Crescent City in crisis
The beautiful city of New Orleans became a city in crisis after being devastated by powerful category 5 Hurricane Katrina on Monday, August 29.
In the aftermath of the storm, dead and decaying bodies were left lying in city streets. Displaced, disoriented, and despairing locals remained without food and water. By week’s end, according to news reports, conditions in the metropolitan area were worsening. Water poured through a deteriorated section of the levee system which ordinarily protects the low-lying city from encroachment by the waters of Lake Pontchartrain.
Just as it seemed the worst of this natural disaster had passed, a man-made disaster erupted. New Orleans suddenly descended into anarchy. Armed gangs roamed neighborhoods. Robberies, rapes, even sniper attacks were reported. Stores and homes were looted, with some reports of police and firemen joining in the illegal activity. A forklift was commandeered, and used to break into a pharmacy. Neglected sick and elderly people were seen dying in the streets. As I watched the live reporting on CNN, my home town, “The Big Easy” seemed barely recognizable.
As a kid growing up in New Orleans, I developed mixed feelings concerning hurricanes. Although I realized they represented a danger, a part of me tended to view them as a colorful and exciting part of the local culture. Like Mardi Gras, summer outings to Ponchatrain Beach, and Christmas Day, the annual parade of hurricanes through the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico sometimes introduced a welcome change from the humdrum of our daily routines.
With each new hurricane season, my family would inevitably find itself gathered in front of the TV to hear our trusted local weatherman Nash Roberts, give us the up-to-the-minute coordinates on the latest tropical disturbances threatening the Gulf Coast. We sometimes plotted their paths on hurricane watch maps provided by public service organizations.
For me and my family, living in a suburb of New Orleans, most of these storms never amounted to much. They would occasionally make landfall somewhere along the Gulf Coast far from New Orleans, or forge a path through the waters of the Atlantic to threaten our neighbors on the East Coast. New Orleans would occasionally be lashed by high winds, while excess rains produced minor street flooding.
As kids, my friends, siblings, and I generally considered a hurricane threat as potential for fun and adventure. Following heavy downpours we would often enjoy wading, or riding bikes through friendly neighborhood streams, while the City’s pumps struggled to remove the water from our sunken paradise. School closings occasionally provided an unexpected bonus.
New Orleans suffered significant damage and loss of life in 1965 when Betsy, a category 2 hurricane, came ashore. Trees were toppled. Branches and debris littered our streets. We were without power for several days. School was suspended.
A very severe category 3 Hurricane Camille came ashore in 1969. We were again left without electricity for many days. My brothers and I were soon recruited by neighbors to help polish off gallons of melting ice cream that had been stored in neighborhood freezers. What kid could ask for more?
Weathermen and commentators always made a point of emphasizing the dangerous aspects of hurricanes, and encouraged local communities to remain vigilant. Nevertheless, the tragic stories of deaths, demolished homes, and displaced families, which inevitably followed these storms, seemed remote from our idyllic world.
Watching the latest chaos unfolding in my home town, my emotions were torn. Although members of my immediate family wisely evacuated to safety, the condition of their homes remains uncertain. Moreover, it is unknown how long it will take to secure the levee system sufficiently to allow the city’s pumps to restore the area to dry land, and the city’s residents to return home.
A number of aspects of this tragedy scream for psychological analysis: the apparent risks taken by those who defied the mandatory evacuation order, the sudden rise of antisocial acts in the aftermath of the storm, the desperation of those battling one another for space on crowded busses evacuating the thousands of homeless refugees, the apparent lack of adequate preparedness by local officials, the neglect of flood prevention projects by Federal officials.
Because this tragedy has hit so close to home, rather than provide a detached psychological perspective, I will use this space to express my heartfelt sadness and condolences to my family, friends, and neighbors, the people of New Orleans and surrounding areas, and all those affected by the storm.
This is our “tsunami.” Our people have lost loved ones. Our homes are destroyed. The extent of our loss is still being realized. Our beautiful, historic city has suffered irreparable damage. Although we will, no doubt, recover from this tragedy, our city will never be the same. We will never be the same.
