Katrina Questions Five Years Later

With the five year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina right around the corner, we have all been confronted with a new barrage of photos, news stories, and memoirs about that mighty storm. I admit that I have been tuning in to a few of the TV specials and allowing myself to be sucked back into some degree of the anger and frustration I felt directly after the storm.

Over the last two days, I also somewhat coincidentally read Dave Egger's "Zeitoun", the account of a family whose patriarch stayed in New Orleans after the storm. He faced senseless persecution at the hands of the hodge-podge police and justice systems while his family for a time thought he was dead and mourned him. This combination of Katrina-themed entertainment has raised two new questions for me now, even five years after the storm.

Allow me to preface the remainder of this writing by saying that I was NOT in New Orleans when the storm hit. I did not even have to evacuate. I was preparing to board a flight to New Orleans on Saturday, August 27, 2005 when the security at Dulles International Airport was too congested and I missed my flight to Louisiana just as the storm was preparing to move in. I suppose I was quite fortunate in that respect. That means, however, that all of my opinions about Katrina are based on news coverage, books, and personal accounts I have heard since the storm.

My two new questions are:
1) Why was there such an extreme breakdown in the justice system for those arrested during the Katrina aftermath?
Many people who stayed behind in the city, especially after the mandatory and then forced evacuations were announced, ended up being arrested by New Orleans Police, the National Guard, or any number of mercenary peace keeping forces that were brought in from all over the country. Most of those arrested were charged with looting or similar crimes. Many were certainly innocent, but the police were on edge and ready to arrest anyone at even the slightest indication of wrongdoing or suspicious activity.

The jumpiness of the police is understandable and even acceptable to me, given the circumstances. In the case of such an extreme breakdown of society, it may in fact be safer to err on the side of caution and arrest anyone showing any signs of guilt. At that point, the justice system is supposed to take over, allowing the accused to present their cases or at least contact someone who can help legally. In this case, that did not happen. Not even a little bit.

Countless citizens who were arrested after Katrina were held for months without being allowed even a phone call. Many were housed in the outdoor, impromptu jail built at the Greyhound station, which has been compared at length to Guantanamo. This facility was guarded by prison staff borrowed from Angola Prison, who often and unnecessarily used harsh maximum security tactics on quite non-threatening detainees.

Once they were moved from Camp Greyhound to more permanent facilities, many prisoners continued to be denied basic rights, including phone calls and medical care. The correctional facilities to which these Katrina prisoners were transferred in most cases did not even have records of their new wards. The prisoners were considered FEMA's problem and widely ignored by the system.

In this senseless manner, many prisoners were lost in the system, so to speak, for up to a year after the storm hit. Their families in many cases did not even know that they had been arrested or put in prison. When some of these prisoners did face some sort of trial, often the location, time, or purpose was kept secret, even from family trying to ascertain the locations of their loved ones. The similarities between the treatment of the Katrina prisoners and the treatment of captured "Enemies of America" are lengthy and unacceptable, as Eggers, among many others, pointed out.

This, to me, is completely baffling. How difficult could it possibly be to allow someone arrested after the storm to make a phone call to his family or lawyer? Why were official records of these prisoners' whereabouts not recorded properly or made public? Why the secrecy around the trial process? Why were Katrina prisoners denied the basic care afforded to other prisoners? Was there such a breakdown in basic human dignity in New Orleans after the devastation of the storm that these prisoners were simply considered collateral and thrown away? If this is the explanation, it is not an acceptable one.

2) Why was there not a larger privatized effort to provide relief for those left in the city, such as the Convention Center and Superdome refugees?
It has been well documented and essentially accepted that government and relief agencies fell extremely short in providing water, food, medical supplies and shelter for those left in the city after the storm. No one was at all prepared to handle the volume of New Orleanians "left behind". Those housed at the Convention Center went days without food or water and lacked any degree of medical attention. Ten bodies were removed from the Center and seven from the Superdome when all was said and done.

