I have at least 9 members of my family missing in New Orleans. I don’t know if they are dead or getting drunk in some roadhouse in Ruston, LA. They are happy, joyous people who see a hurricane as an opportunity to overeat, like, say, Tuesday is an opportunity to overeat. And everyday is always an excuse to drink way too much. They are not alcoholics, just because they are from Nola. At least they don’t believe they are, and neither do I. They know that life is short, and therefore, we might as well drink to Brevity, because Brevity is what kills you. Not Hurricanes. The point is, not one member of the family who can be accounted for can contact them. The missing either don’t have cell phones, or, if they do, we can’t get through. They are not Internet savvy. The Internet is for busy people, not people of leisure, who are busy enjoying life. This is my family. The normal rules that apply to most Americans do not apply to my Nola relatives. This is one reason those of us who don’t live in Nola can’t find them. Oddly, we are not panicked. We understand. Shit happens.
They may be dead. I can’t tell you. What I can tell is that if they didn’t leave Nola before Katrina, it’s not because they are stupid as some might say. It’s because they are true, native, New Orleans folk. Their rules are different than yours. Their values are different. What matters to them is trivial to you. They are about family, togetherness, good times. Happy memories. They’ve been there and drank to that, while you and me were on Prozac and in therapy, they were just dealing. Their lives may be destroyed, but, hell, that’s life. Ain’t nothing to cry about for sure.
Have you ever met a Southerner from that part of the world? Did it mystify you, after you got to know them really well, after they shared their darkest secret with you and you with them, that, no matter how well educated you were, no matter how much of the world you had seen, that the opinions that mattered most to them were those of their family, people who most likely never ventured farther than Baton Rouge?
I’m from the South, from the Mississippi/Louisiana region, and it has mystified me. Until now. Now that I am missing 9 family members who suddenly matter to me. It’s not that we are close. It’s not that I have shared happy memory after happy memory with them. It’s that they are people I’ve laughed with, who I’ve argued with, who I’ve loved from afar. In the privileged times I’ve been in their presence, I’ve always known that they seem to have life prioritized properly. What matters? That you are in the company of those you love. That you are not judged by those you love. That you are always, thinking foremost not of the hardship, but of the survival of the hardship. My family always speaks of the past, the rough times, the stupid mistakes, the downtrodden times. The theme is always the same. They got through it with people who stuck by them.
I know you love your family. I know they are good to you (or maybe not, it's sadly not always a given). Let's say that they are wonderful folks. Let me ask you this, do they celebrate just because it is Wednesday? Or that David Duke got defeated? Or that you’ve come for a visit, a relative they barely know because you are a third cousin and you’ve never lived in New Orleans. Well, that’s how these people are. I didn’t appreciate them properly before, but I appreciate the shit out of them now, now that I think of just how good they’ve been to me when I showed up in Nola unannounced. They always invite me over, a party ready. The last time this happened was 1998. My cousin HJ served pink wine out of a box and I, the snob, declined, drinking tap water instead. He admired me for my discipline. If only he knew, and maybe he did, that I considered pink jug wine beneath me, when the real honor was right there in front of me, in flesh and blood. He showed me Mardis Gras memorbillia. “Here’s my daugher, Queen of our Krew.” “Here’s a photo of me, throwing beads to the crowd.” “You want my Krew recipe for Gumbo?”
They have guts and spirit while I have an okay education, and a skill for good wine. They’ve never missed an opportunity to laugh, while I’ve never missed an opportunity to be enraged at our Government (yawn).
I’ve neglected them because they weren’t that we didn't have that much in common. They were entrenched in a city; I was entrenched in the world (right). But I always kney they were people with gumption and audacity. And even though they are missing at the moment, I believe they are alive, giving FEMA hell in Baton Rouge or Houston or god knows where. In my fantasy, they are telling W that he is cock-eyed, and that laser surgery can remedy that, and by the way, did you have to give up drinking cold-turkey, couldn’t you just learn to control yourself. If our cousin Randall could, it seems a boy like you could do, too. What’s the matter with you boy? Is it because you are actually a Yankee, born in Connecticut and not Texas? That would explain a whole lot, son.
But this is me, the snob, imposing my fantasy on them, when in reality it wouldn’t matter to them that W was President. He is just another fellow in need of some serious good food and a damn good time.
Folks, I don’t know where you are tonight, but I hope you are well. And good luck willing, we will see each other soon, and I will be better family to you than I have in the past. Hell, I'll even bring the pink jug wine.
