I though leaving my devastated city, even for a short time, would lift my spirits. But, the ride to the suburbs for groceries ended up being too emotional. It was especially moving during the ride back into New Orleans.
I have accepted the abandonment and damage. But there is one thing that has become an icon for me. It wasn’t the first time I saw it or will be the last. As I ride down the interstate ramp, I see waterlines, studies in elevation. The lines are like forced tattoos that identify variability.
My eyes tear. There is nothing to say. I wonder when the waterlines will be cleaned or at least washed away by nature and time. I know some will never be cleaned or vanish.
The grief for my city is not worn on my sleeves. I wear them in my eyes, watery eyes. And the sight of waterlines make them overflow.
But things are looking up. Two Thursdays ago, I got electricity connected to my apartment. This morning, the first day of the New Year, I filled my cast iron bathtub with warm water. I lit a candle, turned the lights out and sink into the comforting warmth. It didn’t last long.
The water smelled like a swimming pool that has twice as many chemicals than it needs. I pulled out and dried off disappointedly. But I am still happy I had the chance after nearly four months.
I have the chance to wake up in my own bed. The chance to watch my own television on cable I pay for. Living on some of my own terms. As the New Year starts, I am happy I have the chance to live in my city.
I decide to walk to the café. I enjoy walking and experiencing my neighborhood and its people. I hope it will let me feel like I am really back home. After that first walk of the year, I know now why I love New Orleans.
How many cities can you come back to after such destruction and see “follow the yellow fridge road” spray painted on a stinky refrigerator discarded on the sidewalk in the French Quarter. This is not the only example that hopes to bring silliness to the situation. Other refrigerators are marked “no more hippy food” and then others addressed overnight to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue; Washington, DC.
I notice another creative use of debris, “Hellabot.” The thing is on the median of Saint Claude Avenue. The boulevard runs from uptown then along the French Quarter, Marigny, Bywater and lower ninth ward neighborhoods and then into Saint Bernard parish. Standing about ten feet, Hellabot can be a marker of why this city will be again. The current of creative juices is too strong here. New Orleans’ history of artistry serves as proof. Today’s debris art confirms its creative appeal to the end.
I don’t know if everything will be cleaned. I don’t know if every building will be fixed. I don’t even know who my neighbors will be.
What I do know is that I am writing this in New Orleans on the first day of a new era for my beloved city. And that is good enough for me. I am happy, even if my eyes still water from the sight of waterlines.
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