You can comfort a friend in various ways. Some people help friends through laughter or money while others take friends out for a drink or an ice cream sundae. I usually help by listening. While I may not always know what to say, I think just being there and listening to their problems is helpful.
Last week, however, I received an e-mail from one of my friends, a George Washington University alumna who grew up in New Orleans. Instead of taking the passive approach, I have decided to help her by getting her message out to others. Today's column consists of an abridged version of her letter:
"It has been a while since I have updated everyone, and unfortunately this update is anything but uplifting, and I am just dying for things to finally start to get better. But now it is certain that that is a long time coming.
"I arrived in New Orleans yesterday morning, and I don't think there has been a smile on my face since then. In fact, I feel a weight on my face just holding it down. This is a war zone; it is no longer my hometown; it's actually terrifying. Everything you saw in the news is not an exaggeration. They didn't pick just the worst areas and show them over and over again; it is real.
"Driving down the streets haunts me. Everything is dead, and there are construction things everywhere to either knock things down, pick up what's left of houses or clean up the streets.
"As I approached my house, I [remembered] all those times that I came home from college, and I would get excited driving up, because I knew that someone would be washing my clothes, cooking my meals, letting me lie on my couch and watch TV.
"What I saw just broke my heart. The entire lawn is dead: it's all brown, and there is trash everywhere. There is dust and mold. In the driveway sits my car: I couldn't even see through the windows because of all the mold that is growing inside.
"When my mom opened the door, I thought I was dreaming. My entire first floor is gutted. There are barely any walls, and all I see is insulation, wood beams, bags of trash, dirt and grime. It was amazing: no more kitchen. I could see straight into one of our bathrooms and right out to the back walls of the house.
"They are tearing down my house. I haven't been here since July 25, and tonight is the last night I will ever sleep in this house where I lived for 13 years. I have been packing and throwing away almost everything. My parents are moving to a small apartment with my brother.
"As I pack up my things and have to choose what I want to keep, I feel terribly sad and empty. I know I am fortunate, but looking at my door with the spray paint marking 9-4 - the day they drove a boat and checked to see if anyone was stranded in my house - just hurts.
"Today, my mother drove me to some of the worst areas and I couldn't even breathe. Some of those spray paint markings didn't read 0 (for no one there). Everyone in those areas (they can only be there during the day to try to clean and dig out items) has to wear protective suits; they look like biohazard suits. My parents wore them when they first got here. Some of the abandoned houses in those areas have the suits just hanging on the doors.
"There are boats everywhere: in the middle of the streets, next to houses, on houses. It's unreal.
"Last night I went for a drink with a friend of mine. As he and I were sitting outside, some guys shot a gun across the street and police came and were holding their guns at the men and yelling at them to put their hands up. I just turned to my friend and said, 'Take me home.' This was not the city I left. Sure, there was violence, but this is just chaos.
"I'm sorry for such a long, depressing e-mail. But reading and watching the news, I just don't think cuts it. Being here just burns. The reality has left an imprint on me, much like those spray can markings that represent a condemned city.
"Please keep praying and do whatever you can to help. This process hasn't nearly begun, and I feel like me, my family, and everyone has not had the moment to really let this all sink in. We can't because we have to move on.
"But if you could close your eyes, and just think for moment: no job, no more house, no more safety, and simply no more comfort, and then think that is just the beginning, then you might understand that this process is going to be terribly long.
"Please pray for my father, whose dreams came true here in New Orleans. He started a cancer center with other doctors, and was one of the head directors, and it is all gone. I miss you all terribly and I hope to hear from some of you soon.
Love always,
Maria"
