Great big fat never mind

You know how sometimes, life treats you like crap, but then it backs off and allows you to relax and enjoy the ride? But then the second you let your guard down because something really positive is happening in your life, you just get bitch-smacked and knocked back down to crap status?

Why does that keep happening to us?

I'd had plans to blog again in about a week about this thing that was happening that was going to make August 29 finally have a positive experience. But then with Isaac, that got rescheduled for a week later. Fine, whatever. (Hey, Isaac, nice of you to drop in on Katrina's anniversary, by the way. Way to have me celebrate by spending a week at my parents' house because a tree knocked the power and cable lines off of my house. Way to keep my dad's business shuttered again. Way to keep my phone, cable, and Internet down for two weeks and my electricity down for one. We didn't need that stuff in the freezer anyway. And so what that my online classes started, so now I'm playing catch-up in a totally overwhelming state of existence.)

But before this could happen, it was taken away. It has left in its wake despair and rage. So much pain. And there was nothing to do about it. There will be no happy posting.

I have been stuck inside for three weeks now: one week for Isaac, two weeks for what happened. To say the words, even to type them, is too difficult right now. You can probably figure it out, anyway. At some point, I may talk more. Right now, I just needed to put this down.

There is no justice in life. You work hard for other people, never saying no to anyone, toiling away and being there for other people, furthering your education, working in a career that is rewarding, frustrating, and thankless all at once, and something good should happen, right? You get drunk on trailer trash reality shows, cartwheel without panties, and end up in rehab, with no job, no purpose on this Earth other than taking up oxygen and space, and the class and intelligence of a grain of sand, you should get nothing. But that's not how it works. Oh, no. Those people get everything. They can keep what you cannot.

There. I got that out. But I still don't feel any better. Maybe the "Daria" marathon we've had this week has affected me. As if I wasn't cynical enough...

I need to go back to work. Work makes me think of work. I can block out reality that way. In fact, if it wasn't for my friends at work, the past two weeks would have been even more unbearable. I am lucky enough to work with and for some beautiful people. Monday can't get here fast enough. Somehow, though, as much as I look forward to it and need it, I am dreading it all the same. I don't want to put on the strong and happy face. They're just going to have to deal with me. My poor students. How many times will I be able to handle the "Where were you?!?!"s that get lobbed in my direction before I snap at some undeserving person? It's going to take every last ounce of self-control that I have left, every bit of my acting training, and every bit of my friends' assistance, which I have to take. I don't like having help. It's my best and most frustrating quality, if you ask poor Mark. Poor Mark. So good, so strong, so kind. Stuck with me and my negativity. I don't understand his strength and patience. I'm jealous, and I told him so tonight.

I just need the constant reminders to stop. The whole thing needs to be over. I can't move forward until the last bit is done. So here I sit, in neutral, spinning my gears with no results.

Maybe Life will get her shit together and stop pulling the metaphorical football out from underneath us for once. Life. She's truly a bitch sometimes.

Eyebrows raised

I'm on the couch, soaking up a/c while the wind starts periodically gusting outside. I'm not necessarily concerned, per se, about Isaac. He has no eye. He sped up his travel speed, so he isn't even due to hit on August 29. I'm not comfortable with the timing, to be honest. Moreso due to him canceling something I had planned on Wednesday, but it is creepy. I guess I'm just annoyed. Mark has to work. He's bringing a sleeping bag and should be staying for two days. I'll laterally evacuate with Lily to my parents' house. I'm going to bring the important stuff just in case, of course, but I'm mostly going there to avoid being home alone. We had three days of school plus book day, and now we're closed for three days. How irritating. I really miss the days where so long as it was "Just a cat 3," I would stay home and not even flinch. I'd read or play on the Internet so long as we had electricity. Now, I'm taking important things and the cat to my parents' house for a tropical storm, maybe cat 1, maybe cat 2. I'm gun shy. I had something else on my mind which was preventing me for really thinking too long or too hard about the situation, but now I'm starting to think about it. Storm prep did that to me. I'll have a better 7-year post in a few weeks, but I really don't want to jinx something. So, until then, I'm just raising my eyebrows at everything and considering grabbing a string cheese before the fridge goes out.

Erm.

So, today, I went on the first field trip for school that I will take this year. While all field trips are awesome, none can compare to the one I will take from March 27- April 4: GREECE. Yeah, you right. I'm going to Greece. I was supposed to take 7/8 to Puerto Rico. Then 7th grade moved out of the high school. There weren't enough 8th graders to support the trip. They canceled my trip and moved me to the Greece trip the 9th-12th graders are taking. They are going to allow the 8th graders to travel to Greece IF they have a parent accompany them.

Anyway, we saw "Hurricane on the Bayou" at the IMAX. Perhaps this was not a good week for me to go. I silently cried my eyes out and half expected my contacts to float away. I thought it was all just about the wetlands conservation just in case the big one ever came (they started filming three months before Katrina), with an afterthought of the big one having almost hit. Yeah, people not from here, she was not THE big one. She hit Mississippi dead on. We could have been much, much worse.

I would have been a little okay, but seeing aerial footage of the city pre-K was hard. I immediately flashed back to what life was like back then.

THEN, they followed little Amanda Shaw, the violinist, as she evacuated, watched the news, went to her destroyed home, reunited with her grandfather who was rescued from his roof....and Tab Benoit as he found his destroyed home on the bayou.

Did I mention the footage of the baby alligators blowing away from their mother? 50-60 babies, down to 1 after the storm.

Did I mention all of the footage, some real, some news clips, some weather channel clips, some probably recreated CGI? Oh, and what about that transition scene where they showed the Dome with the Dominion Tower and the Hyatt (the two places where I stayed during the storm, if you remember...), while the roof blew off the Dome, and a piece of it slammed the camera lens?

Or how about, when the visuals got to be too much, so I closed my eyes, but there was no way to block out the audio, and it was just like the real thing, all over again, when I was laying in the ad office, trying to sleep, as windows broke and water drenched the rug, and we had to move to a more inward location of the radio station?

Is this what it's like after 'Nam for soldiers?

I could have left, but that would have dropped the student/teacher ratio. I could have left, but I didn't want anyone worrying about me. SO I sat down, and stayed, and cried in silent hysterics.

Didn't experience the storm? Want to? Go see this.

What about the kids? Well, none of them seemed upset, but they were in 4th and 5th grade when it all happened. They moved on. They don't remember. This is both good and bad. As much as I don't want to remember, I don't want to forget or be forgotten.

Why did I go? I was available, they needed help, I wouldn't need a sub, and I teach Louisiana History. I figured I HAD to. Now I wish I hadn't.

Bad week to go. Bad, bad, bad week to go.

I am such a slacker.

