Listener Essays

WALK THE DOG - 11 MONTHS POST KATRINA
Tom Lief

Every afternoon, weather permitting, my dog, takes me on a sniffing tour of our uptown New Orleans neighborhood. As he checks for signs of redolence, I survey the sights.

Tonoko always knows when we are ready for travel. He spies my grabbing our retractable leash and prances about in joyous anticipation for departure. Hooked up at the front doorway, he dashes onto the porch pulling me along.

Our route varies but a little. We usually commence the journey by walking down the bock to our neighborhood cemetery, which, as a result of the planting by an environmentally conscious neighbor, Barry, is bordered with a healthy stand of trees. Unfortunately, a Bell South crew recently lopped off the tops of many of these trees in order to install more strands of their precious cable. After fifteen years of hardy growth, their top branches gone, several of these trees, especially the Bald Cypress, will eventually die. While perturbed, we are not surprised at the insensitive blunders of contract out-of-state tree cutters. However, for now, there is sufficient foliage to shade us from the hot, summer sun.

Walking along tree-canopied pathways is always a special delight and, in springtime, the pleasure is intensified with the sidewalks lined with the colorful sights and the unique scents of wild flowers. Mockingbirds, song sparrows, blackbirds, doves, and crows like to congregate in the trees or perch on the chain link/iron fences bordering the cemetery sometimes announcing their presence with their good signs of songs, chirps, coos and caws. Inside the cemetery, is the view of ground level burial plots some in disrepair and other graves decorated with faded plastic flowers. There are also rows of raised granite tombs – a common sight in New Orleans. They were constructed to escape the ravages of flooding. And this architectural design was successful in protecting the contents from Hurricane Katrina. Fortunately, the cemetery and a good portion, but not all, alas, of our neighborhood is located on high ground. On All Saints Day (Halloween), relatives gather throughout the cemetery to clean and renovate the graves of their lost ones. Cemeteries and rituals for the dead are a special part of the New Orleans culture. In the past, during my drinking days and still married, Dona, my wife at that time, and I, accompanied by a galloping cat, would carry our dry martinis over to the grave yard, sit on the edge of a grave and sip as we watched the sun slowly set behind a stand of trees on the far side of the cemetery. I still have fond memories of our special graveyard and many stories to tell about it. Now it is Tonoko and I who enjoy our visits there.

As we pass by these graves and tombs, we can see chiseled in the stone Italian, Irish, English, German, French names – names common to our area’s history of multiple ethnicities. There is still a separate section for African Americans – a holdover from times past. Periodically, is a jazz funeral replete with mourners and a Dixie band playing slow, mournful dirge melodies prior to burial. After the jazz musician is reverently laid to rest, commences loud, happy, vivacious music with gyrating “second-line” dancers trailing behind the marching band.

There are even apartment tombs, housing different layers of related kin. One of these apartment constructions is a three story, eight across raised tomb titled: “Der Deutsche Frundschaft Bund gerundet den 6 Juni 1850” (The German friendship organization founded on June 6, 1850) - contributing to the cemetery’s title of German Graveyard. Many Germans settled in this neighborhood over a century and a half ago, which was, at that time, part of an area called The Town of Carrollton.

As our dog-man duo passes this scenic display of the burial plots and tombs, it becomes an excellent opportunity for Tonoko to investigate odiferous bulletins from other dogs and to leave his personal responses. Pulling me along the sidewalk, as I manipulate the mechanism of our expanding leash, Tonoko sniffs and explores for new smells, attempts to chase after loose cats and to greet other passing dogs. With a plastic poop-bag in hand, it becomes a choreographic ballet of switching hands with the leash and avoiding tripping over my canine friend. On one occasion, a humongous thunderstorm suddenly developed. Flashes of lightening were almost immediately followed by explosive thunder. Eschewing the potentially dangerous, lightening-prone large oak trees, we rushed back home but not soon enough to prevent getting caught in the deluge. The sheets of rain obscured my glasses. Tonoko got spooked by the crashing thunder and suddenly dashed directly in front of me. Down I went on all fours. Scratched but no broken bones. The famous explorer and naturalist William Beebe once wrote about getting wet in a remote Central American rain forest. He reported that you would try your best to keep that last dry spot on you dry. But when that last spot becomes wet, you no longer care. Well, on this one hapless trip, both Tonoko and I did not care.