We have been exposed to an abundance of footage showing helicopters flying over the Convention Center while thousands of civilians below wail for help. It is incredibly frustrating to realize that the resources to provide simple relief such as bottled water were so close at hand, yet unused. Pointing out that helicopters were supposedly attacked by New Orleans residents while landing (A sniper took shots at helicopters trying to land on the roof of a hospital, for example) only creates more confusion and frustration around this issue. Suffice to say that the relief promised to those who sought shelter at the authority-recommended facilities was extremely lacking.

I wonder why private organizations, companies, and citizens associated with New Orleans did not do more to provide relief. I cannot imagine a disaster of this magnitude occurring in another major American city without the wealthy and powerful residents of that city becoming extremely involved. Even without initial consent of the government, it seems to me that a private citizen who wanted to airlift some palettes of water to New Orleans on his own helicopters would ultimately be allowed to do so. This is an extremely simplified and under-researched idea, of course, but the point is simple: Where were private resources to provide relief when the "other class" of New Orleans residents so desperately needed it?

If New York or Los Angelos faced sudden, post apocalyptic conditions, I cannot imagine the movers and shakers of those cities watching their TVs while thousands of their home town's citizens suffered so unnecessarily. A racial and class division between those who were left behind and those who were not is glaring and has been widely discussed. It is easy to assert that relief and help for the poverty stricken residents of New Orleans was slow coming due to racial and class divisions. As much as I hate to say so, I buy this explanation to some extent. There was and is a shameful and sad sentiment among some of the wealthy, white residents of this city that we would be better off without the Ninth Ward (for example), all of its residents, and in fact all of "those types" in New Orleans.

I don't think that race or class is the whole story, though. I think that the answer to both of these questions lies in the total shock and devastation left behind after Katrina rolled through and particularly after a levee system meant to provide security failed so miserably. Much like survivors of any devastating natural disaster or military attack, the survivors in New Orleans and those meant to protect and serve them were thrust into a world with a new set of rules. Underlying this unfamiliar physical and sociological landscape was a tremendous amount of emotional stress. The kind of stress that creates widespread feelings of helplessness and despair.

Desperation abounded, clearly and palpably for those left behind, but for those on the sidelines as well. Watching the city one calls home being engulfed by a sea of rapidly dirtying water can certainly create a feeling of powerlessness in even the most confident of men and women.

The only thing to do now is to continue to celebrate the uniqueness and beauty of New Orleans while we continue to rebuild. Hopefully we have learned from our mistakes, but I believe there is no guarantee that a complete breakdown of resources and, as a result, a breakdown in society would not or could not occur again. The best we can do is build better levees, enjoy today, and above all learn to love and appreciate all of our city's residents. Because you never know; the next storm could be the last.

Hurricane Season and Rational Fears

So, is anyone else really bummed out about hurricane season? This year, for the first time, I've been having momentary panic attacks about the possibility of evacuation, or worse, relocation.

I tend to be a pretty roll-with-the-punches kind of chick, and I don't have any all-important ties to New Orleans i.e. a house, a good job, etc. So, I've never gotten that upset over the idea of picking up my life, collecting my possessions and hopefully my loved ones, and moving elsewhere indefinitely. I actually get a little bit itchy when I stay in the same place for too long, so an extended hurrication, if not a new home altogether, would be exciting for me.

This year, though, everything is different. The idea of shoving my swollen ass into a car and driving for days on end, in traffic, with limited pee stops, is horrifying. The idea of searching for a new Ob/Gyn and working out a whole new prenatal care situation is repulsive. Even the thought of trying to move all the baby crap we are slowly collecting as time goes on makes my head hurt.

Beyond that, and even more importantly, New Orleans feels more like home than ever right now. This is where I am beginning my family, and where my partner in that process has his roots. We have ties here: familial; friendly; and hell, gastronomical. This is where we find all of our favorite restaurants, the places we frequented when we first started dating, the movie theater where we saw our first movie together... (Jackass 2, if you're wondering.)

