Coming Home AK (After Katrina)
The following is an excerpt from an article by Gary Simon, owner of GLS. Memories of Katrina and what she did to New Orleans and GLS are still very fresh in our minds today.
A natural disaster is an event we accept as inevitable. If it doesn’t involve us personally, we still watch a tsunami or earthquake on television with incredible disbelief. If it does happen to you, though, a Katrina for instance, your life, within hours, goes into a tailspin and everything that was once important takes on an entirely new meaning. Possessions, of course, are still meaningful, but what will always be paramount is keeping your family out of harm’s way. But you also don’t want to lose your car or dog or favorite jogging jacket, either. Priorities, you need to prioritize your life and prepare yourself for the worst possible scenario. You can’t imagine all the details because you’ve never been in a situation where “the Big One” was coming; you’ve never lost a house or been hit by a tornado or hurricane. You’ve been safe for the most part, and so has your family and you don’t want to see anything change.
First thing then is to protect your property while you have it so there’s this other person outside yourself scrambling about like a mad person on adrenalin, tossing about objects, swooping up clothes and books to take on a trip. Your heart’s pounding, your hands are wet, and you can’t stop dwelling on the inevitable. Both sides of your brain are in high gear and you can’t seem to focus. Hard as it is you must get your head straight on packing up your family to safety and traveling hundreds of miles with your wife, dog and cats. You don’t have the time, or luxury, to consider how you’ll be imposing yourself on relatives who’ll feed you and provide you shelter. There are no minutes left to weigh the possible consequences, such as trees falling through your roof or the potential destruction to the rest of your property. You don’t have a second to spare concerning this wretched nightmare or why you’ve suddenly become the victim. You’ve always taken whatever’s come your way, but this time it’s different. This is something too bizarre and surreal. All you can do is react and prepare.
For decades you’ve lived in your Louisiana home knowing full well how foolish you were to believe you could escape the inevitable. You’ve anticipated this moment, you’ve known of its overwhelming probability and even with all your mental rehearsals it’s still impossible to internalize such a hellish chapter and make sense of it.
Your thoughts are not altogether racing. You’re numb, but still rational enough to get some perspective as you prepare to travel north tonight. You can’t altogether visualize the imminent damage although you run through categories of people who can later help repair the mess. You don’t know any carpenters since you’ve never required their services in the first place. The same goes for sheet-rock persons and tree removal companies. Later, you’ll be asking your wife to call neighbors who might know other neighbors who can tell us what to do–just in case.
All this frenzy will never equal the anguish when you do arrive back home and witness for yourself the damage. All the clichés in the world can’t capture the seconds or describe your terror because with trees lined up for miles along your streets and your lawn turned to dust and your roof caved in and your air conditioner looking like a smashed metal container, all you can feel is a dismal sense of despair. You gaze around and the trees are down and what you see is wasteland. The piece of dirt you’re standing on has no meaning because this isn’t your property any more. In fact, you don’t even know where you are.
All that was familiar once has no connection at the present. Everything that you’ve worked so hard toward has been moved or erased. You don’t know where you’re going to sleep or how you’re going to pay for any new beginnings. You don’t even know how you’re going to take care of your cats and you’re grateful that you left your dog behind in Indiana with your sister-in-law.
You can’t stand up here in the middle of your backyard. It’s almost 5pm and you worry about the dark and no air conditioning in September in New Orleans. It’s 90 degrees outside and over 100 inside a filthy, semi-wrecked house. You can’t seem to make it inside since you’re too immobile to move. You’ve never been hit with a baseball bat but now you know the numbness. It hurts so deep that you feel tears on your cheeks and for the first time you wish it were all over.
Either you convince your wife to get in the car and leave immediately or you just stop this madness at once. Not another minute can you keep your eyes open. Not another minute can you even think about living through the night because you’re already on your knees and you know you can’t get up. If there is a God, let him have mercy on me and just let me keep my eyes closed. Let me stay here, on the ground, wet with sweat and tears and just lie silent. No more. Just let me be.
