If you can only see one possible turning point in your life, slow down and take a second to reassess your past. Every day holds many potential turning points. What if you got a coffee at the gas station instead of a Coke, and then accidentally dropped that coffee in your lap in traffic, then swerved into another car as a result? Would the coffee have been your turning point, or was it actually a result of choosing that gas station? Or maybe it all harkened back to oversleeping that morning. Who can predict the future, and who wants to?
But for me, a very easy turning point to pick out of the billions in my lifetime was Hurricane Katrina. When Katrina hit, I had just moved into a brand new 1 bedroom shotgun apartment, where the bedroom and closets were huge, I had my own washer and dryer, a front porch with a stray kitty who came by nightly for kibble, and a kitchen that was about to be painted Dragon’s Hide Green. Yes, that’s actually a shade – I picked it off of a paint chip. I was singing with a band, and we’d just had our third or fourth live show. I was working at K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen in the French Quarter, but was getting ready to reduce my hours because I’d just been accepted to grad school at Tulane. In short, it was a REALLY good time to be me. I even had these super-soft cream and brown paisley sheets that were the nicest sheets I’ve ever owned, and I’d got them on sale at Steinmart, so they were cheap, too. I’ve been looking to replace those sheets for the last 8 years *sigh*.
So Katrina hit, and long story short, even though I’d planned to stay in New Orleans, and could have done so quite safely since my area of town didn’t flood, I evacuated with my band. I really didn’t have any say in the matter, since the bass player and his girlfriend, the other singer in the band, showed up on the morning of the storm, pounded on my door, and watched as I packed up my things and left the house. They were good people. We picked up the guitarist and headed out of town in the bass player’s car – a United Cab. We kept the meter running all the way to Arkansas, and after some time there, once it became apparent that there was no New Orleans to return to, we made plans to go our separate ways.
I evacuated with $30 to my name. My paycheck was due that week (and to K-Paul’s credit, they did send me that check after they got the office back up and running in Baton Rouge). I spent a lot of time on the phone with my parents, and while I was going through a particularly difficult time, so were they. My dad was OK, but my mom was worried sick about me. She was so worried that she basically shut down on me and got angry at me for not coming home immediately. My grandparents called and said that if I came back to NC, they’d pay for me to get an apartment in the Raleigh area near my aunt, and would help me find a job, etc. Every phone call with the family got more and more tense, until things eventually went awry.
Because here’s the thing…I really don’t like living in North Carolina. I disliked it when I was a kid, I wasn’t fond of visiting later when I was in college, and I still consider it a horrible waste of vacation days today. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, and I get a sense of nostalgia when I think about certain parts of home, like the BBQ, and nature, and the way the sunset looks on an Ocracoke beach. But I’m not from the beach. I’m from the middle of fucking nowhere. There are no jobs, and lots of rednecks, bigots and religious zealots. The folks who don’t fit into those categories are often rich, snotty jerks. There’s a small subset of educated, normal folks, but their kids end up moving away. Big surprise.
And even when you live in the city in NC, you’re still living in the middle of nowhere, just with big buildings and an inflated sense of pride. There are a lot of Northern transplants in NC cities, which explains some of the normalcy and more liberal attitudes that happen there, but why would I bother living in a tiny enclave of OK when I can just live in a bigger enclave of GREAT in another state? In my opinion, the only things worthwhile in NC are the mountains, the beach, and the trees, and none of those things involve civilization. I’d never move back there of my own accord, and my worst nightmare is having to move back to take care of a parent one day. Sorry if any dedicated NC folks are reading this and getting pissed off. I know there have to be lots of you good folks somewhere – I just don’t have that experience, and don’t want to keep hanging out there in the hopes of someday changing my mind.
When the family asked that I come back to NC in 2005, I thought hard. I had no money at all, and was stuck in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Would I rather let my family pay for me to come back to NC, knowing that without any money the odds were very high that I’d never be able to escape the state again? Or would I rather wing it, hope that some of my friends might be able to take it on faith that I’d pay them back for helping me out in my time of need? You can probably guess that I choose Option B. And it was a major issue. My mother, the nicest woman I’ve ever met, seriously won’t even squish an ant, disowned me for a few weeks. Refused to talk to me. My grandparents were mad for awhile, but eventually sent money. My father, who was not supposed to be talking to me, called me in secret and wired me a little cash to get me through. I am, always have been, and always will be, Daddy’s girl.
