KATRINA NOW RITA EVACUEES
There is no school in Lafayette today. We have fled Vermillion parish with our host family and are staying in Lafayette because of Hurricane Rita. We still have power, neighbors walking their dogs in the blustery wind and dry land. But the weather will deteriorate rapidly with almost certainty within the next 24 hours. Right now, Rita swirls in the middle of the soupy, bubbly waters of the Gulf, dancing her sufi dance towards Houston and the Louisiana border. Over here, we are to expect 60 mile an hour winds and possible power outages. But anyone who is from New Orleans knows that what we can expect these days is the unexpected.
The day the storm was announced I was numb, and a strange panic engulfed me, making it impossible for me to feel anything at all except a deep, forboding dread and a sense that I am drowning. Jeremy said I had a bad case of Destiny, that I have to be optomist. And I tried, I really did. Then the images began to come in on the TV- she was moving more towards Louisiana, she was in between the border and Houston. The sense of panic I felt two days earlier was merely a foreshadowing of the future which was yesterday- nothing more. The frantic hustle-bustle of the mass of a population as they too are faced with the unexpected, a wild-eyed Latina named Rita, whose flayling arms are the winds and her legs spin within the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Here is where she belongs, here is where she will land.
But why? I have to ask the impossible question. Why is this happening? I mean, not so much to me, or to us- my family and friends. I can accept being a ping-pong with the unexplainable rhythms of the universe. I am simply a single organism among trillions of others. My question is directed outwards, towards this year and this season and the whole of everything that has led up to these experiences. Ms. M, the slightly-hippy but highly Catholic school secretary at Lindon Elementary where I have worked as a K teacher for the last two weeks, shoved a folded piece of paper in my hand as Jeremy and I prepared to walk off campus and drive out to Kaplan to pack our things. She looked into my eyes in slight desperation. "When are people going to wake up? This is so much bigger than any of us. God bless. " In the truck, I opened the piece of paper and read the small parpagraph printed there:
Prayer to St. Rita
(patron of impossible causes)
Holy patroness of those in need, St. Rita, so humble, pure and patient, whose pleadings with the Divine Spouse are irresistible, obtain for us from your Crucified Jesus our request (mention it). Be gracious toward us for the greater glory of God and we promise to honor you and sing your praises forever.
Amen.
I am not Catholic, but at this point I think I am willing to make a prayer. Yet at the same time, I don’t see her humble and patient. Pure? That goes without saying. But a woman within which a wildness has let loose. Not a humble wife- perhaps an outraged one. A voodoo priestess, a dancer and caller of natural things, stomping the ground and making the mountains shake. An extension of the female earth, who shakes and shimmies and adjusts herself so that creation may continue. Still, I will pray to this Saint, because I know that there are many others who will do the same thing today and tomorrow and there is strength in the collective energy of the many. Plus I like Ms. M, she has a kind smile and she loves the kids who pass by her window every morning.
The beginnings of a thought about Katrina and New Orleans: and I ponder this admittedly amongst a sense of outrage. As Rita makes her way slowly towards land and FEMA makes hourly updates, the Coast Guard plots strategies on a white board for all the nation to see, as trucks stand by with ice and supplies, as local and national officials get organized and people are evacuated long before there is any kind of emergency to attend to- I ask (and by now I am screaming inside), why not in New Orleans? And also- why again? This city that is a jewel, a red ruby in the rough. Why did she have to be the guinea pig? Why did the people living within her battered yet loving arms have to suffer, go insane, die? Why are her people never worthy of respect and forword thought? Not just right now, but throughout history. I think of the Superdome, the Convention Center. They now are symbols of oppression, death, genocide- they are added to other landmarks around town- the land underneath Maspero’s where Africans were herded like cattle before they were auctioned off as slaves. The Mississippi itself, where the earth at the bottom flows clockwise, counter-clockwise, up and down and forwards and backwards and mixes with the bodies and souls of so many deaths, murders, hangings. I think of these things and, in desperation, I cry out- this has to stop. It is a pattern in history, a record stuck on a groove- and it pisses me off. New Orleans, land of music and celebration, doesn’t have to be the martyr again and again. And I think- when will it end? When will it end?