I may talk sometimes about getting out of New Orleans, or Louisiana, or even the South before it's too late, but I'll be damned if it's because of some hurricane. Even worse than the idea of leaving this place on Mother Nature's terms is the thought that it may not be the same or even BE, for that matter, if and when we want to return. What if we can't go to Mandina's for lunch, or have some beers at Cooter Browns? What if the people we are close with decide not to return? What if the whole city sinks underwater and becomes the second Atlantis; the subject of fairy tales for our children?

Right now, I feel like all of these fears are completely rational, and they often occupy the forefront of my mind. I try to drive them away by telling myself that the chance of even having to evacuate is quite slim, but the worry is always there. I just hope that hurricane season takes it easy this year, because I am hormonal, rapidly expanding, and somewhat irrational. Combine those factors with the summer heat; a long, slow evacuation; and a whole lot of uncertainty, and I'm not sure how we would survive.

Gaining Family Members, and Why That's... Pretty Cool

Today, I want to write about something I've been thinking about a lot lately: Family. As in, "There's a rift in our _____," "I couldn't live without my ______," "No one's _____ is as weird as mine," just to reference a few phrases I have heard in the past few days.

Everyone has different opinions about what constitutes, and what is the ideal function of, family. Many people consider their closest friends to be at least as important as their actual relatives in what they would consider their family structures. I can understand that sentiment, as I have many friends with whom I am incredibly close and whom I have known for many, many years. Still I think there is something about family family that is just different.

For one thing, many people spend a lot of time disliking members of their families. All relatives go through ups and downs that sometimes reach Jerry Springer-like extremes. Still, even when hating a family member, we necessarily love that person. I think that's what really makes family unique.

I also think that's a great way to gauge when a significant other should become your spouse. When you can truly love someone even when momentarily hating the shit out of them; that to me means run out and buy that diamond ring because wedding bells are a-ringing... but that's a conversation for another time.

Not completely unrelated though, is how one's definition of family can change in the blink of an eye, like when they find out they're having a baby.

Not to constantly shove all this baby stuff down your throat, but...

Recently I went from having a boyfriend of whom I was extremely fond to having a new family member. As the father of my upcoming child, he has become an incredibly important member of my family structure. Not only that, but he has a whole, big family of his own. So, without the ring or the wedding bells or any of that, I have gained a whole crew of "in-laws" whom I now consider to be family.

I am fortunate to have come into some pretty great family members. I like them a lot. They are lovely, accepting people who have always made me feel welcome and comfortable. Even if they sucked, though, I think my perception of them would have changed through this experience.

Something about knowing your bloodline is getting all mixed up with another person's and making some tiny, hybrid person makes you have more consideration and respect for where that other bloodline came from. If it weren't for my new family there would be no tiny person, and that would be terrible. I love that little guy, and by extension have a lot of love for my baby daddy and his relatives. That's not to say that I did not love them before, it's just a different, more familial love now.

I feel fortunate, aside from having gained a new family that I personally like, to have gained a family where there is a lot of love to go around. Similarly, my family, although by no means perfect, is made up of nice, loving people who I am proud to call my relatives. This is more important than ever, now, because if I'm going to bring another person into this often crappy world, I want him to be surrounded by people who are capable of demonstrating the less crappy aspects of life. I think Tony and I will definitely succeed in providing that benefit for our son, not only through our own love and affection, but through that of our families.

As Martha Stewart would say, "A growing family. It's a good thing."

On Breasts, and Getting Attached to them

I'm not typically a voluptuous woman, and I've never had a problem with that. At a young age I accepted the fact that I simply wasn't going to have hips or big boobs and made do with what I had. My lack of curves was a trade off for the ease with which I always maintained a flat tummy and a god-given ability to tone up without a particularly strenuous exercise regiment. Staying relatively skinny was pretty much my only physical goal, and I never had trouble attracting guys. Life was good.

