HumidCity

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I follow Fay over Florida after watching her stumble past Hispaniola, Jamaica and Cuba, the mountainous landmasses that inhabit the confluence of the Atlantic Ocean, Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico, all the while preparing for my upcoming trip to New Orleans to attend the third annual Rising Tide Conference; and I can’t help but remember August of 2005 and some of the intangibles since lost, perhaps greatest among them, trust. Watching television weatherpersons make their predictions, I see what I think are the prognosticators overestimating the possibilities of their science without adequately communicating the art within. Maybe they have it right this time, but there was innocence lost in 2005 and, well, among other things, I simply no longer believe in The Cone.

August 2005 was an unstable time for me. My family was in disarray. Recently separated and newly under-employed completely outside my field, I was desperately (in its most literal sense) trying to take care of my three sons, 23, 20 and 17. Craig Ferguson describes parenthood as spending the rest of your life with your heart outside your body. I can’t say it any better than that. It’s one thing when you can gather those little hearts of yours near you, keep their invisible leashes short enough to pretend you have some grasp; but there comes a time when the loving thing to do is to let go, to send your little hearts away to grow up, get educated in books and in the ways of independence. In late August of 2005 my 20 year old son was finally and happily among friends, celebrating the coming semester, looking forward to his sophomore year at Loyola University, having spent a miserable first summer in New Orleans, poor, unemployed and largely alone. Unlike so many others, the surface of my world, already well shaken, hardly noticed what happened next. While some college students in apartments, like so many New Orleanians, lost much, mine lived nestled safely up against St. Charles Avenue, and personally, his only immediate loss was some of the first semester of his sophomore year in college, managing to salvage nine hours of that from the generosity of Georgia State University. I guiltily enjoyed having him unexpectedly with me again, bonus time back in the nest, such as it was.

However, amidst the colossal losses in the wake of the storm, came a loss of trust, subtler and more gradual. For me it started with the National Hurricane Center’s and the mainstream media’s placing protocol and standard practices above the safety of the citizens of New Orleans on the Friday before the storm and completely eroded with the overt abandonment of those same citizens by their government during the following week, watching the massive human suffering in the wake of the catastrophe that we now know was caused, not solely by Hurricane Katrina, but by the very government that left them there to drown in the catastrophic flood, a flood that occurred because the levees that were known to be doomed by the federal employees who built and maintained them, collapsed under an onslaught they’d been advertised as being able to withstand. It’s dizzying. Unfortunately, it was only the beginning.

It’s been an ongoing civics lesson, watching what’s passed in and about New Orleans, what appears even from here as the abandonment of the brave people and institutions who went back and picked up and started again, on their own and in their spare time. It still moves me to think of all those universities just opening in January of 2006, faculty, students and staff, returning to a profoundly injured city in what can only be described as a leap of faith and what was probably the single greatest moment of repopulation since the city emptied. For me, my country’s failure in New Orleans has become woven among all the other failures. It’s just a little more personal. They, the mythical they who govern, corrupted by the power of doing so, are counting on our not paying attention, or on our following their lead and lying to ourselves, trying to find pathetic comfort in denial of this growing list of horrors that, each alone, could be Our National Shame. New Orleans has been abandoned. The nation’s economy is in shambles. The war is set to go on forever. I’ve come to believe that everything is going perfectly according to plan, expecting the worst, while a culture built on rationalization blames the victims and looks away, easily distracted, petulant when called to attention, �What were they thinking, living there?� It’s the coward’s way of pretending that nothing like that could ever happen to them because they, well, won’t bring it on themselves. Perhaps, in some small way, it’s also an extension of that last acceptable prejudice: Southerners in general and New Orleanians in particular, alone, still the brunt of cruel jokes in genteel company. Three years on, once optimistic, I am jaded and embittered.

