I was born in the wake of a hurricane.
Right, that’s mildly dramatic, but in the few months before my birth in October, Hurricane Andrew tore its way through the Gulf Coast and over my future home. My parents weathered its winds and rain in my grandparents’ neighboring house, as they would continue to do for years to come. They huddled down and hoped for the best.
Staying for a hurricane is a cringe-worthy thought for most people. They are these slow, churning monstrosities. And unlike an earthquake or tornado, you can outrun them. Growing up on a farm made leaving difficult though, since it would mean abandoning the animals to the storm, too. So we stayed: we always stayed. We battened down and boarded up while the evacuations routes overflowed with cars. We watched as massive, swirling clouds crept out from Gulf, swallowing the sky in a blanket of gray and black for days on end.
To date, I have been witness to more than two dozen hurricanes and tropical storms, including five major storms. I’ve been there. I was there in the dark, hot summer nights after Katrina and Rita when the power didn’t return for a month. I was there, listening to a battery-powered radio in my grandmother’s living room as Garland Robinette received call after call from the 9th Ward, because people couldn’t get through to 911 anymore and the water was rising. I was there when Gustav’s eye-wall passed over my town, dropping tornadoes that mangled power lines, old trees and my roof besides that. I was there when Ivan redirected onto Texas, and laid outside all day while it passed over, nothing but spinning yellow clouds and breezy weather.
“We are storm people. We stay and move forward,” my grandfather told me.
It was after Gustav, and we were observing the storm’s destruction from his porch. It stuck with me: hurricanes and floods were just part and parcel for Louisiana. We never left, merely adapted. My family has lived in this parish for almost 200 years, and they had survived everything so far, as they will no doubt continue to do for years to come.
It’s much the same for New Orleans. The past 10 years since Katrina and Rita have made the city and its people stronger. Still, 10 more years may pass before people out of state stop asking me if the city is “still flooded.” I may never stop getting asked why we stay in the path of monster storms. I may never hear the end of claims that South Louisiana needs to be flooded, since it’s below sea level and the people living there are too stupid to move otherwise. These statements leave me less angry with age, because you don’t know. You’ve never seen the beauty and culture and uniqueness of South Louisiana. This strange corner of earth at the mouth of the Mississippi. This place full of music, food and the occasional bout of Cajun. You don’t know, just as I may never know what it is to survive a major tornado or a massive earthquake, and that is perfectly OK. You still don’t know. You cannot speak for those who stay.
Baton Rouge was just slammed with some of the worst flooding in state history, leaving multiple people dead and thousands more with little left of their homes. I have good friends who live in the city, and watched eagerly as my social media filled with people who offered boats and money and shelter in the wake of this disaster. People who opened homes and rescued pets. I watched the people who stayed and extended a hand, in true fashion of Louisiana. Because that is the heart of my state. This isn’t about changing your Facebook picture, or which administration did more for us, or if Donald Trump makes enough noise to overtake the media coverage. Seriously, who cares?
We are storm people. We are more than all the flooded streets. We are more than a government photo-op for goodwill. We are more than Southern stereotypes for the rest of US to cast aside. No matter the weather, no matter how big the storm, we still take down our boards when the rains have passed, clear the rubble from our yards and keep on as usual.