This is never a good week for me. It's the last week in August, and, well, I have a lot of trouble dealing with this. It gets a little easier as time goes by, but...it's still too fresh.

Last year, I started writing a 3rd anniversary post during my off-periods at work. Since I'm unable to get on Blogger at school, I typed it in Word and saved it. I never did get to finish it, because Gustav made us evacuate right around this time. I thought about it today, and e-mailed it to myself so I could post it at home.

SO, almost one year late, here's my unfinished 3rd Anniversary post.

Today is a day none of us can ever forget. I fear that a lot of the world...specifically the rest of the country, and even the rest of the state, has moved on and forgotten. Perhaps not today, as we are staring down Gustav in a fierce battle of wits. How much do we want him, and how much are we willing to lose? But what a rollercoaster ride of emotions this is.



All week, I was planning to write about all of the progress we’ve had. The news stories either portray us as a war zone or all better. Quite the contrary on both counts. We’re not all better. But things have been looking up. It may seem insignificant, but we lost Macy’s. They pulled out and have had a vacant section of the Esplanade Mall for these three years. As a result, along with losing Mervyn’s before the storm, the mall has declined. They’ve lost a book store, several clothing stores, and, most recently, the Disney Store. Without anchor stores, the mall is declining in popularity. But after watching the spirit of our people, the determination, the strides we’ve made through the worst adversity imaginable, they have decided to return. Not only are they renovating their former space at the Esplanade Mall, they are building a new wing on Lakeside Mall. Lakeside is doing quite well, actually, in the wake of people avoiding the Esplanade.



This week, instead, my attentions have turned to weather.com and nola.com as panic spreads. Perhaps some of this is stemming from my work environment. I have several very anxious young students. The youngest were in 4th grade the year of Katrina. I think some of this…their youth during such a confusing time…may contribute to the behavior issues we’ve had all year. All year. Heh. These three weeks.



I have to spend my days as the fearless leader to my students, calming their fears, giving them the science and the facts, remaining calm. But as soon as students are gone, the adults gather. We have many teachers from all over the country this year: the three who moved here from California , the one here via Notre Dame, one from Maryland . The latter was here for college and evacuated for Ivan and Katrina. But all of them are panicking, and rightfully so. We have the group of us who lost everything in Katrina and are extremely gun-shy. We have those who lost nothing, but watched others lose it all and now fear it. And then we have those who seem impervious to it all. But even they falter in their bravado at times. When we are all together, it’s all we can discuss.



I don’t know what we’ll do if IT happens again. I don’t believe we’ll be back. Flood me once, shame on you. Flood me twice, shame on me. Flood me a third time? No thank you. Where will we go if IT happens again? I don’t know. Yeah, I don’t buy into the whole “hundred year storm” thing. I understand that they don’t mean that literally. But I also didn’t bank on this being an “every three years storm.” I’m still attached to my city. I love her almost unconditionally. Sure, she still has a long way to go, but I don’t know where else I could live. It would have to be a major city, one with a lot of culture and history. It would have to have a certain charm to it, a lot of color, and have good food. It couldn’t be a little white bread town….that’s for sure. What if we end up with children? I want them exposed to life beyond what we can provide. I want them to know that there are other people out there with different traditions and cultures. I love my exposures here. I look at my students, and I see many colors and faiths. There’s black students, Hispanic students, some Indian students, white students, boys, girls, Catholics, Jews, Baptists, Episcopalians, and who knows what else. I love that we are not predominantly white. That’s where I went to school. We had one black family in my grammar school. Everyone else was white. We were all from the same basic neighborhoods. And that means similar income levels. Bor-ing. It wasn’t until I went to high school that I was truly exposed to people who were different. Then there’s my immersion into Jewish culture at the J. And when I moved to the Bayou Region for college…well…my world was certainly expanded. Not only did I meet people from other parts of the state, I met people from all over the world. And when I did all of these things, I learned so much more and became the adult that I am today. I would want that for my children.



I honestly DON’T know what we’ll do if we lose it all again. Shoot, even if we don’t lose things but the city floods again, I think we’ll be done. We’re supposed to be going to Indiana if we evacuate, so maybe some exposure to the Central Plains will help. Neither of us has ever been to that region before. Maybe we’ll like it. Who knows. (Edited to add: not so much. While we had a nice visit with Devon, Indianapolis would not be a place to go.)



What worries me most about this is not the moving and relocating. Yeah, that’s a major concern, but I worry more about my parents. I can’t bear to imagine what will happen to my dad if this happens again. His whole life is his business (after family, of course). What will he do? I don’t want to watch him suffer again. I don’t think I can handle that.



But back to my Katrina musings. Enough of Gustav. I can’t think of him any more.



We’ve seen so much happen in three years. We bought our home last year, and we’ve done a lot to it. We’ve pretty much replaced anything important for a home. We’ve upgraded a few things, eliminated a few things, added a few more…and it really feels like a home now. I even put in a garden a few weeks ago. I did some hibiscus and some dust roses. My mom called them primroses, but I’m going by what was on the stick.



We’ve seen some new businesses crop up. In addition to Macy’s returning to the city, we’ve seen a lot of people join us. It may not seem like much, but IHOP, Sephora, and many more stores and restaurants have put their faith in us and finally joined our area. Now, if we can just get an IKEA… I try to give business to as many of these people as I can to thank them for believing in our efforts.



We’ve had a lot of remodeling to existing businesses. Many local places have opened, like NOLA Beans in Lakeview. They’re a bit pricey, but the food is good. It’s as if people took stock of their lives and realized, “HEY! I want more than my current lot in life! I’m going to take a risk!!!”



We’ve had people come and go, through choice, through relocation, and through death. A lot of our local characters are gone now, which is sad. But Frankie or Johnny, whichever one has the bad rug, is still here with a new Special Man. Al Copeland died, which means there will be quite the void at Christmas. Luckily, we’ll still be able to see Ben’s house if we want to see extravagant holiday decorating… I saw that Ruthie the Duck Girl just died, too. It’s still sad to see places that have been replaced by new ventures, like Charlie’s Deli. But at least the building isn’t vacant. Thank goodness for that. Charlie’s has new life (Even if that life has been vandalized…the new place is Touché Café, and someone spray painted a “D” over the “T.”)

Part 18: A summer of fun tinged with trepidation...

June 1 is the official start of hurricane season. So, naturally, a lot of fear crept into the city's psyche. Even though the world's weather patterns don't have an alarm that rings and says, "Oo...June 1. Time to go to work!" we still feared the date more than usual.

When camp started, I was happy yet sad. I was happy because it is my favorite time of year. I also was going to be the assistant camp director. But I was sad because my beloved travel camp was laid to rest, a late casualty of Katrina. I was going to be stuck in town all summer. And, while I was back at camp, it was the first year I didn't have a group.

