Friday, November 04, 2005\r\n \r\n\r\n \r\nHurricane story \r\n\r\nThe song playing is “When the Levee Breaks” by A Perfect Circle. The song was made Pre-Katrina, so no, it was not made because of New Orleans.\r\n\r\nThis is a venting session. It also answers questions that many people have about my house. And before people start getting angry with me and saying that I shouldn’t be complaining about what I have because it is much more than others, this is my venting session so don’t read it if you don’t want to hear what my house and situation is at the moment. \r\nLet’s take a hypothetical look at this. Some may be able to relate to most of this and others may not be able to fully understand all the emotions related with is, because none of it applies to them.\r\n\r\nLet’s say you evacuated for the hurricane. You packed a few changes of clothes, essential items, and other belongings that you felt were important. You helped your family to pack their items into your bigger vehicle, and left the other car at home. You put the extra car in the garage to protect it from any debris or high waters as a precaution. You took that 5-6 hour evacuation trip which on any normal day takes only about an hour and a half, yet, you were okay with that. You stay with your family in another city, and keep the news on 24/7 as you watch this hurricane wobble left and right and pray we get the least of it. As much hoping as you do, it hits head on and you watch as they repeat your city name millions of times as they mention how dreadful the weather is there. You watch the winds outside and realize that even as the pine trees sway in the strong winds, that at home the winds are many times stronger. You watch as the weathermen send out tornado warnings all over your city. As hard as it may be, you go to sleep, and wake to hearing your family members saying “the levees broke” as they turn up the news so that you can hear the newsmen say it themselves. You watch as the waters rise. You also start to worry because as many times as the newsmen said how your city got it the worst, you hear no news on it. For hours which begin to feel like days, the media ignores any questions brought up by the citizens about your city and the lack of coverage on the matter. When the media begins to actually start coverage on your city, you hear such things as “the lake starts at Old Spanish Trail” and that your neighborhood is just, well, “gone.” You think of your house on the lake, and begin to picture water exceeding the rooftops, or the waters tearing down the houses leaving only foundations. Your family friend gives you a ray of hope when he tells you that he saw your house and it’s still standing. You can no longer tell one day from the next, and as it seems like weeks it feels like one day all at the same time. You return two days after the storm. You get stopped at a police checkpoint and, as your mother shows him her license and tells him what neighborhood you are from, he responds with “oh there is nothing left there,” but he grants you access anyways. You go levee-riding, drive through 3-4 feet of water, and mudding through 6 inches of mud sitting on the road. You take roads that are half gone. You do all of this with no police nor medical professionals to help if something would happen to go wrong. You arrive at your house, only passing two other families in the whole neighborhood. You take one step onto that driveway and you slide because the mud is so thick, it’s like ice. Later, you realize it’s the same mud covering everything in your house. As you avoid the glass and fallen trees in the front yard, you arrive at your front door which is completely blown out, allowing access inside to whoever desired to do so. As you step inside that house, it seems like time stopped and you have flashbacks of those sixteen years in that house. You picture family gatherings, Christmases, Easters, and birthdays. You watch your sibling breakdown and cry, but all you can do is stare in wonder. You wonder how this could have happened. You wonder that same old question, “why me?” Yet, it isn’t just you. You go upstairs to gather your belongings that you remembered you left two days prior. And even though your room is upstairs and all of your own personal belongings are saved, you have to watch as your parents see all of their own things sprawled across the floor. You carry all that you can downstairs and into the car. You and your family take as many pictures as possible, because this is too much to believe. All of your furniture is pushed against the wall, and the water line is about 4 ½ feet high. The walls in the back of the house are completely gutted out, revealing only 2 X 4s. And as there are too many emotions to reveal, you grab anything else and leave as quickly as possible, because you are unsure how structurally stable the house is. You drive back and pick up another family walking back with their garbage bags of possessions because their car could not get through the standing water at the entrance of your neighborhood. Over the next of week you return to the house more often and begin saving anything you can. Family comes down to give a helping hand. You also get help from churches. And, as you sit there watching the men throw everything out your house, you begin to realize what a situation you are in. \r\n\r\nNone of this was realistic to me until I saw it with my own eyes. I begin to realize that there is no going back to “normal.” Normal no longer exists for me. It will always be “post-Katrina.” When people from Slidell ask what neighborhood I live in, I respond with “Eden Isles” and they gasp and say nothing more. What could you say? “Sorry”? Suddenly the word sorry begins to have no meaning to me. And to many, they weren’t affected and they can’t begin to understand. I also listen as people tell me that it’s better than being left with a slab, but at some point, I believe that would be easier. I know I don’t have the worst of it, and that I am lucky to have my life, but no matter how much someone tells me that, it is still traumatic for me. I begin to wonder about all those people I knew and there is no way for me to get a hold of them. Losing your home, car, school, and friends to other locations is extremely difficult. I am also outraged about my religion. I have had Baptist, Methodists Churches of God, and all others except the Catholics help us. The First Baptist Church was completely destroyed, yet, it has it’s own command post with tents with food, clothes, cleaning supplies, and anything else you may need. Aggravated is the best word I have for the Catholic church right now.\r\n\r\nI was given the choice to move anywhere from San Diego to Detroit, Washington DC to Houston, Providence to Hattiesburg, and as I thought about leaving, I truly considered it. I thought of all the friends I would be leaving, but honestly it was my family that kept me here. I shudder to think that I would have just abandoned our city in the time it needs us the most. I talk to all kinds of people that are leaving and that is the last thing we need. This is the time our city and state needs us the most, and you don’t know how much state pride you have until now. \r\n\r\nAs I stand and look at my house gutted out half way down the downstairs wall and all of our possessions thrown onto the front curb, I never thought this was possible. Nature has a way to put things in prospective for you. Never believe you can control everything. \r\n\r\n“Scars remind us that the past is real”\r\n\r\nThis is not a pity story because, honestly, I don’t need nor want your pity. This is to answer questions for others, and to show the more fortunate than I just how fortunate they are. Leave comments on my main page with your emotions, complaints, hurricane stories, or whatever else you want. \r\n\r\nWritten by Brittney Chiappinelli, a 16 year old Katrina victim living in Slidell, LA\r\n\r\nIt was found on her “my space” website.