Cold Spaghetti

Three years plus 2 days ago, I rushed to New Orleans in the dawn of a Saturday morning in my parents truck.  Paul and I loaded it up with our precious things: paintings and figurines made by our grandmothers, our wedding album, photographs taken out of their frames and packed in envelopes, the paint-your-own plate Will had pressed with his then 18-month old hand.  At the time, our preparations were seen as extreme; neighbors strolled over to joke and insist on a drink.  But I had a bad feeling.  We returned to New Orleans almost 3 months later and our lives were forever changed.

The things I packed yesterday, on the 3-year memorial of the day Katrina came to New Orleans, were much the same as they were three years ago.  I took the same things from my house, with a little variation.  One less cat.  One additional child.  Same paintings, same figurines, same family photos wedding album.  We took care to back-up our photos, movies, and important papers.  I carefully covered all the paintings we couldn’t take in plastic bags and stored them in closets, took down pictures off the walls, placed vases and boxes inside drawers.  Paul secured the outside.  He had to use leftover pieces of wood from our renovations to cover our front door because the piece he’d used during Katrina is now the base of the Mardi Gras float we made for the Krewe of Abeona parade earlier this year.   That is the spirit of New Orleans: live life to the fullest and enjoy each moment, because you don’t know if you’ll be around for the next party.

For all the loss of innocence, disappointment, frustration, sorrow, and tragedy we felt from Katrina, we gained something, too.  Katrina kept us in New Orleans.  It taught us what it means to love a place, a space, and a community.  It taught us that a group of people with purpose can change each other’s lives and create a better place right in our own backyards.  It taught me, as a health professional who is trained to work in other communities, what it is like to be that ‘other community’.  The destruction of our city highlighted new needs and compelled us to stay and live our lives in this wounded, wonderful place.

What we learn from this coming storm?  Will it miss New Orleans completely, creating an enormous ‘cry wolf’ mentality at future threats?  Will it approach the city and challenge a whole different set of weaknesses not identified during Katrina?  Is history doomed to repeat, or just re-teach the lesson that no amount of planning can fix the vulnerabilities of poverty?

Mostly, I am anxious over the city’s newest population, those whose fears of leaving are much greater than the fears of staying.

As a child, I loved the stories of the old Testament.  There was something epic about the stories of escape, whole populations migrating to live better lives.  Such bravery in the face of threatening enemies and gaping uncertainty struck me as heroic.  Perhaps this is a reason why I am now drawn to work with people who brave the same challenges, those who risk death and uncertainty in ways I cannot personally imagine, in order to make a better life.  Being poor in the United States means a hard life, but being poor in a poor country means that each day is life or death.  A hard life is a better option for many, one that they will gladly take on even if it means living in fear of deportation, separation, and bigotry.  Evacuating a city under threat of a storm is a terrifying option to a family who lives under the radar.  What is worse?  A coming storm, or a uniformed official who may stop them for questions?

I feel guilty for being out of harm’s way with my family.  These are situations where I can be helpful: collecting research data, offering broken translation, mobilizing and organizing.  I worry that the families who are staying and are at risk are the same ones I’ve been working with for three years.  If that is the case, isn’t there something more I can do?

Three years ago, we were filled with uncertainty about our homes and community.  But I know now that I can make these anywhere, and that they will always be there for us in New Orleans.  Today, I worry for the people and things that the disaster committees and planners looked over.  I worry for the lessons that we didn’t learn from last time, when we showed the world what happens when it forgets about the realities of vulnerability, poverty, and race.

My head and heart are mixed and fearful.  I don’t know what to do and am not sure if there is anything I can do.  But wait.  And hope.

Milling about with other parents and friends during our two parent orientations tonight, we had several conversations with people who mentioned an inability to sleep with the looming uncertainty of the storm (possibly? probably?) headed our way. One friend put it best: “I remember what we lost three years ago and I can’t sleep thinking that I might lose it again.”

He didn’t mean stuff.

The threat of the storm has our household on edge. It’s not about stuff, either. For us, it’s not even about loss of employment, since Paul’s job can technically go anywhere. But the fear of uncertainty for community, friends, neighbors (even those anonymous yet familiar faces you see each day in the streets), and for the collective future of the place in which you live — these are also fears that bring insomnia.

It’s not that I am particularly worried about this storm or the damage it will bring. It’s too early for me to feel threatened by that. It’s the uncertainty, the questions, the imaginative ‘what-ifs’ that are based on a nightmare still too real in my memories. This is why New Orleans is acting so early, perhaps so prematurely, to this storm. This is why we are having trouble sleeping.

