I really don’t want to talk about this.
Surely by now you’ve heard about the rising Mississippi River tides flooding towns along the river’s banks throughout the Midwest and the South. The story has sort of been everywhere for the past few days. And now, like a giant snowball lumbering downhill, the river’s increasingly high tides are heading down to southern Louisiana.
But what’s sort of funny is that hardly anyone down here (I live in New Orleans) seems to be talking about it. I mean, it’s all over the news, both local and national, but until today I have not had a single conversation, not one, with anyone about the potential flooding of the place I call home, even though I, we, probably should be talking to other people about it. Even the people who live around here I follow on Twitter and Tumblr haven’t really been chattering about it at all on Twitter and Tumblr.
But you know who is chattering about it? People I follow on Tumblr and Twitter who don’t live here, along with the people I follow who used to live here. I can only assume those people are already mildly overcome with anxiety about feeling powerless to do something to help a place they love so dearly due to lack of geographical proximity — a strain of anxiety I’m all too familiar with, having lived in New York through hurricanes Katrina and Rita.
When I walk outside my house and turn towards the Mississippi, I can see the Morial Convention Center — the site of so much human suffering post-Katrina — about a 1/4 to 1/2 mile down sitting on the bank of the river. If it weren’t for this massive structure, I’d be able to see the ships coming and going on the river quite easily. My point in telling you this is to give you an idea of how close I am to Mississippi River.
You see that little red icon thingie in the satellite photo below? That’s where my house is. (By the way, I live, between two streets named after Greek muses — in Greek mythology, one, Thalia, is the muse of comedy, and the other, Melpomene, is the muse of tragedy. People who know me well can’t get over the irony in that. Neither can I, frankly.) Now you see that body of water to the right of the little red icon thingie? That’s the Mississippi River.
Early today, as I was walking back home from getting my morning cup of coffee, I stopped to talk to a friend who just bought an old house around the corner from me, a block closer to the river than I am, that he’s in the process of completely renovating. We spoke for about 30 minutes. He showed me his plans for his backyard. We talked about whether he should plant an oak tree or a magnolia tree back there. We discussed whether he has enough room in his kitchen area to set up an island. He talked about the antique windows he hopes to find at a local housing scrap yard and install on his house. We talked about the possibility of him putting a swing on his front porch. We discussed the feasibility of installing a flat-screen TV outside on the back deck to watch football games on.
You know what we didn’t talk about? The possibility that, in a matter of days, the Mississippi might flood New Orleans. Not one word was mentioned.
Why is that?
That’s a question I keep asking myself over and over. Is is because the Army Corps of Engineers has stated that they’ll open the spillways north of here and “save New Orleans” from flooding, thus leaving us without anything to worry about? Absolutely not. No one from this area has a lick of confidence in the Army Corps of Engineers, and justifiably so.
Is it because we’re delusional? Maybe. A little, perhaps. Against all odds, I might add — who knows how people down here keep the faith and remain beacons of irrational optimism, but we somehow manage to.
Mainly though, I just think we’re tired of talking and thinking about tragedy. We’ve had too much of it in recent years. Hurricanes, oil spills, tornadoes…it’s just f*cking depressing, you know? Whenever I get together with friends from down here to watch Saints games, it’s not unusual that, at some point in the broadcast, the announcers will mention Katrina, and inevitably an audible groan will go up in the room. It’s like, we appreciate the fact that people remember, but we don’t want to talk about that sh*t anymore. (But then, of course, we get pissed when we feel neglected, when we feel like people are forgetting. Forgive us, for we’re all walking contradictions. New Orleans, and it’s people, are a paradox. Always and forever.) And so we compartmentalize the things that bother us, or have the potential to bother us, whether they’re in the past or looming over the horizon. We take a “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it” attitude about things. For now, we don’t want anything to disturb the state of blissful ignorance we exist in while living in one of the great cities of the world at arguably the best time to ever live in it. In other words, we’re in denial. There’s an old joke about denial being a river in Egypt, and I suppose there’s another joke one can make about denial being a river running though New Orleans right now.