In the aftermath of the storm, dead and decaying bodies were left lying in city streets. Displaced, disoriented, and despairing locals remained without food and water. By week’s end, according to news reports, conditions in the metropolitan area were worsening. Water poured through a deteriorated section of the levee system which ordinarily protects the low-lying city from encroachment by the waters of Lake Pontchartrain.
Just as it seemed the worst of this natural disaster had passed, a man-made disaster erupted. New Orleans suddenly descended into anarchy. Armed gangs roamed neighborhoods. Robberies, rapes, even sniper attacks were reported. Stores and homes were looted, with some reports of police and firemen joining in the illegal activity. A forklift was commandeered, and used to break into a pharmacy. Neglected sick and elderly people were seen dying in the streets. As I watched the live reporting on CNN, my home town, “The Big Easy” seemed barely recognizable.
As a kid growing up in New Orleans, I developed mixed feelings concerning hurricanes. Although I realized they represented a danger, a part of me tended to view them as a colorful and exciting part of the local culture. Like Mardi Gras, summer outings to Ponchatrain Beach, and Christmas Day, the annual parade of hurricanes through the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico sometimes introduced a welcome change from the humdrum of our daily routines.
With each new hurricane season, my family would inevitably find itself gathered in front of the TV to hear our trusted local weatherman Nash Roberts, give us the up-to-the-minute coordinates on the latest tropical disturbances threatening the Gulf Coast. We sometimes plotted their paths on hurricane watch maps provided by public service organizations.
For me and my family, living in a suburb of New Orleans, most of these storms never amounted to much. They would occasionally make landfall somewhere along the Gulf Coast far from New Orleans, or forge a path through the waters of the Atlantic to threaten our neighbors on the East Coast. New Orleans would occasionally be lashed by high winds, while excess rains produced minor street flooding.
As kids, my friends, siblings, and I generally considered a hurricane threat as potential for fun and adventure. Following heavy downpours we would often enjoy wading, or riding bikes through friendly neighborhood streams, while the City’s pumps struggled to remove the water from our sunken paradise. School closings occasionally provided an unexpected bonus.
New Orleans suffered significant damage and loss of life in 1965 when Betsy, a category 2 hurricane, came ashore. Trees were toppled. Branches and debris littered our streets. We were without power for several days. School was suspended.
A very severe category 3 Hurricane Camille came ashore in 1969. We were again left without electricity for many days. My brothers and I were soon recruited by neighbors to help polish off gallons of melting ice cream that had been stored in neighborhood freezers. What kid could ask for more?
Weathermen and commentators always made a point of emphasizing the dangerous aspects of hurricanes, and encouraged local communities to remain vigilant. Nevertheless, the tragic stories of deaths, demolished homes, and displaced families, which inevitably followed these storms, seemed remote from our idyllic world.
Watching the latest chaos unfolding in my home town, my emotions were torn. Although members of my immediate family wisely evacuated to safety, the condition of their homes remains uncertain. Moreover, it is unknown how long it will take to secure the levee system sufficiently to allow the city’s pumps to restore the area to dry land, and the city’s residents to return home.
A number of aspects of this tragedy scream for psychological analysis: the apparent risks taken by those who defied the mandatory evacuation order, the sudden rise of antisocial acts in the aftermath of the storm, the desperation of those battling one another for space on crowded busses evacuating the thousands of homeless refugees, the apparent lack of adequate preparedness by local officials, the neglect of flood prevention projects by Federal officials.
Because this tragedy has hit so close to home, rather than provide a detached psychological perspective, I will use this space to express my heartfelt sadness and condolences to my family, friends, and neighbors, the people of New Orleans and surrounding areas, and all those affected by the storm.
This is our “tsunami.” Our people have lost loved ones. Our homes are destroyed. The extent of our loss is still being realized. Our beautiful, historic city has suffered irreparable damage. Although we will, no doubt, recover from this tragedy, our city will never be the same. We will never be the same.
posted by Michael | Monday, September 05, 2005
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