“Life is short and no one knows what the next moment will bring. Open your mind while you have the opportunity, thereby gaining the treasures of wisdom, which in turn you can share abundantly with others, bringing them happiness.”
– from the Fukanzazengi, translated by Senaki and McCandless
The French Quarter last night was pure magic and mystery, deserted, silent, spooky, and beautiful. We walked over to eat at Bennachin, an African restaurant on Royal Street. (See, it’s not ALWAYS gumbo and poboys down here…) Finding the restaurant full, and the night pleasantly warm but not stifling, we ordered food to go and took a walk for the 30 minutes it took for it to be prepared. I can’t remember when I’ve seen the Quarter so quiet. Almost eerie. Now, granted, we were on the end of the Quarter very near Esplanade, so it’s always more residential there than touristy, but nonetheless the quiet moment afforded me the time to appreciate the beauty all around me. And to be thankful, once again, for the opportunity and the privilege it is to live here in New Orleans, a place I have loved so deeply since I was a little girl.
I’d gone back and forth in my mind about writing about the fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina here. On the one hand, I didn’t live here at the time, so what do I have to say that could possibly matter? That could resonate, could begin to approach the pain and sorrow those who did felt? On the other hand, my sister’s home in the Broadmoor neighborhood of Nola flooded and my mother’s home on 2nd St. in Gulfport, Mississippi was nearly swept away. So, while I was spared, my immediate family was not, and their pain is mine, and my pain is everyone’s who watched, as I did, in absolute horror at what looked like something post-apocalyptic unfolding day by day, those horrible days after the storm. I remember thinking, “Can it get any worse? It can’t get any worse.” And then it would.
As an aside, I would vote for Lt. General Russel Honore for mayor, or governor, or senator, or President, or king of the universe, or whatever that man might want to run for. Even now when I see him on TV, the emotions well up. The dignity and calm he brought to a chaotic situation are other-wordly.
My primary plea to everyone as we come upon this fifth anniversary, and the attendant media rush and rancor about it, is to just remember, please, that this was a human tragedy. That’s someone’s sister, someone’s brother, someone’s son, someone’s mother you see there, in that old footage, standing atop houses pleading for help amidst acres of hot filth and dirty water. Those are people with dreams and hopes and fears experiencing unimaginable loss. And no one deserves to go through what the people here and on the Mississippi Gulf Coast went through.
Think about the people you love, and your home, and your neighbors, and your neighborhood. Think about your daily routine, running to the drug store down the street, going off to work, returning home at the end of the day, to sink into your bed, surrounded by everything you know and love. Now, try to imagine it all gone. All of it. Imagine the anxious uncertainty, the sadness, the despair, the fear.
I know. It’s hard for me to imagine it, too. But I try, because I don’t want to forget, I don’t want any of us to forget, that that is what we are talking about here. PEOPLE. I understand the need and the desire to figure out who’s at fault, who’s to blame, to figure it all out so we hopefully prevent something like this from happening again. I understand the need to get political about it, and to get angry. I really do. It’s just that, for me anyway, I want to honor the fact that actual human beings persevered against a situation so overwhelming, so seemingly impossible. To me, that is the best way to commemorate the fifth anniversary, by remembering that this happened to people, your fellow Americans, people just like you and just like me, and to be amazed that the folks here and along the Coast were able to come back from it.
Has it been easy? Is everything ok now? Of course not. I’m not suggesting it is. We have a long way to go, to be sure. There are still New Orleanians scattered across the country who want to come home and can’t. Across the street from my mother’s house in Gulfport, there are three big empty spaces, where her neighbors were left, literally, with slabs for homes and they haven’t built back and likely won’t. Five years later, she’s living in a ghost town for a neighborhood block, as many here are also doing.
My point is only that as you watch all the coverage this weekend and hear all the talking heads on TV, take a breath and remember the people involved here. Remember the people. Make it about the people. Be a little kinder. Show compassion to everyone around you. And be thankful for everything that you have, for your loved ones, and even for the daily annoyances that challenge you. Trust me, you’ve got it good.
