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.

(Sometimes?) Proud to Call it Home

I started reading Sean Payton's book, Home Team, last night. It begins with an intro set during the few days after the Saints' Superbowl win, focusing on their victory parade. Payton manages to capture the essence of New Orleanians in a raving, appreciative manner that you will hear from every New Orleans resident from time to time. When something good -- or even something bad-- happens to bring the people of this city together, it is unlike anywhere else on Earth.

This is a city that celebrates (with cocktails) funerals and tropical storms and pretty much anything else worth thinking about. It is an emotional place where people feel truly connected to each other and to the culture and heritage of the region. It is a place that you absolutely cannot describe to an outsider without washing it out and dumbing it down to the point where it is unrecognizable. Yet, I feel that many of the people who live here have an extremely volatile love-hate relationship with their city.

For years, I have been answering the question of whether I plan to stay in New Orleans in the same manner. "For a while, but I don't want to raise kids here," I would say. Now that I am just months from giving birth to my first child, this answer is not really satisfactory. My plans regarding my New Orleanian citizenship have been brought to the forefront, and I am forced to reexamine what it is I love, and absolutely hate, about my home of the past six years.

An easy explanation for my reticence to raise children here is simply the desire to give my kids everything I had as a child. I was, quite frankly, blessed with an extremely rosy childhood which I would be proud to approximate for my own kids. It is easy for me to imagine raising a few kids in a big house in the rural suburbs where public schools routinely send students to the best universities in the country. I can picture my kids running around on a few acres of land with a bunch of dogs and maybe a pony or two and venturing into the nearby city for weekend outings to the National Museum of [fill in the blank]. I imagine most well-raised parents are motivated to give their children the same upbringing that they themselves experienced. That's not rocket science.

However, I do not think that explanation acceptably addresses my emotional relationship with New Orleans. The few times that I have been away from Southeast Louisiana for extended periods of time since first moving here in 2004, I have missed the city desperately. When I was younger, a lot of the pain I felt at being separated from New Orleans could honestly be explained by the simple fact that it is a hell of a lot harder to party underage anywhere else. That may be a sad and simple explanation, but there it is. Now that I have been comfortably above the legal drinking age for a few years, I find that there are other things to miss about New Orleans as well. The small town friendliness, the heaping pots of boiled seafood, the crashing choruses of "Who Dat! Who Dat!": all of these are just tiny swatches in the quilt that is the beauty of New Orleans.

The problem is that the flip side of that quilt is ugly and torn, and there doesn't seem to be a decent seamstress in sight. This is a city with appalling violent crime rates and an even more appallingly low rate of conviction. The impoverished sections of the New Orleans population often do not even consider cooperating with the police in investigations. There have been DAs in New Orleans' past who brought only 30% of violent criminals to trial and then convicted only 30% of those (cough Eddie Jordan cough). The 30% indictment rate is not unusual. Everywhere else, though, 80% of the cases DAs see fit to try go down in favor of the state. The criminal justice system is so broken here that, looking at our crime and prosecution statistics in comparison to those of other major cities, one might think that New Orleans' files were full of typos.

Similarly, the educational system here is a disgrace. Steps are being taken to improve that situation, and I give props to everyone tackling that monster. Still, the simple fact is that anyone here who is educated and even comfortable financially does not send their child to public school. It is not even a question. Asking an employed, especially white, parent which public school their child will be attending is as ludicrous here as it would be in the richest homes in Manhattan. I mention race here only because an awareness of racial division permeates everything in New Orleans. I don't want to go into this issue at length at the moment, but I have never experienced ingrained, institutionalized racism anywhere else like I have in New Orleans. It's alarming.

Finally, there is a sense of defeatism here that makes me feel like screaming sometimes. All of the flaws that I mentioned above seem to be things that true New Orleans natives view as unalterable. They are used to disappointment and neglect. The lack of government response after Katrina and the horrible response to the recent BP oil spill were outrageous. People here were angry, but you'd better bet they weren't surprised. The people of New Orleans are tired of being neglected, ignored, and killed in gang violence, but more than that, they are tired of caring and fighting. The same people who can celebrate for days after a Saints victory and who hold their heads so high when talking about their culture walk around day to day with their tails between their legs. They are a wonderful, passionate people whom I have grown to love and identify with, but quite frankly, their standards are not high enough. There is a difference between easy living and a complacence in shit, and I think a lot of New Orleanians have lost the ability to make that distinction.

Still, I love this place. I love the lazy Sundays, the live oaks, the big brass bands. I wish every city could have our corner bars and our mom and pop restaurants. Everyone should experience crawfish boils and the soul-crushing madness that is the fuzzy line between Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday. I love too many things about New Orleans to do it justice in writing. That is another frustrating thing about this place: it can't be described to outsiders, and once you are away, it feels vaguely like a dream.

So, should my kids grow up here? I'm still leaning towards no. I'd rather give them a home with some grass to play in and a public school where the level of education and discipline is reasonable. Frankly, I want my kids to be safe, accepting, and full of fresh air. I want them to pass some AP tests and climb some trees. But that's not to say New Orleans won't have a place in our life. Maybe it can be the city to which we venture on the weekends. Instead of the National museums, they can grow up knowing every corner of the Audubon Centers and the countless art exhibits in this town. Maybe they will grow up listening to jazz on Saturdays and know how to say "throw me somethin' mister!" by the time they can complete full sentences. It's possible I've come too far in my sordid love affair with this city to deny my children an acquaintance with it.

Then again, Annapolis and other such places often sound pretty good. And that's the great thing about life isn't it? Sometimes you just don't know, and usually that's OK.