The Therapy of Destruction

After going back to St. Bernard Parish to salvage what I could, I became restless and frustrated. We got no local news from home, just the stuff about New Orleans, the city of my birth and of my heart. But nothing about "Da Parish", where my parents had lived for over 30 years, and where we had all come to roost to be closer to them. With aunts, uncles and cousins also living there, we were content, having the Filipino tradition of close family ties.

Our first immigrant ancestor on my mother's side of the family, Felipe Madriaga of the Philippines, had lived in and fished the waters of St. Bernard Parish in the mid-1800's. My mother's sister, Joyce, and her family, the Pascuals, had called St. Bernard home since the 1960's, when it was still a small parish known mostly for the good fishing. My generation left home, but eventually, over the years, came back to be closer to our aging parents. My mother's other sisters, Benita and Audrey, had also moved to the parish, and my cousins followed. The Burtanog sisters were happy, surrounded by the people they loved most in the world.But, that's all over now.

I became overwhelmed by a sense of urgency to get home and start over; the total devastation I had witnessed was not acceptable to me on any level. I knew the dangers of mold and toxic exposure, but I couldn't just give up and do nothing. Eddie and I decided to move closer, so that we could get things done.

First, we moved in with his niece, Stephanie, and her family. She had also allowed Ed's other niece, Debbie and her family to put a travel trailer in her yard. They, too, had lost everything in St. Benard Parish. We were now just about 45 miles away from home, instead of the 350 mile ride from Caney Lake. But, with one of the bridges badly damaged, the traffic in and out of the parish was at least a 3 hour ordeal. Eddie couldn't handle the added stress of traffic. So, we packed up our tent, sleeping bags and pillows, and headed for Chalmette, in the parish. We stayed in our back yard, and bought a generator to microwave food. We got bottled water and ice from the National Guard every day, and visited the FEMA tent to check on the status of our claim.

FEMA is the most dysfunctional organization in the country. The people on the ground seem to know nothing about anything, but especially about what FEMA is up to. They could answer no questions. They just kept adding to the list of "items" we needed to submit to them to get help. They were refusing us any additional funds until the SBA made up its mind whether or not to give us a loan. We emphasized that we were living in a tent, but that didn't seem to matter. They were sympathetic, but "their hands were tied".

Visits to the SBA table were equally useless: their hands seemed to be tied by the same red tape that brought FEMA to a standstill. We were in limbo and desperate. We began to dig through my mother's house just to have something useful to do. It was theraputic to me, dismantling the furniture to get to the treasures underneath. I was able to pull a lot of stuff out, but the oil from the spill made it unsafe to save much of it. Still, the water was on so I filled a couple of containers, one with water and soap, the other with water and bleach to rinse, and I cleaned what I could. I tried to focus on the sentimental things that I knew my mother would want. But, when I brought them to her at Caney Lake on a visit back there, she wanted more. It had not occurred to her that anything in that house was salvageable. I had created a monster.

I returned to her home and got as many of her doll collection as I could find. They had lost their value, as the original boxes were a slimy mess, and the dolls and their clothing had to be cleaned. I wasn't doing it! I was able to save a few music CD's; they clean up nice and worked just fine. I did find my deceased brother's rosary, and on subsequent trips, my grandfather's locket and many other family heirlooms. Those were the things that mattered most to me, the memories, the connection to the past, the family ties. My mother was so appreciative.

Then, a friend asked if we could gut his house and remove the debris from it. At first, I didn't think Ed and I could do it alone. But, once we got in there, I realized it was exactly what we needed to be doing. From the first swing of the maul, I began to release all of the pent up anger and frustration I had inside me. I tore up furntiure, tore out cabinets, tore up carpet, tore out walls. Eddie would ask me if I needed a break; I'd say, "No, this is therapy!" I had never realized how satisfying it could be to smash things to pieces!

