Last night, Jeff Finn came into town. When I saw him I gave him a big hug and crocodile tears quivered in my eyes. He is the first hello I have met that really meant good-bye, since I have returned. He has permanently relocated to the bay area, but he is from here. He has always seemed like a fixture here. Even though his mother tells me this is a good move for him, and I should encourage him, I can't help feeling devastated at the notion that he won't be here any more.
After work, he and I went out to Mimi's and sat in the cozy upstairs tapas bar sipping brandy and eating goat cheese croquetas (yum), exchanging stories of evacuation, and "what's it like now", then realized that it was almost CERFEW (yuck), and ran to The Saint, a crusty rock n roll bar that we used to frequent after work at the Rue.
We talked and noticed who was there, and who wasn't. The thing about this bar is there is never any surprise concerning who will be there. It is always the same lower garden district, vespa driving, hipsters that we worked with at the coffee shop, and Juan's Flying Burrito. A good friend came to hug us hello and talk to us.
Jeff noted that being back in town, made him feel like an ex-patriot.... running into old friends and acquaintances, asking what happened to them, how they are...etc. Everyone has a dramatic story of near escape, evacuation, living with people, or worse, not living with people, and reunion. Everyone except those who were not so fortunate. It becomes very difficult to think of these people, and yet totally unavoidable.
Jeff and I have a friend in Mississippi whose parents lost EVERYTHING. Every scrap of anything they had has been taken by the tidal surge. Jeff remarked at how horrible it was to see his father's house destroyed, but absolutely nauseating to see the barrenness of Mississippi. He said "N.O., forget about it, Mississippi is the real disaster.
Sometimes, I feel the same. But it's just different. Does that make any sense?
This bitter sweetness here that is created from the joy of homecoming and the extensive losses of our community and friends is actually very familiar. New Orleans has ALWAYS been bittersweet.
I love that our restaurants and musicians and traditions are returning. I hate that the bulk of our community is feeling unloved, and neglected in other cities. There was a headline last week that said "How can you have Mardi Gras if we aren't even there?" This was a quote from a disgruntled evacuee in Atlanta. This might seem silly to non-New Orleanians, but really! If there are no high school student, who will supply the marching bands and flag girls? That's the best part! No home = no families = no flag girls in sequins shaking their adorable rumps to a badass marching band, covering a hip-hop song with jazz overtones = no Mardi Gras worth a damn.
I don't think we have ever needed Mardi Gras so badly, as we do now. That is the manifestation of this city's tremendous creative energy. God bless those stranded in other parts of the world. The pull to come home for Mardi Gras is very strong.
The single most hurtful thing that pokes at me lately is the discussion about "we can't afford levees". What type of shit is that? We can afford a war, an enormous tax cut(which according to the NYT is 3X the cost of new levees), petroleum subsidies to serve SUV drivers, and probably insurance bail outs, but not levees? People are really scrutinizing our local government for it's inability to recover, but virtually nothing is worth doing until a protection system is put together.
What can be done without protection? Who will come home and rebuild, and develop, and invest, when our safety and equity is uninsurable? The only reason it is uninsurable is because congress has said so. Are we not American? Do we not send our tax dollars to Washington and our children to war? Do we not sacrifice our ecosystem for access to oil and natural gas? Have we not provided this country with beautiful music, seafood, art, and above all a playground for ivy league brats and square people that need to let loose and pollute our streets with daiquiri cups and vomit? Yes, we sit on the sidelines of Bourbon Street and clean up the mess as best we can in the morning. Yep. The people who live here do that. You’re welcome. New Orleans is the concubine of America and it is embarrassing that we have misunderstood this relationship for centuries. We have served this country and the very notion that the United States of America thinks we aren't worth protecting makes me want to defect, or sell our city to Castro. We are pretty angry here. Maybe it's just me.
There are so many problems here, but why don't they seem worth fixing? I am no political genius, but if we compare the cost of investing in New Orleans now vs. the cost of endless disaster relief, I will put my money on the preventative maintenance option.
I am sorry if I have alienated any of our loved ones with this diatribe, but I felt compelled to publish my thoughts on this.
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