As camp director, I had to keep track of attendance, create flyers and notes, generate the camp newsletter, take pictures, spend time with the groups, set up and clean up for our morning breakfast staff meetings, handle discipline problems, set up staff functions, visit each group, keep track of schedules, and chaperone field trips.

In July, Pam, the new camp director, who used to be my supervisor for travel camp, asked me to accompany the oldest groups to Houston for their annual trip. However, the Monday before we left, I developed my FOURTH sinus infection since March. I packed and went to work Wednesday morning, and Pam took one look at me before telling me she didn't want me to go. It took a lot of phone calls to the assistant director of the JCC before I was told, one minute before the buses pulled out, that I was to stay back. Pam even drove me home, because my dad brough me to work so that I wouldn't have to leave my car behind all week at work. She wanted me to get in bed and stay there. So I did.

At the same time, I was supposed to be in a murder-mystery-comedy-musical-improv-dinner theater production at my grammar school. My friend is the theater teacher there, and she asked me to do it. I was very excited about it, because I hadn't been in a play since doing Dracula at Nicholls back in 2001 (I was Lucy!), and had found that I missed theater immensely.

But I missed a lot of rehearsals for work, and for illness, and, finally, I bowed out of the production.

It bothered me to have to do it, but along the way, I realized that I did not have the energy or the heart or the state of mind for an almost entirely improv show. I'm not who I was a year ago. None of us are, any more, but I have changed dramatically. I'm even starting to look closer to my age now. I don't get carded any more since "The Thing," as one local columnist calls it.

Come to find out, it was a good thing I didn't go to Houston. I was very sad, as it was as close to my travel camp as I would get. But, between Wednesday afternoon and Friday at 3 p.m, more than 10 kids caught a stomach virus. The last 6 kids? ON THE BUS RIDE HOME. More people ended up sick over the weekend. It then continued to run rampant through camp, knocking out almost half of our staff and many of our campers.

Camp is 9 weeks total: 1 week of staff orientation, 8 weeks of camp. It was so sad to have to end it. Our staff, for the most part, was absolutely amazing. I realized early on that, while I didn't technically have a group of campers, I actually had a group: the staff, which included my younger cousin Kate as a CIT. And she was amazing. She is only 15 (as of this week), and our age gap made us not very close. But I really got to know her and enjoy her.

The end of camp also found us watching, nervously, Hurricane Chris. Luckily, he fizzled out and did not pose any problems for us.

I had the weekend after camp, plus Monday through Thursday, off before reporting back to school. On Monday, Mark and I brought my friend Jenifer to see Houma and Thibodaux. She is also a Nicholls alumna, and she hadn't been back since graduating in 2000. We drove around, ate donuts at "Mr. Ronnie's Famous Hot," went to the Southland Mall, visited Student Publications and the bookstore, had dinner at Pepper's Pizzeria, and went to Rene's Bar. (They both used to love it there.) We met up with brother-in-law Phil, who graduated from Nicholls in May and now works in Thibodaux. We even made a pitstop over at Mark's (then Phil's) old apartment before heading home. It was a lot of fun.

Tuesday was school supply shopping. Wednesday I got my oil changed and did a few things in my classroom. On Thursday, we were supposed to have lunch with Anne and Ricky, who were in town, but that fell through. Friday found me back at school for orientation.

I can't begin to describe what it's like. We're back at the first campus. Every day, I drive 35 minutes to work and over an hour home from work. But I drive through my old neighborhood, which is still pretty much in ruins, and through City Park. It's so very sad. I practically retrace my steps of one year ago. My classroom looks great. I'm teaching 7th and 8th grade reading and writing. My schedule stinks (six classes, plus afternoon and recess duty, plus a club that meets twice a week, and my only off period is 2nd period. Blech.). The kids are fun, and I teach all 54 students in my grade levels this year. I don't have a home room.

But every day....through the desolation. The area around school is coming back faster than Lakeview is, but it's not great. Plus, it sustained less damage. School was fine, if you remember.

I had Mark make me a CD of "happy songs" to listen to on my commute. It's to take my mind off of where I'm going and what I'm looking at.

But it doesn't work that well.

And now today is the anniversary of that last Friday. As I sat in traffic, I couldn't help but think about how a year ago, I was running errands with Melissa, preparing for our class pet, which was to be a hamster. We tried to get Caroline and Keith to get dinenr with us, but they were hungry right then, and we were going to be a while, so plans fell through. We ended up going to dinner with my friends Carol and Sam, from the JCC. Then we hung out at Sam's apartment complex. We were in the courtyard, and my friend Ilyse and her girlfriend Claudia were there, because they lived in the same complex.

That morning on my way to work, a huge raccoon walked out of the park and into Harrison Ave. We had a staring match; not even my horn deterred him. He finally moseyed back into the park. I had my radio on on the local modern rock station. They discussed Katrina having hit Florida, then the theory that she was going to loop back, hit Florida, and leave us alone. That afternoon, our principal, Mike, had gone around to wish us all a nice weekend and see if we had plans.

Saturday, we woke up late, then dressed and went to Lakeside Mall for lunch and shopping. It was closed and we were turned away. We found out Katrina was headed for us, and spent the rest of the day cleaning and packing.

The rest is history. Infamous history. History I wish I could erase.

And now, we are full circle.

But this morning, there was no raccoon. Animals are only starting to return to the park, and none are as large as a raccoon. In fact, there generally aren't any other cars as I drive through.

Tonight, Mike was not there to wish us a happy weekend, as he was at the act of sale for his new house, having lost his home in Arabi last year.

Today, I am wearing my Mignon Faget Anniversary Amulet (www.mignonfaget.com). It's a silver circle with a hurricane in the middle, with a fleur de lis engraved on the front and 8-29-05 engraved on the back.

Tonight, we will celebrate our friend Chris' 21st birthday.

But we will, once again, keep our eyes on the Weather Channel, as Tropical Storm Ernesto continues to strengthen and heads to the Gulf.

Keep sending us goods thoughts.

Next time, I will "close" with a tribute wrap-up. Assuming Ernesto doesn't have other plans, of course.

Part 10: Finding out what is lost.

Recap: We had just survived Hurricane Rita, just weeks after Hurricane Katrina. My job called me back to Metairie, so I moved in with my parents. Mark, however, would remain in the RV in Baton Rouge.

My school was, miraculously, fine. Located in Mid-City, it was truly an island. However, due to its location, we had no idea when electricity, water, and sewerage would be restored to our campus. We opened a high school in a defunct elementary school this year. Being so small, there was a ton of space available. And so, our administration, combined with the Archdiocese, decided that we would have to move the elementary school to the high school campus. Because it would be such a monumental task, we would remain out in Metairie for the school year. By this point, we were six weeks out of the storm. That's half of a summer vacation. It seemed like school would probably run until July.

