I predicted a few weeks ago that people would soon start to see images of Mother Teresa, Elvis, Ernie K-Doe, et al. in their post-Katrina household wall mold.
So far, no reports. No MSM reports, anyway. Anyone?
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
The prosecution rests
The T-P paints a grim picture, via the Rebuild New Orleans Commission, of the current state of the city. Depressing. Even if crime is indeed "a blip on the radar", there is no criminal court to prosecute anyone. That, to me, is more frightening than the crime that existed before in the city.
I'm trying to keep a stable head about all of this, and I am largely optimistic about the future of New Orleans, but holy crap.
I'm trying to keep a stable head about all of this, and I am largely optimistic about the future of New Orleans, but holy crap.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
The questions on everyone's mind
Stephanie Grace at the Times-Picayune elegantly summarized the questions running through my head and the accompanying emotions in her "We're up, and we're down" article:
Read it here.
The questions are at once global and intensely personal:
Will businesses, even the ones that want to stay in New Orleans, be able to function if there's no place for their workers to live? Can we count on the cavalry, as Nagin put it, to stick around? Or has donor fatigue already set in up in Washington? Has President Bush finally stopped dropping in for those staged, numbingly routine photo ops?
Which favorite corner haunts will reopen, and which old friends will be around to share a toast when they do?
How can we resume our lives, as Nagin has urged us to do, if we can't put our kids in school?
How is a city full of night owls supposed to function under a curfew, anyway?
And is it really, truly OK to drink the water?
Read it here.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Go the hell away, Ty Pennington
I find that home improvement magazines, and especially HGTV, make me want to shriek obscenities and throw silverware, or whatever's close by. These symptoms popped up after the storm. Maybe it's just me.
Elsewhere: Not New Orleans
I try to stay positive about the future of New Orleans, for the most part...mostly for friends and family, and because that's where my home and job is (for now, anyway). But the truth is - I don't know. I don't know if I can stay past, say, Mardi Gras. The environmental stuff worries me. My job situation worries me. The mold in our house and my horrible mold allergies worry me. It's all a wait and see game.
I hate not being in control of my job situation, and I feel like I'm not in control of much of anything right now. So I'm kind of "shopping" for other cities. In a half-assed (half-hearted) way. I like Austin. I like NYC. I like them both a lot. But I'm not sure I like them enough to live there. And my husband insists we live somewhere where we have friends, so that narrows down the list. I insist we live somewhere with a soul, with a unique personality. That narrows down the list. Both of us want to live close to our parents, who live here in south Louisiana, so that narrows down the list.
New Orleans: job in doubt, environmental hazards, friends gone, debris and infrastructure problems, below-average salaries, close to family, has a soul (this is in doubt if the city becomes the Vegas of the South - thanks Nagin), has the best food in the country.
Elsewhere: Not New Orleans.
Every time I go through this pro and con list in my head, I get nowhere. It was gently suggested to me that I write this stuff down (thank you Blogger) to get it out of my head and so I would shut the fuck up about it. Heh.
I wish, I really really really wish I wanted to move somewhere else. But I really liked New Orleans - the New Orleans before the storm. It's not going to be the same now. It might be similar, and I hope it is, but New Orleans won't ever be the same.
I hate not being in control of my job situation, and I feel like I'm not in control of much of anything right now. So I'm kind of "shopping" for other cities. In a half-assed (half-hearted) way. I like Austin. I like NYC. I like them both a lot. But I'm not sure I like them enough to live there. And my husband insists we live somewhere where we have friends, so that narrows down the list. I insist we live somewhere with a soul, with a unique personality. That narrows down the list. Both of us want to live close to our parents, who live here in south Louisiana, so that narrows down the list.
New Orleans: job in doubt, environmental hazards, friends gone, debris and infrastructure problems, below-average salaries, close to family, has a soul (this is in doubt if the city becomes the Vegas of the South - thanks Nagin), has the best food in the country.
Elsewhere: Not New Orleans.
Every time I go through this pro and con list in my head, I get nowhere. It was gently suggested to me that I write this stuff down (thank you Blogger) to get it out of my head and so I would shut the fuck up about it. Heh.
