Wanderlust

Last weekend I went to a Welcome Home party for one of my organization's clients.  She lives far east of new Orleans proper in a small town called Poydras.  To get there you have to follow the River downstream through the city, past all fixtures of urbanity to a long stretch of road beneath a canopy of ancient oaks covered in Spanish moss.

I have not yet seen the River, just evidence.  Every day I drive over the Industrial Canal to get to work.  On the way to the Welcome Home party I couldn't see over the levees, but I could see freighters sitting like titans in what looked like the middle of a tree spotted field.

At the party I talked with the homeowner's niece.  She studies the effects of the oil spill on the local fishing and shrimping industry for a nearby university.  Fishing and shrimping are the only industries worth the name in Poydras and the surrounding communities.  It's been that way for generations.  The homeowner’s niece said that her father and grandfather had been shrimpers.

"Do you live in Poydras?" I asked.

"Not far.  One of my cousins lives in the next town over in Violet -- he'll be here in about an hour.  My other cousin lives in Chalmette and our mother lives up the street."

She enumerated a few more family members within walking distance.  One of my coworkers, a New Orleanian, said that she'd been born a few streets away.

My parents' siblings are scattered across the country and their children across the world.  Most of us live in the Midwest, but no one lives down the street from a blood relation.  It occurred to me that this was an expectation, or at least not an unusual occurrence, to leave home and find a new one Somewhere Else.

I told this to the homeowner's niece.  She nodded.  "It's a big deal when someone moves away.  It's just not something you do.  Not something I'd ever do."

"People came to the Midwest to get away from people.  For one reason or another," I said.  "Maybe wanderlust has just been passed down through the blood."

"Maybe," she said.

"That's why I'm here, at least."

Last night I went to a friend's place and didn't leave until late at night.  Biking back I became disconcerted, unsure if I was heading in the right direction.  People say that the only way to find your way in New Orleans is figure out where you are in relation to the River.  The River is always east in Iowa.  Beyond that, I couldn't figure out any possible way that the River could be useful.

I decided to leave it to trust.  Between muscle memory and landmarks I found my way home following neither the directions I was given nor my typical route.  The city is starting to take shape in my head.

Grandfatherness

During the AmeriCorps orientation our employer told us about the landlord for our business office.  It's part of the Spiel.  Anyone on the development team must be able to tell volunteers about how Mr. F was a fireman for 20 years, then a fisherman for another 20, retired and opened up an appliance repair shop so that he could spend his old age tinkering with things.  He lived within five minutes of all his grandkids.

Katrina hit and his home - now our business office - flooded to the second floor.  He was picked up by another local with a boat and taken to the roof of a bank where he and two hundred others awaited Rescue.  It took five days for help to arrive in the form of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  It's as much a depressing story about America as it is a sad story about one person's trial.

Meeting Mr. F was surprising.  He's a heavy, crass, old man who loves to wander around the office, hassle us, hit on the women, and give us all nicknames (I'm Uncle Sam, or Mark, or Simon, I'm not sure which).  He speaks with a thick New Orleanian accent that sounds more Bostonian than Southern.  Backwards, a little racist, perpetually telling strange stories, and somehow amazingly endearing he reminds everyone of his or her grandfather.  The man embodies some sort of platonic form of Grandfatherness.  He reminds me of my grandfather and there is absolutely no resemblance.  For one of the other AmeriCorops members, Leisl, the resemblance to her deceased grandfather is so strong that she told me when she first met Mr. F she nearly started crying.

Leisl told me recently how she spoke to another New Orleanian, M, about the future of the city.  M told her, "New Orleans is dead," and that sooner or later another storm will come through, destroy the city again and no one will have the energy to come back.  This is, evidently a common feeling among the natives.

But, Leisl asked, then why bother rebuilding?  Why come back in the first place if it's just a lost cause?

"Because," M said. People have lived here for generations and generations.  New Orleans has been a music and culture center for America for three hundred years.  People have lived, loved, worked, and died on this land for centuries.  There are so many bones and stories here.  That's worth the effort.  And it struck me, as Leisl told me this, that the people who come down here to rebuild, and those that came back, too, all talk about New Orleans like a Grandfather.

Scared Shitless

This isn't a real post, but I've been breaking promises.

Have you ever had one of those experiences where you worked very hard for something and by some miracle you actually got it and instead of feeling exuberant you just sat there thinking, "Well, shit.... I hadn't planned on that happening."  Well, that's how I feel right now.

A few days ago I was offered a grant writing job with the St. Bernard Project in New Orleans, a nonprofit rebuilds and renovates houses for people affected by Katrina who do not have the money to help themselves.  I accepted the job and have not stopped running since.  Probably, I won't be out of panic mode until this time next year.

I want to live in New Orleans and do good work.  Above all, I want to have an adventure and do something that scares me.  The trouble with the last item is actually getting your wish.

In a week and a half I will be in New Orleans.  Today I got housing squared away.  This week has been a blur of planning, taking leaps of faith, and trying desperately not to forget anything.  I'm sad that I'll be missing two weddings and won't be able to visit a friend from Germany.  Most of all, I'm very sad I'll have to leave my love, A.

But, then, what's the point of going through life comfortable?  One just arrives at death asleep.

A week and a half from now I'll be in one of the oldest cities in North America.  One of the meccas of music and performing arts.  A reputable hedonist capital.  And I'll be there doing what I do best: writing.  I'll be persuading people to help support people who have had a much harder, scarier time than me.  I'm going to leave my home to convince others that we all want and deserve to go home.  Doesn't sound like a bad way to spend a year.