Seven months ago following an intense sophomore summer, I sat down to write a paper for my Spanish class. As I sat in Novack in the wee hours of the morning amidst fellow procrastinators, I found it incredibly difficult to focus on the writings of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. With each sentence completed, I could not help but check updates on cnn.com about a category five hurricane that was pummeling towards my home and my beautiful city of New Orleans.
I knew my family had evacuated to Baton Rouge, although communication became increasingly impossible with as Katrina's wrath continued to approach the Gulf Coast. The images running through my mind very much resembled those from Titanic as the water rushed into the cabins of the poor immigrants, the wealthy elderly couple in bed and the captain's nook, "Nearer My God To Thee" playing the entire time. Rather than these images, though, were images of my house quickly being overtaken by a massive storm surge, my city becoming inundated with water and my fellow Louisianans being stranded on rooftops and within attics where some had their final experience on this Earth.
Sadly, these images -- once merely figments of my stressed, Red-bull intoxicated mind -- were transformed into what Americans would view as they turned on the news. My Dartmouth friends initially couldn't understand the gravity of the situation. Similarly, Americans across the country watched their televisions in disbelief that this was actually occurring in their country.
For the residents of Southeastern Louisiana, we knew it was only a matter of time. Our dreaded fears of this doomsday scenario for our region were finally occurring. It was officially our Armageddon. Equally as much as jambalaya and Mardi Gras comprise the fabric of our culture, the threat of hurricanes is something that all Louisianans knew they must confront. Since my childhood, I had become quite accustomed to moving our most prized possessions into the interior closet of the second floor of our home, piling whatever other valuables would fit into our cars and heading for a region away from the danger of the water that would spill in from the Gulf of Mexico and the wind that would rip the roofs clear off our homes.
Up until Katrina, every other evacuation of my lifetime had involved sitting in a room without electricity listening to a battery-powered radio and being thankful that the hurricane had either significantly weakened in strength or veered off to a neighboring state. Nonetheless, Katrina was not the first time the Gulf Coast has been devastated. The home my grandparents recently lost is the third that they have lost to a hurricane since their marriage. The names Betsy, Camille and Flossy all have a chilling effect on those hardened souls that were alive to witness their awesome destruction. A storm folklore exists in our region, and any native of over 40 years of age will gladly recount to you the memories from their horrifying experiences.
Seven months have passed since the waters rushed in and slowly receded, and I am still as confused, angry and unsure as ever. Entire neighborhoods all over Southeastern Louisiana and Mississippi remain largely uninhabited and eerily dark at night. So many former residents remain dispersed, unsure whether they will ever be able to return to the only home they ever knew. Many New Orleans residents still wait for the FEMA trailers which never seem to come. They wait in their hotel-room-turned-home, tent or destroyed former residence for some sign of how to move forward. It has been seven months since the initial destruction and it seems like so little progress has been made. I find it increasingly hard to remain optimistic.
Despite the immense obstacles that we face as a region and the feelings of resentment and anger that many of us will forever have towards our government for its neglect and incompetence, our hearts have been touched and our spirits revived by the outpouring of volunteers that flooded into our region as soon as the flood waters receded. By sending students and community members to the Gulf Coast, Dartmouth has constituted a significant part of this outpouring.
During my off-term in Baton Rouge, I made the drive down to New Orleans for a truly historic event. The Mardi Gras parades of Bacchus and Endymion (my personal favorites) were following each other on the same route for the first time in history. As I walked down St. Charles Avenue taking in my first Mardi Gras since starting Dartmouth, I was pleased to see thousands of locals and visitors alike partaking in the festivities. Strolling a parade route I have known since my childhood, I came across two faces I had never expected to see. Elisa Donnelly '07, John Stern '05 and I passed each other on the street. You can imagine my excitement upon seeing these familiar faces in a place I least expected. They informed me that they were spending their term in the area organizing volunteer groups that were coming to gut homes and do other relief work. Initially surprised, I soon took pride in the fact that these are the kind of people that I have as peers and friends at school.
Ever since I was a freshman, I have been proud to tell people where I am from. It has been a great conversation starter. "New Orleans! Wow! Do you go to Mardi Gras?" When you tell someone about New Orleans, their eyes seem to light up. There is an enchanting quality about the place that stems from its incredibly unique identity. My hope is that this identity will survive these turbulent times. I have always wanted my friends to come visit me. Unfortunately, many recent visitors have to experience the city in its current condition. I am frustrated that they can't experience New Orleans as I have.
After an emotionally challenging off-term, I met several Dartmouth friends in Las Vegas for spring break and for my 21st birthday. The trip was a great reunion and escape from the intense reality of the past few months. On the plane ride home, I was joined by 30 Seattle college students who were coming to the city to take part in the relief effort. Normally, I cringe at the thought of conversing with the passenger sitting next to me. However, the kind middle-aged woman sitting next to me caught my curiosity. I learned that she was traveling with the students and this was her first plane ride. She felt so compelled to experience the destruction and to contribute whatever she could to help patch the breeches in people's spirits. Reflecting on how I had spent my own spring break, I felt incredibly selfish yet inspired by these heroes.
During my last week at home, I went to New Orleans as often as possible. I had attempted to unite with a dear friend of mine, Nicole Mahr '07, who was spending her spring break gutting houses and ministering to locals. Unfortunately, Nicole and I were never able to meet. I thought about her during this week and wondered what she was experiencing. My eyes would water when I reflected on how thankful I was to her for her efforts. Still, I know the type of person she is; and, I expected nothing less of her, nor of the numerous Dartmouth community members who have done the same.
On my final night in New Orleans, following a jaunt with friends to our favorite French Quarter hangouts, we wandered to the ever-so-familiar Cafe du Monde, where I was reunited with the taste of beignets and caf au lait. I was surprised to see the landmark bustling with business. Rather than rowdy intoxicated tourists, the cafe was filled with college students donning their university sweaters from all across the continent. For the first time in my life, I became incredibly proud of my generation.
After seven months, I am amazed by how much has happened but still how little things have changed. My return to Hanover is both comforting and eerie. I am constantly reminded of my last few days on this campus and of all that has happened since. I know that I am a person very much affected by this tragedy, but I am in no way defined by it. I am still the same crazy, fun-loving guy you knew before any of this happened. I am not your Katrina kid. Similarly, my city should not be defined by this hurricane. We are so much more complex and beautiful than the images which have been portrayed across the media over the last few months. Perhaps that is why so many have felt the need to revisit the city: to understand what New Orleans really is. It's not an easy task, nor is the road ahead of us. However, you have helped us on our way. Thanks.
