When there are 1000 emails in the inbox, aol stops receiving any more incomings. over the last five days, there have been hours and hours when my inbox was shut down. I was shut down. momentarily.
Sometimes sitting right in front of the computer. the television droning in the background. my hands at my side. my eyes closed. and then I snap out of it and push forward.
There is a syndrome--the survivor syndrome. those who survive a disaster, survive mass oppression--and let us be clear, we were looking at oppression just as much as we were looking at disaster--those of us who survive are traumatized.
And the circumstances make it almost impossible for us to speak out, to complain, to even moan about our condition without sounding ungrateful. we are the ones who got out when Mayor Nagin ordered a mandatory evacuation.
We sat wherever we sat and watched the horror unfold, except we watched with knowing eyes, we watched with churning stomachs, we watched with consciousnesses twisted by contradictory feelings: bitterness battled with gratefulness, relief wrestled with despair, memory overwhelmed vision. who could imagine a future when we were watching the destruction of our past?
and yet, what right did we have to even moan one complaint when the ultimate reality tv show was the death of new orleans. bodies floating in the water. people literally dying before our eyes.
But not the way Hollywood always presented it. not in a ball of fire. not heroically at the barricades. not as valiant Americans overcome on some island overrun by enemies, by aliens. not like that. no.
But slowly. painfully. we woke up wednesday and they were there dying. we watched all day wednesday. dying. we stayed up all night wednesday. dying. and thursday. still dying. no water. no food. no sanitation. no nothing. reporters reporting. we saw it. but we saw more than most saw. we all looked and pointed, that’s... and we would name a place, a building, an intersection, a friend’s house, a sub-division, a neighborhood, a community--drowned. dead. dying. and ignored.
We couldn’t ignore. the reporters didn’t ignore. but where was the government? thursday night we closed our eyes but we were not sleeping. not resting. not rejuvenating our bodies, wherever it was we were.
Wherever was not convention center boulevard, was not the superdome ramp, and yes we were much better off, but we felt terrible. obviously not as terrible as our people baking in the sun and terrorized at night, but better, and at that critical moment, being better off made us feel worse.
And come friday morning and we were still watching. that’s when it was just too much. bush walking around.
People all over the world want to help us. friends and people we have never before met. most of America--I can’t say all of America because they are some folk in a position to help who have not, in my opinion, done what they are supposed to do.
I’m tired of writing about it. I’m tired of complaining. of opining. of talking. and I feel depressed about feeling tired. what right do I have to be tired when people are dying. people have nothing. I have something.
Just yesterday I sat surrounded by envelopes, friends and supporters were sending funds. what right do I have?
People are looking to me for leadership.
What right do I have?
My guts are twisted up. I am a survivor but sometimes, sometimes a pernicious thought sneaks up and mugs me: I wish I was dead. my bloated body floating in the ninth ward waters.
It’s a hard deal going down. it’s hard for people to understand. when you send me an email. when you try to call my cell—we really, really appreciate all the help, but if, or should I say, when—when we don’t respond, when we don’t answer your calls, don’t respond to your emails, fail to deliver after we say we’ll get back to you, we’ll call tonight, we definitely will email you in the morning, when we don’t, please understand, we want to but....
a luta continua
Kalamu
Kalamu ya Salaam is a poet, lecturer and co-editor of several cultural and literary anthologies, including 360º A Revolution of Black Poets.
Kalamu ya Salaam
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