Once there, we shuffled through a neverending line of other arriving Guardsmen from many different states to get chow, and then settled into enormous tents where we battled mosquitoes with bug repellent, and walked a short distance over dirt to get to the showers.
After a few days of the usual military "hurry up and wait," we headed for The Big Easy.
There, we bedded down on cots in an open hangar at Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base New Orleans, located on the outskirts of the city. We continued to fight the overbearing humidity and heat there with huge fans working overtime. It was an improvement over accommodations in Alexandria, over three hours northwest of New Orleans. Eventually, during our last two weeks there, we moved all of our belongings to the temporary lodging area that everyone called the "tent city." We tied a tarp up inside the tent and hung it over a rope as a makeshift wall to provide privacy between the men and women in our unit, and it was "Home, Sweet Home" until our departure.
My other seven unit members and I spent one month there on the base, working out of a crowded office to write, edit and transmit our stories for publication. It was a bit of a transition getting used to Army living again, but after a few days it no longer fazed me. After a full day's work, I was too exhausted to care where I lay my head at night. I thrived on the feeling that I was part of something greater than myself and found myself fueled with excitement over getting the chance to really exercise my journalistic skills. I wanted this job from the day I enlisted in the Army. But print journalist was a hard-to-come-by military occupational specialty in a small job field when I joined, and it wasn't until I'd served four years active duty as a radio communications specialist and got out and joined the Guard, that I finally attained it.
Soldiers from a Maryland public affairs unit had already been on the base for two weeks when we got there. They took us out on the first day to familiarize us in finding our way around the city. It was important that they did so, because once they left, it was up to us to get around in the communities to do our stories. I didn't know what to expect. I hung on to every word our guides said, shaking my head in disbelief as they related the things they'd seen. As I did so, I stared out the vehicle window in awe at the passing destruction. I saw enormous uprooted trees, ragged downed power lines and a high-rise hotel with blown-out windows. I saw a house where someone had marked "HELP" twice in bright, red paint on the roof, and I silently hoped whoever made the request had been found in time.
My previous concerns quickly paled in comparison to the wreckage I saw before me. Suddenly the worries of canceling business travel plans, and writing up instructions to leave with my boyfriend so he could manage my bills, faded into the background. Before I left, I had been frustrated and felt overwhelmed by the interruption of day-to-day activities. Once I came to New Orleans, I realized many of these Louisianans no longer had their everyday lives to return to, as I did. The ones who did survive were starting over from nothing, in a new town, without a loved one, or missing a home they'd lived in for decades. It just seemed a world away from Wyoming – from its mountains, dry climate and swiftly approaching winter – to this place with soaring temperatures that left clothing soaked in minutes. Being there had a way of stripping away all of the details and showing me what was most important in life. The unbreakable human spirit and rampant kindness seemed to be more valuable currency than the once precious possessions many people had lost to the hurricanes.
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