10 Years Later

It’s the 10 year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and those of us from or with connections to New Orleans couldn’t be more aware of it. Besides being ever present in our memories, it’s all over the news. It’s all over Facebook. Emotions of all sorts are running high – pain and anger over the memory, pride in the progress of the city, fear of the idea that it could ever happen again. But this isn’t new for us. It happens every year. People still hold their breaths all hurricane season, and feel a little raw on August 29^th.

I’ve never written anything about my experience with Katrina because, frankly, I never felt like I had anything to say. It wasn’t as devastating to my life as it was for so many people I know. I wasn’t there and to this day can’t begin to comprehend the experiences of those who were.

My parents moved me up to Chicago just a few days before the storm hit (yep, this week also marks my 10 year anniversary of living here). They evacuated as soon as they got back home – grabbed the cat, packed the car and headed out of town. My sister and some friends banded together and stayed just outside of the city, near the airport.

All in all, I was lucky. It took a few days to be able to reach my friends and family, but I was able to. And that following Christmas I went home to my house, almost untouched.

What I have struggled with hasn’t been the tragedy itself, but the lack of understanding. The guilt of not being there, of having my life remain untouched in the face of so much devastation of people in my life.

I had spent so much time in high school just waiting to get out of New Orleans, not because of the city itself but because it, in so many ways, is a small town and I needed a change. I spent my first semester of college having to defend the city I grew up in against people who didn’t understand why it should be saved, who attacked its infrastructure in ways that attacked those of us who lived there. “Why live there at all?”

I found myself trying to defend it but lacking the vocabulary. I felt guilty that I couldn’t articulate myself better. I felt stupid, especially in the face of these people who seemed so much more educated about my city. And I felt angry that they would even question its right to be saved. I was only 18, an insecure teenager just trying to start the next chapter of my life and I didn’t know how to wrap my head around everything that had happened and was happening.

Two days ago my boyfriend and I watched the New Orleans episode of Anthony Bourdain’s show The Layover. In one of the early segments he sits with Davis Rogan (the man Steve Zahn’s character in HBO’s Treme is loosely based on or inspired by). Rogan quickly goes from listing the accolades of the city and what makes it so unique to getting angry and defensive about it. He got harsh and aggressive, and I couldn’t help but cringe. I got defensive myself, thinking, “Please don’t judge my hometown based on this one abrasive person!” It’s a strange feeling but one I’ve become very familiar with. When you spend so much time feeling like you need to explain why your home deserves to be rebuilt, why it deserves to come back, how could you not? I want people to feel my city and understand why it’s special. Yes you may be tired of hearing what makes New Orleans such a treasure, I know so many people who chide us for being obnoxiously proud, and they’re quick to point out our flaws.

Thankfully I can still go home to New Orleans. The city hasn’t gone anywhere, and it will always be home: dysfunction and all.

I know I was lucky, and am lucky. And I am so, so incredibly grateful.