Darrell's Blog

The Big UnEasy

Dear Family of Friends and Acquaintances,

I don't really know how to say to you what I’m about to say, to ask of you what I have to ask of you: help. I need your help.

By now I imagine, nearly all of you (and the world) have heard of and seen the destruction, decimation and devastation that Hurricane Katrina has wreaked upon New Orleans and other areas along and near the Gulf of Mexico coastline. It is, for all its enormity, un-believability and surreal-ness, for me, a situation that overfills me with sorrow, sadness, and escalating anger.

And I almost may not have lived to tell it.

Fortunately, I and my immediate family (my mother, sister, Tearny, and her husband, John, my niece and nephew, Sarenda and Titus) got out of the city safely. We are alive and safe, thank God.

And I almost may not have survived.

Like thousands of New Orleans residents I’ll admit, I am stubborn when it comes to hurricane warnings. I grew up experiencing hurricane warnings as just that, “warnings.” They never yielded anything more than heavy rains and gusty winds, fallen secondary tree branches in the middle of the streets, and temporary power outages. Rarely, if it rained long enough, and inch or two of water would crawl under the door and quietly flow into our house. But it would always retreat or be briskly swept out after the rain had stopped. That was it. During my lifetime, there was never anything like this, like Katrina. (Not even the infamous Betsy, the last hurricane to slam into New Orleans.)

So, I had decided to stay put, to “brave it out,” as we like to say back home. Alone. (My immediate family had evacuated Saturday, at first warning of Katrina’s approach. I resisted their invitation to evacuate west of the city (They are all in Houston.), waving them off. I would enjoy the extended rain and howl of the wind, good sleeping weather, I thought.) A dear friend, Jeffery, had left a message on my voice mail inviting me to ride to Dallas with he and his mother. “Hmm… nawwww…I’ll pass, thank you,” I would later tell him. Another dear friend, Rene, also called me from his cell phone enroute to Houston urging me to “leave now.” Still, I could not be moved to move.

Know, dear friends, I was not being resistant for resistant’s sake. It is not in my character to be obstinate. I simply did not feel endangered. Plus, I was tired, after having worked all day (and all week). So, I had planned to stay put at home, in the suburb of eastern New Orleans. And Saturday night, I went to bed.

…Early Sunday morning, Abraham (yet another dear friend) called.

“Are you watching the news?” he asked. “No.” I yawned. “D., this is serious…‘Bitch,’ you better get your stupid ass outta of there—trying to be brave; this is not the time for that.” “Huhhh—,” I sighed, and listened as he went on urging me to evacuate. (“It’s all over the news channels.” “‘Chile,’ this is major, serious.” “If I were there, I’d kick your [stubborn] ass.” “D., if anything happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to take it.” “Darrell, I’m not ready to attend your funeral.”) I listened, feeling admonished and little amused as this very intelligent, learned, successful, Southern Black man “read” me in plainspeak. (For those of you who have ever experienced a “good cussin’ out” or being “read for points!”, you know what I’m talking about.)

So, finally, I said okay, and agreed to turn on the television. Oh my, I thought as I saw the cars lined the length of the I-10. Oh my..., as I heard the mayor order a mandatory evacuation of the city. Oh my…oh my…my God... Then I relented. “Okay, I’ll leave,” I said to him.

I hung up the phone and called a few friends, hoping to find a traveling partner to ride with (or ride with me). Only one of my friends could be reached (by cell phone), but he was in Detroit trying to fly back to New Orleans to secure his family and property. I was only able to reach my father, a municipal bus driver, who is deemed “essential personnel” and was required to stay in the city to aid with evacuation of citizens from their homes to stable shelters, and my aunt & uncle who were about to leave as I spoke with them. They invited me to join them and drive one of their vehicles west to Opelika, Alabama, where they were headed. And I had less than an hour to pack and be ready to leave.

So, I grabbed a few shirts and pants and socks and underwear and stuffed them into a weekend bag, packed my Powerbook, iPod and manuscript-CDs (I’m a writer and a music lover.), called Abraham to inform him of my evacuation plan, then waited for my first cousin, Ralph, to come.

During the thirty minutes I waited for my cousin, I put a few valuables into a trash bag and placed it on the center of my bed, moved my mom’s computer from the floor to a place up-high and scrambled about the house trying to figure out what was most important and valuable and needed to be placed in an elevated safe space.

As I ran from room to room, I began to panic! My stomach knotted and I began to feel regretful (for not evacuating with my mother & family or my friend, Jeffery) and scared. I am unable to describe my panic and the mental convolution caused by trying to assign a value or importance to a lifetime of possessions—a car, clothing, furniture, TVs, electronics, household items, books, family photographs, toys, unsaved manuscripts, mementos. Save for two changes of clothes, a laptop and MP3 player, I own nothing. I have nothing.

Yes, I thank God (and Abraham, for putting “fire” under my ass), I have my life. My sweet, fragile, complicated, promising, and healthy life. And I could never be as grateful for it as I am right now. Yet, somehow, sometimes—as immature or myopic as it may sound—throughout this ongoing, harrowing natural and personal disaster, my life seems inextricable from all the belongings (regardless of value) that were left behind to drown in the titanic floods of Katrina.

The houses of my mother (which was also mine), my sister, my father, my uncle, my aunts, and my friends, are now all under water. And so is my car—and my mother’s and my sister’s car. Gone. All submerged.

Though there is a roof over my head, I feel “homeless.”

Right now I am in Morrow, Georgia, at the home of my younger brother, Andrew. Safe. Yet no less displaced. And I am in need of food, clothing, services and money. I am asking for your help in any way that you can. Clothing (shoes, pants, shirts, socks, underwear, etc.), new or used (Got a cute shirt, suit or pair of jeans that you still haven’t gotten around to wearing—or that you’re over? I could use it. Especially if your name is “Shug” or O.T.), gift certificates or cards to Wal-Mart, Target, The Gap, BR, Macy’s or the likes, as well as grocery stores, would be appreciated. Money (U.S. Postal Services money orders are easiest to tender, and preferred.): Five, $10, $20 (or whatever you can afford to spare) would go a long way. Even books (new or used)—a necessary commodity to my life—would be enthusiastically received. (Those of you who know me well, know how much I value Baldwin, Morrison, Cullen, Beam, Hemphill, Nelson, Lawrence-Lightfoot, to name just a very, very few authors, literary works.) If I may be succinct, however you can help me, I am thankful and appreciative.

My current, temporary address is: Darrell Diggins, c/o Andrew Taylor, 6635 King George Way, Morrow, Georgia, 30260. I can be reached by cell phone at 678-592-9620. (Note: The cell phone is not mine so I cannot talk to you before 7 p.m. EST on weekdays unless it is extremely important. After 7 p.m. on weekdays and or anytime during weekends are most ideal for conversation.)

In terms of clothing, my sizes are as follows: shoe (size 11); shirt (medium, if collarless, 15 ½, 32-33 inches, with collar); pant (31-32” waist, 32” inseam); jacket (40R). (Also, an inexpensive, everyday analog watch is really needed.)

Again, my friends, however you can help, I am grateful.

With sincere respect and love,

Darrell

Posted by Darrell at September 3, 2005 08:45 AM | TrackBack