Occupied Territory

In an effort to abate violent crime, the humvees are back and an eleven p.m. juvenile curfew has been imposed. Without placing a judgement on these methods of crime prevention, I simply want to emphasize their psychological impact, as though we, I, are guilty. Guilty of choosing to remain in what is, right now, a beaten town. The soldiers in desert fatigues, riding in matching beige metal vehicles remind me of last October, when I first returned to New Orleans. Then, the National Guard was God. We were so grateful for their presence, even through my resentment during the nightly stops as they asked for ID and warned me that I had to be home by midnight. The soldiers' presence makes me feel that we are moving slowly, perhaps in the wrong direction.

Soldiers are more men in a town already over-saturated with masculine presence. Although the soldiers are generally polite, the workers often not. As though trying to prove the stereotype that a man cannot survive without sex, their eyes follow me on my bicycle, their mouths scream unintelligble catcalls. I don’t like walking; I feel too vulnerable. I am more nervous now than I ever used to worry about “violent crime.” I wish these men had brought their families. The town is out of balance and weighted heavily to the side of an ugly machismo.

I’ve just arrived at work in mid-city building newly renovated after the storm. The walls are freshly painted, the carpet and furniture brand new, and the toilets don’t flush. We have no water pressure today. The faucets let out a trickle. Aside from the obvious bathroom inconvenience, this is frightening in a town that constantly erupts in flames. According to The Times Picayune, the two FEMA helicopters that were dousing fires with water from the Mississippi will be taken away at the end of the month. Two nights ago a fire in my neighborhood meant that all of the power was turned off for several hours in the middle of the night. It is impossible to sleep in this limp summer heat with no circulating air.

So much better here than Iraq or Palestine. But I think I have some small comprehension the feeling of isolation endured by citizens of an occupied territory. We are all war weary; the rest of the U.S. may not want to hear about the living conditions in New Orleans unless they are improving. But that would be telling a lie. Rents remain ridiculous, hazardous dust continues to fly, and sometimes I don’t recognize my hometown.