i wake.
standing in the kitchen, steam rising from a mason jar half full of tea, i think. the house is empty. it is christmas day. 54 degrees. this weather would be warm for chicago, but it is really cold for new orleans.

the saints lost their game two days ago and every new orleanian i know was in a somber mood, but today offers cheer. hope, maybe. it is yet another reason to gather and cram large families into small houses, tall pots steaming of greens and jambalaya. boxes and boxes of wrapped gifts piled high in the corner.

when i speak of new orleans right now, i speak of violet, too. the difference can be a sensitive subject depending on the topic. the weather: well it’s all the same in the gulf, from houston to florida. wet. wet-cold, wet-hot. i think most folks ten miles down river in violet would consider themselves “new orleans” in most situations. but then it’s true that many people have moved away or stayed away from the streets of new orleans because of just that: the streets. before the storm, violet could be rough, but new orleans was always rougher. violet is country, really. quiet. that’s what people like about it. but then the storm winds blew in. and the water rose up and up and up. people in violet tell of a “wall of water” that came through the marshland to the north-east, over the dirt levees, and on top of the houses. 25,000 homes: destroyed.

highland lane

when the lights camera action lit up the crecent city, only half devastated, violet was lost in the shadows. a whole parish wiped out and the only attention violet got a woman serving rice and beans and hot dogs in a red cross truck. then the difference between “new orleans” and violet meant much more because what the city got, violet didn’t.

in february 2006, i drove down the road. i needed a place to sleep and common ground was all filled up. someone named isabelle and suncere had set up cots in a empty church they cleaned out. the steeple lay in the dirt next to the building. piles of wood were organized in the parking lot. a white tent was set up housing canned food and clothing. i turned off the ignition to my truck and the door opened up. “hey, we security. you guys volunteer?” he was already taking our bags out of the truck. he spoke with a thick vietnemese accent a carried a huge mag light, the kind with like fifteen D batteries. in the dark, he sounded really tough, but as he walked away his silouette from a outdoor light revealed a scrawny little body in boxer shorts and a winter coat. phong was his name, i learned.

hopeguttingtarp

this was HOPE, the first relief operation this far down the road that i know of. a little crew came down with a pickup truck one day and found a few residents living in tents behind their houses, gutting their own muddy, moldy houses day by day. by the time i arrived a month later, HOPE had wheelbarrows, shovels, boots, gloves, tyvek suits, respirators, and duct tape. volunteers were going out daily to clean out houses and residents were showing up equally as fast to sign up and take food and supplies. families lived in tents, vehicles, trailers. coordination couldn’t happen fast enough. there was so much to do.

(to be continued…)