HUMANITY
The following essay, “Humanity” was the recipient of the 2006 Louisiana English Journal A ward for Best Story.
(THIS IS FOR LILY)
We left New Orleans on Sunday morning in our gallery delivery van - me, my
husband, 2 year old daughter Lily , my cat "Crash" and our dog, along with a suitcase for each of us, the gallery computer, dog food, cat food and two 5 gallon containers of water and a cooler. Twenty minutes into the drive, the van broke down, smoke pouring from under the hood. I stood helpless by the side of the road, holding my daughter, as car after car streamed by. People looked at me, and looked away, refusing to give up their space in the exodus to help. Greg, my husband, got on the cell phone with my twin brother Joe ( a service manager for a car lot in Suffolk, V a.) and Joe walked him through how to fix the engine enough to get us out. Greg spent two hours walking up the highway to find the necessary fluids; we had to leave the a/c off so the van would run, and every two hours we had to pull over, giving up our spot in the line of cars, to replenish engine fluids. I was dumping ice water on Lily to keep her cooled off, and my cat was lurching and panting in his carrier from the heat - he has cancer and I was sure he was going to die. Night came, offering some relief, and the outer bands of the hurricane came with a welcome breeze.
After 14 hours on the road, we finally reached Baton Rouge, which is usually not more than an hours' drive for us. I begged to stop, physically ill from the heat. I had strapped Lily to me in the front seat so she could a breeze from the window , and she slept fitfully as we limped along in the darkness. W e slept for a few hours in a field outside of Baton Rouge, and then kept going. W e stopped in each town looking for a hotel room, but by the time we reached Shreveport decided to give up on that idea, and head to the Debusk Art Studio in Fort W orth. (Barrett is the best artist in our gallery and the finest person one could know). After 36 hours in a hot van, exhausted, we reached Barrett's house.
I have watched the news reports, feeling a sense of relief that we got out, sorrow for the people that are still there, heartache at the thought of my home and business being destroyed, and anger that from such a rich country we such such stunning examples of poverty and despair. Sometimes I feel shame, because my life in New Orleans was not one of poverty; I had a beautiful gallery on Royal Street sellingglorious pieces of art glass and wonderful artwork. My home was in a neighborhood called the "Bywater" - one of those "up and coming" neighborhoods, some would call it a dump, others would be more hopeful. What I loved about it was the multicultural, loving accepting atmosphere. One neighbor was a lesbian papermaker, the other an African American dump truck driver who would drag his speakers out on his front porch every Friday night "for a little party". The corner store was a haven for the local drinkers, and one of the old men had taken to dressing in women's clothing in the last several months, sporting red pumps and dangly gold earrings. I lovingly referred to him as the neighborhood beauty queen.
The following essay, “Humanity” was the recipient of the 2006 Louisiana English Journal A ward for Best Story.
(THIS IS FOR LILY)
We left New Orleans on Sunday morning in our gallery delivery van - me, my
husband, 2 year old daughter Lily , my cat "Crash" and our dog, along with a suitcase for each of us, the gallery computer, dog food, cat food and two 5 gallon containers of water and a cooler. Twenty minutes into the drive, the van broke down, smoke pouring from under the hood. I stood helpless by the side of the road, holding my daughter, as car after car streamed by. People looked at me, and looked away, refusing to give up their space in the exodus to help. Greg, my husband, got on the cell phone with my twin brother Joe ( a service manager for a car lot in Suffolk, V a.) and Joe walked him through how to fix the engine enough to get us out. Greg spent two hours walking up the highway to find the necessary fluids; we had to leave the a/c off so the van would run, and every two hours we had to pull over, giving up our spot in the line of cars, to replenish engine fluids. I was dumping ice water on Lily to keep her cooled off, and my cat was lurching and panting in his carrier from the heat - he has cancer and I was sure he was going to die. Night came, offering some relief, and the outer bands of the hurricane came with a welcome breeze.
After 14 hours on the road, we finally reached Baton Rouge, which is usually not more than an hours' drive for us. I begged to stop, physically ill from the heat. I had strapped Lily to me in the front seat so she could a breeze from the window , and she slept fitfully as we limped along in the darkness. W e slept for a few hours in a field outside of Baton Rouge, and then kept going. W e stopped in each town looking for a hotel room, but by the time we reached Shreveport decided to give up on that idea, and head to the Debusk Art Studio in Fort W orth. (Barrett is the best artist in our gallery and the finest person one could know). After 36 hours in a hot van, exhausted, we reached Barrett's house.
I have watched the news reports, feeling a sense of relief that we got out, sorrow for the people that are still there, heartache at the thought of my home and business being destroyed, and anger that from such a rich country we such such stunning examples of poverty and despair. Sometimes I feel shame, because my life in New Orleans was not one of poverty; I had a beautiful gallery on Royal Street sellingglorious pieces of art glass and wonderful artwork. My home was in a neighborhood called the "Bywater" - one of those "up and coming" neighborhoods, some would call it a dump, others would be more hopeful. What I loved about it was the multicultural, loving accepting atmosphere. One neighbor was a lesbian papermaker, the other an African American dump truck driver who would drag his speakers out on his front porch every Friday night "for a little party". The corner store was a haven for the local drinkers, and one of the old men had taken to dressing in women's clothing in the last several months, sporting red pumps and dangly gold earrings. I lovingly referred to him as the neighborhood beauty queen.
We have lost much more than our home and business, we have lost a way of life - riding my HelloKitty bike to work every morning, having to dust off the steering wheel to drive the car because we just didn't drive it too much. Simplicity . Honesty . Not being who you are not, but relishing in your weirdness and priding yourself on being a social outlaw .
Yesterday I took Lily to a church downtown. I prayed, I cried hysterically . I also left one of my pairs of shoes and some money at the church, because there is always, always someone with less than you. I took Lily to the museum and stared, with tears streaming down my face, at a painting by Grueze "Simplcite" of a beautiful young girl holding one daisy .
I have lost, but I have won. What is important to me has been saved: my daughter, my pet, my life. I will not feel sorry for myself. I will cry and I will feel pain, but I will continue to be joyful and hopeful.
This country should see the despair on the Gulf Coast, and help those people, but remember that this despair exists every day in our communities and in families. It is not on television, with a reporter to tell you about it. It is next door, or across the highway or in another town. So yes, help the hurricane victims, and send your checks. But don't forget to look closeby and help someone near to you. That is how the wealth of this country can really mean something. Share what you have with a stranger; don't walk by a hungry person, and turn your head so you don't see it. Help. Love. Be thankful. Be kind. It is for the future of this country that we learn from this huge disaster that compassion and generosity should be a part of our daily lives, not just when disaster strikes.
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