What Next?

I inherited a great set of Grand-Parents when my mother married Dudley 14 years ago. It sinks my heart when I hear that their house in Intercoastal City was covered to the roof in gulf water.

Mom Perry, my grandmother, is one of the most frugal people I've ever met. Big-hearted with a voice that slaloms down a mountain of sandpaper, she even saves the water she washes her clothes in and reuses it. If this woman got her hands on a nickel I'd bet you she could squeeze six pennies out of it, but she'd probably give you five. She's a true archetype of hard living and easy grace. In a word, she's a cajun.

The term "Cajun" has been branded by outsiders as a symbol of laissez-faire which incorporates great food, energetic music and flowing drink, and culminates in a short but happy life. What most do not understand is that such a life reflects not only an inherited culture but a hard-won existence that binds you to the land, evolves families large, and inspires a faith capable of great generosity and love of neighbor -more so than in any other place I've been.

Life on the bayou is difficult, and only the heartiest can survive there. Our creativity, cooperation and joie de vivre are tied proportionately to our struggle, yet when I think of how Mom Perry and my own mother have struggled so much in carrying the burden of poverty their entire lives, fighting to find higher ground amidst constantly rising burdens only to lose everything but their lives, the clothes on their backs and what little they could carry in their hands as they fled, I am led to wonder whether the spirit that they have relied on will be there to see them through the storms to come.

My culture has for some time been undergoing a transformation succinctly described as a "slow death". My generation has not inherited the language of our parents and the lack of opportunity has created a diaspora much more severe than anything these hurricanes were capable of. In the wake of these storms, for far too many of my people the sum total of their efforts to scrape by have brought them only shredded houses, dead animals and empty bank accounts, and I wonder whether this is that pivotal moment in history where everything becomes redefined and our identity is completely enveloped by an ever progressing American ethos defined less by joy, resilience, family and populism than by greed, waste and indifference.

I realize that I should not write when saddened. Perhaps my thoughts are overly pessimistic and muddied by living in Washington DC for too long. My friend Nick says I don't have a proper understanding of history. I hope that he is right. All I know is that last night while lying in bed, the last words I spoke before drifting to sleep were “I don’t have a place to go home to”.

It strikes me as odd that I did not understand and internalize this until that moment. It is difficult, being unable to comprehend what happens next.