We’ve been back an hour and it doesn’t seem like we’ve got many more ahead of us before we will hit the road again. It looks like the city will declare mandatory evacuation early (this time) and we want to be out before the traffic piles up… BUT… we can’t leave until we know that important life events, like the mandatory orientation for the kids’ new school and my interview with WLAE, are rescheduled. Paul is going to help his clients on the Northshore prepare for the storm on Friday, so the earliest we can leave is Friday night, anyway.

And if it’s headed toward Mobile, is that really where we want to evacuate? This is what we did last time, only to move on to Jacksonville when Katrina knocked the power out in Alabama and left us with only a static radio voice announcing the flooding of New Orleans. It really doesn’t matter where we go, just as long as we have internet so that Paul can continue to work.

We’re thinking that we should go back to the panhandle beaches. One storm already looped all around us there, surrounding us with clouds and showers on all sides while we enjoyed clear blue pool days in the center. Maybe our luck will hold out a second time if we return?

Last night, Paul and I took Will out for some special time.  Driving across the bridge from Fort Walton Beach to Destin, we noticed some older looking planes flying in formation overhead.  We drove around the beach side of Destin, hopped out at the park at the edge of island, and climbed through the sand to watch the sunset and see what the planes were up to more clearly.  The planes quickly returned, looping around blowing colored smoke, flying low over the jetties and into the bay, and swooping up to the sky making shapes and swirls with their trails.  What were they?  (Skip?  Are you reading this?)  They were P-51 Mustangs, a fighter aircraft used during the Second World War.  It was incredible to see them making tricks in the air, over the golden bay and sea, against the painted sky.  I’d share the moment photographically, but — dotcha know? — I had left both cameras back at the condo.

Murphy isn’t done with me just forgetting my camera during once-in-a-lifetime moments.  No, no, it was just the beginning.  This morning, Will and I swam in an absolutely still ocean — we actually went out with our diving masks a good 60 yards or so — because of the dead calm of the water, we were able to go out without swells or waves without Will feeling vulnerable.  The sea was filled with seaweed, though, which Will has aptly named ‘sea boogies;’ a description that sort of sums up what it is like to swim through.  The calm was so odd that it made it hard to ignore the clouds piling up in the sky.

Around noon, the wind picked up and enough clouds showed up to block the sun for the first time in 4 days.  Now, the sky is thinly overcast, a light blue color, with the sea still as clear and calm as it was this morning.  We’re buckling down with puzzles, a bunch of craft ideas (including buckets of white sand in protected buckets on the porch), and books.  (This last one is my hopeful and wishful thinking… I just want to curl up with The Kite Runner.)  Rainy day activity ideas appreciated!

We are in Fort Walton Beach.  The sand is white, fine, and warm.  The water is clear.

Our saga of trying to find a family insurance plan continues. And has worsened.

In trying to find a silver lining to it, this occurred to me. Remember back when Will was born, when I was pumping 6-8 hours a day, crying every single day, sometimes several times a day, sometimes so hard and desperately that Paul thought I had found the baby dead in his crib, and believing that my newborn baby hated me so much so that I didn’t want to hold him sometimes … remember all that? Well, THANK GOODNESS no one (let alone me, the social worker) had enough insight to consider whether or not I should have talked to someone about post-partum depression! Yes, I may feel guilt for the rest of my life that I didn’t put it all together in my head and missed all that wonderful bonding time that can never be replaced with my first born, but hey, at least THAT isn’t on my medical record!

The lesson: unless you are physically bleeding or turning blue, don’t ask for help! You may live on to become successful enough to start your own company — and then you’ll regret it!

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My hair loss has tapered off. I didn’t want to say anything and jinx it, but in fact, it seems to be almost back to normal. It’s happened over the past week. I’ve still got one heck of a lot less hair, but at least I won’t be celebrating Christmas with a bald head. Two weeks ago, I started taking a multi-vitamin because I started to wonder if I was experiencing a deficiency (it dawned on me that if I saw a woman with hair loss in my work, I’d think ‘zinc’). So, maybe it was zinc?

I don’t want to work in health anymore. Too damn disheartening. Too darn ridiculous.

Will is now done with summer camp.  Here are some pictures from his next-to-last performance.  (The one 3 weeks ago.)  The song was about a clown’s face… that’s about a close as I got to understanding it.

Will poses in his clown outfit… complete with covers on his shoes.  The teachers really went all out.