The Monday after Rita, I had to report to school. Almost 80 percent of our staff was planning to return. But, in some small part thanks to Rita, many of them could not yet return. Others needed a few more days to come in. But most of the 80 percent would be there to help move.

I arrived at 9, and found myself in a room of the shell-shocked. Then one teacher, who was one of the rookies with me, came up to me while I was reuniting with Melissa, my teaching partner. Melissa lived in St. Bernard Parish, as I think I said before. We'd been in contact during our exiles, but we had not seen each other yet. We were a great match for each other. We are the same age. She'd taught for 3 years in another school, and was experiencing her first year at this school. We had some common interests. Both of us curse like sailors (not in the classroom, naturally, unless the kids are gone), and both of us can burp better than most men can (also, when the kids are not in the classroom). She was really helping make my first year as a teacher a lot easier. It was great to see each other.

But this other teacher came bouncing up, hair in a a perky ponytail, wearing her own clothes. Melissa and I, like so many others, were in borrowed clothes or clothes we'd evacuated with. We'd lost everything else.

Don't get me wrong...this other teacher is great. I like her a lot, as do the students. But what she did next still has me floored. She came up, happy and perky, and said, "So....how'd you guys do?"

Melissa and I looked at each other, then the other teacher. "Pretty rotten," I said. "About as bad as you could have," Melissa said. We each briefly stated our neighborhoods, and I mentioned having had to go through the storm. The perky demeanor was immediately replaced by an uncomfortable one. Another teacher came up, and she edged her way out of our conversation and into another one.

After about an hour, enough people were there to get started. The administrators knew we all wanted and needed to talk. So, while we sat around the tables, we told our stories. Most were fine. They evacuated early, went on vacation while in exile, stayed with family and friends, enrolled their kids in schools, etc. Some had no damage (the ones from River Ridge), others had downed trees, an inch to two feet of water in their homes, etc.

Those of us who lost so much seemed to seek each other out. We had a lot of teachers from Lakeview and St. Bernard. Most of us were in a group together. I'll interrupt for a second to say exactly how wonderful it was to FINALLY be with someone non-immediate family who understood what I was going through, and how I was feeling. You can say you understand, you can say you have sympathy, but until you experience what we have experienced, you have no idea. Don't even try to pretend.

As soon as we got to our area, the Kleenex boxes came out. Dry eyes were few and far between. Sometimes, it was the story-teller. Other times, it was other people. Most were not here for the storm. I was a rare breed there. One of the religion teachers, a sweet little old lady, lived in the Upper 9th Ward. The Lower 9th was obliterated. The Upper, not as much, but still bad. Anyway, she stayed in her home, by herself. She was trapped by water. She slept on her porch at night, because it was cooler. She was evetually taken out.

When I spoke, the room was silent. No one knew about Mark working at WWL. When I said he worked there, the president of the school said, "Oh, the heroes!" I hadn't realized how important where we were and what was done actually was. I wasn't entirely comfortable with talking about it all, but once I started, I couldn't stop. I spoke of everything we'd seen, felt, and heard, from the windows, to Garland running, to looting, to Spud's heroic efforts. I talked about our house, my father's business, Mark living in Baton Rouge, and moving in with my parents.

At the time, I didn't realize how long I'd been talking. But my audience was captivated. They sat and listened. When I was done, many had tears in their eyes. I didn't realize how much attention people had paid to me. But for weeks afterwards, people would talk to me about it all, ask me how we were doing. It felt so good to see real people caring. Up until that point, I felt no one did, locally. Everyone was caught in their own drama. I had only seen the generosity of total strangers and long-distance relatives. But now I had the support of my colleagues. These were people who didn't know who I was until I spoke. Most...not that they didn't care...they just didn't know who I was or what grade I taught or anything. I was a nameless face they worked with for 2 weeks. Suddenly, people cared. And it wasn't just about me. It really brought a lot of our staff closer. Those who faced little to no damage were trying to do everything they could for those of us who were devastated. We started a donation room that quickly filled up. People brought in clothes, snacks, supplies, household items, shoes, uniforms, you name it. Some came from staff members and their families. Others were trucked in by schools that had adopted ours. And everyone was there for each other.

The first thing the school did was set up a healing team. We have an ecclectic staff, which includes social workers, counselors, and psych degrees. These people worked tirelessly to put together a very comprehensive plan for helping the kids and teachers cope with what happened. We knew it would be a very rough year. We knew we would probably never see some of our students again. Or some of our coworkers. We'd all been through so much in those six weeks. Our healing team has earned several grants, and they also have been approached by various agencies in the city to adopt their plan. The whole Archdiocese will implement it, as well. They're amazing.

Due to Rita reflooding parts of the city, our return to our Mid-City campus was delayed. Instead of getting in there Monday, we could not go to Orleans Parish until Thursday. We had to get special permission to set up an emerggency caravan to get through. So on Monday and Tuesday, we regrouped, discussed the Healing Team and the plans, and waited for our numbers to rise.

We were promised that all of us would have some sort of job, even if our numbers were low. We are a necessary school, since we serve special needs kids in a Catholic school setting, and no one else does. They created some positions to retain people. We were so lucky: the Archdiocese was laying off thousands of workers due to insufficient funds. However, they were not really telling us what we could do. The newbies, like Melissa and I, worried. We were the newest employees. Those who were there longer would surely be the ones to definitely have jobs. Even though we were all being promised positions, the promise was not set in stone. The promise was more of a "we'll try our hardest to keep you and justify it."

Some of us went to Target, which had just reopened for about 4 hours each morning, and a manager stopped us. "Do you all have jobs yet?" he asked. We looked at each other. "Maybe," Melissa said. We're supposed to know soon. Why?" "Because we're raising our salaries for three months. The regular starting salary is $6.25. We're promising a $3 increase for at least these three months. The guy pushing carts in teh parking lot? He'll be making $9.25 an hour."

We were shocked. But this apparently became a trend. Workers were scarce, jobs were scarce, and companies instituted incentives. Work for Burger King? Earn $9 an hour, plus get a $6,000 bonus for working for 12 months. McDonald's? Extra $125 per week, plus $10 an hour. There is now no shame in asking someone if they want fries with that.

Because we could not cross over into Orleans yet, Wednesday was an optional day. I woke up to the sound of my phone vibrating with a text message. It was Geoff. "Kev says no roadblocks into Orleans. Go while you can." I ran down the hall, read it to my father, and called Mark to tell him. We were making a try for Lakeview. Orleans was not open to anyone other than emergency personnel. Mark said, "I'll be there in an hour." Mom and I ran to Target to buy some ratty clothes for him to wear, along with boots for him and for her. I bought some "designer" Isaac Mizrahi boots from there on Monday. They were white and had his name printed all over them. They were the only boots I could find. Designer "Cajun Reeboks." Joy. I donned Karen's castoff clothes, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and prepared myself. I had seen Kevin's pictures of his parents' Lakeview home. He has a construction permit, which allowed him in. He'd seen our house, and told us that we had broken windows, but that it was standing. He'd taken pictures of Phil's Firehouse Snowballs, the best snowball stand in the city. It was almost across the street from us. It looked bad, as did the gas station behind it. I knew what I would expect.