Completing the walking survey of the graveyard, we are faced with the choice of going in one of two directions. One direction is Northwest for five blocks to Carrollton Ave. where I usually pick up our daily Times Picayune for update on the bad news in the world, reports about the dysfunctional Corps of Engineers not being able to complete the levee protection of New Orleans, FEMA mismanagement, renovation scandals, rising crime rates, and the local/state/national politicians not progressing beyond making and remaking plans about the rebuilding of the city. Sometimes we are too late and the newspaper box is empty. This is, in a way, a blessing for there is no need to compulsively peek into the paper and read the bad news. Notwithstanding the alleged disappointment of having no newspaper, the trip, so far, has been enjoyable because we have already walked by homes where friends live, sometimes stopping for brief visits with Joan or Cindy, or Melissa, or Lauren, or Lee, or Mr. Charles (an old-timey Southern way of greeting using “Mr.” with the first name). One of the houses along our route is a home for numerous Mexican immigrants here to help us recover from Katrina. If they are not out on their jobs, they are usually sitting on the front porch, playing lively and loud Mexican music, and sometimes, on the weekends, with cans of cervesa. As Tonoko and I pass by this Latin import scene, we acknowledge their presence and they reward us with smiles and a wave or two.

After arriving at Carrollton Ave, we walk three blocks along this busy, major thoroughfare, passing by a still abandoned storm-damaged schoolhouse. Huge, majestic Live Oaks (this species keeps it foliage year round) survived the hurricane and line each side of the avenue. The tracks of street car line, still not back in operation, lay in the center of the street’s “neutral ground” – a New Orleans term for boulevard. Most of the homes and business in this area of Carrollton are back to normal. A few are still being repaired and hurricane rubbish lies by the curbs. This section of the city was less affected than further down the avenue where there are huge sections of devastated shopping centers reminding us of the most dreadful hurricane New Orleans has ever experienced and the worse natural tragedy ever to occur in the history of America. But our area of Carrollton is in healthy recovery and the street is dynamic and alive with business establishments, banks, drug stores, gas station, restaurants, and too much traffic.

We are now on the last leg of our Northwest journey and ready to turn back toward home. This return trip also has homes of friends and associates and sometimes, to our delight, one might be present for a brief exchange of cordial greetings.

If we are fortunate, we might run into Mr. Ben who operated a nearby, small, neighborhood grocery store for many years. A kind, soft-spoken man, he wore a 45 strapped to his hip. He never was robbed.

Most of the homes on this route to home have almost completed repairs from the storm and, with the exception of some still undergoing renovation and piles of debris in the front, one would never know we had just gone through a catastrophic storm. Few blocks away from our home, we pass by a house where we use to live. Across the street is a former fire station converted into a home for its renovator, John, an architect friend who, politically connected, is able to provide additional data about the progress of recovery, or lack of, in our damaged city.

The other choice in our journey from the cemetery is to go southeast toward Broadway - a street three blocks away that runs by Tulane University. Depending on our route, we pass by Lusher Elementary School where our son Aram attended thirty years ago. If our timing is correct, we are able to observe noisy and active children playing in the schoolyard - which reminds us that our city is beginning to become normal. We also travel by the home of one of the Radiators, a famous musical group that provides that special New Orleans variety of sound. If Dave is there, and not out on one of his frequent gigs, and if he seems to be not severely hung-over, we cheerily greet him as we pass by. His house and yard, like most in the nearby neighborhood, is almost back to a pre-hurricane state. But there are other buildings, some further away, which are on lower ground, have manifestations of flooding and are in different stages of disrepair. Tonoko and I are forced to navigate around piles of trash and to be careful not to walk on the chards of broken glass.

Another friend lives near Carrollton Ave. and we may take time out to visit Bruce. He still has a FEMA trailer hooked up in his barren front yard and a huge stump of a fallen oak tree whose roots have bulged up his sidewalk several feet forcing us to walk in the street. This scene has not changed for months. Tonoko and I have to maneuver around the rubble in order to reach the porch steps. There we sit, relax and gossip with our friend whose dad was, many years ago, my teacher and anthropology professor at Tulane U.

