On Being an Exile

At some level, all of us New Orleanians are coping with tangled and complicated feelings of exile. This is true whether or not a person has been, like me, away for a number of years pre-Katrina more or less voluntarily, or forced out of the city for however long because of the Storm, or home as always never-left. We are all exiles because our city is not as it was, and -- as much as I want to be in denial about this and resent hearing it -- for good and ill, New Orleans will never be exactly as she was before Katrina.

We are all in exile, banished in a sense, kept away from a place that we loved and cherished, or loved and took for granted, or loved and hated in almost equal measure. Just like exiles anywhere else, we love the place we're in exile from with a passion that is made greater and deeper by our forced absence from it. Exiles in general do not have a clear perspective or an objective point of view. We wax nostalgic -- ironically missing things we didn't even like before we became exiles. Our memories become suffused with a rosy glow; we ache and long for small trivial things that will never be the same again, even if it can "proven" that some of those things, at least, are better now than they were before.

We New Orleans exiles-in-place navigate our way through a "ghost city" -- here is where this used to be, there is the place (underneath that rubble or in that empty lot) where this important event took place, over yonder is where we used to buy this or that, or have this service done, this is where we ate the most delicious whatevers, here there used to be giant oak trees or magnolia trees or cypress trees in this now-sunny spot. (Big Man and I got sunburned on a recent stroll around the Loop at Audubon Park, because I forgot we had lost so many shade trees.) It was pointed out to me recently that every major city in the U.S. is the same way, with long-lost landmarks still appearing in the consciousness and the emotions of long-time residents, but with New Orleans, we are not talking about gradual development and the natural occurrences of the passing of long periods of time. New Orleans as we knew it was taken from us in an instant, and neighborhoods and landmarks were wiped out wholesale, all at once, never to return. This is much harder on the psyche and the spirit. It is sometimes very hard to bear.

I read recently a review of "Tastes Like Cuba: An Exile's Hunger for Home," a book by Eduardo Machado, a playwright and Cuban-American. (The title alone speaks to us New Orleanians, hungering for a home that is forever lost to us in its old entirety.) Machado, visiting Cuba for the first time since coming to the U.S., was eager to sample his favorite Cuban dishes, to see if the food of Cuba itself was as good as the cultural favorites he had savored as a boy in Miami. He writes:

"And then it hit me. I didn't care. I didn't want to compare them...I no longer wanted to be the kind of Cuban that let what was lost get in the way of the beauty and the joy and life and food that was staring me in the face."

Oh, how that speaks to me! I do not want to be that kind of New Orleanian. I don't want to be or become bitter and sad, always mourning and grieving what was lost; always complaining that Jazz Fest used to be smaller, Mardi Gras used to be better, City Park used to be prettier, this or that used to taste stronger or sharper or that crabs used to be bigger or that St. Joseph's altars used to be larger or...

It is true that we have lost a lot, A LOT. It is true that it still hurts, 2 1/2 years later, and it will most likely hurt for years to come. It is true that we are in exile, and there is no way home to what was before. For some people, this cause for despair and depression. Some folks, they cannot reconcile themselves to what was lost and can never be regained.

I don't want to be that kind of New Orleanian. I will not forget what was, but I will take joy and pleasure in our dear old belle NOLA. This is still a beautiful city. We still have our wonderful architecture. We still have beautiful old giant trees (and we are replanting all the time, our gift to the New Orleanians of the future). We still have delicious food, the best indigenous food anywhere in the country. We still have our traditions and holidays and customs, and we still observe them fastidiously and joyously. We still have our music, and people of all ages still dance unselfconsciously in public, dignity be damned, shaking our booties and we don't care who sees. (God bless those folks at the Wednesday at Lafayette Square concert last night, so obliviously shakin' it to Ivan Neville and Dumpstafunk! Gotta love these people.)

I promise to remember that, whatever we lost, a half-destroyed New Orleans is still a much better place to live and love and enjoy than anywhere else in America.