Thank you, thank you, thank you
It came to a point that each time I heard these words it was as if someone was using my heart and my body as a punching bag. How is it that a term that should bring gladness to my soul and a smile to my face has the reverse effect?
If you have been to New Orleans since the flood, you might be able to help me understand.
We walked through the ghost town that was once one of the most vibrant, noisy cities in our country, noted for its joyful music, the chatter of its children, the din of its streetcars, and the honking of its cars, as they made their way through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. Occasionally, the blast of a barge streaming down the Mississippi, added its music to the twenty-four hour carnival---a cacophony of joy and movement. At that moment you might turn and watch it as it made its way to a mooring in the busy New Orleans port.
Now, NO is a still city. It is a dark city. It is a shuttered city.
After two days, the only voices I heard were the voices of people repeating the endless refrain of "thank you."
"Thank you," chimes the five-year-old boy with the round face and two missing front teeth as he smiles shyly, hiding behind the classroom door, an empty room with a chalkboard and a few desks. There are no books to line the walls here. They are all in the dumpster covered with a furry mold. He is thanking us for painting the school to which he has just recently returned.
Thank You, says the handsome African American woman from behind her gate (yes, she and her husband have worked for six weeks to restore it to its proper place). We stop to chat. We have been picking up garbage and debris from the street in front of her home around the corner from the school where we are scraping paint off of trellises, much in need of a fresh coat of paint. She is generous in sharing her story as she points out her neighbors flattened houses. "Will they return?" we ask. She doesn't know. Some will, but others, ---well, she just doesn't know--- "No news of them yet"she says, --- eight months later.
Thank You, mouths an elderly man from his battered pick up truck; the back filled with discarded appliances. He is hauling them to/ from what appears to be a middle class neighborhood, which once boasted trim front yards. Now, they are choked with the garbage of a life frozen in time---August 29, 2005. Did the family evacuate? Are they safe? Where are they now?
We soldier through the area, it feels like we're bivouacking through a savannah---the weeds have taken over. Where are we? The neighborhoods and street names blur. They are all the same, they are all different---they are all devastated.
Thank You, says the shopkeeper where we go to pick up breakfast foods for our kids. "We're glad you're here." As we leave the shop, our eyes notice the sign he has propped up against the wall. It reads, "We are now OPEN!" He is proclaiming a small triumph, a small victory, for his community.
"Thank you and God bless", from the toothless mouth of a homeless man sleeping on the banks of a now seemingly gentle, friendly, lazy, and meandering Mississippi; smack in the middle of the French Quarter.
We make our way to the waiting bus and passersby smile and thank us---a police officer posted at the entrance of the elementary school, a mom with her toddler,... endless faces. These are the people who stayed behind or perhaps they are part of the 25% of the people who have returned to their beloved city after their forced exile.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Too many to recount, too many to forget.
Why does their gratitude assault me? Pain me? Hurt me?
Because the world has been turned upside down. What was pleasant has become its opposite. What was good now seems to me to be bad. Because... with every Thank You I am reminded that behind it lies the voice of yet another human being who has been diminished, betrayed. It screams to me, "I'm homeless, I'm neglected, I feel abandoned".
Their gratitude reminds me that what should be considered a "right" is now perceived by the victims of this disaster as a "favor".
This is America--- isn't it?
New Orleanians are U.S. citizens--- aren't they?
They are ENTITLED to our succor, our aid, our attention---aren't they?
Why do they have to thank us for what is, in essence, their birthright? Their due as Americans?
WHY???
We drive through this city, crawling through intersections because there is no electricity to power the traffic lights. Imagine a city that is forced to treat each corner crossing as if it has a stop sign---that is, if you can find an identifiable street corner at this point. The city that moved at lightning speed, filled with the sounds of a truly heterogeneous, diverse citizenry---now stilled, quiet, subdued and sad--- crawling through the days at a snail's pace.
The only sounds I now hear are Thank You.
I still don't have the words to explain or the ability to understand what we have witnessed--- to anyone---not even to myself. I just know that thank you does not sit well in my ears anymore, especially when it comes from the mouth of a New Orleanian.
How do we make sense, eight months later after the devastation, that they are still saying Thank You?!
{Post script:
A special debt is owed to our New Orleanian bus driver, John, a great man who was able to guide us through not only the streets, but also the hearts of the citizens of his beloved city. Were it not for his constant attention, explanations and care, I am not sure how well we would have fared in those turbulent waters. His wisdom, his commentary and his warm southern hospitality made it all bearable. He became the inspiration for what we accomplished and for what we have yet to accomplish in order to right the injustice, which has been done in New Orleans. For me, he has become the face and the soul of that great city.
Of course I would be remiss if I didn't add the following:
I will be eternally grateful to our incredible students and my extraordinary colleagues for sharing this journey with me and with whom, I hope, I will be able to explore, and in due course, process what has happened to/ been witnessed by all of us.}
Angela (Fieldston Faculty)
