Suburban Goddess

I work with a woman who was appalled by the looting that went on in New Orleans during Katrina. She swept about the office in a fit of rage, blathering about how awful looters were and how they deserved to be shot. Oh! The horror! Oh! The NERVE of those people, how DARE they take advantage of a desparate situation by taking things that did not belong to them and that they weren’t entitled to!

Fast forward three weeks, with Hurricane Rita bearing down on Houston. In the aftermath, many Houston counties were declared disaster areas, entitling the residents to FEMA and Red Cross aid. The only damage this woman suffered was a power outage and a few downed trees. She recently blew through the office bragging about how much money she received from FEMA. Meanwhile, people like my grandmother who have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING left, receive the same amount in disaster aid. The television is constantly flashing pictures of people who have NO homes, NO clothes, NO belongings.

So, who’s worse?
If you’re going to judge, you’d better prepare to be judged yourself.

I visited my old hometown a couple of weeks ago. Pearlington, Mississippi, for those of you who aren’t familiar with it, is a tiny community nestled on the Pearl River right on the border of Mississippi and Louisiana. That’s also the same path that Hurricane Katrina decided to follow. As I drove slack-jawed through what was left of my childhood, it didn’t dawn on me that I only saw three structures still standing. My grandmother’s home was leveled to the ground, her belongings scattered for miles. Admist the rubble sat a brand new tiller, it’s shiny red paint defiantly taunting the skies. A fence sat two feet up in a nearby tree, the familiar vent of my grandmother’s roof staring up like the eye of a battered corpse. The true reality hits you like a brick when you step out of the car… the stench of rotting sealife and saltwater rising from the thick layer of river mud that covers the ground. As I looked around, I struggled to imagine life as it was when I was seven, returning to my grandmother’s house after Sunday morning church. But the church is gone. Someone retrieved the statue of the Virgin Mary and placed it on the concrete steps that used to lead into the small wooden church.

Down the road, a visit to my aunt’s house brought more emotions to the surface. The house still remained, up inside, the stench of mold & mildew are overpowering. The water line left it’s mark about two inches below the roof. Her refrigerator hangs precariously through the ceiling, washed into the beams by the rising water and left to hang as the water receded. It was surreal. Those who say that it resembles a bomb going off are right. There are no words to describe the hopelessness that you encountered while looking around.

All that remains of my old home is the front porch, where I remember so many good times. My parents decorating it for Halloween. Staring out the window of their bedroom at the Christmas lights. Riding my first bicycle up and down the sidewalk. All that remains of the beautiful yard my mother cultivated for years is the large oak tree, it’s leaves washed away. I always assumed that someday I would be able to drive past the house and show my daughter, “This is where Mommy grew up.” It was a harsh reminder that nothing in life is permanent, and we truly need to cherish what we have while we still have it. I know that’s a big cliché, but tell that to my uncle who was camped out in my aunt’s yard, who hadn’t showered in days and now lives in a tent eating MRE’s. I felt guilty returning to my nice, air-conditioned home in Houston.

I work overtime. When I say overtime, I’m talking over 80 hours a week. I get up at a 4:45am everyday, work out, get ready for work, sit in front of a computer for 8 hours designing stuff that I am ashamed to put in my portfolio, pick up my daughter from daycare, come home and clean my house, feed my dog, feed my kid (my husband is forced to fend for himself), play with my daughter for an hour or two, watch an hour of TV, then collapse into bed. EVERY SINGLE DAY. And I wonder, how do single mothers survive? Add the guilt trip of being a working mom (EVERYONE has an opinion about that one), and the fact that you’re missing out on so many precious moments, and it’s enough to send any mother into a downward spiral of post-partem depression.

My point? Tolerance & understanding. Take a moment to step into our shoes before you judge. Don’t rub it in my face that you get to stay home with your little angel & imply that I’m a horrible mother because I don’t. Do I want to leave my daughter with perfect strangers while I’m toiling away at creating crap that I would rather bury in my backyard? Of course not. But it’s helping me get to a place where I CAN spend more time with her. And that makes everyone happy.