The wind that made up those devastating hurricanes hundreds of miles south is passing through the open windows of my apartment. The air that smells so fresh and feels so cool carries the remnants of a great city that used to be a kingdom overlooking a vast lake. Traveling up north, I was proud to say how close I lived to New Orleans, how I’d walked on Bourbon Street, eaten at the Café du Monde. I’d brag about how I could distinguish a southern Louisiana accent from a Memphis one, claiming it was the prettiest accent in the South. I’ve always been proud to be a Southern girl, and loved talking about how deeply rooted my family was in the Southern states. I’d spent summer breaks visiting my aunt down near Gulfport, my cousins in Shreveport and Beaumont, and the family reunions in Deweyville, Texas. I remember driving along the gulf coast with my brother from Alabama to Florida, listening to Otis Redding and admiring the beauty of that part of the country. My cousin, her baby and I made a trip down to Long Beach to visit my aunt one summer. We ate the best shrimp in the world and my aunt made blueberry muffins with fresh blueberries. It was the baby’s first time to see the ocean. She probably won’t remember it, but I will never forget how adorable she was in her little yellow swimsuit and white floppy hat, playing in the sand and clinging onto us when we would carry her a few feet into the water.
My aunt has the most beautiful accent. She says “Nuolins” in a way only a true Southern woman can. Sometimes the reporters on CNN make me mad when they pronounce it “Nu-or-leeens,” as if correcting our pronunciation. Sometimes I’m just looking for someone to be mad at. All of us Memphians just want to be mad - at the President, FEMA, the state and local governments – but the evacuees aren’t like that. They aren’t trying to blame anyone, they just want to get back to their homes, if their homes still exist. Some of them just want a place to sleep, some water and food, some kindness. I went to my grandmother’s house today where about ten of our relatives are staying because they have no where else to go. They had brought some shrimp up from the gulf and made a feast that they took great Louisiana pride in. I had a couple intimate conversations with relatives I hadn’t seen since my elementary school years. They try not to talk about the Hurricane, about their fears that, when they are allowed to go back, there will be nothing to go back to. My great-aunt Bessie lives on the same property where she and my grandfather and the other twelve or thirteen siblings grew up. She was worried about the cows, horses, and dogs. Her concerns were not for money or her own well-being. She even felt guilty worrying about the dogs, with so many more serious problems. She said a friend of hers stayed back with her terminally-ill mother who passed away right as the hurricane approached. The authorities said they would not be able to pick up the body for days, maybe longer, because the roads were impassable and the rescue teams had to focus on rescuing the living. Aunt Bessie’s friend weathered the storm with her father and her mother’s body. They couldn’t even leave their house. Aunt Bessie felt so sorry for them and said it put things in perspective for her. She has probably lost everything she has ever known, yet her main concern is that other people have it worse.
My great-uncle Jerry hadn’t seen me since I was a kid, but he and I bonded quickly once we found out that we were both outcast democrats. His jovial nature made us all feel like everything was going to be fine, and he gave us reason to laugh when we needed it most. When he heard from a friend that every pine tree in his little town was broken in half, I could see the fear and shock set in. As he left the room, he told me what he had heard. “That’s everything I’ve ever worked for. That’s it, I don’t have anything else.” I couldn’t think of words to respond with, so I muttered something about “at least you have your family.” He was very kind and knew I was speechless, but I regretted even trying to console him. How can you console an elderly man who has just lost every personal possession he has ever owned? I wanted to cry but I didn’t feel worthy. Instead, I did the dishes and took out the trash. I really was learning what speechlessness felt like, something I had never experienced before.
CNN keeps searching for something excitingly horrible to report. Hurricane Rita wasn’t as devastating as Hurricane Katrina a few weeks earlier, so they have to act like they are relieved. They are like hawks, just sitting there waiting for the next death count, the next government error, burning building, broken levy. There is a lot of destruction from Rita, but its not in a major town, like the New Orleans disaster, and it didn’t hit land with the terrible force that Katrina did. At the same time, the reporters act like because an entire metropolitan area wasn’t wiped out, there is nothing significant to report. They mention the hardest hit areas in Beaumont, Port Arthur, and Galveston as if these losses are insignificant. It’s sickening.
My aunt has the most beautiful accent. She says “Nuolins” in a way only a true Southern woman can. Sometimes the reporters on CNN make me mad when they pronounce it “Nu-or-leeens,” as if correcting our pronunciation. Sometimes I’m just looking for someone to be mad at. All of us Memphians just want to be mad - at the President, FEMA, the state and local governments – but the evacuees aren’t like that. They aren’t trying to blame anyone, they just want to get back to their homes, if their homes still exist. Some of them just want a place to sleep, some water and food, some kindness. I went to my grandmother’s house today where about ten of our relatives are staying because they have no where else to go. They had brought some shrimp up from the gulf and made a feast that they took great Louisiana pride in. I had a couple intimate conversations with relatives I hadn’t seen since my elementary school years. They try not to talk about the Hurricane, about their fears that, when they are allowed to go back, there will be nothing to go back to. My great-aunt Bessie lives on the same property where she and my grandfather and the other twelve or thirteen siblings grew up. She was worried about the cows, horses, and dogs. Her concerns were not for money or her own well-being. She even felt guilty worrying about the dogs, with so many more serious problems. She said a friend of hers stayed back with her terminally-ill mother who passed away right as the hurricane approached. The authorities said they would not be able to pick up the body for days, maybe longer, because the roads were impassable and the rescue teams had to focus on rescuing the living. Aunt Bessie’s friend weathered the storm with her father and her mother’s body. They couldn’t even leave their house. Aunt Bessie felt so sorry for them and said it put things in perspective for her. She has probably lost everything she has ever known, yet her main concern is that other people have it worse.
My great-uncle Jerry hadn’t seen me since I was a kid, but he and I bonded quickly once we found out that we were both outcast democrats. His jovial nature made us all feel like everything was going to be fine, and he gave us reason to laugh when we needed it most. When he heard from a friend that every pine tree in his little town was broken in half, I could see the fear and shock set in. As he left the room, he told me what he had heard. “That’s everything I’ve ever worked for. That’s it, I don’t have anything else.” I couldn’t think of words to respond with, so I muttered something about “at least you have your family.” He was very kind and knew I was speechless, but I regretted even trying to console him. How can you console an elderly man who has just lost every personal possession he has ever owned? I wanted to cry but I didn’t feel worthy. Instead, I did the dishes and took out the trash. I really was learning what speechlessness felt like, something I had never experienced before.
CNN keeps searching for something excitingly horrible to report. Hurricane Rita wasn’t as devastating as Hurricane Katrina a few weeks earlier, so they have to act like they are relieved. They are like hawks, just sitting there waiting for the next death count, the next government error, burning building, broken levy. There is a lot of destruction from Rita, but its not in a major town, like the New Orleans disaster, and it didn’t hit land with the terrible force that Katrina did. At the same time, the reporters act like because an entire metropolitan area wasn’t wiped out, there is nothing significant to report. They mention the hardest hit areas in Beaumont, Port Arthur, and Galveston as if these losses are insignificant. It’s sickening.
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