THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME

“Wow Houston has too many lanes on their highway! Jumoke, I promise I can drive. I know I just got my license like three months ago, but I don’t feel like we should take another break for you to rest. Mama Jama and Nadia keep barking at each other. They are also sick of being in this car. We have been driving for over 20 hours.”

Actually, this is nothing new, we always evacuate for hurricanes. We were just in Houston last year and we stayed here for two days. This year, two days passed, two weeks, two months, and now over 2 years with only two shirts. All because two days after the ordeal, the levees broke. Overnight, I became a refugee, beggar, homeless and misplaced.

With all this came the nauseous nostalgic feeling of void. I miss my red beans and rice, crawfish, shrimp and jambalaya. Festivities such as Mardi Gras, Crawfish Festival, Essence Festival and Jazz Fest. I definitely can’t forget fleur de lies, bounce music, wife beaters in the summer, Manchu Chicken, and Easter on the lake.

Then it was deemed safe enough for residents to only visit to see the state of their property. The glorious thought of going home filled my brain. This was interrupted by plots with gates and only brownish gray grass occupying the space where the houses used to be. A dusty gloom was downcast on the whole city. Gone were the birds chirping, second lines and random backyard crawfish broils. Instead, I saw rows of unoccupied homes with interesting signs on them. Every single home, after home, after home, after house, after building. Spray painted signs indicating no one was in the house. Signs screaming that someone needed to be rescued in the house. Signs whispering that someone was dead in the house. Signs eulogizing about the tombs of dead pets in the house. Signs inviting families back to the house. Signs announcing that the house had to be demolished due to water damage and mold infestation.

And then I finally got to my house. I was welcomed by a single pair of green and black Pumas sitting on my drive way. “How did it get here?” I thought. I remember putting it in the coat closet right before evacuation. The overgrown bush of dead grass snatched my attention. What happened to the lawn I used to be so proud of, with all its array of colors that appealed to all my senses. I stood outside confused, scared, sad, nervous, uncertain and trying to build up courage to go inside. To my surprise my door was unlocked. It was later told that rescuers went through my house to make sure no one was there.

As I walked in, I had to readjust my eyes to the gloominess of the interior. The stench was breathtaking. It smelled like if I stayed there any longer, I would have contracted an incurable disease. So I stepped back out and got some protective gear my home was unrecognizable to me, it was too blurry. Blurry from my unstoppable tears, blurry from the feeling of pure and raw pain, blurry from my confusion, blurry from disbelief, blurry from my lack of acceptance, blurry from my realization that this foreign place was not home.

So we returned to our rented pseudo-home and realized that permanent plans had to be made in the space city to help us regain the sense of normalcy. We purchased a house that will do, but is still not home. Open wounds have stopped us from furnishing and decorating. Pure pleasure is derived from opening my door and seeing the ray of light in the house. Light has a whole new meaning to us and has instilled in us a new ritual: opening up all the blinds in the house every morning everyday.

Next month will make the three year anniversary of my new life, and I have seen the twinkle of light in my beloved jazz city. The light reflects in the eyes of a little boy with his Native American costume on. The intricate beading and the red, yellow, blue, green and orange feathers stirred up something in me. And it suddenly struck me, I am home. Can you see the light?