August 27th, 2005
“If you stay here, you will die,” The TV reporter says, flatly. I grimace, as I feel like he is talking directly to me.
April 11th, 2008
I am in New Orleans, LA, USA, for the first time since Hurricane Katrina in an outdoor bazaar with vast vendors of local artists who set up under colorful tents around the gray concrete plaza. In my calf-length red skirt with the slit up the side, the sticky, hot summer heat still slides down my thighs. Despite the heat, dim light hangs heavy in a sky stuffed with clouds. I hear the sounds of pierced voices bargaining with each other, the quick whiz of cars as they fly past. I inhale the smell of rich, sweet, chocolate pastries from a food vendor.
I zero in on an older, red-headed woman wearing a long, flowing purple skirt and several fake gold bangle bracelets clinking together on her arms. She is selling her artwork. As I approach her, I notice a heart-shaped piece of artwork.
Its rough, blood-red edges pierce my clammy skin. It is adorned with sharp screws, raw metal bottle caps, shiny, colorful buttons, large bolts, and smooth pieces of colored glass. The piece’s overlap each other, jutting out in every direction on the heart—like they have nowhere else to go.
Engaging her in conversation, she tells me, “This is the last heart I have; the pieces are remnants from Katrina.”
The heart heavy in my hands, I say without hesitation, “I’ll take it.”
I hand her the piece for her to wrap it in red tissue paper. As I stare at the heart, I hear the deep vibrating sound of thunder. I whip my head around, my shoulder-length dark hair flipping in my face. At the same time, I nervously rub the fabric of my skirt between my thumb and finger as memories simmer beneath the surface of my mind.
August 27th, 2005, Two Days Prior to Hurricane Katrina
My partner Ben and I wake up hazily to the newscast in our tiny apartment, shocked by the bright light of the late afternoon. I had been drinking smooth, sweet long island ice teas all night at a small dive bar deep in the French Quarter that caters mostly to locals. However, we had lived in New Orleans for a brief three months. Our idea was to move here to escape Alabama, home of American football and practically nothing else.
That previous night had a particularly cold, red electric feel to it instead of the typical laidback vibe of the city. I bought a small painting that night of a witch playing a piano in an eclectic, rather trippy, purple and black background. People knew the hurricane was coming, but this was New Orleans. The people are strong, survivors, and many felt like they had already lived through much worse. So they stayed. For others, it is impossible to get out without a car; At the end of the month people were low on money.
The newscaster looked at us point-blank through the TV and states, his voice even,
“If you stay here, you will die.”
I feel a prickle of fear run down my spine as I ground my teeth together.
We consider the options.
Option A: The beaten up, faded red truck, with a broken passenger-side window. The truck would never make it to the safe confines of central Alabama, where my family is located.
Option B: The super dome? The newscaster said it would be safe there. A possibility.
“No, wait, we can’t,” I stress to Ben, a tall, lanky punk guy with longish dirty-blond hair, crooked teeth, and the uniform of one who doesn’t care about how one looks. He had introduced me to classic punk rock, old cult Sci Fi, Bukowski’s harsh poetry, and fueled my obsession with the theory of time travel.
“We can’t take the cats to the super dome. So, that’s a no,” I say with my hands on my hips, blowing my hair out of my face as I spoke rapidly.
“OK…. then what?” Ben replies, towering above me.
No trains running out two days before Katrina was to hit, no buses, nothing.
August 29th, 2005, Hurricane Katrina Hits
It hasn’t yet begun to rain. The environment feels still, the silence intense. We have little faith in the truck, but have to take it if we want to live.
“Will the truck even start?” I ask Ben.
“I’m not sure.”
For once, we were in luck, the truck starts.
“So what are we going to do, just drive around? How much gas do we even have?” I ask Ben as we climb into the faded, battered truck.
Ben grimaces, “It looks like we only we have less than a quarter of a tank.”
We live 1 mile outside the French quarter—where you won’t see any gas stations—so we have no idea where to find one. This is before GPS.
“It’s times like these that I wish we knew more about New Orleans than just the French Quarter,” I say.
We drive and drive around some more. Finally, we come to a gas station with its lines to the pumps spilling out into that street. Once we finally pull up to the pump, Ben jumps out; I hand him my debit card as I wait on the passenger side.
He turns to me, “It’s not working.”
“What do you mean it’s not working?” I ask, squinting my eyes and shaking my head.
“You try, I don’t know,” he says, throwing up his hands.
Sighing, I get out of the truck, and he is right, the debit card is not working.
I guess I’ll just have to go inside, I think. As I start to the glass building of the gas station I notice that the lights are turned off and there is no one inside.
Great. Not only have they stranded us with no way to get out of the city by bus or train, but there’s not even any gas station attendants. I think deeper, they need to get out too, though, so I can’t blame them.
I return to Ben, “You’re right, it doesn’t work. And there’s no one inside the gas station working today, imagine that.”
“Well, that’s just great,” he replies.
It was at this point I realize that we may very well be trapped in a city that could be underwater in hours. I start nervously rubbing the bottom of the fabric of my cotton tank top between my fingers.
“What are we going to do? How are we going to get out of here?” I ask.
“I have an idea, wait here,” he says.
Going to the car behind us, he talks with the driver.
Coming back to me, he says, “I have some cash I’m gonna give this guy behind us to fill up the tank so we can get home.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, my muscles relax as I think, maybe we will get out of here on time.
We leave just as it starts to sprinkle rain.
New Orleans: tough, gritty, water floods through the streets
New Orleans breaks that day, but it has strength, heart.
From draft to publication
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