Will watches the bigger kids perform.  This was exciting because the bigger kids included….

Aya.  Will’s first buddy.  The ying to his yang.  The child who, when eating cake and ice cream together, without a word of agreement or planning, swap plates seamlessly so that they both get seconds of the one they like best (Will eats the ice cream, Aya eats the cake).  She was in another class and they saw each other during pick-up and drop-offs during the 2-week camp session.  There was one morning when Will saw Aya ahead of him walking into school.  “Mommy,” he said, “there’s Aya!”  “Will, go run up and say hi,” I encouraged him.  “I can’t Mommy… she’s TOO FAR AWAY.”  He said that last bit with so much heartache that I called out to Aya and the two of them started this back and forth (one would turn away and walk in the other direction at the same time the other was calling and reaching for them — and then they’d switch).  I’m pretty sure I heard “Love Story” playing in the background.

In any case, Aya had her performance and Will wanted to talk to her.  I asked him later what he was whispering into her ear.  “I was asking Aya if wanted to get a hamburger with me,” he said.

But it wasn’t meant to be.  Aya had to leave on a family trip the next day. Will seems to have recovered.  Yesterday, he proposed marriage to his buddy, Ana, when they were walking out of Abeona House together.  Then, when we arrived back at the house, he burst inside the quiet room and announced to Paul, “Daddy.  Ana and I are going to get married when we get older and then I am going to gooch her on the bottom.  And there is a tornado coming!”

Without missing a beat, Paul answered: “Yeah, I bet there would be a tornado if you gooched Ana.”

She was one of the only freshman in my class; confident, questioning, and thoughtful.  Her ability to absorb relatively complex ideas about gender, race, and class and fit them into her own experiences was impressive.  Particularly because, although she had graduated at the top of her high school class, her writing ability was no higher than a middle school level.  Her thoughtful reading of course materials, persistence in attending office hours for extra help, and astute questioning of everything around her gave her an air of innocence and intelligence; making it clear that any shortcomings in her writing was not because she hadn’t learned it, but because it had never been taught.

Of the many anecdotes I gathered from her, this one is the one that has stuck with me for years.  She described playing in the band in her Detroit High School, something she loved.  She never really noticed that the instruments were dull and dented, or felt it was strange that students had to take turns bringing instruments home for practice.  The fact that they wore matching clothes rather than actual uniforms didn’t really occur to her.  What she loved was the camaraderie of the group and the chance to be proud of what they played together.  She was thrilled when they were offered the chance to compete at a State-wide competition.

Then they arrived at the competition.  She saw the new instruments, fancy uniforms, and huge numbers of students from schools not too far from her own.  When she saw the tremendous differences between her school, of which she was so proud, and the other schools, she realized, ‘we weren’t suppose to be there.’  She understood that the unspoken message to her and her classmates was that this competition was not for them; they were not as a prepared, not as polished, and ultimately, not going to be a serious participant.  I remember her talking through that memory, struggling with the complex feelings of pride for the opportunity, confusion at the differences that were so apparent, and frustration over what to do or how to feel about it.

Without taking away from the acheivements of any athlete, I find it hard to watch the Olympics and not have her story foremost in my mind.

UPDATE: This post was named a JUST POST for August 2008.  (Thank you!)

A few weekends ago, I took the kids to the Zoo while Paul worked.  We went to the petting Zoo area, which is something we rarely do.  Mostly because I’m afraid of what Kate might do to the animals.

Okay, that’s not exactly true.  I’m just freaked about germs and the threat of her putting her hands in her mouth after picking up poo.

Luckily, though, both kids remained very sanitary.  And both kids were incredibly gentle with all the animals.  Neither tried to ride them, hug them a-la Elmira, or put hair bows in their fur.  If Scout realized that a whole herd of animals got away with no-such insult to their general character or appearance, I feel confident he would march directly to their beds and hork up hairballs on the pillows.

Both kids tried to feed the goat hay.  The goats complied.

This was the first time I got to ride the carousel with BOTH kids.  Will is JUST tall enough (with his hair uncombed, he can pass for 48″… or maybe it’s 42″? whatever the cut-off point is for riding alone).  I was nervous that Kate would freak out at the moving animals, or she would randomly decide she was done riding half-way through.  She actually sat nicely through the whole thing!  I won’t say she sat STILL (she is Kate, after all) but she loved it.  Kate rode a Jaguar (I think).  Will rode a Rhino.  If you ask Kate, though, she’ll tell you she road the Hippo.