…Nothing about that latest name down the alphabet—Katrina—seemed initially outstanding (relative to what had gone before it that season); that is, until we found out at mass Sunday morning, August 28, that she had bulked up almost overnight from a Category 3 to a Cat. 5—a seemingly small enough number until placed in context. The news was slightly unsettling, especially after confirming the monster’s projected path. The first thing I did after the final hymn had been sung was whip out my cell phone and call my mom, dad, and grandparents. My dad was already heading out the door; it was my mom that needed the convincing:\r\n\r\n“But we have no place to go,” she ventured. \r\n\r\n“You can come here,” I said in near desperation.\r\n\r\n“What about the cats?” she wanted to know.\r\n\r\n“Bring them, too!”\r\n\r\nAnd so began the waking nightmare of the next few weeks. In my short-sightedness I requested what I wanted to be picked up off the floor of my house in Vista Park and secured out of harm’s way, at heights above presumed water levels. My mom, sister, and two cats (who rank traveling right up there with water and the vet) drove the nearly 80 miles from New Orleans to join me in occupying a vacated room kindly offered to us by my friend at her sorority house. We watched every second of the news right up until the power there gave out. But we found out the worst soon enough. \r\n\r\nUntil the electricity was restored I listened to the latest reports on a tiny plastic radio, operating on watch batteries, that I had caught at a Mardi Gras parade. In the meantime it was the usual drill of close-the fridge-door-quick, open-all-the-windows and get-out-the-flashlights. It was infuriating being out of contact with so many people for so long (via cell phone, e-mail, and many other electronic means of communication). \r\n\r\nWhen the electricity was up and running again (it had never gone out at my dorm, a fortress I’m convinced could withstand a climate-altering meteor and come out unscathed), the TV was back on and constantly flipped between every available news channel, especially the ones bringing back broadcasts about New Orleans. The ‘constant updates’ promised by many stations did us little good when there was no new information, though, as was the case for lengthy time spans since much of the crescent city remained impassible for camera crews. I watched until I couldn’t watch anymore; I didn’t want to see anymore. I could temporarily take refuge in the sanctuary of denial: if I didn’t see it with my own eyes or hear it from a reliable source, then there always remained the remote possibility that it didn’t happen. \r\n\r\nBut it had; if you could count on one hand the number of blocks your house was from the breach in the London Ave. Canal levee, the possibility of catastrophic damage was remote indeed. \r\n\r\nSo, suddenly but not completely unexpectedly, my displaced family realized this had far surpassed a typical evacuation, and they weren’t heading back anytime soon. After about three days at the sorority house, they all moved into my two-person dorm room, and then moved again to the off-campus residence of a generous professor. My sister soon flew off to live with relatives in California and can now say she attended three different high schools her senior year, and in three different cities. The cats were brought to a shelter on campus, set up after a dire need for one arose. \r\n\r\nI volunteered at that animal shelter, and at two other shelters set up as well—one at the Pete Maravich Assembly Center and one for special needs at the Fieldhouse. I performed such varied tasks as (for the pets) walking dogs and holding them down for vaccinations, rigging up a network of electric fans with limited extension cords, and taking Polaroids of the pets for inventory; and (for the people), running supplies over to doctors, keeping over-energetic kids busy with piggy-back rides out to Mike the Tiger’s cage, and phoning relatives of missing persons to try and locate them and maintain an online database. I remember keeping very unusual hours at these makeshift shelters, but without question it was time well-spent (and besides, with school postponed for over a week I had no academic excuse).\r\n\r\nOver the next few months I had to adapt my definition of normal; as I write this account many disjointed stories continue to re-surface in my consciousness:\r\n\r\nOne of my best friends, who lived three blocks away, had always worried that her dad would stay behind if the ‘big one’ ever hit; sure enough, he had refused to leave with the rest of her family. Eventually he had to axe his way out of their attic (even though their house is raised several feet off the ground); but I am very happy to say that he did get out and has since re-united with them. \r\n\r\nThe ending is not so happy for a friend of my mom’s side of the family: the man had not, in spite of being a police officer, been able to force his mother to evacuate, and in her own house she didn’t live through the flood.\r\n\r\nI had two friends leave the country just before Katrina hit—one to visit Russia for a few weeks and one to study abroad in France for the year. The first friend of course wasn’t allowed to fly back in and had to go through Chicago to Houston instead, where she stayed and took the school semester off. The second friend returned home only last week and got to see, after nine months, the toll Katrina had taken on her first floor and the new trailer sitting out front.\r\n\r\nWhen I first got to see what was left of my own house, where the water had risen to the ceiling, the impact hit hard (a gross understatement). A residual smell preceded us in the drive down our street. And in the still on-going process to salvage sentimental keepsakes, I’ll never forget that smell—the foul, cursed stench that’s near impossible to ever get out of anything.\r\n\r\nNow when I walk to local summer school every day it’s like going through a war-torn city, or as close to what that would be like as I can imagine: the fear of immediate danger isn’t there, but at the back of my mind I know this year’s hurricane season is only just beginning. \r\n\r\nIt’s so disheartening to walk up and down the streets and be able to see straight through most of the houses, from the front windows or the empty doorframes all the way to the tree-less backyards. Equally depressing is when you can see a dirty brown line ringing an entire house, a reminder of how high the despicable water revolted against its banks.\r\n\r\nDespite everything, I’ve been so very fortunate (at the risk of repeating the words of everyone else who has emerged from this drama); friends, co-workers, and random strangers have donated left and right: clothes, household goods, moral support and prayers; LSU professors have been also very understanding, lightening courseloads, accommodating increased rosters (and offering extra credit for Katrina narratives).\r\n\r\nHere’s hoping this year’s hurricane season takes a little time off, for out-doing itself last year.