The warmly lit, thoughtfully adorned space that I called my home was reduced to a slab of concrete four years ago.  Hurricane Katrina made landfall along the Mississippi Gulf Coast on August 29, 2005.  We received the strongest winds of the eastern eye wall, typically the most dangerous quadrant of a hurricane.  As such, the Gulf Coast was the favored spot for storm chasers.

There is not a plethora of “Al Roker hanging onto a tree” news footage of Katrina hitting Biloxi and Gulfport and Long Beach and Pass Christian and Bay St. Louis and Waveland…  because a “white out” occurred.  In short, the wind and rain were so strong that you couldn’t see beyond a few feet. 

Unlike New Orleans where the beautiful bowl of the city, the city I had just moved away from, filled up with water and then eventually emptied, leaving ruined structures behind, the Mississippi Gulf Coast was simply wiped clean for miles and miles.  Nothing to see here, folks.  Just empty slabs.

I’m still not sure which was worse.  I generally don’t try to tally those points. 

I do remember saying, over and over, “Please God, if it’s gone, let it all be gone.  Don’t leave me with a ruined home that needs to be sifted through.  Just take it all.”  I couldn’t bare the choices that would have to be made.  The fruitless efforts to save…  anything.

And so it was.

We lost all of our touchstones.  All of our points of refuge, sources of hope.  All of the things that you call “home” outside of your home.

We lost our schools.  Libraries.  Public utilities.  Fire departments.  Police stations.  Hospitals.  Pharmacies.  Grocery stores.  Restaurants.  Bookstores.  Piers.  Bridges.  Roads.  Water.  Sewer.  Phone.  Power.

We lost our freedom.  It was martial law.  Literally.

It was complacency that allowed us to lose so much.  We had evacuated from hurricanes so many times in the weeks and months leading up to Katrina that we were worn out.  Nothing ever happened and yet we spent hours packing and unpacking our lives in order to haul them hours away from a devastating storm that never came to pass.

The human spirit is resilient.  But the human ego can be arrogantly defiant. 

Even today, when faced with the possibility of a disastrous outcome, I find myself thinking, “Certainly I’ve filled my quota for tragedy?”  It’s difficult to wrap my head around the fact that I could find myself with nothing more than three pairs of underwear to my name again.  It doesn’t seem real.

On this fourth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, I worry about the small things that we take for granted.  That, when lost, wield the power to strip us of our dignity and, stealthily, our hope. 

Simple things like clean underwear.  Basic human needs that hold us together.

Sometime last year, I saw an ad for Tide Loads of Hope.  In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, Tide recognized that in times of disaster, people turn to the most basic human needs, like clean clothes.  Ironically, clean clothes aren’t possible when you don’t have power or access to safe water.  The little things that make all the difference when you are looking for a thread to cling to and sometime slip just beyond your grip.

To read Megan’s Hurricane Katrina anniversary story in its entirety, please visit her blog, Velveteen Mind, at
http://www.velveteenmind.com/velveteenmind/2009/08/hurricane-katrina-4th-anniversary-loads-of-hope.html

How You Can Help

A great way to aid the effort is by purchasing our vintage Tide Ts, all profits of which help families affected by disaster. Now you can really wear your heart on your sleeve.  Buy a vintage t-shirt now.