Peace to all,
Nicole
There is no school in Lafayette today. We have fled Vermillion parish with our host family and are staying in Lafayette because of Hurricane Rita. We still have power, neighbors walking their dogs in the blustery wind and dry land. But the weather will deteriorate rapidly with almost certainty within the next 24 hours. Right now, Rita swirls in the middle of the soupy, bubbly waters of the Gulf, dancing her sufi dance towards Houston and the Louisiana border. Over here, we are to expect 60 mile an hour winds and possible power outages. But anyone who is from New Orleans knows that what we can expect these days is the unexpected.
The day the storm was announced I was numb, and a strange panic engulfed me, making it impossible for me to feel anything at all except a deep, forboding dread and a sense that I am drowning. Jeremy said I had a bad case of Destiny, that I have to be optomist. And I tried, I really did. Then the images began to come in on the TV- she was moving more towards Louisiana, she was in between the border and Houston. The sense of panic I felt two days earlier was merely a foreshadowing of the future which was yesterday- nothing more. The frantic hustle-bustle of the mass of a population as they too are faced with the unexpected, a wild-eyed Latina named Rita, whose flayling arms are the winds and her legs spin within the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Here is where she belongs, here is where she will land.
But why? I have to ask the impossible question. Why is this happening? I mean, not so much to me, or to us- my family and friends. I can accept being a ping-pong with the unexplainable rhythms of the universe. I am simply a single organism among trillions of others. My question is directed outwards, towards this year and this season and the whole of everything that has led up to these experiences. Ms. M, the slightly-hippy but highly Catholic school secretary at Lindon Elementary where I have worked as a K teacher for the last two weeks, shoved a folded piece of paper in my hand as Jeremy and I prepared to walk off campus and drive out to Kaplan to pack our things. She looked into my eyes in slight desperation. "When are people going to wake up? This is so much bigger than any of us. God bless. " In the truck, I opened the piece of paper and read the small parpagraph printed there:
Prayer to St. Rita
(patron of impossible causes)
Holy patroness of those in need, St. Rita, so humble, pure and patient, whose pleadings with the Divine Spouse are irresistible, obtain for us from your Crucified Jesus our request (mention it). Be gracious toward us for the greater glory of God and we promise to honor you and sing your praises forever.
Amen.
I am not Catholic, but at this point I think I am willing to make a prayer. Yet at the same time, I don’t see her humble and patient. Pure? That goes without saying. But a woman within which a wildness has let loose. Not a humble wife- perhaps an outraged one. A voodoo priestess, a dancer and caller of natural things, stomping the ground and making the mountains shake. An extension of the female earth, who shakes and shimmies and adjusts herself so that creation may continue. Still, I will pray to this Saint, because I know that there are many others who will do the same thing today and tomorrow and there is strength in the collective energy of the many. Plus I like Ms. M, she has a kind smile and she loves the kids who pass by her window every morning.
The beginnings of a thought about Katrina and New Orleans: and I ponder this admittedly amongst a sense of outrage. As Rita makes her way slowly towards land and FEMA makes hourly updates, the Coast Guard plots strategies on a white board for all the nation to see, as trucks stand by with ice and supplies, as local and national officials get organized and people are evacuated long before there is any kind of emergency to attend to- I ask (and by now I am screaming inside), why not in New Orleans? And also- why again? This city that is a jewel, a red ruby in the rough. Why did she have to be the guinea pig? Why did the people living within her battered yet loving arms have to suffer, go insane, die? Why are her people never worthy of respect and forword thought? Not just right now, but throughout history. I think of the Superdome, the Convention Center. They now are symbols of oppression, death, genocide- they are added to other landmarks around town- the land underneath Maspero’s where Africans were herded like cattle before they were auctioned off as slaves. The Mississippi itself, where the earth at the bottom flows clockwise, counter-clockwise, up and down and forwards and backwards and mixes with the bodies and souls of so many deaths, murders, hangings. I think of these things and, in desperation, I cry out- this has to stop. It is a pattern in history, a record stuck on a groove- and it pisses me off. New Orleans, land of music and celebration, doesn’t have to be the martyr again and again. And I think- when will it end? When will it end?
Peace to all,
Nicole
posted by Nikki Lyn Pugh | 9:50 AM
1 Comments:
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