Gumbo Ya Ya!

It was with a good deal of trepidation I approached my first "after the storm" visit to New Orleans. Would the things I loved the most - was the French Market still standing? Did the vendors come back? What about Jackson square - would all of the azaleas still be there? And the people, the ones I hold dear to my heart - would their spirit be broken?

New Orleans is special to me for many reasons. My mom and dad lived there for a short while after they were married. My brother lived in LaFayette off and on when he was single and an off-shore oil worker. And NOLA was one of the first places I ventured on my own as a high-school student. The food, the culture, the people... they are all so very pure in their blended, but unique little outpost of civilization. They have fought hard to maintain every part of the culture they created, and take great pride in each element.

When I arrived in New Orleans a few weeks ago, many things looked the same. Whew. The azaleas were pink and perfect in Jackson Square, the shrimp and grits tasted the same (okay, better because it's been so long!) at Muriel's and yes, the French Market is still there (a little lighter for vendors, but it's coming back....). But somehow, the smiles of the locals, while very appreciative for me, the tourist, being there, were not quite as broad. Obvious sincerity rang in their "thank you for being here".

But along with the sincerity came a sadness. It was tiny, but very much there. This is not a people who wear their sadness on their sleeves! But these people saw all the levels of Hell, many right in their own homes. Many at the Super Dome or the Convention Center. Yes, these places have been repaired, cleaned, scrubbed of the filth that the storm left.... but the memories are still very much there.

When we drove down Canal St. out of the quarter, you find homes that have been completely rebuilt standing next to those who still bear the marks left by emergency officials telling the number of bodies found inside. Water marks on houses stand tall - up the roofline on many. Whole "neutral grounds" (or median strips, as we call them) down the middle of the roads are flat, dusty and brown now. No trees, only the scrape marks of the front-end loaders that moved the debris (people's lives!) from the neighborhoods to this central location for diposal.

Scratching deeper beneath the surface with my friends who lived through the storm and are still there, I learn that the standard greeting among locals after the storm was "How are you?" followed quickly by "How'd you do?". The second question would be answered by how many friends or family members you had lost in the storm, then a summary of your losses. This still goes on today.

So while Bourbon St. goes on (with a new street cleaning service that makes the French Quarter smell GOOD), and the music continues to play, the spirit is a little bent. Not broken, no, not hardly. Because as long as there's ground to stand on, even if it's soggy, there will be the boucherie, the fay do do and the traditional po-boy, and the purest, most unique corner of culture this country has will survive.