It dawned on me today that I haven’t mentioned a word about the Mississippi flooding in anything I’ve written online on Twitter, Tumblr, etc. I haven’t even cracked a joke about it. This hasn’t been a conscious effort, mind you, but a wholly subconscious one, apparently. It’s certainly been lurking in the back of my mind, but I’ve suppressed it. And I suspect all of the people I’ve talked to from around here in recent days who didn’t bring it up are doing the same thing.
Additionally, I’ve come thisclose to unfollowing people on Twitter and Tumblr who are talking about it incessantly. I can almost feel my blood pressure rising each time someone — again, usually people who live far from here — posts some freakout about New Orleans potentially flooding. It’s like I want to take them by the shoulders and shake them while screaming, “STOP MAKING ME THINK ABOUT THIS…THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO FREAK OUT…WHEN AND IF THAT TIME COMES I WILL FREAK OUT APPROPRIATELY, BUT UNTIL THEN SHUT THE F*CK UP!”
But this afternoon, for some reason, the ice seems to be breaking a bit. A friend walked over to the river from her office earlier, took the photo at the very top, and posted it to Twitter. Since I’m familiar with the very spot where she took it and know that the river usually isn’t that high there, it sort of slapped me across the face.
And then after lunch I received text messages from two single female friends seeking advice about what they should do, and just told them the truth: I honestly have no idea. I’m still trying to figure that out myself. Do I plan for the worst and start thinking about sandbags? (Oh God the mere thought of sandbags makes me want to punch myself in the nuts!) I’m actually supposed to go to New York next week. Do I cancel my flight and stay, or do I not pass up an opportunity to get the hell out and away from the potential mess. Jesus Christ I don’t want to have to think about these things. Does anybody? Decisions, decisions, so many decisions. And thus, this — me thinking out loud on the internet about something I refused to even contemplate to myself a few hours ago.
In the moments where I’ve fought through my denial and really stopped to think about it, I mean really think about it, I truly believe New Orleans will be fine. But it will be at the expense of others, as one of the spillways up the river, the Morganza spillway, that the Corps plans to open up for only the second time ever in order to “save” New Orleans will end up flooding some rural parts of South Louisiana, including Terrebonne parish, which is where I grew up and where much of my family still lives. The town of Morgan City in St. Mary parish is expected to be the hardest hit by the opening of the Morganza. Incidentally, I lost my virginity in Morgan City, so I have fond memories of that town (Yes, I know that may sound a little callous, but I’m trying to lighten the mood a little, okay — this has gone way darker than I typically feel comfortable going).
A Times Picayune op-ed today considered the moral calculus involved in the decision to flood rural areas so that more densely populated areas like Baton Rouge and New Orleans are at less risk.
And so it goes through the years. The river floods. Engineers devise an answer. The river makes a mockery of the new machines. Humans build better machines in hopes of triumphing. Until the next, greater flood. It is a loser’s game.
As I watch the water surge through the Bonnet Carre (spillway), I think about the floodway 100 miles upriver, and about the people who will have water in their homes if, as is almost certain, the Morganza is opened. I have had water in my home, and I don’t wish that heartbreak on anyone. But I sense that it is inevitable.
In The Times-Picayune earlier this week, a woman in Morgan City contemplated losing her home, so that Baton Rouge and New Orleans might stay dry. “Y’all pray for us,” she asked.
It seems the least we can do.
Which gets me to my point in talking to you about all of this is this: Keep the South in your thoughts and, if praying is something you do, in your prayers. The people down here have been through a lot of bullsh*t in the past few years, and it doesn’t appear to be letting up anytime soon. And if you have $10 to spare, text “REDCROSS” to 90999 and the money will go to the Red Cross’ disaster relief efforts throughout the South. If you need some extra motivation, listen to Baton Rouge’s Chris Leblanc singing “Louisiana 1927,” which is embedded below. The soul in that dude’s voice makes me want to fill sandbags and place them all around his house. Thank y’all in advance.