Then, I suddenly grew boobs this spring, and I knew something was afoot. That was honestly the first thing that made me know I was pregnant. "These things don't belong here," I reasoned, "So I must be knocked up." Turns out I was right, but I did not yet know how attached I would become to my new lady lumps.

As time progressed, I stacked on some other, similarly cushy assets. My butt has a tendency to jiggle when I walk now, and I can physically feel its weight. When I sit down, it's like someone sneaked in a giant, comfy cushion as I was lowering myself into my seat. It is comfortable, which is nice, because I've been warned to enjoy any comfort I can get, while I still can. Aside from that benefit though, is a new found feeling of womanliness that is not familiar for me.

I've never had to force my breasts into a size small blouse before yesterday, and I'm definitely not used to feeling curvy. For now, while my belly is still barely noticeable and my assets fairly new, I am thoroughly enjoying being a more full-figured woman. I often catch myself gazing at my own cleavage. I sometimes give my booty a squeeze when no one is looking. I admit it. I'm already dreading the day I stop breastfeeding and start to lose my new chesticles. It's depressing.

Then again, I know that if I gained this weight without the excuse of a pregnancy, I would be disgusted with myself. I've only gained maybe ten pounds or so, but the weight is evident everywhere from the fun parts, like my chest and butt, to not so fun parts, like my new thunder thighs. Under the circumstances, I have learned to embrace my new upper thighs, which touch when I walk. Any other time, I wouldn't have a moment of it.

I think part of my love for my new body shape is unrelated to the sudden growth of bigger "sexy" parts. It stems from my love for the baby growing inside of me. It's nice that he needs me to grow incredibly awesome boobage and a nice, round booty, but I wouldn't really mind if he required a third arm to sprout out of my chest. Whatever happens to my body now, I can mostly undo in a few months, so it's fine that my little unborn boy is the boss. Not that I could have it any other way, even if I wanted.

Of course, I may just feel less blissful in four months when my belly is huge and swollen, my ankles puff up every day, and I have to pee constantly. You'll just have to check back with me then.

3

AMERICANS CAN'T WAIT FOR ARMAGEDDON, AND WHY IS THAT, ANYWAY?

Every day steeped in suspicion,
Repetition, and extradition
Waiting in anticipation
Of one day down the road

When mountains crack and
plateaus crumble
Buildings shake and turn to rubble
Oceans boil,
Rivers bubble
And reactors explode

And people run into their houses
Grab their children or
Their spouses
Cry or scream or pray or
Shout and
Party in the streets

And drink until their stomachs spew up
All the fear, affairs, and pre-nups
All the contracts, pain, and
Screw ups
And years of treated meat

The blood will soak like spilled merlot
Through sheets tucked low
And white like snow
As mothers choose
How their babies go
In a holy, tear streaked rite

Our days filled with anticipation
Conversation, and explanation
Of what we dream of
As a Nation
When we lie in bed at night

A Foray Into Children's Literature

There once was a little girl who wanted nothing more than to be a princess. She had seen princesses in her story books, and she just knew that, if she tried hard enough, she could grow up to be one.

Every day , she wore a pink, puffy dress and a crown. She had her mother put her hair in curlers, and when she shook her beautiful ringlets, she just knew she would one day be a princess.

The little girl played tea party and practiced sipping her cup with her pinkie pointing straight out.

She took tiny, dainty steps and curtsied to all the neighborhood pets. She looked so much like a princess that she sometimes fooled the mailman.

"Hello, princess!" the mailman would say, and the little girl did not tell him that she was just a regular girl-- for now.

On the first day of kindergarten, the little girl's mother told her that she could not wear her princess dress. She had to wear a school uniform, instead. The little girl cried and cried because the uniform was ugly.

That night, her daddy gave her a present for being brave for the first day of school. It was a golden necklace. The pendant was in the shape of a princess' crown!

"Now you can be a princess every day, even without your dress," he said. The little girl did not feel like crying anymore.

The girl wore that school uniform for twelve more years. Every day, she wore her princess necklace underneath.