Meanwhile, back at the Packenham Mobile Home Park, nothing was happening fast. I went to our parish president, Junior Rodriguez (yeah, important people can be called "Junior" and "Manny" and "Joey", just like their mamas called them, down here in Da Parish). Junior, controversial, opinionated and prone to use expletives in conversation, is a man whose home was always open and phone number always available to the citizens he serves. When I told him I was worried I wouldn't get a FEMA travel trailer on my lot because 1) my old trailer hadn't been removed and 2) the land owner had posted eviction notices on every trailer. He assured me by telling me that 1) the parish would pull the trailer out and 2) the park owners had to do that as a technicality in order to allow the demolition of the damaged mobile homes. Further, he told me that the parish had a contract with FEMA to put full sized trailers in the trailer parks instead of the 30 ft. travel trailers. I left feeling a little better, but had long ago taken on the "believe it when I see it" attitude.

It's now February 15, five and a half months after hurricane Katrina blew through here, and I'm sitting in a travel trailer in an old supermarket parking lot not knowing when my trailer will come or when I'll be forcibly removed from here. This particular trailer was temporary housing for my nephew, Josh, so that he could be close to work. Josh, my brother in law Clayton, and my brothers Mickey and Todd have since moved on to work in St. Rose, La. Josh left me the key so that I could have better shelter than a tent for winter. The key came just in time, as the wrecking crews came to our street a week later. Within that week, someone broke into our shed and stole tools, personal items and a drawing I did of myself, wearing only a hat, as a gift to Eddie. Somewhere in this parish some jackass looter is using my naked image for who knows what. Hmmm....anyone seen a drawing titled "You Can Keep Your Hat On, Baby" on the internet?

The wrecking crew did just that: it demo'd the trailers and tore up our garden; they cut down the magnificent bamboo stand we had, as well as our porch and fence. There's nothing left but the 50ft. defoliated Magnolia tree that Eddie had carved my name in a couple of years ago. It's a sad sight, especially with the large puddle of mud left by rain and the hole dug by the back hoe.

Speaking of Jack, I'm pissed at him, too. I didn't see his face or hear his voice before, during or immediately after the storm. Where was he? Most of his deputies, to whom I am grateful, stayed behind and rescued many people. Yet, the stories I hear from the rescued are that some of those deputies were looting, were abusive, and were having target practice on the poor animals that were left behind. A friend said that he and his girlfriend declined to be rescued because they were dry, had food, water and a generator, and didn't want to leave their dog. The deputy shot the dog, confiscated his guns, and told him to leave "voluntarily" or he'd take them by force.

If that were the only story I'd heard, I could shake it off as one traumatized, tired, angry officer of the law. But the stories persist, from young and old, of mistreatment from the Sheriff's department. On the other hand, I've heard glowing reports of the kindness of the firefighters and ordinary citizens who rescued so many. They didn't let the trauma, the danger or the fatigue turn them into animals.

I've been trying to get this temporary trailer out of my niece's name and into mine so that I won't be pulled out of here in a suprise midnight raid of FEMA parks (yeah, they do that. God Bless America). But, nobody on the FEMA helpline or at the FEMA tent knows how to do that. They'll get back to me. It's been three weeks.

"YES, I HAVE FAMILY IN TEXAS, BUT THEIR HOUSES ARE FULL OF FAMILY MEMBERS WHO EVACUATED THERE. AND I DON'T WANT TO GO TO TEXAS! Y'ALL KEEP TRYING TO TAKE US OUT OF OUR PARISH AND SEND US TO TEXAS! THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT IS KIDNAPPING ITS CITIZENS AND SHIPPING THEM TO PLACES THEY DON'T WANT TO BE! I WANT TO BE HERE, TO BE USEFUL, TO BRING MY COMMUNITY BACK. THE PARISH GOVERNMENT TELLS US 'COME BACK!' AND THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT TELLS US 'STAY OUT' AND THAT'S NOT ACCEPTABLE! DON'T TELL ME I CAN FIND HOUSING IN TEXAS!"

So, that's the state I'm in. I haven't had a chance to grieve our losses: I'm too pissed to grieve. Oh, wait...I guess I am grieving. Let's see...first comes denial (shock), and then comes the anger, right? Well, I think this phase of the grieving process will last awhile, so the acceptance part will have to wait. I need another house to gut. Give me a call. ~ Rhonda