Three years ago, when Hurricane Katrina ravaged a city and forever changed the lives of thousands of people, I was sitting in my home in Wisconsin, watching the coverage on the 24 news cycle. Being 1,200 miles away, the reality of what was happening wasn’t mine. I couldn’t comprehend and could only watch horrified. I couldn’t comprehend until last year, in the throes of a nasty divorce and a need for change when I packed up my car, with my then fiance now husband in tow, and we headed south to make our home in New Orleans when I saw for myself, two years later, all that was left to be done. Even then, the experience wasn’t mine, but talking to the people who lived through it - some that evacuated, some that didn’t, some that lost nothing, some that lost everything, including the FEMA trailer that gave them something to call home, it became real to me. The lack of action, the city that care forgot, those that couldn’t go forward, those lost - it became real. I see where my home is. I see where my daughter’s school is. I see where we work, we play, we get groceries and live life, and I’m sick. I watch the same footage I watched three years ago, and in the middle of a turning stomach and a breaking heart I curse myself for being so self-absorbed while the people of my city were going through this and I admire them all so much more for it.

Three years later, on the anniversary of the day that devasted the Big Easy, we watch and we wait. Our local weather personnel are diligently reporting any new information available, telling us not to worry yet, much can change. Some residents have plans to leave, whether Gustav pays us a visit or not, making travel plans for Mississippi, Texas, Georgia, Tennessee, and Arkansas. Bottles of water and batteries are being bought, canned food bought as apart of the weekly grocery list, and children looking at their parent’s for answers. If you believe in the power of the number of three, something almost fitting living in a city like New Orleans, it seems almost fitting. Some wonder why we are so anxious, so wary. We are a city of people suffering from PTSS, of those inexperienced, and of those that lost it all and have worked hard to rebuild what is that we have.

New Orleans is not taking the threat lightly.

In the name of being pro-active, nursing homes are being evacuated. Animal shelters have closed and are moving the orphaned animals they house. Prisoners of the Orleans Parish Prison are being moved to places like Angola, a prison known for its rodeo and the Angola Three. The Governor has called a pre-emptive state of emergency, activated the National Guard, and has triggered the government contract for 700 buses to help evacuate those who need help. The postal system is making arrangements to stop picking up and delivering mail.  The criminal and civil courts have closed. Universities have closed. Public transportion, except the street cars, is stopping. The Saints are evacuating. If a mandatory evacuation is called, it will most likely be called Saturday.

So much is left for speculation right now. So much uncertainty. The Cone of Denial. The Cone of Error. The Cone of the Unknown. For some, The Cone of Fear.

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