As a Katrina survivor, I’m pretty sensitive to anything about the hurricane or NOLA. You probably think it’s because it brings up bad memories, and you’re kind of right about that. Believe it or not, there are some survivors who don’t want your candlelight vigils and Hallmark sentiments. We appreciate it, sure. But what can a couple of candles can do for you when you’ve walked down under the I-10 and searched through decomposing corpses for your sister? How much comfort can a few sympathetic words give you when you’ve huddled in a dark room with a thousand other people, because you were forced to stay there at gunpoint while grandfathers were dying in lawn chairs outside? Do you really think your heartache is going to keep me from crying every time I think about my best friend who shot those memories right out the back of his skull? Shotgun therapy.
The news likes to talk about anniversaries of the tragedy too, and milk your sympathy for all it’s worth. What they don’t tell you is what really happened after the flood.
You don’t hear about the block parties we had in the Treme, and how a couple hundred of us pulled waterlogged furniture out of each other’s houses while our girlfriends manned the pig roast. The news doesn’t want to tell you about our first Fat Tuesday after Katrina, when the rum was the sweetest it’s ever been and the drums were louder than even my grandma could remember them being. They don’t want to talk about that, because it’s just not as much fun as making you cry.
Well, thank the ancestors for people like Nish, who understand what New Orleans is all about. It always seemed kind of obvious to me, but I guess it’s different when you’ve grown up here and you know that this isn’t the kind of city that goes down that easily.
The point is, we’re still alive down here, kicking with ‘voodoo heartbeats’ and singing with the ‘salt kissed breeze’. Our Mamans are still smiling, crazy as ever, just like us. Someone called New York the city that never sleeps. Well, that guy’s never seen the Quarter at night, or been down the river at dawn. He’s never going to understand how pretty the bougenvilla is when you’ve spent the last four hours eating potted meat with a spork, or how nice the jasmine smells when you’re done cleaning the mildew off your living room wall.
The point is, New Orleans is ‘beaten but not broken’ because we never learned how to just roll over when we’re kicked. This city’s older than me and you combined, and you’re a damned fool if you think it won’t be around long after we’re dead. The bayou still sings at night, and the Treme still throws down together every Saturday afternoon.
You want to know why we’re still here, scrubbing the walls and drinking beer on the front porch at twilight? Yeah, it’d probably be easier to pack it all up and move on somewhere else, but we haven’t. I know I won’t.
Why?
Well, in the infamous words of my good friend T: that’s just how we roll.
Love,
Haze
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