Spirits in the Dark: Post-Katrina New Orleans

Nobody missed a beat. No pause. No exasperated sighs. No moans of "awwww, mannn," or groans of "shucksssssss." Just a quiet, steady continuance as we sit in semi-darkness reading our work and receiving feedback. Our ages range from fifteen to fifty-nine. Our stories, like our lives, are distinct in their details but essentially we are all battling to hold onto our sanity.

Chris laughs his hearty laugh as recent college-grad Ashley deftly uses somewhat humorous descriptions to explore the hardships of an extended family dealing with death and AIDS. Eighteen-year-old Dominique tells us why she's no longer a youthful teenager. I read my latest Big Easy report that focuses on a close friend who was thrown in jail. A power failure is the least of our worries.

Blackouts happen frequently now, not just in the so-called devastated areas but all over town. Last week Harold and I were eating at his apartment and in the middle of a mouthful of well-seasoned fried catfish from Manchu's, the lights flickered off.

People who don't know us often mistake Harold for my older brother, or me for a son Harold had when he was much younger. People who do know us understand that we might as well be brothers, recognizing that I treat Harold with a filial respect accorded to no one else.

Post-Katrina is particularly hard on our elders, and Harold, born in 1931, has to make a decision: stay or go.

Medical care is spotty: all physicians Harold trusted are gone. Most of Harold's immediate family lives in California; the few who were here evacuated to Texas and have decided not to return. Harold remains because all the work he wants to complete before his transition is here, but he doesn't know how much longer he can hold on.

He is stubborn, yes, but not stupid. He's been weakened by a stroke that left him with a pronounced limp and a partially disabled right arm. Then there is the onset of glaucoma. But what worries Harold most is the deterioration of our city.

Recently our weekly conversations have returned, time and again, to his dilemma: Should he be sensible and leave or be determined and stay?

I think he should go. I want him to stay. So, I listen without taking sides. If he needs or wants something, I try to help out. What else can I do?

Last week he had a taste for catfish. Before Katrina, copping some catfish would have been a snap, but now there are not many neighborhood restaurants open, plus the pickings are mighty slim when it comes to black-owned establishments. We decide on takeout from a hole-in-the-wall, Vietnamese run, Chinese/Soul-food joint.

In the midst of a thunderstorm, we eat and talk in the dark. I try my best to joke: "Hey man, if we was Indians we could get a candle and sit down and sew." But we're not Indians. There's nothing for us two old men to do in the dark except sleep, especially considering we have just heartily eaten our fill.

When the lights came back on, I rose from the couch, checked on Harold (he was sleeping soundly in his bedroom), slipped out the door and intended to head uptown for my nightly session with my friend Doug. I have accepted the task of ensuring Doug takes his nightly medication. That's no small feat. Like all of us Doug needs encouragement, lots of encouragement.

At first I thought it was just a little standing water outside the back door, and then I thought maybe this part of the parking lot is low, but finally I got the message as I peered myopically at a newly filled, foot-deep wading pool that less than two hours ago was dry asphalt.

I had on loafers. I tried tiptoeing. That didn't work.

I splashed over to the fence where I had parked. The water was way past ankle deep on the driver's side but...