We drove up Verteran's Blvd. to the parish line. Army men stopped us. "Can't get in." My dad had been in the week before to survey what was left of his Lakeview service station. It was not pretty. I'd seen those pictures, too. He hadn't been able to get to us, though, because Rita had broken through the not-quite-repaired 17th Street Canal breach and caused minor flooding which hadnot yet gone down. But he's also been with an Orleans Parish cop he's friends with. Anyway, he tried saying he was getting in to work on his business. However, that did not fly any more. And with no cop accompanying us, we were shot down. Mark flashed his press pass. The Army guy told us that if Mark was in his own car, he could get in. It was no use arguing the stupidity of that statement.

So, we went up to Metairie Road and crossed the canal there. How? Dad and Mark switched seats, Mark flashed his press pass, and in we rolled. We drove down Canal Blvd. in silence. The devastation increased the further in we got. We ran through some standing water by the train tracks. We gawked at the water lines, the downed trees, the crumpled homes, the flooded out cars. We passed my first elementary school on Harrison Ave. It looked awful. We paued at a great Po-Boy shop, Charlie's Deli, and thought sadly about how we may never eat there again. We stopped at my dad's employee's home on Harrison. It was in bad shape before. It was to be condemned in a few days' time. We crossed West End. Blvd., then Pontchartrain Blvd. We saw Phil's and the gas station. They looked worse thatn the pictures. We turned down Fleur de Lis. Everything was brown and in states of ruin that one could never imagine. We turned onto 26th. We were on the corner. I set my jaw. The house looked bad. My car....my poor little car.....it had floated and was blocking the door under the carport.

The front door was hanging inside. The screen door was ajar. The first spray-painted X for our house was on our roof. Rescuers left these marks basically, to say who checked it, when it was checked, and how many live and dead bodies were found. On Sept. 11, my house was still so under water that they reached it by boat, rapped on the roof, had no answer, sprayed the X mark on the roof, and moved on to the next house. Our second X came just days earlier, Sept. 25. It was painted on the screen door. The elderly neighbor had evidently left, as we'd been worried about. Her marks said there were no bodies found. We were relieved. She wasn't the nicest neighbor, but you don't want anyone to die like that.

I thought I was okay. I thought I could handle it. Then I stepped cautiously into the doorway. We had to move the door out of the way, but could not get it far, as the sofa had floated across teh room and was right behind it. Mask, gloves, and boots on, I looked inside for the first time.

I thought I was prepared. I'd seen enough photos in the past few days, especially of places I knew. But nothing, absolutely nothing can prepare you for this. I burst into hysterics.

I could not be consoled.

I composed myself, put Vick's Vapo-Rub inside and outside of my mask (thanks, CSI:!) , and removed myself from it. I pretended none of it was mine. I tried to find the funny (cat bed on top of a halogen lamp, perfectly centered) and the bizarre (the way the refrigerator flipped). I went home, and Mark went to Baton Rouge. I cried myself to sleep.

I won't say much more about this. It's very hard to talk about, yes, but this sort of pain can not be served justice by the English language. I am tearing up right now, actually, and will leave you with this:

I wish this on no one. Not Hitler. Not Vlad the Impaler. Not David Duke. Not Atilla the Hun. Not anyone I hate. Not even Bush. I wish it on no one.

Next time: Part 11: It takes a village to move a school.

Part 9: Storm me once, shame on you. Storm me twice, shame on me.

Recap: Mark was living in Baton Rouge in an RV for work, my parents moved back home, Geoff was staying with Calie's family in River Ridge, and I was living with my in-laws in Morgan City. School was calling me back on Sept. 26, but Hurricane Rita was headed straight for Texas and southwestern Louisiana.....Morgan City included.

The winds of Rita from the outer bands of the storm were teasing Morgan City early in the afternoon. I gassed up my car while waiting for Mark to come in. I was truly a nervous wreck. Katrina had changed a lot of things, and apparently, I was also changed. We'd had no rain in the almost month since the storm had hit, and the thoughts of wind, rain, darkness, thunder, lightning, and a possible hit by another hurricane were not doing anything for my mental state. I was in an extremely frenzied state, made worse by everyone telling me to leave. When I think back to that point, which was about 3 months ago, I am still uncomfortable. We've had some rains since then, and it is very unsettling. Luckily, it's only rained maybe 2 or 3 more times.

I told my parents that the outer bands were hitting us, and my father said that that was probably not true. But when I got out the car to fill it up, a big gust came through and caught the door, ripping it from my hands as I went to shut it, and slammed it into my arm. I had a bruise for about a week. I grimaced, I guess, when that happened, because an old man made a beeline for me. He evidently thought I grimaced because I didn't know how to pump my own gas. He came to demonstrate where to put my card, to tell it I want a reciept, how to put the nozzle in the car, how to select my gas...all after I politely declined his assistance by telling him, with a twinge of pain behind my heart, that my father owns a service station, and that I could handle it. He even called me sweetheart or something else patronizing. He stayed there explaining it all to me until I was done, then left. Sigh.

I drove to my in-laws' in sporadic rains, feeling better about the car, but worse about the weather. Around 7 that evening, Mark made it back to Morgan City, and we settled in for what was, to me, a very long evening.

While she was no picnic, Rita was not as bad as she could have been. She spared Houston, which made us happy. My grandmother's assisted living center originally evacuated to a hotel in Alexandria, but when the do-not-return orders were issued, they moved to other ALC's in their chain. My 86-year-old grandmother with Alzheimer's ended up in Houston. As Rita loomed, my family worried. My mother called Houston, only to find out that they had decided that they had enough staff prepared to stay, and that they would. Rita looked to be as bad, if not worse, than Katrina. The thousands of evacuees who ended up in Houston had to evacuate for a second time. A JCC kid I've known since she was 4, who will be 15 in March, called my cell phone panicking, because she was in Houston and was packing up to leave again. I tried to comfort her, but could not, I am afraid, because I had enough on my mind. They ended up in Dallas until after the storm, if I'm not mistaken, then moved back.

