I miss New Orleans

By Karla San Martin-Hernandez
N.O.sotros Magazine, 9/19/05

“Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?” I was working at the Bank of New Orleans as the Director of Marketing and Public Relations when I first heard this song. This was back in 1999, before I founded La Revista N.O.sotros, a bilingual magazine for the New Orleans Hispanic Community. At the time, I thought I knew what this song meant. But looking back I had no idea. When work with N.O.sotros started, was when I truly began to understand what New Orleans meant to me. From the beignets to the pupusas, JazzFest to Mensaje Festival, White Linen night to House of Blues Rumba, Art for Art Sake to TwiRoPa’s very own at Duque’s Art Gallery. Each event made a mark in my heart that became what I know now as New Orleans. I experienced in my 4 years of publishing N.O.sotros, the true essence of the city. And yet, I had no idea what that song meant. It wasn’t until August 29th, at about 8pm, when I heard Aaron Broussard say “Jefferson Parish residents may not return home, for at least another week”, when I truly understood it. This event was followed by days and nights that got more and more unbelievable and surreal by the minute. I felt as if I were living in a Dali painting. Everything was real, my family, my children, but it was all juxtaposed in a place that was not real.
I recently experienced the loss of my grandmother who fought cancer til her dying day. I remember there were several days where I can recall eating, but not really tasting any of the food. It was as if all my senses were concentrating on helping me forget, and nothing worked. I felt numb for the first time.
My family’s journey, from Metairie, to Covington, through Mississippi, Alabama, and finally Florida took approximately 3 days. When we finally arrived, I felt as if my heart had grown arms and was clinging on to New Orleans. Each day was a grueling reminder of the amount of damage our city had endured. It was a few days after I arrived in Miami, and started settling in our new home and registered my son in school that I felt that numbness again. It is a grave loss that I have suffered. I can only speak of myself as my family and I try to dance around the reality and depth of our loss. I truly don’t know how they are really feeling inside.
In a strange turn of events, my entire family, including parents, sister, my husband, children and I relocated to Miami. My husband acquired a position in an established firm. My oldest son received a full scholarship to an exclusive school, he had everything from his socks to his violin donated to him, even my puppies: Luna and Rio have a yard to play in, and yet, we felt like victims of the Hurricane. It was a strange feeling. I felt that I had never been so blessed and at the same time, by the same thing, I had never been so hurt.
Many tried to tell me that I should show more appreciation for the blessings God had bestowed upon my family, and I feel strongly that God, as any parent, understands the immense pain that comes with losing everything you hold dear. It is not the material things that I cry about. It is those things that are irreplaceable- , our everyday lives, our routines, our way of life, our communities, the friendships that were born in that great city, the work that we did and would do. He will understand that I am grateful for all the wonderful things that have occurred these past weeks, that I am grateful to be alive and have my husband and two beautiful children safe and sound with me. But He will also understand that I am human, and I must mourn.
But it isn’t a sad ending. If you are from New Orleans you know all about the jazz funerals. You know that the band plays the blues as you approach the burial ground. You know that once the body is laid to rest, people will cry, but you also know that once the last bit of dirt covers the resting place, the marching band begins to play the beautiful sounds of a joyful second line. This signifies a rebirth, a new beginning, a time to smile about the great things to come.
In this same spirit, I believe our city will return. I believe the rebuilding process will be long but worth the wait. I am sad to say that I may not be there in body to experience this taking place, but I will be part of this process, from Miami, from wherever, and my spirit will always live, at least in part, in New Orleans. The city I still call home. Yes, I know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Karla San Martin-Hernandez
N.O.sotros Magazine, Metairie, LA (exiled in Miami, FL.)
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