From Arkansas, the band all went our separate ways. The lead guitarist went home to Staten Island. The bass player and other singer went on a road trip to explore the American West. I got a ride to stay in Memphis with one of my best friends from college, and she put me up for a week. She also helped me buy some work clothes, fed me, and took me to the gym to work off some steam, because she’s awesome like that. During that week, a little money came through and I spent it all to rent a car. Another old friend from college had agreed to let me sleep on his couch – in Chicago. So I packed up my things (and my cat, Matthew – did I mention that I was lucky enough to evacuate with my cat?), and we drove to Chicago. It was terrifying. I wasn’t a very confident driver, and the highways around Chicago are just nerve-wracking.
I checked into my Chicago friend’s house, then we pretty much immediately left to get a beer at the local bar, The Underground Lounge. Just down the street, The Underground became my center of existence for the next five months. In fact, it changed my life. When Al (the friend) and I walked in, my homeless, travel-weary self glanced around for a moment. I could use a beer, but I didn’t have the cash for it. I didn’t know anything about Chicago. I’d never been there before, and until the last week, had never even aspired to visit. So here I was in this dark little basement bar, with a friend I hadn’t seen since college, about to try to pick up the pieces of my life, no idea what to do next. I was scared.
But that didn’t matter. Friend after friend walked up to say hi. For some reason, I didn’t know that a bunch of people I had partied with in college (mostly friends and classmates of my two best friends/roommates Trin & KT) had all moved to Chicago and remained friends after school. Besides Al, my friend Colleen was there, and Nate, and John, and AJ, and Al’s friend Zach and his girlfriend Stacy, and their friend Kristy (who would soon introduce us to Aaron and his roommate Paul), and everyone wanted to 1) offer me hugs and encouragement and 2) offer me a beer. The bartender Dave soon grew to be one of my favorite people, and it turned out that the whole crew met here every Wednesday night.
I lived in Chicago from September of 2005 until January of 2006, when I moved back to New Orleans to finally go to grad school at Tulane. It was one of the best times of my life. I reconnected for good with old friends and met a bunch of new ones. These people are still my very favorite friends. The group (plus significant others and associated friends, like Jess, one of my best friends, whom I absolutely adore, who eventually dated Paul and now dates him again, and occasionally stalks my blog though we’re the worst ever at calling, texting, emailing and letter writing) ended up becoming a huge part of my world, and my growth. When I decided to move back to Chicago from New Orleans in 2008, it was because I had missed the city and my people for the entire time I’d been gone. It was really hard leaving that community of awesomeness when we moved back here. I’d love to go back again, but jobs are hard to come by, especially for The Man, who has a painfully specific job.
Anyway, this post is one long ramble, but the basic point is this – if Katrina hadn’t have happened, I’d never have found the personal strength to just go with the flow. If I hadn’t made that leap of faith to explore what the world had to offer, I wouldn’t have showed up in Chicago. If I hadn’t moved to Chicago, I’d be about 15 friends lighter today. That’s an incredibly sad type of weight loss. Also, I wouldn’t have experienced what it’s like to live in a city that functions with some sort of efficiency, and offers an incredible array of opportunities and personalities. Not to mention, if I’d gone to North Carolina instead of Chicago, instead of broadening my horizons after New Orleans, I would have lessened them. I would have once again been surrounded by small minded bigots and churchmen, and though I’d probably have become more outdoorsy in an attempt to escape the people, my health would not have been half as fun as drinking with friends in Chicago and eating late night cheese fries at Clark Street Dog.
If I’d moved back to North Carolina, I wouldn’t have had enough money or the family support to get back to New Orleans in 2006 to start grad school. If I hadn’t started grad school, I would have saved $30k, but I would have missed out on one of the best things that’s ever happened to me (or the most irritating, depending on what day you’re talking to me) – meeting The Man. We would never have had class together, or worked together to measure the roof of an old plantation, or had that first date and conversation about the future over sushi. So where would I be now? Probably waiting tables in coastal NC, or maybe working as a secretary. I’d have less debt, and my own car, but I’d be considerably less cultured. I wouldn’t have tried so many new things or gone to Europe as many times. I wouldn’t have a host of funny & awesome friends. I probably wouldn’t have heard of Gogol Bordello. Hopefully I would have moved to the beach, but I’m not sure that I’d be that kind of person, really. I think I started becoming more of a beach person after I met The Man and hung out with his “island life” parents. Oh man, I’d never have The Man’s family, who have become so much my own in the past seven years. That’s just awful and not at all worth considering.
I’m sure I could think of more ways that life would be different, but thank goodness it’s not. I’m me, and you can’t strip the Chicago out of me. Now, if you’d like to give me a way to put it back in my current life, I’m definitely willing to listen. I’d love to go ahead and find the turning point for my next adventure…