So anyway, we were all Very Concerned about my grandmother. We would not have time to make that 6 hour drive to get her, plus do it again on the way back, to ensure her safety. In addition, none of the family could provide for her needs, especially if New Orleans caught any of Rita. All we could do was worry. There were two ALC’s run by this company in Houston. Hers decided to stay. The other loaded up the residents and evacuated them. But they never reached their destination, as the bus caught fire and killed all of the passengers inside. My uncle in Philadelphia called very upset because he’d heard about one of them. My parents hadn’t heard yet, and there was brief panic until we found out that it was the other ALC. My grandmother was safe. However, Kurt, my cousin Alicia’s husband, knew someone who was on that bus. It seemed that the tragedies would keep arising for our city.

Instead of slamming Houston, Rita wobbled a little more easterly and did a number on…southwest Louisiana. We had probably category 2 winds in Morgan City. Morgan City found more than half its residents without power. A storm surge drove salty waters into the drinking water. A tree across the street fell. Leaves were everywhere. Small branches were everywhere. The fence broke. Shingles were in the street. We never did lose electricity, but it blinked on and off all night. To take our minds off what was going on around us, we played poker, microwaved popcorn, and ate ice cream, since we figured we would lose electricity and would therefore also lose the ice cream. But all that happened was a lot of flickering. And serious wind damage. My in-laws said Rita was worse for them than Katrina was, if that tells you anything.

That night, as the storm raged on (WHY do they only strike at night????), I had even more trouble sleeping than usual. As I mentioned earlier, sleeping was, and, occasionally, still is, an issue for me. I did not get much that night. The sounds of the fence breaking, the wind slapping the house, the rain beating down, and things slamming into the house, were a bit much for me. I had vowed I would never stay for a storm again, and there I was. But where could I have gone?

The next morning, as things slowed down, we watched as the Industrial Canal breached again. The Lower 9^th Ward was in even more trouble. We heard that the patch in the 17^th Street Canal levee appeared to mostly hold up, but that the area by our house was flooding again. I believe I posted a picture of that from my father. But most troubling were the shots of lower Terrebonne Parish and lower Lafourche Parish and the areas around New Iberia. They looked like my neighborhood. Luckily, many had learned from New Orleans and left, but there were, of course, the old sticklers who never leave and refused to leave. I felt for those people. We were joined by an unspeakable bond.

I was supposed to go to Metairie on Saturday, but with the winds and some road closures due to the standing water on the highways, we were unable to leave until Sunday. Mark was off all weekend, and so he was able to help.

For having nothing, we sure had a lot to bring to Metairie. We had been shopping, so we had more clothes than we left with. People sent care packages, so that was all extra. We brought the two plastic drawer carts that were bought for us to store our clothing in with us, as well as a wire rack for the couple pairs of shoes I’d acquired, through hand-me-downs and Houma trips. On top of that, we had the things we’d evacuated with, cats included. Junior and Menou, my in-laws’ cats, were not very sorry to see my Lily and Shazzy leave. However, poor Nala and Icarus, my parents’ cats, had a lot in store for them. They were already resettling into their now carpetless, mildly funky-smelling home, and now we were bringing our two cats to disrupt their routines. What fun would await that introduction?

It took Mark to take the cats and the things he was bringing back to his RV that night, plus a trunk-load, plus me and a trunkload and a back-seat-load, plus Mr. Loy and the plastic “furniture” they were lending us, to get everything to Metairie.

Just as we were leaving, my cell phone rang. It was the insurance adjuster for my car. For having a good driving record and low mileage, I got some additional money. Four years ago, my father paid $4,000 for my used Toyota Corolla. I had a $500 deductible, but got $200 for contents. So before the deductible, they were going to give me $4,100 for it. Something went our way! We technically turned a profit on an 11-year-old second-hand car!

We made it back to Metairie that Sunday afternoon. When I moved out, my parents figured that I was gone for good. So they hurried me along to get my belongings out, and turned my room into an office. That’s where I am now. Sitting where my cedar chest once stood. That’s still here…but it’s been converted into a wrapping paper holder. Where my bed once stood, there is a desk. A file cabinet replaced my dresser. What makes this even sadder is that those pieces, save for my old cedar chest (this one is the one from when I was a kid, not the one Mark’s uncle built for our wedding), is all gone. Saturated and hacked and rusted and peeling and disgusting. Even the ugly old carpet, which tormented me for most of my life, was gone, save for a square under the big file cabinet that didn’t get very wet.

Geoff moved into his apartment in March or so. He left because he wanted to. I left because I was married. So while they figured I wouldn’t come back, there was a possibility that he could some day. So his room sat empty, except for a TV and the exercise bike…a sad attempt at an exercise room. They left the TV for us and put the bike back in the garage. We unloaded the cars, then Mark had to go back to Baton Rouge while Mr. Loy had to get back to Morgan City. Sitting in the windowsill were some of Geoff’s He-Man figures. He’d found his Foo Fighters poster and hung that on the wall, then tacked an old issue of The Nicholls Worth (sadly and ironically enough, it was the first issue in full-color, which I’d done for….9/11.) and a He-Man thing on the wall to make it have some of our personalities in it. He taped a note to the door, which reads, “Mae and Mark -- It ain’t much, but I did what I could to make my old home your new home.” It touched us. It really did.

He and Calie stopped by later. They helped me sort through our belongings. Geoff’s old mirror still hung on the wall, so we put the two plastic carts under it like a dresser. I took the shoe cart and put it in the closet. We stacked some things along the walls and in the corners. Geoff found my dad’s little workbench in the garage and put the TV on it, then got the old Nintendo out of our parents’ room and hooked it up. My dad bought an “elevated air mattress,” which was double the thickness of a standard one, and we inflated it and put sheets on it. My mom washed Geoff’s old comforter and we threw it on top. Then, I made a nightstand by stacking the photo albums and the huge Tupperware bin of the smaller albums and loose pictures next to the bed. I hung the clothes up, and set up the litter box, some food, and some water for the cats, then let them explore. Poor little things.

I don’t think I discussed Lily’s cold. A week or so after we were in Morgan City, Lily’s eyes started running. It looked like she was crying. I looked up “Do cats cry?” on the Internet, and discovered that cats do feel sad and depression, but that it is manifested in behavioral changes, not tears. If a cat is “crying,” then it’s because of allergies, something getting in the eyes, or an illness. That night, while we were in bed, we heard a tiny little, “Achoo!” We made an appointment with the vet. I asked if it had anything to do with our rough evacuation and current situation, and the vet said it was possible. Some cats get a form of herpes, which causes them to get colds. The colds come out when they are stressed out. We were given an eye cream, which she did not want to take and she fought us every time, and an antibiotic, to be given orally. The first few doses were given while Mark was still in Morgan City, but then he had to go to Baton Rouge that week. I had to administer her medication all by myself twice a day for the rest of those two weeks. I gave up on her eye cream, because she was too rebellious and it was too hard to do on my own. But she finished her antibiotics the day before we came home. That was a good thing, because Nala and Icarus would not catch her illness. Shazzy, Menou, and Junior all made it without catching it, so we were very relieved. We paid for the vet and the medicine with a donation sent to us by one of my fellow forumers. It had come in the mail the night we discovered she was sick. How lucky we were!