When she was a senior in high school, the girl was voted prom queen. She wore the necklace with her beautiful pale, pink gown.

That night, the princess necklace got caught on the girl's dress as she urgently pulled the dress over her head. The necklace snapped. Later, she could not find it in the back of her boyfriend's car. She didn't feel very much like a princess just then, anyway.

The girl went to college and learned about the world. She heard about evil dictators and ineffectual monarchies. She definitely did NOT want to be a princess anymore.

For a time, the girl spent every waking moment with an older woman from class. The woman called her "princess", especially when they were lying in bed together in the morning. The girl did not like the nickname, and soon she grew tired of the woman, as well.

The girl met her husband in her third year at college. They had been dating for several months when he proposed. For their wedding, the girl wore a small tiara and an empire waist dress to hide her expanding belly.

The girl gave birth to a daughter who was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She spent the next two years completely in awe of this tiny person who looked just like her. She didn't notice her husband's increasing absences.

Just before their daughter's third birthday, the girl stumbled upon a series of e-mails that her husband had sent to someone he called "my queen". The e-mail address that they were sent to was not her own.

The girl's husband moved out of their house. She cried for several days, but she soon realized that she would not be unhappy forever. She still had her daughter, who was getting more beautiful every day.

Soon, the girl was hosting her daughter's third birthday party. In honor of the occasion, the girl's mother brought over a big box of toys that had once belonged to the girl herself, when she was a child.

They all opened the box together. It was full of building blocks, costumes, toy trains, tea sets, and all sorts of fun things! At the very bottom were a pink, puffy dress and a gold, plastic crown.

The girl nearly sobbed with relief when her daughter passed right over the princess clothes and began trotting a plastic pony around on the wooden floor. "Neigh, neigh," she said.

That night, the girl sneaked out the front door while everyone was asleep. She had the pink dress and the plastic crown bundled in her arms. She shoved the entire package deep down into the bottom of the garbage can while tears streamed down her cheeks.

The next morning, the girl lifted her daughter into her high chair and asked, "What would you like for breakfast, princess?" "I'm not a princess; I'm a cowgirl," responded the toddler. The girl smiled. "I'm glad for that," said the girl. "I think that a princess is a very silly thing to be."

The girl and her daughter ate cereal for breakfast and spent the rest of the morning playing with plastic ponies. That evening, they bought matching cowgirl hats from the tack shop down the street.

Brett Favre and my Horsey Soul

Brett Favre sort of, maybe announced his retirement again today, and regardless of how one feels about Favre personally, it is clear that he truly loves football and has an emotional attachment to it. That made me think about how many of us never get to participate in the sports we love again once we hit a certain age.

Most boys who grow up playing football love the game. They may start as young children and dedicate countless evenings to practices in order to get better. Weekends are devoted to games where the boys gain a sense of achievement and get their football fixes. Over the years, they advance in skill and eventually probably play for their high school football teams. The sad thing is, once the last game of their senior year ends, the vast majority of those boys will never play in a football game again. Sure, they may play a game of pick-up here and there and maybe participate in an intramural league during college, but let's face it, their careers end with high school.

The same is true for most participants in all major team sports. It seems a shame that activities that teach children valuable lessons about teamwork, practice, winning, and losing are so easily cast aside when those children reach adulthood. I'm sure most former athletes miss their sports from time to time as they move through their adult years.

I am fortunate to have grown up loving a sport that is not necessarily off limits now that I am an adult. As an equestrian, I could potentially continue to ride horses until I am too old to mount one. At the moment, owning or leasing a horse is prohibitively expensive for me, but there is a good chance that that will not be the case in the years to come. The odds that I will have a horse in my adulthood are quite high. At least I certainly hope so, because I frequently ache for the joys of riding and developing relationships with horses.

It is difficult to describe what it is exactly about horses that is so intoxicating for me. Part of it is just the sheer power that you control when you are guiding one. A well-conditioned horse is basically a couple thousand pounds of pure muscle. Feeling that tremendous strength moving below you and responding to your slightest touch is exhilarating. Moving through the world at nearly 40 miles per hour while sitting back and trusting a gigantic animal to keep you safe is an experience that you can only get from riding horses.

