Originally posted Saturday, August 30, 2008 on the old blog.
I have left the comment below intact, but I did edit a few things in this post (the existence of a certain long-haired Chihuahua).
If anyone tries to convince me to evacuate New Orleans at any time, please read "It Is Not My Fault I Do Not Evacuate and This Makes YOU Worry" formerly titled Serenity (my post on the old blog from 09/03/08).
Besides the fact that I have never wanted to evacuate and have always been forced to by a certain extremely lame ex-boyfriend of mine, I have a real motive for deciding to ride Gustav out.My motivation seems to stem from my distrust towards the media.
I remember sitting on a futon in Austin and watching the news and seeing all the houses with the water up to the roofs and some news lady saying, "80% of New Orleans is under water."
I, like everyone else, grew an umbilical cord that connected directly to my laptop and tried to find out how much water my neighborhood had, where my friends were, and if there were actually sharks swimming in the French Quarter.
In a bar bathroom in Austin, I kicked the shit out of a door because some guy from New Orleans had been crying to me, insisting that my apartment in Mid City had flooded because the Ford Dealership had. The 4600 block of Orleans Avenue did get flooded.
I remember a lady in the Schlotzky's who wouldn't shut up about how I had to come to terms with the fact that I would never return to New Orleans or my apartment again. This was while I was checking my email.
80% of the city. An image of water to the rooftops.
My boyfriend drunk and screaming at me that we could never go back.
I remember telling a good friend of mine that I flat out did not believe her that we would not ever be allowed to come back here. I was drunk, very drunk, and crying that Corey Henry would play the trombone in the French Quarter someday and we would be there.
It wasn't that I knew something other people didn't or was more practical or had more information than anyone else.
I did not trust the national news and refused to waste the energy mourning when I wasn't sure.
I was taking a shower outside on the bayou in Arnaudville when Jarret Lofstead called to tell us that he'd kicked in our backdoor and there was no water in our Mid-City apartment.
He had a press pass.
Right now, I don't care whether it will be hot and sticky; I have a generator and can eat cold beans out of a can. I don't care if holing up in C's apartment will be boring, or if I'll end up on some highway bridge waiting for help. As long as I can keep myself and my cat Lupe safe, I don't care what I see or how hot I feel or how crazy it makes me.
I would rather stay in the sweat and stink and terror of New Orleans than sit on some nice dry couch wondering if what I'm seeing on the television is true. And I have an ethical obligation to do my part.
So I am taking this opportunity to use my tools as a journalist to record whatever I can about New Orleans as Hurricane Gustav ravages the coast. I promise only to include information I have experienced first hand. At least I'll know what I'm seeing is true.
I also took swimming lessons for twelve years and earned my Girl Scout Silver Award.
