The Storm by Pierre Auguste Cot

In New Orleans, there is a name that no one says out loud. Just like no one names their children ‘Lucifer’ or ‘Judas’, no one mentions the name of the angry monster that clawed at the city’s face, that washed over her like a broken promise, dragged her under the water and held her there.  They refer to it as The Storm, or, if absolutely necessary for clarification, The Hurricane. but nobody- nobody- calls it Katrina.

At first, I assumed it was a kind of camaraderie, a we-all-left-we-all-came-back-we-all-know-what-storm-I-mean way of separating the pansies from the pirates, the wheat from the chaff, the locals from the tourists. But I suspect there is more to it.  I once read that African villagers will refer to a snake as “a string” after sunset, so as not to summon the serpents. In a city as casually superstitious as New Orleans, the declination to conjure strikes closer to the bone, a tacit and commonly understood agreement. The name is a black cat, a shattered mirror, a ladder we won’t walk beneath.

But even without the superstitious element, to use the name within the city limits seems almost profane, callous at least, a raw reminder of  so much sorrow. It is a dark name, all purply-black like a bruise. It rumbles like thunder on the tongue, foreboding and foul, blank as a boarded-up window, bloated as a corpse. It falls flat and dead from the lips of those who utter it, people sidestep the name on the buckling sidewalks and wait for the rain to wash it into the gutters along with the Bourbon Street trash.

In one of the many French Quarter trinket shops, my husband leafs through a photo book of The Storm’s devastation. Put it down, I want to scream. Don’t touch that! Wash your hands, cross yourself! It’s all I can do to resist slathering him in holy water from the St. Louis Cathedral, but he’s not the superstitious type. The woman behind the counter watches us,takes a drag off her cigarette and shakes her head. There are hurricane tours, I’ve seen the brochures. I cannot imagine anything more vulgar and morbid than creeping through the wreckage with a camera and a cocktail, gliding past the collapsed houses and gutted groceries in air-conditioned comfort.

In mere days another hurricane season will commence, and in the silence on this subejct is the collective finger-cross. No one, after all, wants to summon another Storm. A city below sea level faces heightened risks. And yet, with such risk comes a great gift; one that citizens of more secure cities may never know: uncertainty heightens one’s appreciaton of the Now. Tomorrow is a myth in New Orleans. There are only the bright colors and blaring sounds, the rich flavors and pungent aromas of Today. The floors, the streets, the piers are paved with minutes to be trodden over, danced across in naked feet.