(ST. BERNARD PARISH, LOUISIANA, 4-12?-06)

It was the only sign of life for miles.  THREE FREE HOT MEALS A DAY!  EMERGENCY COMMUNITIES.  MADE WITH LOVE CAFÉ AND GRILL. 

I parked the car and walked toward two enormous domed tents.

They guarded a small city of camping tents, Army tents, porta-potties, and even a few teepees. 

Tractor-trailers had been converted into giant refrigerators, powered by generators that shook the ground.  There was a “Free Store” where people could bring or take clothes and food.  A mother emerged with her son, holding an armful of food, including an old, spotted a jar of spaghetti sauce.  Stray dogs were everywhere.

Inside the largest were rows of picnic tables, each with a vase of flowers and salt and pepper shakers.  High on the wall were four wide windows shaped like water droplets, which at first glance I thought were teardrops. 

Lining the perimeter was a “Rehydration Station” for water, a condiment area for mealtimes, a library, and a small upright piano. 

I caught my reflection in a dusty mirror.  I had a thick black beard, hardly distinguishable from my leathery skin.  My arms, chest, and shoulders were bigger.  I looked dirty.  I was dirty.

But it wouldn’t matter here in Emergency Communities, where people seemed to treat their bodies like blank canvases.  Men and women alike wore long, flowery skirts and weathered sandals.  Many of the men donned beards, and several had mohawks.  The women seemed gentle, often in t-shirts and tank tops, hair in their armpits.  But the more I tried to find a pattern, the more I found it was impossible to do.  Everyone here was truly their own creation, or rather, they seemed to create and erase and re-form their identities on the spot, if only to prove the futility of identity in the first place.  Anyone could be anything, anytime, as long as they helped the camp.  Just outside the dome, several men had begun to grill the pork for that night’s supper. One of them was, probably in his seventies, had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and wore a long black dress, pearls around his neck, and sunglasses.

——

The line of residents who came to the Made with Love Café and Grill for dinner extended out of the tent, far into the parking lot, and onto the abandoned street.  These people, most of whom had once lived financially comfortable lives, weren’t coming here because it was free food.  They were coming here because it was the only food.  I dumped a serving of carrot soufflé onto each plate.  I helped make it.