn't any kind of help for renters, homeowners have some options, but renters are just out of luck. New Orleans has always been a lot like Sesame Street, with neighborhoods changing block to block, all of us jumbled all together and getting along just fine. My son's elementary school had students representing 43 different nationalities. His best friends in kindergarten were a boy from mainland China, a boy from Soviet Georgia (who spoke very little English) and a little black girl from a few blocks away. Now much of the diversity is being priced out of certain areas, and it is a loss to all of us. Food costs have risen, insurance is almost impossible to afford, and our utility companies are scrambling to make up lost revenue from a smaller population by raising prices.

I know a great many people gave to the Red Cross and other charitable organizations right after Katrina, but precious little of that money has trickled down to us. Our family got $1000 from the Red Cross, two years ago, and that's it. Meanwhile, our medical insurance has gone up, our co-pays have gone up, our deductible has gone up, gas has gone up, our rent has increased, and we just aren't making it any more. I'm completely disabled, but my husband makes $30 a month too much for us to qualify for SSI. So we eat a lot of beans and hot dogs, my husband and son do without, so they can afford my prescriptions and tests and doctor visits. We want to stay here. We love New Orleans. But we don't know where to turn, or what to do. We can't afford to move, my husband is 54, he can't just go looking for a new job at his age, even if we could afford the move to another city. And my son is a Mardi Gras baby, born in early February. In 2005, his 15th birthday fell on Mardi Gras, and we put him in a parade for his birthday present. New Orleans holds his heart, and ours, and all three break a little more every day.

In my next post, I'll talk about exactly what we went through in the days before and after Katrina, the kindness we encountered, the shock we felt when our government didn't seem to care about all the lives lost, changed forever, ruined. But tonight I'm not remembering Katrina, I'm still living it, every time I look outside, every time I watch the news, every time another bill arrives. Please, send us kind thoughts, and maybe even a little more money. Just be careful what charities you choose, because far too many unintended pockets are getting lined between you and us.

And that may be the saddest part of all. As Sir Edmund Burke said, “The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.”