Kindra Arnesen, of Venice, Louisiana, is what you might call an accidental activist. That’s not to say she’s not wired for the job or not good at it, but I think it’s safe to say it’s not a role she cherishes or ever expected to be thrust into. She’s the wife of a Gulf fisherman and mother to two little children she evacuated from Venice for health reasons, no longer wanting to expose them to the toxic dispersants used by BP, not to mention the, you know, oil. She’s also an inspirational and fearless leader, a voice for the so-called “small people” of South Louisiana’s fishing communities. She’s feisty, sharp, and strong-willed, and I wouldn’t want to go up against her. However, knowing she’s out there, speaking truth to power without any hesitation, makes me feel better.
All of us down here and across the Coast — and, shoot, across this country — owe her a big thank you. So, Kindra, on the off-chance you ever see this, thank you, and please, I know the fight is long and tiring, but we need you. Keep it up.
Here are two videos that can better illustrate Kindra’s strength than I can with words:
Spilling Over (The Washington Post – a powerful video about the possibility that Venice, LA will cease to exist altogether)
Venice, Louisiana Needs to Evacuate (YouTube — this is a speech Kindra gave back in June and was the first thing I saw about her)
Day 65
The oil continues to flow.
The fish, the turtles, the birds, the dolphins, the crabs continue
to live, to breathe, to breed, to feed,
in the poisonous muck.
Unable to escape it
while here I sit, complaining about the heat from within my air-conditioned nest,
able to forget for just a split second that I have it so good.
That we all have it so good.
That we aren’t living, as they are, in filthy certain death
and decay.
Day 65
A charter boat operator shot himself yesterday over in Alabama
aboard his boat
which no longer shuttled men, and families, and whomever, out to fish
and have fun
on the gorgeous Gulf.
But instead, was supposed to be a sickeningly named “vessel of opportunity” for B.P.
cleaning up what was left of his prior life, what was left of what had been so beautiful.
He couldn’t take it
and he, sadly, won’t be the last.
I say a little prayer for his family.
I know a little something about suicide, but do not pretend
to know anything close to the despair
that all those whose livelihoods depend on fishing and the water
are now feeling.
Day 65
And it’s still not fair, to anyone, to any of us, to all of us.
It’s still not fixed.
It still flows, horrible, ugly, like a growing disease, a cancer, infecting the Gulf,
infecting us all.
The animals still suffer.
The fishermen still suffer.
The families of the 11 dead oil rig workers still suffer.
And now, out beyond the Gulf, far out, but still,
there sits an area of so-called “disturbed weather.”
Talk about disturbed. We are all disturbed.
We are all sick here. Watching. Waiting. Wondering. Wandering. Wishing. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting.
Day 65.
I’m not sure I qualify yet as an official New Orleanian, having only lived here since the beginning of October, but my heart certainly feels like I do. I grew up in a small Mississippi town just two hours away from here and spent my childhood loving our family trips to New Orleans, dreaming of a day when I could live here. In high school, I wanted nothing more than a little room in New Orleans, a coffee pot, my books, and notepads to write in. To me, that was the biggest and best future I could imagine. It still is.
It took me a lot longer to get here than I thought it would, but it makes me appreciate it more, as does taking trips to other places. I just got back from several days in D.C., an area I lived in for nearly 11 years before moving here. It’s remarkable to me how different I feel in the two places. No disrespect intended to the District, and I have many lovely, talented, and wonderful friends left in the area, but I feel absolutely hollow when I am there. I feel empty, I feel nothing. I am not inspired. I am not moved. Nothing.
The second I was back in New Orleans, it was like I could breathe again, like I felt like myself. I can’t explain why my soul seems to connect with this city so much; I just know it does. I finally feel at home, and at ease, and like I belong somewhere. Sure, we may be a town of misfit, lazy, weird slowpokes, where it’s pointless to get too worked up about things running late or breaking down or just plain not working right. But I much prefer that to the East Coast uptight soulless get-ahead-at-any-cost workaholic attitude that pervades up there. I know there are many good things about the D.C. area. They just don’t fit with me. And that’s ok.
