"There's Nothing Here"
Yesterday I drove down to the East Bank of Plaquemines Parish to fill the feeding stations there. It was the first time I had ever been there, and the first time I had done food/water stations by myself. You go to the West Bank and take a ferry-- if you have not seen a map of New Orleans, this will sound very confusing, because what I just said, if you were following, was I live on the East Bank but I went to the West Bank to get to the East Bank. But what happens is the Mississippi curves around in a circle at this point, so you have to cross it twice. I am kind of dubious of this ferry business now, because both times I was so far back in line that I had to sit and wait for another one (it's not a very big ferry). I think it probably puts more mileage on the car to drive through Chalmette, but it can't possibly take the hour I waited for the ferry, and anyway, there are only 1100 miles on my car. 
The first two things that happened when I got out of my car at the first feeding station: I was swarmed, I mean absolutely swarmed as in they were crawling in my clothes, by mosquitos, and I saw a grasshopper the size of my fist. I thought, shit, it's a good thing they coincidentally found someone who grew up in the country. I think if I hadn't, I would have freaked out right there (as it was, I didn't freak out until later, but I'll get to that). 
But as I looked around, I became increasingly confused. All the food and water pans were certainly empty. The volunteers I talked to told me I needed to figure out whether the food was being eaten by raccoons or armadillos. Surely, I thought, it must be wild animals. Why would there be dogs and cats out here? There was nothing here. What was I supposed to be feeding? The few houses I saw were so overgrown, they must have been abandoned for years. I combed my brain, trying to remember what had happened here-- wind or water? I guess what threw me off was that in New Orleans, the areas that got heavy water are quite brown and dead. And there are waterlines on the houses. But there, everything I saw was abundantly green, as far as the eye could see. It seemed odd to imagine that people had ever lived there. The food stations were all inside abandoned houses or sheds. At one station, the landmark was supposed to be the Bethlehem Judea African Baptist Church. But there was no church, just a sign and a concrete lot. And lots of weeds. 
Then I looked up into the trees, and saw a mattress and the twisted remains of clothes. No wind had done that. Was it possible that everything was washed away so completely? I parked next to a yellow house that sat about thirty feet from its foundation. I crept through the trees to refill the food and water pans in the basement of a beige house. There were bags of old Mardi Gras beads there, incongrously bright against the rotting browns and grays of the silent house. I felt slightly wrong, being in someone's yard, like someone would pop out and yell at me to get off their property. But all was silence, except for the insect sounds that crowded in from the overgrown brush. (I was glad I didn't read this article, written about the exact town where I was, in which the residents talk about seeing spirits walking until after I'd come home.) There was a sign with weeds growing over it that said "God Bless America." There are no waterlines here, because everything is gone. 
But there were signs of people along some stretches. I passed construction being done on a church and a school. I passed a neat grid of FEMA trailers with emergency vehicles parked in the driveways and a large sign labelling it "COP LAND." Mostly, though, it was a desolate strip of land, crowded with encroaching green and not much else. I kept seeing steps going to nowhere. One of the last stations was supposed to be behind a church. I pulled into the dirt road. There were mud-covered chairs and a bouquet of fake flowers lying on the ground in front of the church. Behind the church was a cemetary-- and most of the above-ground tombs were broken, crumbled, some empty because the caskets had floated out.
Childhood fears are strange. You never know when they will come back to bite you. I've been able to walk in graveyards for years, now. Maybe it was because I felt like an intruder; maybe I was feeling some of those spirits. I did feel sorry about it the whole way home, but at that moment I knew I had hit my limit: I could not get out of that car and go into that graveyard. Later, I read in my notes that a resident is feeding the animals there, plus I had left food at a shed nearby, so I felt a little better. But I still feel horrible about it, like I failed somehow. I feel badly because I wish I had talked to people and found out whether they had seen any animals, or whether I was just feeding armadillos and ghosts. I think there weren't people outside because I was there during dinner time. Next week I will do some detective work.
I can't shake the feeling I got when I realized that this place hadn't been deserted for fifty years, that it was Katrina that wiped it out and nature was trying to take it back. In the car, I had been listening to the Bruce Springsteen album "The Rising," which I know he wrote about 9/11, but all the songs seemed to be about what happened here. I just didn't know it would be as haunting as that. At least in New Orleans there is wreckage, debris to show that this wasn't always an open field next to a levee. At least there isn't nothing.
I don't remember how I felt, I never thought I'd live
To read about myself in my hometown paper
How my brave young life was forever changed
In a misty cloud of pink vapor
Around here, everybody acts the same
Around here, we all act like nothing's changed
Friday night, the club meets at Al's Barbecue
The sky is still the same unbelievable blue
Darling, give me your kiss, only understand
I am the nothing man...
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