I wish, I really really really wish I wanted to move somewhere else. But I really liked New Orleans - the New Orleans before the storm. It's not going to be the same now. It might be similar, and I hope it is, but New Orleans won't ever be the same.
Seeing the New New Orleans
I saw the city for the first time the other day (see the other post about our apartment). I had not been back to New Orleans for a month, despite the fact that my husband had already been in (thank you, press pass), and a friend of ours bribed his way into the city the week after the storm with beer and Rice Krispy treats.
Uptown, I knew, had survived the storm relatively well. I guess I should say, exceptionally well, relative to the destruction suffered by the Lower Ninth. I had voraciously sought photos of the city online after the storm, and I thought I had a good handle on what different parts of the city looked like. My stomach, however, always tells the real story, and it was doing Olympic-sized somersaults as we drove in through Kenner on I-10. As I looked around, I thought, it doesn't seem too bad out here in Kenner/Metairie. Some building damage. Some sign damage. It wasn't until we were on Carrollton, when I saw that block that burned down...the blank traffic lights...the ghost-town that was now Uptown...that's when I started to cry a little. Damn that was hard to see. Seeing this beautiful part of town that just a few weeks ago thrived with people and smells and life and sound, and it was now so...dead, quiet, and slow...it was awful. It felt like the separation of New Orleans from its people was just as bloody as the suffering each had felt on its own.
Driving into the CBD with my friend Joyce revealed a different scene. Canal Street's neutral ground was a parking lot of emergency vehicles and utility trucks. Guys in aprons, gas masks, and hazmat suits flitted in and out of businesses, carrying out bags of god knows what. Gigantic trailers of mobile generators took up almost all the available parking space, and an enormous vat of something took up the width of the sidewalk outside the Hibernia bank head offices. The sidewalks on Canal Street were filled with Latino laborers lining up for their Salvation Army truck lunches, eating on the steps of the Sheraton. Big stinky piles of sheetrock and ceiling tile lined the street, on top of dusty sidewalks and curbs. Some media had setups on street corners, absent of reporters. Despite the bustle outside, the lobby bar at the Sheraton was totally empty. A big industrial fan whirred in the corner, pointed at the center of the room.
We were rubbernecking like bugeyed tourists at all the activity. There was also the occasional scene of destruction, like the famously photographed cars crushed under a crumbled brick wall. As we drove into the Bywater, things seemed a little less...predictable. Even though the CBD was not predictable by any stretch, at least you felt like things were kind of under someone's control (more specifically, under someone's contract). In the Bywater, the charred remains of a warehouse filled with petroleum tanks had collapsed toward the street. Streets and houses and business were all empty. Tree trimmers were few and far between. So few people were outside, and the ones that were outside were either military or contractors. Abandoned RTA buses straddled the neutral ground on some streets. On one boarded up house, someone had spray painted, "FUCK YOU GREEN GHOST." Joyce took photos, and we both started to feel increasingly "out of it." I don't know how to explain it...we had a hard time finishing sentences, and we both felt dizzy and lightheaded. I got so dizzy at point I actually passed out for just a second or two - something I have never done - and I started to be a little concerned about the air environment around us.
Uptown, I knew, had survived the storm relatively well. I guess I should say, exceptionally well, relative to the destruction suffered by the Lower Ninth. I had voraciously sought photos of the city online after the storm, and I thought I had a good handle on what different parts of the city looked like. My stomach, however, always tells the real story, and it was doing Olympic-sized somersaults as we drove in through Kenner on I-10. As I looked around, I thought, it doesn't seem too bad out here in Kenner/Metairie. Some building damage. Some sign damage. It wasn't until we were on Carrollton, when I saw that block that burned down...the blank traffic lights...the ghost-town that was now Uptown...that's when I started to cry a little. Damn that was hard to see. Seeing this beautiful part of town that just a few weeks ago thrived with people and smells and life and sound, and it was now so...dead, quiet, and slow...it was awful. It felt like the separation of New Orleans from its people was just as bloody as the suffering each had felt on its own.