I am lucky enough to live in a place now that inspires me constantly, that makes me want to write, that presents things daily I want to take pictures of. And I am lucky to know so many who live here and feel as I do. We are all in love with our city, and with one another.
Ah, it just feels so good to be home, in every way.
The oil continues to flow unabated into the Gulf of Mexico, and now here we are facing hurricane season. Oh joy. I’ve appreciated James Carville’s and Mary Matalin’s fire and fury over this, their true honest emotion on national TV. They get it. And I like that Carville called the President out. He was right to rattle the cage like he did. I have to say I think Anderson Cooper gets it, too. Say what you will about “baby Vanderbilt” (as one of my friends calls him) — the guy sticks with a story and ferrets out lies down here for us. I appreciate that, too.
I came across a letter my hero Hunter S. Thompson wrote to Carville during the 1992 election season and it seems apropos today, thinking about the oil polluting the gorgeous Gulf and all the lying and dirty deeds that went on pre-spill and continue on today. It’s just sickening. I wish Dr. Thompson was around to comment on it. I can only imagine his well-written fury over this mess.
Here’s an excerpt from the letter:
“Cheer up, James. This is the passing lane, and on some days it gets real narrow… Hell, the scum always rises when the water gets hot. They are mean and rich and greedy and bloated with hate and fear after 12 years of power and excess profits. And they will rage against the dying of the light. This is a bad crowd, James, and too many of them would kill to be winners… We are coming down to some very fast days, no matter what happens… They are liars and thieves and forgers and fixers and pimps and slick-living power-junkies who are suddenly confronted with the end of the world as they know it.”
Today, for some reason, I finally let myself watch the streaming live video of the oil currently pouring into the Gulf of Mexico. I’d been avoiding it, only because I knew how it would break my heart. And this whole mess is already so damn heartbreaking, who needs to pile on more?
Apparently I do.
Because after watching the oil, billowing, black and horrible, I then let myself read this well-written, heart-wrenching Washington Post article — In Louisiana, wildlife show effects of gulf oil spill – and it about did me in. The tears started from pretty much the article’s sad and compelling opening paragraph:
“GRAND ISLE, LA. — In the Louisiana marsh, oil-coated pelicans flap their wings in a futile attempt to dry them. A shorebird repeatedly dunks its face in a puddle, unable to wash off. Lines of dead jellyfish float in the gulf, traces of oil visible in their clear “bells.”
I am sad for everyone involved and affected– the families of the dead oil rig workers, the fishermen wondering what’s to come of their livelihoods… But it’s the animals that are making it hard for me not to cry, making it hard for me to breathe on this gorgeous sunny Wednesday in this beautiful place. The animals, they must be so confused.
Thinking about that one bird repeatedly trying to clean his head in a puddle… How many more birds are going to feel that very thing and not understand? How many more sea turtles will wash up dead? How many more dolphins will fall victim to swimming in — to LIVING in — that hazy mess out there?
They can’t escape it. And they can’t comprehend it. And they didn’t do anything to deserve it. And to me, that makes this whole situation so sad I can hardly bear it. My eyes just keep filling with tears again and again thinking about it.
Lest you label me some rabid, silly, over-the-top environmentalist, I’m not (not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course). I’m just an empathetic human being who hates to see suffering in others, be they human or otherwise. Those animals out there, just trying to eat and breed and fly and swim and exist… in the middle of this maelstrom… Well, I am praying for them. I don’t quite know what else to do. I am praying for them and hoping against hope they make it through this violence, this assault on them, as best they can.
“One thing, all things;
move among and intermingle,
without distinction.”
– from Verses on the Faith Mind, by Seng-Tsan, the third Zen patriarch