A natural disaster is an event we accept as inevitable. If it doesn’t involve us personally, we still watch a tsunami or earthquake on television with incredible disbelief. If it does happen to you, though, a Katrina for instance, your life, within hours, goes into a tailspin and everything that was once important takes on an entirely new meaning. Possessions, of course, are still meaningful, but what will always be paramount is keeping your family out of harm’s way. But you also don’t want to lose your car or dog or favorite jogging jacket, either. Priorities, you need to prioritize your life and prepare yourself for the worst possible scenario. You can’t imagine all the details because you’ve never been in a situation where “the Big One” was coming; you’ve never lost a house or been hit by a tornado or hurricane. You’ve been safe for the most part, and so has your family and you don’t want to see anything change.
First thing then is to protect your property while you have it so there’s this other person outside yourself scrambling about like a mad person on adrenalin, tossing about objects, swooping up clothes and books to take on a trip. Your heart’s pounding, your hands are wet, and you can’t stop dwelling on the inevitable. Both sides of your brain are in high gear and you can’t seem to focus. Hard as it is you must get your head straight on packing up your family to safety and traveling hundreds of miles with your wife, dog and cats. You don’t have the time, or luxury, to consider how you’ll be imposing yourself on relatives who’ll feed you and provide you shelter. There are no minutes left to weigh the possible consequences, such as trees falling through your roof or the potential destruction to the rest of your property. You don’t have a second to spare concerning this wretched nightmare or why you’ve suddenly become the victim. You’ve always taken whatever’s come your way, but this time it’s different. This is something too bizarre and surreal. All you can do is react and prepare.
For decades you’ve lived in your Louisiana home knowing full well how foolish you were to believe you could escape the inevitable. You’ve anticipated this moment, you’ve known of its overwhelming probability and even with all your mental rehearsals it’s still impossible to internalize such a hellish chapter and make sense of it.
Your thoughts are not altogether racing. You’re numb, but still rational enough to get some perspective as you prepare to travel north tonight. You can’t altogether visualize the imminent damage although you run through categories of people who can later help repair the mess. You don’t know any carpenters since you’ve never required their services in the first place. The same goes for sheet-rock persons and tree removal companies. Later, you’ll be asking your wife to call neighbors who might know other neighbors who can tell us what to do–just in case.
All this frenzy will never equal the anguish when you do arrive back home and witness for yourself the damage. All the clichés in the world can’t capture the seconds or describe your terror because with trees lined up for miles along your streets and your lawn turned to dust and your roof caved in and your air conditioner looking like a smashed metal container, all you can feel is a dismal sense of despair. You gaze around and the trees are down and what you see is wasteland. The piece of dirt you’re standing on has no meaning because this isn’t your property any more. In fact, you don’t even know where you are.
All that was familiar once has no connection at the present. Everything that you’ve worked so hard toward has been moved or erased. You don’t know where you’re going to sleep or how you’re going to pay for any new beginnings. You don’t even know how you’re going to take care of your cats and you’re grateful that you left your dog behind in Indiana with your sister-in-law.
You can’t stand up here in the middle of your backyard. It’s almost 5pm and you worry about the dark and no air conditioning in September in New Orleans. It’s 90 degrees outside and over 100 inside a filthy, semi-wrecked house. You can’t seem to make it inside since you’re too immobile to move. You’ve never been hit with a baseball bat but now you know the numbness. It hurts so deep that you feel tears on your cheeks and for the first time you wish it were all over.
Either you convince your wife to get in the car and leave immediately or you just stop this madness at once. Not another minute can you keep your eyes open. Not another minute can you even think about living through the night because you’re already on your knees and you know you can’t get up. If there is a God, let him have mercy on me and just let me keep my eyes closed. Let me stay here, on the ground, wet with sweat and tears and just lie silent. No more. Just let me be.
Labels: katrina
posted by Gary Simon at
6:48 AM
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