Driving into the CBD with my friend Joyce revealed a different scene. Canal Street's neutral ground was a parking lot of emergency vehicles and utility trucks. Guys in aprons, gas masks, and hazmat suits flitted in and out of businesses, carrying out bags of god knows what. Gigantic trailers of mobile generators took up almost all the available parking space, and an enormous vat of something took up the width of the sidewalk outside the Hibernia bank head offices. The sidewalks on Canal Street were filled with Latino laborers lining up for their Salvation Army truck lunches, eating on the steps of the Sheraton. Big stinky piles of sheetrock and ceiling tile lined the street, on top of dusty sidewalks and curbs. Some media had setups on street corners, absent of reporters. Despite the bustle outside, the lobby bar at the Sheraton was totally empty. A big industrial fan whirred in the corner, pointed at the center of the room.
We were rubbernecking like bugeyed tourists at all the activity. There was also the occasional scene of destruction, like the famously photographed cars crushed under a crumbled brick wall. As we drove into the Bywater, things seemed a little less...predictable. Even though the CBD was not predictable by any stretch, at least you felt like things were kind of under someone's control (more specifically, under someone's contract). In the Bywater, the charred remains of a warehouse filled with petroleum tanks had collapsed toward the street. Streets and houses and business were all empty. Tree trimmers were few and far between. So few people were outside, and the ones that were outside were either military or contractors. Abandoned RTA buses straddled the neutral ground on some streets. On one boarded up house, someone had spray painted, "FUCK YOU GREEN GHOST." Joyce took photos, and we both started to feel increasingly "out of it." I don't know how to explain it...we had a hard time finishing sentences, and we both felt dizzy and lightheaded. I got so dizzy at point I actually passed out for just a second or two - something I have never done - and I started to be a little concerned about the air environment around us.
First visit to the apartment
I finally got to see our place. My husband and I have an apartment in Uptown on Camp Street, between Robert and Upperline. Right after Katrina hit I started seeing posts in the nola.com forums about a fire that swept through the Camp/Upperline area, and burned 5 houses down to the cinders. I knew - I just knew our house was one of them. I just knew something more awful had to happen to us. When it rains, it pours, right? Surviving the hurricane with no flooding, only to have our wonderful apartment be burned to ash.
But our place didn't burn down. It was intact, with roof and window damage that's fixable. Went we went inside, the power was back on so the fridge didn't smell like hell (though we have to get rid of it) and the only overwhelming smell was that of the mold and mildew that was cloaking several walls. The minor damage our apartment suffered almost made me feel guilty.
Our neighbors' houses-turned-ashes is a sickening thing to see. It looks like a bomb exploded. Just the chimneys, the porch steps and the porch pillars remain. The cars on the street near those houses were burned down to the unpainted metal. The paint on the license plates was burned off, and the plates themselves warped under the heat. After a few hours of getting sweaty, headachey from the mold and crabby from the heat while loading our possessions into boxes, I looked out to see that awful devastation and I just felt numb.
But our place didn't burn down. It was intact, with roof and window damage that's fixable. Went we went inside, the power was back on so the fridge didn't smell like hell (though we have to get rid of it) and the only overwhelming smell was that of the mold and mildew that was cloaking several walls. The minor damage our apartment suffered almost made me feel guilty.
Our neighbors' houses-turned-ashes is a sickening thing to see. It looks like a bomb exploded. Just the chimneys, the porch steps and the porch pillars remain. The cars on the street near those houses were burned down to the unpainted metal. The paint on the license plates was burned off, and the plates themselves warped under the heat. After a few hours of getting sweaty, headachey from the mold and crabby from the heat while loading our possessions into boxes, I looked out to see that awful devastation and I just felt numb.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Working hard is hardly working
The future of my job is tenuous at best. I can't return to my office because of building damage - they have shut everything down until January. They are graciously paying us full-timers our salaries, but are laying off administrative and part-time staff in the meantime...and I can only wonder when my time is up.
I hate this. This waiting. But I love my job - it was a big part of why I love New Orleans. The people I work with are fun, goofy, diverse, and real. We were all friends at work and after work, and we shared birthday parties and drinks. And now everything's in question. We're all trying to be patient, and be helpful - we're desperately doing things to be visible to upper management. Things to make us look indispensable, so they won't lay us off.