Now is the moment for the final portion of our neighborhood odyssey. At this stage in our outing, especially in the beastly hot, sultry New Orleans summer, I am usually assuming the lead, pulling a panting Tonoko. Finally reaching home from our exploration, we are both delighted to relax in air-conditioned bliss fully satisfied with our adventurous outing.

Sadly, as a result of Katrina, many friends have left or are leaving, a neighbor and others whom we have known have died, and some of the professionals, doctors, lawyers, artisans, who were once of service are no longer here. One of my sons has moved with his fiancée to Spain. We deeply feel the loss and predict our city will never be like it was. However, those of us who remain are trying to rebuild our lives. Attempting to be normal in an abnormal time is difficult. And there is present the vague anxiety of another major hurricane arriving. Life here in New Orleans is not secure. But we persevere. Routines are important in stabilizing ourselves. Hence, these daily walks with Tonoko have become important in helping to survive and sustain a reasonable happy quality of life. If Tonoko could write, I am sure he would agree.

This I Believe

For 25 years of my 44 year old life I have lived either in New Orleans or in Slidell, 30 miles away from New Orleans north of Lake Pontchatrain. The first hurricane I remember is Betsy which was when I was five years old. My mother and I spent the night at a friend's home, still in Slidell, instead of in our mobile home because my father was out of town on a business trip. That is the only time I have ever evacuated for a storm.

Today, October 17, seven weeks after Hurricane Katrina I finally received in the mail my back issues of Time Magazine from all of September and October. Predictably, there was a major piece in one issue concerning who is to blame for the overwhelming failure of adequate and appropriate response to Hurricane Katrina. There is enough responsibility for this mess that all levels of government can share some blame, but what I found surprising is that in a poll 57% of the respondents blamed those citizens of the affected areas who remained in their homes and did not evacuate.

Why would anyone in their right mind choose to live in a bowl, below sea level in the hurricane belt? I have heard that this question has been posed by pundits, media, senators, the Speaker of the House, and many plain folk of this country and the world. The simple answer is that in the New Orleans area and the Mississippi Gulf coast, family is paramount. It is not at all unusual for neighbors to be blood related and a great majority of people who have chosen to make this area their homes have done so because of family ties, families of origin and families of choice. This is the area of the country where people say hello by saying "How's ya mama?". We are not stupid people who can not make a living anywhere else and have been forced to live in a risky area because of a lack of other options. We are intelligent, loving, generous, artistic, musical, spiritual, and fun loving people who also happen to be valuable contributing citizens of the United States. We have chosen to live in this bowl near the people we love, our immediate family and our community family. It helps that we have Mardi Gras, mild winters, gorgeous pine forests, jazz music, great food, and a unique culture but the primary reason we live here is family and the homeland security of living near those we love. If Jean Batiste, the Acadians, the freed slaves, the plantation owners, the French, and the Spanish had settled in North Dakota we would battle bitter winters instead of ferocious hurricanes in order to be with our loved ones.

We choose not to evacuate because we have taken steps to feel safe and secure in our home, no matter what storms, including hurricanes, may befall us.

Hurricanes, tropical storms, thunderstorms with large amounts of rainfall are a part of life in Slidell and New Orleans and most of south Louisiana. Hurricanes are something for which my family has prepared, respected and occaisionally in the case of a category 4 or 5 storm feared, but we have never evacuated. In the past 16 years that I have lived in this area, I have been a pediatrician married to another physician and because of our responsibilities to our patients and to our community we have chosen to ride out the storms thus assuring that we are in town and available if and when we are needed. Our home is above the mandatory evacuation line and has never flooded. We have C and D batteries, bottled water, canned food, a swimming pool full of water that can be boiled for cooking, a Coleman stove with fuel, a propane grill with a 250 gallon propane tank, and for the past 10 years we have even owned a small generator that was bought to maintain refrigeration and keep all of my office vaccines cold. Because of these preparations, we have been able to assist other neighbors who stay, protect our home, and reopen our office within one or two days of a storm. Homeland security is not soley a government departmental responsibility and it is no different in the New Orleans area than it is all across the US and for that matter, the world. Homeland security is just that, feeling secure in one's home.