That first night sleeping on an air mattress in Geoff’s old room was strange. It was nice having dinner with my parents. It was nice being with my own family for a change. But things were so very different. The most obvious, of course, being that I was living in Geoff’s room, with clothes I didn’t recognize, on fake furniture, in a house that no longer held carpet. We have to walk with something on our feet, because the foam backing on the carpet would not all come up, but it flakes off when you walk on it. When the weather started to change, it was going to be very cold to walk on. We have to be careful, because the carpet tacks along the walls and in the doorways where the carpets either changed or became tile floors are still there. Plus, several little things had changed. Minor things, like my mom changing the kitchen drawers and cabinets a little. And big things, like Geoff being gone. I was now only an hour away from Mark instead of two, but I still would only see him if he had a couple of days off. Entercom’s return to New Orleans was indefinite. So while my situation was sometimes improving, it was also hitting brick walls. Luckily, I would have work the next morning. Not class, but the beginning of moving campuses.

Stay tuned for Part 10: Moving week begins

Part 8: Mark and Loy's Bogus Journey.

Ok...I'm out on Thanksgiving Break, so even though I have to make an exam, grade an exam, and make classroom Christmas decorations, I am probably going to update more regularly. A lot has happened, and I feel I'm getting further and further behind.

Recap: We went back to Metairie for a day to check on my parents' house, which suffered mild damage (We would later learn that mild means $25,000 to the insurance company...) and my brother's, which almost flooded, had it not been raised 3-4 feet above the street, which had 3-4 feet of water in it.

That weekend, Mark and Mr. Loy, his dad, decided to rescue Mark's car from the parking garage. We had no transportation, so if his job called him back, what were we going to do? When we went to Metairie, we got my mom's car, which had water in the back footwells. But that was going to be for me to go back and forth to Nicholls for school. Mark spoke with his bosses, who said that they had set up in Baton Rouge, and as soon as he could get there, he had a job. So on Saturday morning, Mark and Mr. Loy got in the white pick-up, which could blend in with rescue workers, grabbed Mark's press pass, and decided to try their luck. When they got to the first military checkpoint, the guy told them, "If you have a press pass, you can go pretty much anywhere." They drove on. It got increasingly hard to get into the city. The second checkpoint, the guys leaned in to savor some of the truck's air conditioning. South Louisiana is so humid and miserable, especially in the summer. These poor, wonderful men were standing in the blazing heat and humidity in fatigues, working so hard to help us, and my F-I-L was more than happy to do them that small courtesy.

Detour after detour cropped up. Streets were blocked by trees, water, and houses knocked off foundations. It took them a lot longer than it should have to reach the garage. We got phone calls every now and then updating us on their progress. We got increasingly anxious. Finally, the phone rang again. It was Mark.

"We're in the garage, and the car is fine. The tires have air, the gas tank is full, the windows are intact, and all of our stuff is inside."

I was overjoyed. That meant our wedding album, our photo albums, my childhood favorite stuffed animals, one of Mark's guitars, my bound copies of The Nicholls Worth and Mark's KNSU tapes, plus our yearbooks, were safe. I cried.

When they went to leave, there was a convoy of mail trucks, presumably bringing local mail to safer places. We later learned everything went to Houston until Hurricane Rita came, then it was bounced to Baton Rouge, then BACK to Houston, and was finally forwarded slowly. Anyway, the convoy was huge. Mr. Loy cut into line, with Mark following. There was only one way out of the city, so they were stuck in the convoy for quite some time. They stopped for a little while, and the guy in the mail truck behind them got out to stretch his legs. He came up to the window and said, "Man, if I'd known you were U.S. Mail, I'd have let you in line easier!" Mr. Loy laughed. "Well, we aren't. We're just trying to get the hell out of here." "I hear you!"

When they pulled up at the house, I was so relieved. We started unloading the car. Then, it hit me: we were unloading everything we owned. That was it. All of our worldly belongings fit into the one car. That was a harsh reality I wasn't entirely prepared to face. Mr. Loy doesn't say much about the trip, other than that "It's way worse than they show on TV."

A new thought occurred to me around this point. We are the new face of homeless. Thanks to FEMA, the Red Cross, my forumers, and my uncle, we were able to buy a lot of clothing. To see us walking down the street, there were no indications that we were homeless. Unless you count the blank stares and the hangdog looks.

I don't think I addressed the blank stares. But, even today, almost three months after Katrina, it happens. If you haven't spoken to one of us, you can't possibly understand the look. It's a far off stare used only when thinking about or talking about what happened to the city or yourself or friends or family. It involves staring stoically into space, focusing on nothing, speaking in a strange, almost monotone voice frought with bewilderment, melancholy, fear, and confusion. I caught myself doing it one day, then noticed that almost everyone I spoke to did the same thing. It's a haunting, ghostly sight to behold. And even now, I see it and catch myself doing it.

On Wednesday, we sat outside the Bayou Vista Wal-Mart in an Allstate tent. We waited for about an hour, then found out that I would get my full coverage on my 1994 Toyota Corolla, because I had comprehensive coverage. However, we only had renter's insurance. Flood insurance was not offered to us. In fact, we thought we couldn't get it as renters. We have discovered, too little too late, though, that flood IS available to renters. Good to keep in mind for whenever we get our own place. However, as we only had renter's insurance, we learned that unless the house collapses on us, will will get nothing. I have never before wished so hard that my house would collapse. Unbelievable.

Thursday, my parents and Geoff went back to rip out the carpeting in my parents' house. I was unable to help because I had class, and I would not have made it back in time. This time, I had a horrible night at school. The teacher said, "No one wants to do special ed anymore, so we aren't going to cover that." She also said, "Schools use technology for the sake of using technology. It doesn't help the students. Instead, it's a crutch." So I raised my hand and talked about the special needs school where I teach, how we allow dyslexic and dysgraphic students to use a personal word processor called an AlphaSmart in order to get their words across. It's a brilliant tool...even for kids who can write well....it hooks up to the computers and transfers data...so there is no waiting in line for the two computers in our classroom. The teacher's reaction? "Well, that's just a Band-Aid approach. That won't help them in the real world." Then she moved on and didn't talk to me again.

Until...