Mark Folse and Adrastos, before me here, have both said what I aimed to say about what’s been found in the wake of this flood, amidst all this failure and loss, and it�s a pretty remarkable silver lining. They�ve named the names, so I�ll spare you the obligatory links be brief. I simply can�t measure how enriched my life has been just from standing on these sidelines, observing this surge of citizen activism bubbling up on such a scale. These are the bravest people I�ve ever known, and I�m just grateful, grateful to have witnessed this, to have been included in the silver lining, this community, found.

-Sophmom | Dot Calm

(For a complete and updated list of all Blog Carnival Posts visit this page.)

(For a complete and updated list of all Blog Carnival Posts visit this page.)

“I never thought I’d need so many people.”
–David Bowie, Five Years

Every day I drive slowly down rough and littered streets beneath sooty overpasses, through neighborhoods lined with hollow houses, the empty windows watching over the slow collapse of the roads into rubble, the rampant lawns and the vines claiming the roofs. Familiar landmarks are vanished into weed-choked lots even as new buildings rise up here and there. I tell myself this is not a disaster area, it is the New Orleans of memory, the postdiluvian city of shabby gentility slowly settling back into itself. It is the place I remember not transformed but instead amplified by the flood, the decay accelerated by the casual incompetence and common corruption of a government that would shame Haiti.

The streets and sidewalks still sag and heave as they did before, as if something beneath them were trying to break through and reclaim its place. There are more of these upheavals now, as if the flood had woken something that once moved slowly as in a dream, as if what lay below has grown hungry and anxious to completely crack the thin veneer of concrete we call civilization and begin to consume us in earnest. I can no longer be certain whether the roots that tear up the sidewalks run down from the trees, or if they are something clawing up from below, tossing up oaks and cypress to reclaim us for the swamp primeaval.

That is my city: not the delicate traceries of iron balconies or mossy-bricked patios at the end of a gas-lit carriageway in the Quarter–a postcard place for tourists–or the clean and quiet, manse-lined streets in the better parts of Uptown untouched by the flood. I live in the heart of the place, a section named Mid-City but called Back of Town by the cab dispatchers, rows of small houses crowded up to streets drapped in a tangle of overhead black wires, an early 20th century working class neighborhood made good (just), clinging desperately to gentility just a block from the railroad tracks.

Things mostly look good on our stretch of Toulouse Street three years after the levees failed and the city was drowned. Our biggest problem is that all of the rentals are full and its getting hard to park. I can drive to work up Orleans and tell myself it doesn’t look that different, until I get to the fields of sand and debris that were once the Lafitte Housing projects. Or I can take my son to school first, taking a part of my own boyhood route to school up Jefferson Davis and Nashville, and convince myself that things looks much the same as they did three years ago today, or twenty years ago when I left for the east coast.

I can make a point of not venturing into the heart of Gentilly Woods or New Orleans East. I can leave my newspaper folded on the porch and instead of reading of peoples homes demolished by mistake, or a building badly in need of demolition but ignored collapsing onto someone’s nearly restored house. I can pay no attention to the latest recovery scandal, the diversion of funds to help the elderly and poor into the pockets of the mayor’s brother-in-law. Instead I can make head out to any of a dozen of world’s finest restaurants in the country, then wander out into the night to listen to music you won’t find anywhere else in America, and tell myself everything is going to be alright.

Instead, I find myself getting up most mornings or coming home at night not to the daily paper but to a computer. I login and after vainly checking for comments and counts here, I pull up the writings of dozens of New Orleans bloggers who will not let us forget, who will not let you forget–dear reader–wherever you may be. They are a daily reminder of the ground truth of this place, that our recovery still struggles after three years and will continue for years to come. They remind me as well that I no longer have the time or energy to crusade as I did on Wet Bank Guide for the first two years after the flood, but that the battle goes on without me.

We are an odd bunch, the NOLA bloggers. I once said not long ago:

“We are people who write about this city and the people in it… as one of the tethers for our sanity in this crazy place where It’s After the End of the World…part an underground resistance to the poor, lost fuckmooks [in City Hall] on Perdido Street and everywhere you can find them, here and away; to the “shootings happen to someone else, to bad people but not to me” mind set; to the “charter schools are wonderful, just like Catholic school without the tuition or the knee patches and let the rest rot” view of the world; a resistance against anyone who would profit from our pain or settle for less than something better for New Orleans.

