A little less than six years ago, I returned to my "place of residence" only to discover it had been flooded with about 8 inches of water. In the grand scheme of things, this wasn't much. I recognize(d) that. While I lost countless material possessions (and certainly a good number of sentimental possessions) I did not lose a house and 20/30/40+ years of memories. And I've always been grateful for that.
While collecting from my apartment what I could of my non-ruined things, I also collected the non-ruined things of my roommate at the time. Her name was Katie. She's from Colorado. She had come to New Orleans to live with her sister, and then when her sister moved away, she had stayed. She had connected with a part of New Orleans that left her unready to leave just yet. Our situations kept both of us there. Our jobs, our relationships, our interests. So we stayed. And then a storm came, and told us to go. Katie evacuated with me to Texas, to my parents' house. And that first day my parents left $100 for each of us out on the kitchen table, so we could enjoy ourselves in that foreign city, while our humble abode was subtlety filled with a yet unknown amount of water. We went to the mall. We went bowling. We ate Mexican food and asked for "to-go" cups for our margaritas--only to remember that's not allowed in most states (God bless Louisiana liquor laws). We momentarily ignored reality so as to avoid what all that entailed: starting over, practically from scratch.
Katie never returned to New Orleans. She drove her car straight up from Houston to her hometown of Greeley, Colorado. Which is why I mention that I collected her things. She wasn't there to do so herself. So whatever wasn't wet I stuffed into my mother's minivan. That ruled out most furniture, and anything on a bottom shelf, but left a variety of hanging clothes, shelved shoes, and anything that wasn't yet overcome by multiple feet of mold (arguably, not much). I boxed it, but Katie wasn't even home to receive the box. She was already living and working in Steamboat Springs. And she never expected much to be salvaged anyway, but I sent her the biggest box that I could. Anything and everything I could rescue of hers. Her sister opened the box and gave her a run down over the phone. Thanks to her low expectations, my box displayed like Christmas morning. And my box included a burned CD (this was 2005, people).
If you're unfamiliar, let me introduce you to Marc Broussard. He's from Louisiana, from the city of Carencro, outside of Lafayette. He has a decent following, but I guess isn't a superstar. But the album I burned, appropriately titled "Carencro" has a song, also appropriately titled, called "Home".
Fast forward, to any number of years after Katrina, and you will find me spending at least a long weekend in Colorado, visiting Katie (and another friend of ours, Brandee). It's a state I've been visiting since I was 5, but once my family graduated from their yearly ski trips, I took it upon myself to return, not only for that much needed ski trip, but to visit the amazing people I had since met.
Back to Marc Broussard. During one of my Colorado visits, I found myself in the extended cab of a pickup truck, with Katie, her boyfriend (now fiance), and a number of fabulous people who had joined in our "Sportcoat Sunday" event at Quincy's (they serve cheap/delicious drinks and cheap/delicious steak, you should go). Katie was driving because somehow she'd avoided getting as hammered on doubles as the rest of us. I guess that also granted her access to the cd player. And Marc Broussard's "Home" came on. And somehow, to my complete bewilderment, everybody knew the words. I was in fucking Colorado, a thousand miles from home, with my pre-Katrina roommate and a bunch of her friends, on an icy Sunday night, driving a snowy Colorado back road, tummy full of meat and vodka, and random people were singing along to a song by a beloved (by me) Louisiana artist? WTF?
I cannot even describe to you the chills I experienced.
To this day the song still gives me chills. Not necessarily because of that experience, but more a combination of that, the fact that it's a pretty great song, and that the concept of "home" (not to over-pun) really hits home with me now. Chicago is not where I'm from. I can't even say it's where I belong. But it's where I am now, and I plan to make the most of it. I identify more with Louisiana than I really ever have before. Most of my life I was just "there", I didn't have to "belong". But now that I'm removed, I realize there's too many precious things about it for me to let go of. Sure I hate the heat, and I can't say the job market or politics are really winning any bonus points with me. But the people. And the food. OMG THE FOOD. And the people. Plenty of Americans identify with their ancestors in the form of a (singular) foreign country, but the Louisiana I know is such a melting pot that that would be impossible. My technical breakdown would be English-Irish-French-Cajun-Spanish-Italian-American. Try saying that five times fast. I don't even know what it means to be any one of those things.
But I know exactly what it means to be all of those things. I know what it means to be me. And I know what the chills feel like. And I hope they never go away.
