Has New Orleans Deserted Its Locals? One Woman Says, Maybe.

This time two weeks ago, I was at my wit’s end. This time two weeks ago, I felt abandoned, miserable and angry. This time two weeks ago, I was on my seventh day without power in New Orleans, thanks to the gift that kept on giving, otherwise known as Hurricane Isaac.My parents and I weren’t supposed to remain in the city, but as luck (and the lackadaisical attitude that can either make us New Orleanians seem incredibly endearing or incredibly infuriating) would have it, we opted to stay. During Hurricane Katrina, parts of our 7th Ward neighborhood was one of the few that didn’t flood and since the weather forecasters only billed Isaac as a Category 1 storm, we figured the odds were in our favor.Growing up in New Orleans, hurricane season was simply a part of life, much like people in New York expect snow every winter. The storms were tangible enough to know how they formed and traveled, yet abstract enough to not fear. Of course everything changed in August 2005 when Hurricane Katrina wreaked havoc on my childhood memories, destroying the places that shaped me into who I am today, such as the elementary school in the Lower 9th Ward where I met one of my best friends over 20 years ago, and the eastern New Orleans mall where we would shop for clothes (and boys!) as teens. Katrina devastated the city in a way that no one could have predicted, making it the most destructive storm to hit New Orleans in my lifetime. The irony was not lost that Isaac was due for a visit on the seventh anniversary of the storm.On August 28 around 6 p.m., the first hints of what lay ahead materialized when the power in the house I share with my family went out. Just as I was about to light a candle, our lights came back on, giving us the false impression that we had somehow dodged the proverbial bullet. Then around 10:30 p.m., our neighborhood went dark for good. With a flashlight, candles, a transistor radio and a smartphone that somehow managed to keep a good internet connection, I felt decidedly prepared and relaxed. Besides, there was a certain romanticism involved with doing everything by candlelight.The violent winds that thrashed the trees outside my door provided a breeze so soothing that I was fast asleep in no time. I woke up the next morning expecting to find tons of debris from the surrounding trees in my yard, but aside from scattered leaves and a detached piece of siding torn from the front of our house, I didn’t find much property damage. Still, a quick jog in the rain to the corner revealed that the dilapidated house recently purchased by MSNBC’s Melissa Harris-Perry, which she revealed on her show, had collapsed into the street. Thankfully, no injuries were reported, but I’m sure the owners of the two cars trapped beneath the rubble didn’t feel so lucky. When neighborhood residents parked alongside the house because it was on higher ground, as they had likely done many times before, I doubt they thought it’d be the house itself, and not rising flood waters, that would destroy their vehicles.Busying myself with journaling and catching up on my reading, I hunkered down, preparing to face being without power for at least another two days. If someone had told me that those two days would turn into one week, I wouldn’t have believed him. One of the messages that kept being repeated by everyone ranging from Mayor Mitch Landrieu to Charles Rice, president and CEO of the city’s lone power company Entergy New Orleans, since the city had gone dark was how prepared the city of New Orleans was and that power would be restored as soon as Isaac passed. So we waited.Waited until the storm’s winds died down, leaving behind unbearable heat and a swarm of mosquitos in its wake that seemed to only grow more intense at nightfall. Waited as the around-the-clock radio coverage told us about outlying towns being evacuated amidst rising floodwaters. Waited as we heard about gas stations running out of gas and people fighting over bags of ice. Waited as reports of arriving repair trucks flooded the airwaves.As New Orleanians tend to do, we made the best of those first few days. We joked while grilling the chicken we had to cook before it spoiled, then sat around and commiserated about this minor inconvenience over glasses of wine. Around day four, things started to get real. I woke up in tears that morning, exhausted and frustrated after a fitful and sweaty night’s sleep during which the temperatures hovered in the mid-90s. I spent the morning tossing out the food that had spoiled in my powerless refrigerator. It got to the point that I sought refuge in my car in order to cool off and recharge my phone; a good idea until I woke up the next morning and realized I’d drained my car’s battery. We contemplated getting a hotel room to get relief from the sweltering heat, too bad for us everyone else had that idea also, making any available hotel room a hot commodity. There wasn’t a single room in the city open, save for a few pricey options near the French Quarter. And with my money going to gas for the car and ice for our food, $200 a night wasn’t an option for us. Still, as Facebook friends and family started dotting my newsfeed with notes that their power had been restored, we felt hopeful that this would be over soon.Entergy New Orleans, directed customers to a map on their website that showed which neighborhoods were without power and could allegedly provide an estimate of when it’d be restored. My