Often in my dreams I am sitting forward in two-point and feeling the impact of each hoof as it hits the ground while some churning gelding and I gallop through the fields. As often, I dream about spending time on the ground with various ponies and horses from my past, just petting and grooming and talking to them quietly.

The emotional and-- dare I say spiritual?-- connection I have shared with my horses is as important as the joy I experienced at being on their backs. Just the knowledge that this animal could seriously injure or even kill you at any moment but that he chooses to obey you instead is heart warming. Horses develop true and honest emotional connections with their owners and riders. The first time you convince a horse to do something he is scared of, simply because he trusts you to guide him to safety, is like watching a child take his first step. Horses are capable of tremendous love and trust, and they make sure that their owners feel that.

Not many days go by where I do not think about horses from my past or plan for my horses of the future. Riding was a constant part of my life from the age of three until I left Maryland after high school. Even since then, it has never been far from my mind or heart. I cannot wait until my life has reached a point where finding a new horse of my own would not be financially suicidal. When that day comes, I will pour my heart into that animal, and I know he will return the favor.

2

FEARS
Their eyes move
From belly to finger
Finger to belly, and
They are scowling
As if something is mistaken
Or missing
and
Their eyes are moving
Up to meet my own
As if searching for a glimmer
Of the sin that must be stored there
And that Southern Hospitality
Feels achingly absent
For once
For now

On Being Sober in Bars

When I have occasionally ventured into public since beginning my great pregnancy adventure, there is one question that basically everyone has asked me: How do you like not being able to drink at all?

The truth is, it has been incredibly easy for me. When there is something as important as the health of your child at stake, there is not even a thought process involved aside from, "I am pregnant; I cannot drink." That's it. The simple fact that something truly important is at risk makes it very easy to abstain, even in "drinking establishments".

I have fortunately discovered that I have some great friends whom I enjoy spending time with when I am sober, even when they are drinking heavily. Case in point: Last night I played designated driver for my longtime friends Sarah and John, who moved here just a few days ago, so that they could get properly New Orleans smashed on a Sunday night. Even though they were getting pretty drunk and I was not, I had a wonderful time just hanging out and talking with them. Our friendship is strong and complex enough to overcome little obstacles like a considerable difference in sobriety. It's nice to have friends like that, and I love them wholeheartedly.

Unfortunately, along with that happy discovery has come the realization that I have some friends, at least in name, who I cannot stand to be around unless everyone in the room is hammered, practically.

"College age" people tend to build relationships with their peers while drinking, often to excess. In fact, in recent history, I have considered individuals who I have never even seen sober to be friends. These are people who I have hung out with on countless occasions, and whose secrets I am privy to, but whose sober mannerisms would be completely foreign to me. It seems sort of crazy even writing that down, but I spent my party years in a drinking town, and such are the consequences.

I suppose some drinking buddies are meant to be nothing more than that. Some people have golf buddies, fishing buddies, or even sex buddies. I happen to have some buddies with whom my connection does not go any deeper than our mutual love for jager bombs and other fun shots. And that's ok.

Until it's not. Until I am necessarily sober for nine months, minimum, and suddenly find that the basis for some of my friendly relationships has been extremely tenuous. It is not possible for me to tell someone whom I have recently considered a friend that, to sober me, their obliterated company is borderline tortuous. I am just not that kind of person. So, I guess the next step is to gently and considerately weed out the relationships that have turned out to be, for lack of a better word, shams.

I think that part of growing up is to select the relationships in your life that are healthy and beneficial to your growth and nurture them while moving away from the ones that are not particularly deep or meaningful. At this stage in my life, that apparently means saying goodbye to some of my drinking buddies.

I wish I could have taken the time to learn some of their middle names or maybe see where they lived, but it's time for me to move on.