A man in my class, who is a preacher, and a teacher at a public high school down there, brought up that the New Orleans children were not socializing with the other kids. That they were not mingling. He couldn't understand it. He walked up to a group of them and asked if they had all known each other before transferring there. They said no. They had gone to McMain, Archbishop Rummel, O. Perry Walker, Newman, and some other schools. If you know ANYTHING about New Orleans-area schools and neighborhoods, you would know that ordinarily, kids from these schools would NEVER be caught dead talking to each other. He went on for a few more minutes. Other people in the class voiced their assent. I raised my hand and waited patiently. Eventually, the professor called on me.

I addressed that conversation. I said, "Actually, you need to let these kids be alone. Right now, they need each other. Because if Katrina didn't happen to you, then you don't get it. Yes. You all evacuated. Yes, some of you have damage to your homes. But look at where you are and what your damage was. You complained about your uprooted tree. You complained about missing shingles from your roof. Yes. That is inconvenient. Yes, that is an expensive thing to fix. However, these kids have lost their homes. Their posessions. Their transportation. Their schools. Their friends and family, either to our new diaspora or to storm-related deaths. Their parents' jobs. Their way of life. Their sense of security. And none of you get it. Yes, everyone here is this region has been accommodating. Usually warm, friendly, and welcoming. But you all don't get it. You're back at work. Back at school. You maybe lost electricity for a few hours. It may be months before we have electricity again. You have minor damage to your homes, but you're living there. We dont't know when we will be allowed back home. My home near the 17th St. Canal is still flooded to the roof. They've only just finished damming it; now they have to pump it. It is supposed to take months. Be thankful that these kids have each other. Right now, they're all they have. And kids from the schools you listed normally would not socialize with each other. This is amazing that they'er even standing near each other without fighting. Give them time. Right now, they need to be with other people who understand what they're thinking, feeling, and experiencing. Because none of you understand what it's like to have your whole life stolen from you. You think you do, but you aren't even close. Let them be aloof with each other. In time, they will socialize. But right now, they need each other."

I was never called on again.

Geoff went to River Ridge to stay with Calie and her family around this point. I don't totally blame him for wanting to do that. I was suffocating in Morgan City. But I had nowhere to go. I had to stay. I wished he would have stayed. It was someone close to my age I could socialize with. I alienated the people in that one class just by speaking up for the children. But someone had to. I didn't want him to leave. Mark was going to go work in Baton Rouge a few days at a time. I would be all alone. I spent my days with my parents. We made day trips to Houma and Thibodaux to buy clothes and generators and pressure washers and the like. He intended to come back after a week, but that enver happened, because....

...The next week, while I was in class, my mother texted me saying that Jefferson Parish President Aaron Broussard had announced that people could begin returning to the parish according to zip codes that weekend. My parents were elligible for return that weekend. But I was going to stay in Morgan City a little longer.

The day my parents returned to Metairie was very sad. Mark came home for a couple of days after that, but then he went back to Baton Rouge. I was alone in Morgan City with my in-laws. My parents suggested moving in with them the next weekend. I was going to commute the hour to Thibodaux twice a week for school. Then Mark pointed out to me that the JP curfew was 8 p.m. My class ended at 7:30 p.m. I wouldn't get to the parish until 8:30, if I left on time. And I didn't have a JP I.D. I had an Orleans Parish one. I would not be able to enter the Parish. I resigned from Nicholls the next Monday. On Tuesday, we went to Patterson to visit the aunt who raised my father-in-law. She'd had a mild stroke, and we went to visit her. She looked okay, but was very run down. On the way back, they announced on the radio that the JP curfew was being extended to midnight. I dropped out for no reason.

But UNO was going to offer off-campus and online courses. I could enroll in those! The list came out, and only one of my four classes was offered. I would not be able to afford school next semester if I had to pay tuition again next semester, and my father, whose business met the same fate as my home, would not be able to pay for it again. So I made the executive decision to wait until the Spring semester to reenroll. That's very frustrating. It puts me further away from finishing.

That week, Hurricane Rita raged into the Gulf. She appeared to be making a beeline for either Texas or New Orleans. I panicked. I wanted my parents out of Metairie. My dad was convinced that the storm wasn't coming. It didn't, as you know, hit New Orleans. But suddenly, they added Morgan City to the cone of probability. I found out when Geoff texted me, asking me, "Are you wearing a T-shirt that says "I heart hurricanes" or something?" Mark was in Baton Rouge. People IMed me and e-mailed me, texted me and called me, all telling me to evacuate. My in-laws did not think we needed to evacuate. I called Mark in hysterics, begging him to come home. I didn't know where we could go. If I went to Baton Rouge to be with him, then we'd have to stay in the RV he was sleeping in. I didn't want to be there if the storm moved more easternly. I know what happens to mobile homes and campers in storms and tornados. I didn't want to go to Metairie. If the remaining levees were weakened any by Katrina, I was afraid Rita would do them in. I had a major panic attack. I had nowhere to go. I gassed up my mom's car, which my dad had finished cleaning and was now smelling sweet. As the outer bands of Rita blew ashore, I was pumping gas. The wind caught the door and slammed it shut on my arm, leaving a huge bruise. Mark asked his bosses about Rita, and what did they think he should do. They asked if his family was staying in Morgan City, and they told him, "Go be with them."

I forgot to mention my job and why I was moving back to be with my parents. My school opened a high school in a former elementary school in Metairie this year. My school, which was located in Mid-City, miraculously survived the storm. The priest stayed at the Church, taking in elderly parishoners who stayed. They were forced to leave....the parishoners climbed the bell tower to manually ring the church bells, then father celebrated Mass the Saturday after the storm. The National Guard came in and told them they had 15 minutes to get to the nearby bridge, or they would be arrested. Evacuation was mandatory. Father asked them to give him a few minutes to finish Mass and grab a bag. They told him okay. They were airlifted to the airport and wound up on a plane chartered by and containing Al Gore. They flew to Tennessee and were taken to a Catholic church there, where everyone was just wonderful to them. But although the school was not damaged, there was no electricity or running water, and the rest of the neighborhood was inaccessible. So, to get our children back where they belonged, they decided to move the elementary school to the high school in Metairie. It's about 3 miles from my parents house. The Archdiocese of New Orleans was laying off most of the teachers. But with us being a special needs school, as well as the darling of the head of the Catholic schools, plus having such a wonderful administration, they were able to keep all of the 80 percent returning faculty and staff. We were to report to work on Monday the 26th, then would caravan to Mid-City to move everything. We were vacating for a full year, and we would allow a damaged school to use our facility during our absence. I can't believe how lucky I was to end up at this school. Something was actually going my way for once since this whole ordeal began. I would be one of the lucky few to continue receiving my salary and insurance. For the rest of the Archdiocesan teachers, most of them would be let go October 1. I felt guilt and relief at this thought. I mean, I could have found a dinky job on my own to get money, but health insurance? That was not necessarily a given.

However, with Rita looming, was this in the bag? Stay tuned for Part 9: Battling a storm, Round 2.