Memoirs of a Katrina Refugee

Memoirs of a Katrina Refugee
? Greta Mayer June 19, 2006


Somewhere in the course of my eight-hour drive from Atlanta to New Orleans, it happened. It was so magically subtle, I would be hard pressed to locate the exact time and mile marker. If I had to, I’d say somewhere in southern Mississippi. When the Pine trees start to give way to the Palms, and the roads buckle under the stress of the heat and swamp water. When the splattered bug blanket weaves itself thicker on my windshield and the insect chorus rings louder in my ears. Here, the air smells different, feels different, even looks different. Then as my car lurches over the first big pothole, it hits me. I’m almost home.

Now that hurricane season has begun again, I can’t help but think of last year. I look back and think of the entire journey with a detached reverence like, how did I make it through that? And then I think of all those people who never made it at all, and all the people who lost everything and I remember it could always be worse. But it all still seems like a long dream, or nightmare. And it can always be worse. This wasn’t even The Big One that we feared. So in my pessimistic emotional preparations for this year, I turn to last year for some retrospective insight. Maybe we can learn a few things.

“Well, I don’t understand. You knew about it for a week before, didn’t you?” This was definitely the most popular question to ask the hurricane refugee. The Atlantians couldn’t understand why what happened, happened. I was introduced to everyone like this, “Hey so and so, have you met Greta? She’s from New Orleans.” Ok, so it’s human nature to stand at the station, watch the train wreck and then gossip about it for months afterwards so I’ll give you that one. It was actually entertaining to watch people react differently to that unnecessary piece of information. “Ohhh…” some say like they are just getting the punch line. “Bless your heart,” some say, cocking their head sympathetically. My favorite reaction by far however, is the blank stare. The completely unaffected “I’ve been living under a rock” gaze. What did you expect? I ask myself upon realizing my disappointment. I don’t know, I don’t know much of anything these days. It’s like I’ve been robbed of my ability to think rationally. Like hiding in a cave for a couple days and then emerging to find yourself in a foreign land, where nobody speaks your language. I guess I expected sympathy, understanding and a little compassion. Too much? I don’t know. And no, I didn’t know about the hurricane until two days before, thanks for your concern. On a Friday night, I went to a bar for happy hour and saw the weatherman gesturing with his arms in front of an animation that showed the hurricane headed for the panhandle. I clearly remember thinking “poor Floridians….can I have another beer, please?”

“Well, you can’t go back. There’s nothing left. New Orleans is finished, through, over.” Thanks a lot. There’s nothing more a person in anguish likes to hear more than idiotic doomsday prophecies. “Well, I don’t think we should rebuild it…sorry.” No, don’t be sorry. I should have known better to expect a little compassion from a family member. Silly me. Natural disasters happen everywhere, all the time. San Francisco is built right on an enormous fault line. If, god forbid, an earthquake happens there, will you spout the same selfish nonsense? And anyways, you don’t have to rebuild anything. It will be me. Me and the countless others that choose hope instead of defeat.

I soon sought refuge in the places I knew I could find people that understood. Places like the unemployment line, the food stamp office and the Red Cross shelter. “I only brought two shirts with me. I thought we were gonna be gone for a couple days.” This is all I heard at the three different Red Cross centers where I sat for a combined total of about 8 hours. Exsqueeze me? Baking powder? I’m sorry, I thought you said that you knew that there was a category five hurricane hurtling towards your home and you were forcibly evacuated and only brought a couple shirts with you. My mistake.

The night before I left to come home, there was a storm. It was freezing cold, and drizzling and windy. The wind was whipping the dead leaves around like it was Zorro. I had the oddest feeling of excitement and dread and sheer relief. My nightmare was over. Soon, I would be awakened in my bed. Auntie Em would be standing over me, swabbing my forehead with a damp towel. And I would be feverishly muttering there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

Ours is a story of triumph in the face of disaster. I wonder how the successive generations will come to know our story. How will we tell our children? We are survivors of the worst natural disaster in recorded history. The death count, when all is said and done, is estimated to be higher than that of the 9/11 attacks, and there are still bodies yet to be discovered. How will we be remembered? As the red headed stepchild of the richest nation in the history of the world? Abandoned by our government and forgotten by our neighbors? “Hey, remember how New Orleans was destroyed by that hurricane?” “Yeah, it was so sad…two more beers, please.”
Home is a tricky thing to pin down for me. I’ve lived in so many cities. But it took on an entirely different meaning post-k. It’s not where you were born, or raised, or lived, or dwell. Those are just places. Home is more than that, it’s a feeling. Home is where you feel like you belong. And for those of us who just can’t imagine living anywhere else, it’s here.

So what did we learn? We learned that home is a feeling and it can only be felt here. We learned not to expect sympathy from anyone. We learned to speak up for ourselves and protect this scared place from the slanderous media and the ignorant outsiders. We learned something about ourselves as well, that we are resilient. We will not be broken. Oh, and this time, bring more than two shirts.