Dear New Orleans,
A year has passed since most of the nation watched you suffering under the weight of Hurricane Katrina, but back then I was blissfully unaware of how serious the situation was.
I saw Sean Penn trying to rescue residents in a leaky boat and I understood that there was some sort of hoopla about Michael Brown, then-head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, doing a bad job. But for the most part I felt too busy with school and work and whatever else I was doing, to pay attention.
What a fool I was, New Orleans. It's only now that I begin to realize how totally devastating the event has been for you, and only now that I really feel a longing for the city I knew as a child, when I spent summers there with my mother. It's now that I feel a real concern that the city I know may not exist anymore - or ever again.
What a shock it has been for me to find out that half of your residents still haven't returned. I remember the first time my mother and I experienced a hurricane, and how no one else in the city even seemed concerned.
It was our first summer there, and when we saw the weather forecasts, we went to the grocery store to stock up on nonperishable foods and candles. When we got home we locked the heavy shutters that covered our doors and windows.
We couldn't understand why no one else seemed the least bit concerned about our impending doom. Bourbon Street kept right on partying and the French Market vendors kept right on selling. And when the rain passed, we felt pretty silly about overreacting.
When I imagine the events of Katrina, I think this is initially how it must have been: everyone going on about their merry way, believing that New Orleans would withstand anything a hurricane could dish out, because it always had before.
I imagine that people kept partying, vendors kept selling and residents walked their dogs or played with their kids in Jackson Square. Until suddenly, more than 700 people were dead, and the city was as bewildered as my mother and I were all those years ago.
I had a friend in New Orleans named Nell. As little girls we loved the Beach Boys, strawberry parfaits and Super Mario.
We played together while my mother worked for her father, a documentary filmmaker named Stevenson Palfi. The day I realized that New Orleans would be forever changed is the day I read in The New York Times that Palfi had committed suicide.
He chose to die rather than face his flooded and destroyed office; the tiny room in which he had piled years and years of paper research.
I don't know where Nell is now, but I hope that as she grew up, she came to embody the strength of spirit that you, New Orleans, have always had in abundance. I hope you both grow and heal, and I promise to pay attention next time.
Love always,
Hanna
Hanna Ricketson is an English literature and political science senior who misses Cafe Du Monde. You can reach her at Hanna.Ricketson@asu.edu.
