Our pain is real
Of those who lost everything the lucky few are living in FEMA trailers in their driveways; the unlucky are living who knows where, and not knowing when, if ever, they might come home. Families have been destroyed, some by death, some by dispersal, and now some even by their own hands. We have all walked in the mud caked ruins of our own, or our relatives,' or our neighbors' houses looking for scraps to remind us of places where generations were raised, joys celebrated and sorrows endured. We have too often viewed the pitiable scene of someone finding remembrance of an entire life in a single teacup, or a water soaked photograph, or just an extra set of house keys left on a mantle on August 28. Jobs have been lost, economic ruin has overtaken many. Insurance proceeds are only dribbling in and we are all uncertain about when and whether we might rebuild. In short, we are reduced in numbers, emotional strength, resources, and all too often hope. But we are still alive and we are still New Orleanians, even those from the surrounding parishes and the Mississippi Gulf Coast whose damages were often greater than ours. We intend to survive somehow.
Mardi Gras is necessary for our healing
By February 28, 2006, Mardi Gras day, we will for six months have been wearing our widow's and widower's black for our city, our dead, our displaced, our despairing, our frightened, and our physically and economically infirm. It is hard to know where we will then be in our recovery effort.
So indulge us. Let us have a bit of levity; let us parade and chase trinkets; let us meet friends, exchange tales of disaster, and laugh and cry a bit more; let us mask, and, yes, eat and drink too much, and even expose a bit more of ourselves on an occasional French Quarter balcony than would be seemly at a Midwestern homecoming parade. Let us satirize ourselves to the point of bad taste. And above all allow us the luxury of a brief moment of false bravado in the face of our plight.
So many New Orleanians will be missed
Many of us will not be here for Mardi Gras, and we will keep them in our thoughts. We hope our friends from other places who have enjoyed our city in the past will join us again. We know that there are yet others, both here and elsewhere, who will view our revels with disdain and reprobation. So be it.
On Ash Wednesday many will dutifully report to church to have their foreheads marked with ashes as a now redundant reminder that all things return to dust. Then, somewhat revived by a brief reprieve from our dismal reality, we can go back to dealing with our emotional exhaustion.
Our spirit and culture is stronger than ever
So Mr. Beaulieu, here's the deal: You come home to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Go to a few parades and look over the crowds to see for yourself that they are not at all like royalty. Get into the spirit and yell for a few beads. Chat with those standing by you. Ask this question: "How did you do?" A lot of the answers will sound like some obscure code, but you will pick it up pretty fast. "Not too bad,just the roof and one foot." "Pretty good, seven feet, but only downstairs." "We were lucky, the family lost seven houses in Chalmette, but nobody drowned""I'm here gutting houses, my family is in Shreveport, everything gone." "On Thursday the bus took me and my three children from the Dome to Causeway where we spent two more days on the overpass until they flew us out." "We found mama at the morgue upriver in November. Some still don't know where their people are." "You gotta see it, my Ninth Ward house is in the middle of the street." "It took our house in St. Bernard, and then it took our summer house in Waveland." "I lost my house, but somebody evacuated my horse. Now I've got to get a new saddle." "We saved the duck, but the cats ate the chicken." Then see if you can look them in the eye and tell them they should be ashamed of themselves for abetting the plutocrats in staging a totally inappropriate extravaganza.