In the meantime, until the office re-opens, I am hoping to go to Atlanta and help out with Red Cross efforts there. I hear they need people to help with logistics in food supply/delivery/distribution. I have been offered a great volunteer gig, and I really want to do it. I can't stand feeling helpless and the restless cabin fever has really done a number on my sanity.
But I've been told by my boss - who I love - that if I go, I'll probably lose my job. But even if I don't go, there's no guarantee that I'll keep my job, he says.
I've been at my job for over 7 years, and it kind of pisses me off that I'm being evaluated on whether or not I can sit around and wait for a work assignment when the office is closed ANYway. I would much rather go and volunteer in Atlanta...I can stay with friends there, and I am willing to not draw a salary from my company when I'm gone. Why, then, when they know this, are they still threatening to lay me off if I go and volunteer? Why lay off one of the few people who has been busting her ass in the post-Katrina aftermath, who is willing to not be paid until the office re-opens? How does my situation create greater burdens for my employer, so that I should be laid off?
The climate of fear among my co-workers is thick. We feel so in the dark and hate knowing that the future of our jobs is being discussed by the clueless bigwigs up in New Jersey (corporate headquarters). We're pissed off, scared, and just want things to be normal. Please.
I hate this. This waiting. But I love my job - it was a big part of why I love New Orleans. The people I work with are fun, goofy, diverse, and real. We were all friends at work and after work, and we shared birthday parties and drinks. And now everything's in question. We're all trying to be patient, and be helpful - we're desperately doing things to be visible to upper management. Things to make us look indispensable, so they won't lay us off.
In the meantime, until the office re-opens, I am hoping to go to Atlanta and help out with Red Cross efforts there. I hear they need people to help with logistics in food supply/delivery/distribution. I have been offered a great volunteer gig, and I really want to do it. I can't stand feeling helpless and the restless cabin fever has really done a number on my sanity.
But I've been told by my boss - who I love - that if I go, I'll probably lose my job. But even if I don't go, there's no guarantee that I'll keep my job, he says.
I've been at my job for over 7 years, and it kind of pisses me off that I'm being evaluated on whether or not I can sit around and wait for a work assignment when the office is closed ANYway. I would much rather go and volunteer in Atlanta...I can stay with friends there, and I am willing to not draw a salary from my company when I'm gone. Why, then, when they know this, are they still threatening to lay me off if I go and volunteer? Why lay off one of the few people who has been busting her ass in the post-Katrina aftermath, who is willing to not be paid until the office re-opens? How does my situation create greater burdens for my employer, so that I should be laid off?
The climate of fear among my co-workers is thick. We feel so in the dark and hate knowing that the future of our jobs is being discussed by the clueless bigwigs up in New Jersey (corporate headquarters). We're pissed off, scared, and just want things to be normal. Please.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Losing what mattered most
Losing a whole community of friends has been the most devastating effect of Katrina. No question about it. Watching all your friends get scattered to the wind - pardon the phrase - and knowing that some, if not all, of them won't return is just...hard. People you had drinks with, cried with, shared red beans & rice with, people who helped you move, brought you gifts when your dad died, people who made you feel good. All gone now. Some have said they're returning...but a lot of them aren't. They have jobs in other cities now, far from New Orleans. Some have kids and simply can't return for a while now, if at all. Our community of friends as we knew it simply doesn't exist anymore. *Poof.*
When I realized that my most valuable possession was this community, I just lost my shit. One evening, while talking/bawling with my friend Joyce, we both sobbed on each other's shoulders when this realization hit home. Possessions, as they say, can be bought and replaced. But as I wailed to Joyce, "Y-youu caaan't buy friends at the store!!" And then I cried, a result of both my deep grief and the fact that my abilities to describe my feelings of utter loss were crumbling into really lame metaphors.
When I realized that my most valuable possession was this community, I just lost my shit. One evening, while talking/bawling with my friend Joyce, we both sobbed on each other's shoulders when this realization hit home. Possessions, as they say, can be bought and replaced. But as I wailed to Joyce, "Y-youu caaan't buy friends at the store!!" And then I cried, a result of both my deep grief and the fact that my abilities to describe my feelings of utter loss were crumbling into really lame metaphors.
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