“[w]e’re not paragons, of virtue or anything else. We’re as dysfunctional a band as any mid-career high school class, mad as bats as often as not, cranky as an Ash Wednesday hangover and drunk 24-7 on the elixir of New Orleans.”

Our community is an on-line analog of the movement that blossomed two years ago when the government failed to step in to rebuild the city. Organizations rose up in the neighborhoods among those who came home first, and became a movement of civic engagement. Among the leaders that movement cast up where bloggers: Karen Gadbois and Bart Everson most prominently, with dozens of others in the ranks. When it became clear that the government would not save us, the people of New Orleans moved to save themselves and blogging became an important part of that movement.

What we all blog, all of those people listed on the right, is important because we will not let the government write our story, or the out-of-town journalists with their own angle or even our local newspaper, beholden as it is to the lot of carpetbaggers and scalawags who are swarming around the recovery money that dribbles down like flies. We tell our own story, the real story of the drowning and slow rebirth of New Orleans, sometimes from the fly-over view of what might be called the big picture, but more often in the stories of our own neighborhood, our block, ourselves. The people who would write our history for their own ends must contend with us. They have their own reasons, their own agendas. We have only one purpose: the salvation of the city and our own post-traumitized selves in the bargain.

If I start to name names, I know I will leave someone out, but on the odd chance you have just stumbled in here from elsewhere, I have to call out at least a few. Karen’s Squandered Heritage, Eli’s We Could Be Famous, the anonymous bloggers David’s Moldy City and Dambala’s American Zombie do not just take apart yesterday’s news; they are a at least a day (if not months) ahead at least. Karen and Eli can take credit for breaking the most recent City Hall Scandal. For a taste of life in the postdiluvian city you should be reading Micheal Homan, Kim’s Dangerblond, Mominem’s Tin Can Trailer Trash, Gentilly Girl, Cliff’s Crib, author Poppy Brite’s Dispatches from Tanganyika or Ray in New Orleans (currently on a blogging sabatical, but read back through his story of working on gutting houses in New Orleans). If you want to see people get their snark on and find a way to laugh through the veil of tears, then visit Peter’s Adrastos or Jeffery’s Library Chronicles.

Ah, what a slippery slope this is. See, I’ve gone and left out Leigh, Derek, Deidre, Glen, Bart, Lisa and bog only knows who else. If you come away from this list hurt, hit me up for a drink at Rising Tide III, the bloggers conference on the recovery of New Orleans.

You see, we are not just a lot of computer-equipped malingerers and malcontents. Many individuals (Ray, Bart, Karen, and others) have gone great things for the city. As a group, we have mounted Rising Tide, an annual conference on the city’s slow reconstruction. We have been able to attract national authors for featured speakers and active locals because they too have learned that there is a force moving in the world called blogging. It is not just a spin-off phenomena of politics or the ugly murmurring of the mob you read below the stories on NOLA.COM. Blogging is as powerful and as democratic as Tom Paine setting type and as powerful and as ethereal as William Blake carving visionary plates.

Three years is too soon to know if we will succeed or fail, whether we are writing small pieces of the history of a great beginning or a tragic ending. It is a tremendous task, not merely to rebuild a city but at the same time to try to correct a century of past mistakes that had led to the city I described when I began, the city already full of broken streets and broken dreams before the flood came. Will we collapse of our own internal contraditions like the revolutions of the 20th century, or be drowned beyond recovery by yet another storm? All I know for certain is that unless the Internet collapses or is suppressed, you can watch it play out here. Or even play your own part. . Blogging alone, we have learned, is not enough, but it is a start: a public declaration that you care about New Orleans, and will not let is fade away.

– Mark Folse | Toulouse Street — Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans

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