I wasn’t in New Orleans for Katrina. On August 29, 2005 I was sitting on my couch watching the news of the storm, first in disbelief, and as the days passed, in horror and anger.
I hated how New Orleaneans, the citizens of America’s national treasure, were stripped of their dignity. Treated like enemies, threats, burdens, when all most were trying to do was not drown.
I saw how ordinary people cared for each other, the Cajun Navy and random folks with boats went out every day to rescue their neighbors. (And I saw how the State, including the federal government, demonized and harmed them.)
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I live here now. The scars are evident. The Katrina crosses still visible on some houses. The stories, the pain barely concealed.
Many friends said they wouldn’t observe the 20th anniversary, were trying not to think about it, didn’t know. I hoped to support where I could, to make space for grief however it surfaced.
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My neighbor picked me up around noon to go to the Industrial Canal, where the levy near Jourdan St breached 20 years ago, allowing 15 or 18 feet of water to roar through a residential neighborhood. The wall has been repaired and B Mike Odum’s Eternal Seeds have added colorful, poignant murals. There were speakers, some dancing, some singing, many somber faces.
She wanted to head out so we drove around the Lower 9, looking at the shameful Brad Pitt Make it Right houses, already fallen into disrepair, and then other well kept structures, and the many, many empty lots, some with skeletons of foundations, many overgrown with trees and brush.
After a stop at gorgeous organic market and a detour around the departing second line, I went to Armstrong Park and worked the info tent for the K20 city project. It rained most of the afternoon, and attendance was light.
I met Jeremy Oatis, the suit maker behind Resist and Remembrance: Display of Masking Indian Suits (Original Wild Tchoupitoulas).
A distraught man who talked about being flooded out of his house on Tennessee Street near the levee, voice breaking as he recalled not being able to save his godson and another child from the water. I can’t forgive myself, he said in despair. One of the volunteers, Ellyn, comforted him until he was able to go get some food. I needed to talk to y’all, he said.
The twenty-something son of another volunteer Willa sat with us, eating greens and talking softly and sweetly about growing up in Georgia, moving to New Orleans at age 8, then evacuating during the storm. We aimed for Houston but we only made it to Baton Rouge, he said. They were so kind, low key giving me clothes and food when I needed anything.
The healing dancers came by the tent. A flock of City Year teens in their red shirts, begging for a t-shirt or a bandanna. Tourists. Strays from Southern Decadence.
There was food truck drama when they stopped taking meal tickets. Then the bathrooms shut down. Volunteers stopped by to chat, kids playing with bubbles or jumping around. Willa’s granddaughter shares my name so I admired pictures of a sassy 8 year old.
I went to watch Gladney play his last few songs, he’s a Grammy-winning performer who was friends with Timothy and brought joy to Congo Square (I’d seen him perform at Jazz Fest!). I said goodbye to Timothy and left around six p.m., tired and contemplative.
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