Cold Spaghetti

It started when Paul noticed something strange on the carpet.

“Uh ho.”

From there, we saw the tell-tale signs… a cat was sick. Both ends. We cleaned up the messes, stripped the bed (that is of course where he ended up), and Paul took the cat to the shower.

This is Scout, a little less fluffy than usually and a lot more pissed. He’d deny it if you asked him, but I maintain that he really likes the hairdryer.

Kate McIntyre, head of the doctoral program, swooped down in her Superwoman cape this morning and — with a few short sentences — fixed the issue. Her final words:

“
So – everyone needs to send their questions to Penny and Carl by 10.00am tomorrow.
“

Yee-haw! We’re on! So… back to studying…!

I think this sums up Tulane: faculty and staff that are truly well-meaning surrounded by ridiculous bureaucracy. Go Kate! I am *so happy* she came to my defense in this regard. I owe her a serious fruit basket.

From a report complied from a survey taken from the graduate students of Tulane’s School of Public Health and Tropical Medicine (SPHTM) regarding the aftermath of the storm, the school, and students’ frustrations:

“
It is apparent that as a whole, the SPHTM student body is grossly unsatisfied with Tulane’s unwillingness to include us in their decision making processes. Many students are irate at Tulane’s mistreatment of its constituents from August 29 onward. The disregard for the well being of the students, the pervasive uncertainty regarding our educational futures at Tulane, the questionable city infrastructure, and apprehension of the early class start date weighs heavily on the minds of many students. Unsubstantiated assurances that “things will be ready” do little to assuage these fears.

We see that some of us have opted to withdraw, but many more express a desire to return. However, this contingent is disappointed and disgusted with how silent our administration has been on matters of substance. Students are finding it difficult to reconcile their desire to return with Tulane’s blatant disregard for its graduate students.
“

From Penny Jessop, program coordinator/student liasion/person who basically runs my department, to me, at 6:07pm last night… two days before the scheduled comps date:

“
After consultation with the faculty, we are going to ask you to take your comps on December 8th and 9th at the SPHTM building. This will be consistent with the conditions under which all other doctoral students have taken their comps. We do not know what the conditions of the SPHTM will be this Thursday as it is the first day we will be allowed back into the building. Thus we can not have you in the building on this thursday and friday to take the exams.
“

Prior to this, it was assumed that Tidewater would NOT be open. Members of my committee had suggested using my or their homes and assured me it would be fine, they’d done this sort of thing before. Why or how the use of the building became an issue, I have no idea. (Well, actually, I do have a hunch.) Nonetheless, what this does tell me is that my family and our planning around these dates (this Thursday and Friday) is inconsequental to the department; they could care less. Too bad if we have travel plans, day care arrangements, appointments, and general life events planned around the original dates (which we do).

I think this is exactly the kind of thing that exemplifies the “blatant disregard of graduate students” noted in the report above.

I feel like I just got stung by Mr. Freeze.

Will received two packages today via UPS — without sender or gift giver information. They were sent from Samsonite and contained two adorable turtle-style bags: the “Sammies” collection turtle mini backpack and duffle. (He already took a walk around the block with his backpack on, he’s that in to it.)

We want to thank someone for their thoughtfulness, but we don’t know who! So if it’s you, let us know so we can sing your praises!

During my study breaks, I read up on the local and national news regarding our current chosen home, New Orleans. It has been exactly three months since the rain and winds of Katrina pounded the city. Tomorrow it will be three months since the Army Corps of Engineer levee system, built incorrectly by the federal government and misrepresented in its safety and construction, failed, drowning 80% of the city and well over 1,000 of it’s inhabitants.

Like many other tenacious and hardy folk, we have returned home. To those out-of-towners who have not seen the city in the flesh, who cannot grasp the reality of the devastation and heartbreak that is New Orleans, this is a sign that the city is coming back to normal. That life here is normal.

Nothing could be less true.

Three months after the storm, 4,000 people — 4,000! — are still missing. A small pocket of life exists along the banks of the Mississippi, where high ground and the action of the river protects our area of Uptown, including the Garden District, the Warehouse and Central Business District, the French Quarter, the Marginy, and the Bywater. We who live here are coming back. Businesses are slowly coming back, limited in staff and supplies. Power is slowly being restored. A few schools are opening to limited students and asking little or no tuition until the New Year. The community centers, churches, and schools that are functional still operate as relief stations, supply centers, and makeshift hospitals. Of the 8 hospitals in the city, 2 are partially functional. There is no trauma center.

The remainder of the city remains without power, without people, and under curfew. Homes are still being looted, bodies still being found. Driving through these areas is like entering a war zone. The little signs of life are tragic. Those who have come back live in tent communities in shopping center parking lots, awaiting trailers. Homeowners come out of their homes carrying the ruined debris of their lives, pausing to dry uncertain tears, and then go back inside for more. The lush green foliage that once covered the city struggles to survive through a blanket of silt, left behind by the murky, polluted water that blocked the sun for weeks. Stinking appliances await pick up on corners, the rotting smells pouring through the air regardless of how tightly sealed they sit. Mounds of debris, dotted with the muted color of a child’s toy, line front yards. Blue liner has become a welcomed, happy sight. It lies in protection on the rooftops of homes that have hope. In areas where the floodwaters took away any hope of a homecoming, there is no blue to be seen.

Anytime we leave the small strip of our neighborhood, this is what we see. This is the reality of the city we share. This is what it looks like to be here. And what does it feel like? A city forgotten and abandoned by its country.

If any other major US city had experienced a tragedy this profound, would the story be the same? Three months later, would there still be no commitment, no plan, for protection and rebuilding? Would we abandon other vulnerable cities — Miami, San Francisco, Los Angeles — the way we have abandoned New Orleans? Is it so easy forget that a third of the country’s oil products, and much of the nation’s trade, flow through these ports? Is it that easy to dismiss the cultural heritage born, bred, and celebrated in these streets? Are we so arrogant that it feels better to insult and place judgment on the misfortune of living near water than it does to commit to making this a safer place to live? The “Big One” will come, over and over again, to Los Angeles and San Francisco, moving them slowly up the west coast… yet would we ever suggest not rebuilding them?

Below are a few pictures of our drive back into the city this Saturday. They represent a small scale of the widespread devastation that wraps our neighborhood. They are antiseptic compared to the experience.

Tent homes, midcity. 

Slidell, north shore. 

Slidell, north shore. 

East New Orleans, near Six Flags, north of the bayou.