The storm was not the scariest part of the past two months, it was the aftermath that has shook my core. I am adamantly anti-gun and yet with my only news source being WWL radio and word of mouth for almost two weeks, I heard sensational accounts of looting, rapes, murders, criminals crossing bridges to the northshore of Lake Pontchatrain, hospitals being looted and I condoned my husband's new practice of sleeping with a handgun under his pillow. My next door neighbor has a son-in-law who flies military helicopters in our area and had buzzed our homes more than once in the past to say "Hi" to his wife. I just knew that he would fly over and check on the neighborhood and so we painted a message that our family was OK on our roof on August 29 after the storm had passed. We waited to hear the helicopters. They never came. (To be more accurate, I did see helicopters when they were refueling in the air above my house one week after the storm). We had no idea of the devastation on the Mississippi Gulf Coast until the three days after the storm. I was standing in a line to enter Sam's and heard that the flooding in the area of my inlaws's home extended past the "safe" church in which they had chosen to ride out the storm. We drove to Mississippi not knowing if the church was still standing or if they were alive. We found them in that church with nothing left but the clothes on their back and had to leave them there for two more days because the church had hot food and running water, things that at that point were missing from my home.

Humans crave community. They are social animals that thrive on the interactions of family, care for their offspring for many, many years and show respect for the aged members of the community. Fearing for my safety in my home, fearing for the safety of my loved ones and feeling abandoned and alone temporarily destroyed my homeland security. The knowledge that our home is a haven from life's storms was lost in the aftermath of Katrina and not just for my family, but for most of New Orleanian families and the families all over the Gulf Coast. We did not lose just our possessions, we lost our daily connections with those we love.

But now, more time has passed and instead of greeting each other with "How's ya mama?", it is "How'd ya do?". And we actually care about the answer. It takes five times longer to go to the store, post office, bank etc and not just because of the newly horrendous traffice, but because we are all listening to each other's story and comforting each other in our grief. "How'd ya do?" is answered with such unbelievable comments as "Not too bad, I only have a tree through my roof, no flooding", "Not too bad, I only got one foot of water", or even "I lost everything, my whole family lost everything, but we are all alive and feel blessed for that". Yet, something profoundly sad has been lost and that is our community of family. Our families and communities are scattered all over the US now. Mimi can't watch the kids play ball because she is in Texas. Collette's sister is having her baby with just her husband by her side in Arkansas. Who will fry the turkey, make the oyster dressing, or bake the pecan pie at Thanksgiving and where will that dinner be? I believe that as people begin to answer these questions, the answer will lie in the rediscovery of that lost sense of homeland security.

New Orleanians lived in this bowl because of the security of community. Louisianians come back to the area because we know that we will help each other cut out of our streets, gut our flooded homes, and house our family because of the security of our generosity. We are secure that the art and culture of the area will survive, just as it has in the past. We will again know the security of our spiritual lives. If the rest of the country can learn that we are more than Mardi Gras, more than a major port, or more than a source of oil they will begin to understand we had the homeland security craved by most citizens of the US. The people polled by TIME Magazine may learn that we are not to be blamed for not evacuating, but will instead understand that we could not leave our families and communities in their greatest time of need.

We are not any different from the people in this country who after the storm donated to Red Cross, worked shelters, took strangers into their homes and communities and we are proud to be part of such a generous country. Living in the bowl reminds us every hurricane season that possessions are just stuff and that those we love are more important than any house. Our hearts remember that every time we greet each other. I believe that the best legacy of Katrina will not be a strengthened Homeland Security department, a better run FEMA, better evacuation plans and execution of those plans, quicker response by those charged with recovery from disasters, (all of which are needed), but instead will be the true homeland security of all people greeting each other not with "What's up?" or even with a polite "Good morning", but instead asking and caring about the greeting of "How'd ya do?" and working toward to the time when all of us can again feel safe and secure in asking "How's ya mama?".

Thanks for listening,
Sherry R.

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