phone once again came in handy, allowing me to check the website to see that my neighborhood had been reduced to a bunch of jagged red lines, indicating that our power was still out.My roll-with-the-punches attitude was gone, quickly replaced with frustration at the lack of progress and communication. The heavy coverage we had been able to receive on the radio had been replaced by its regularly scheduled programming. Trust me, nothing will piss you off more than having to hear a Lil’ Wayne song while searching for updated news. Whenever we were lucky enough to find some information on the radio, it was mostly centered on Southern Decadence, the Big Easy’s version of Pride Weekend. Tons of tourists were rolling into the city, likely not even realizing the situation at hand and, on the surface, everything was business as usual. The city’s prime attraction, the French Quarter, had been cleaned and powered up as if Isaac had never happened. Suddenly I felt marooned inside my own house.Everyone on our block passed the time on our respective porches in an effort to beat the heat. We exchanged gossip about repair truck sightings nearby and which neighborhoods had gotten power already. We talked more with our neighbors in those few days than we ever had in the entire three years I’ve lived in this house. Venturing to the supermarket to purchase more ice produced the same results, as total strangers struck up conversation, all in an effort to find out the updates that the city and Entergy seemed unequipped to provide.How could a city that brings so much joy to visitors prove itself so inept at taking care of its own residents, we wondered? How could 60% of the city still be without power, yet the only information being fed to us was how successful Southern Decadence was?I normally take pride in the Crescent City’s ability to persevere through disaster and still find reasons to celebrate. Even in the wake of the devastating blow dealt by Katrina, New Orleans was still able to dust itself off and triumphantly stage a Mardi Gras celebration a mere six months later. I can still recall how proud I was at my city’s refusal to stop finding the joy in life, even when many wondered what on earth we still had to smile about.But this was something different. Mardi Gras 2006 was like a purging for the city, a reminder of the resilience of culture and a strong middle finger up to that thing that threatened to destroy us. Anyone who’s ever been can tell you how it consumes the city, taking hold of everyone in its path. While I’m sure that Southern Decadence provided the same outlet for those in attendance, its a small concentrated event that took place within days, not months later. Each evening the celebration kicked off for them, brought with it the stark realization that we’d be sweating it out yet another night. The blocks before and after mine had been restored, yet ours still remained in the dark.Day seven started out just as the past few days had, with me drenched in sweat and miserable. It was the first day my job was re-opening so I welcomed the cool respite of my office. My mom called with news that a repair truck had finally appeared on our block, but it was small comfort considering she followed up with news that she was bringing my diabetic and wheelchair-bound father to the emergency room because he seemed disoriented and heat exhausted. When the repair men began working on a transformer only one house away from mine, it seemed improbable that the source of the problem had been right there all along. As one of the few remaining blocks still without power, I had convinced myself that the repairs needed must have been extensive. According to my mom, the repair man scaled the pole and within five minutes, power was restored. Talk about an anticlimactic ending.Seven days without power culminated in the few short minutes it took for the repairman to climb a damn pole. We didn’t know if we should’ve been grateful or even more annoyed that it took so long to correct what appeared to be a simple issue. Did this mean that we could’ve had power sooner, saving my father a night in the hospital? Relieved and assured that he’d be OK, we returned home and did that one sexy, luxurious thing we’d been dreaming about doing for a week一turning on the air conditioning. And as for that neighborly bond we had formed with those on our block? That fell by the wayside faster than the sweat drying on our brows. It’s amazing how quickly things returned to normal. At the time, it seemed as if this ordeal was never ending; now it just seems like a hazy memory that’s gotten blurry around the edges. And perhaps that’s for the best.The one thing that hasn’t gone hazy yet is the sense of disappointment that descended upon during those literal days of darkness. For the first time in my life, I feel a sense of disenchantment with the city of New Orleans. Always a magical place to me, this is the first time I haven’t felt enraptured with its spell. The city whose pull was so hard that it prompted me to pack up and move back after being away for 13 years suddenly doesn’t seem to love its residents the same. At a time when I felt that the top priority should have been the well-being of its residents, emphasis instead was placed on making sure that the surface seemed nice and shiny for its visitors. I’m not ready to give up my love affair with New Orleans, just as I hope that she hasn’t given up on me. But for those seven days, it definitely felt like she had.