CHICAGO, IL. i’m in chicago just for a moment to pack up my old house and store whatever i decide to keep, which will be most everything. i have a hard time getting rid of things, always seeing the potential in a box of old hardware or a stack of bicycles. i’m moving to a place where i don’t want to keep anything–the gulf coast–where there’s the risk of flood and disaster once again. i wonder how long i will stay to work there. my friend shawnecee reminded me of all the things i was working on in chicago, the community that was building here. she’s saddened by the news of my chicago departure, and now i’m disapointed that i’m leaving, too. no more neighborhood bike project, wood-working coop, collective living, community gardening, etc, etc, etc. i can’t tell anyone i’ll be back, because really i don’t know. and being back now to visit–nine months since i began my travels and never really came back–i see the negative signs of gentrification and homoginization happening clearly in the store fronts and in the new condos. a year ago, i was sick of the social box i lived within. white, young, priviledged, safe. i feel like i am challenging that now, working without pay in a forgotten, flooded town. but i do have a long way to go before i understand my position in this society and what responsibilites i have. i hesitate to let go of the tools (all my belongings i will store) so that others can use them in the future.
i kinda think i’m going off on a rant. i just wanted to say hello, and i’ll be back in Violet again soon. love, nico.
VIOLET, LA. i’ll forfeit my secret aspiration of writing like a professional journalist and give a holla out to all my loved ones that read this journal… cause that’s 90 percent of who reads it. to my chicago friends. to family in north carolina, virginia, iowa, oregon, california. to my big sis in nyc. and little sis in santa cruz. to sleeper in minneapolis. (let it be known, too, that there is an amazing woman, marisha, working now at HOPE because she found this journal, sent me an email, then called me up on the phone to get directions out to violet, louisiana. i feel good about helping guide someone out here to this collective organization, and especially good because she has helped make this organization even more beautiful today.)
i want to say i love you to every friend i’ve ever made who knows i’m out here. so many of you have kept me in your thoughts and sent me words of positive encouragement. without you i wouldn’t be able to get out of bed and work so hard. you give me the confidence and light to do what i do here.
i’ve kept out of touch with all of you, neglecting my journal and losing touch through a lack of writing letters or making phone calls. but it’s all because i am busy and living in a bit of isolation with just a handful of HOPE people and the ten percent of the community that has moved back home. right now, we reside in two houses. one is a free store (food, clothing, supplies distribution) with a second story for office space and living. the other house is just for living. but neither house has electricity. at this moment, a generator is growling in the background to provide some light in the kitchen and living space at the two story house. the water is running, but the plumbing still needs work, and even so, the tap water brimming with ridiculous levels of arsenic. we can’t filter our water with normal filter systems or even wash our vegetables without bottled water… and don’t get me started on the lack of vegetables around here. we’re secluded on an island of toxic soil and ground water, rebuilding amongst mold and lead and asbestos and oil. so why are we all still here? why do people want to move back in? i can’t forget this is home for others, no matter how dangerous it is to live here. the ability to leave and choose a cleaner living space is a privilege i’m ready to let go of for now, in trade for the chance to help those who cannot choose to leave. it’s not my place to tell people to go somewhere else. but it’s my choice not to leave, to work with the community that has asked us to stay. to work against the systems that created this unsafe environment in order to make life better for those who call this place home.
am i crazy? am i going too far? let me know what you think.
HOPE had a vision meeting the other night. about a dozen HOPE volunteers and four local residents were in attendance. we went around the circle and stated how long we’ve been here, when we plan on leaving (which is soon for most volunteers), and our vision for HOPE. it was heartwarming to listen to people speak on their dreams for what could happen here. and sobering to discuss what the community needs to get back on it’s feet. i responded briefly about how i don’t have a detailed vision really, but feel that there’s something natural about letting things fall into place. feeling out what a community needs instead of implementing our desires in a community that is not ours. and i hope to help teach and assist with afterschool programs for local youth. after the group share circled around and there was a pause, i added that i had made a decision to stay. despite all the close comrades here that will be leaving soon to travel and see family, i will remain. i have chosen to live in the house we reside in on Guerra Street for as long as we have permission to live there… which is 18 months at this moment. i think my decision has helped provide some relief to others, relief because of many reasons. there was some smiles around when i made my announcement. and i’m glad i can add some stability to the organization by being here to follow through with our promises to the community. for me it’s a little like diving into the deep end, and it took a long time for me to come to this decision–to be confident in making my promise to this community. but it feels entirely realistic and i feel entirely welcome here. thank you, violet. thank you, HOPE. thank you to all the spirits and ghosts that led me here to find my way. i am discovering happiness again, and being happy by myself.
VIOLET, LA. i wrote this on a scrap piece of paper in march in the back of a car heading south to the beach on the gulf coast. i found it again folded up in my wallet, and i’ll copy it down here as a record of my emotions, another piece of the timeline doing relief work here in louisiana.
when i arrived in new orleans, the sinking, horrible feeling came conciously and on the surface. now that feeling is rooting itself deeper in my subconscious. i don’t think much about the devastation now, but i am much more sad. it’s a drowning feeling coming sporadically and often causing near immobilization. i can’t feel much of anything but emptiness and despair, almost as if i’m coming to empathize with the people who survived the storm and today tell their story to those who listen…
she stepped out of her house onto the front step. the hurricane winds had calmed and she thought to herself how mild a storm that was. a few trees down, some telephone poles knocked over. something they could handle. looking out from her front step, she felt rain fall on her forehead and watched the dark sky above. she looked to her left. off in the distance, a wall of water came surging down the street, and unstoppable force of nature coming to tear down houses and drown anything in it’s path. i can’t fathom the feeling of impending death, the fear. but i’ve heard a dozen stories yet of those who felt the fear and immediatly fought back, holding onto the possibility of life, however small that chance may have been. climbing furniture as the water rose within minutes. punching through ceilings to climb onto roof tops. sitting on chimneys waiting for help and maybe rescue. swimming on driftwood to hold themselves up. having guns pointed to their faces by cops and property owners hunting for “looters.”
in february, i heard these stories with a strong interest and felt sympathetic. i could almost say i had a hunger for the oral history being told by so many survivors and those who came to help. but now, at the end of march, i’m sick to my stomach and depressed. i hear these stories and have to put my head down or look away, off into another world where i try to imagine the fear of facing either death or devastation. death means letting go; surviving means dealing with the aftermath and attempting to cope. my spirits are lifted by the survivers, those coming home, the relief volunteers, all the people working in solidarity together. but right now i’m tired and lonely, working hard amongst destructive, corrupt, oppressive systems, trying to figure out a better way.
