I Define My Own Katrina

When I first started thinking about what I wanted to do for The Anniversary, I realized that the very idea of August 29th was looming over me in a way that gave the storm more power than it deserved. Two years ago, I made the decision to come back to New Orleans because I didn’t want the storm to force me away from a place I loved. I remember standing in my dad’s kitchen, crying, and telling him that I wanted to make my own decisions based on what I wanted to do, not on something outside of me. Now I realize that this was naïve, but there is a huge difference between naivety and hope. I’m still hopeful. Maybe you thought it was naïve to spend the day focusing on the positives of the last two year as if that’s some sort of talisman against the pain in our hearts or another storm. But the hope of making a positive difference is what’s kept me going non-stop for two years, and now hoping is almost all I know how to do.

I came back to New Orleans, in large part, to provide a safe harbor for my students. Two years ago, your lives were hectic and unsure, and I wanted to help provide stability. I feel that same way today. You should come to school and feel safe; you shouldn’t have to come to school on August 29th fearing what “special” Katrina stuff you might be forced to do. Journaling is cathartic. As we’ve been discussing with The Icarus Girl and “The Yellow Wallpaper,” writing (or “work”) gives us an outlet. It’s a way to purge our pain, meditate, and develop our thoughts.

As an interested adult, I’ve watched you over the past two years and been continually impressed. You are survivors; you are resilient; you are pioneers; you are all those trendy words used to describe people struggling to live normal lives in the Gulf South. And your lives are remarkably normal. You go to practice; you study; you go to parties; you do homework (more often than not); you laugh and you love. But you cry too. I’ve seen how separation and disaster have forced a bond in your class and I’m amazed by you.

Then I look at myself, someone I constantly criticize, and realize that I’m not all that different from you who I admire. So, I decided that we should all focus on what we can be proud of over the past two years.

I was brave: I found out my house was unlivable the day before I left New York to come back to New Orleans. I was smart: I gave myself four days to drive the 1500 miles because I knew I was an emotional wreck. I was stoic: I hardly cried. I was a good friend: I smiled and when they left I said, “I’ll see you soon.” I was numb: I hardly cried.

But that was two years ago. I’m focusing on the positive and how awesome I’ve been since Katrina – remember? Well, what I’m proud of is that I stepped up. I said “yes, I can do that.” I said it over and over again. I said “yes, I’ll work Saturdays;” “yes, I’ll teach an extra class;” “yes, I’ll be your friend;” “yes, I’ll take that homeless dog;” “yes, I’ll be the youth minister at my church;” “yes, I’ll help you gut your house;” “yes, I’ll help you build your house;” “yes, I can.” I said these things because that’s the kind of person I always wanted to be, and Katrina gave me a chance to walk the walk. Katrina was an opportunity; she opened a whole lot of doors and left gaping holes where they had been, but she opened them just the same.

I’m proud that I was able to leave my apartment those first three months. Well, it wasn’t my apartment, it was my friend’s, but she wasn’t there, so I was alone. Very alone. The only thing that got me out of the house those days was work, and the only thing that got me here was my students. On the drive to school, I’d calculate my potential earning power at Burger King with the $125 weekly bonus. Then I’d think about the 30% pay-cut I had agreed to. Then I’d get to school and reassess what wealth means. I measure my value in terms of the impact I have on the world around me. I had always hoped this was a realistic assessment, but now I’m sure I’m right and the Wall Street Journal, and Merrill-Lynch, and even the Federal Reserve are spectacularly wrong. After two years of knowing that St. Martin’s is my shelter and the happy place I can think of when I need to fly up above the debris, I know I am indeed rich.

I’m proud that I have been able to say “yes” to other people, while also saying “yes” to myself. It was very easy to be the center of my own world over the past two years, but it was easier to use other people’s needs as a distraction from my own. It’s easier for me to help others than it is to help myself. I’ve know this for a long time and never really done anything about it. I think I grew up with some romantic ideas about martyrdom and sacrifice, and I thought people who took care of others with no regard for themselves were somehow better than others – unselfish. Teaching is a good profession for people like that. It’s easy for me to think about school and work all the time; this was especially true when I was worried about you in those first months after Katrina and then last spring. For two years I’ve worried about you and I’ve cried for you when I couldn’t cry for myself; I’ve learned that this is something that helps me heal.

I’m proud that I’ve made friends. Most of my closest friends left New Orleans after Katrina and only came back to salvage what they could from their wrecked homes. This was devastating for me. My family is far away, I worked hard to create my own family of friends here, and then they all left. Yes, I have best friends on the faculty at StM, but I felt that I couldn’t let work be my only social outlet. I determined to be more outgoing, more friendly, and more open to personal possibilities. Fearlessness is a good quality in a friend, and after Katrina I fearlessly decided to throw parties for everyone I knew. Happiness can be bought, and I’ve somehow managed to make more friends in the two years after Katrina than in the seven years I spent in New Orleans before the storm. I can’t remember the last time I ate dinner by myself!

Now that I’ve spent a few days thinking about what I have to be proud of, I realize that there’s a lot. I’ve grown, as I would have no matter where I lived or what I’d been through, but I live here and I went through IT and that’s my life. Some days it’s too much for me and I’m angry or alone or want to move or cry or scream, but most days it’s OK, because we’re still here. And I know it’s my choice to be here, and somehow that choice, that determination, and that intention make all the difference.