Pygmy Paradise
by Andrea Boll

Andrea Boll and her daughter, Athena (pictured above), on the child-like wonder of living in a tropical paradise.

It’s not all bad, however. The trailer did come with a few perks. LDS, the Church of Latter Day Saints, had graciously packed a box of goodies: silverware, plates, pots, pans, and surprisingly, no book of Mormon (which, my former home, the Marriott, did have). The government provided a trashcan with stiff, white sheets, pillows, blue blankets from France, a broom, a dust pan, and a coffee maker. The coffee maker was the weirdest part because it’s NICE. I mean really nice—top quality. Why, out of all the things the government did or gave (trailers, levees, rescuing, MREs) is the coffee maker the one thing they didn’t scrimp on? The only reason I could come up with after living here for a few months is that in a rare moment of foresight, they realized we would barely be able to function on a good day, and if we didn’t have decent coffee, then we really wouldn’t be able to get out of bed.

Other parents might have wondered if moving to a mold infested neighborhood with nothing but devastation (or, as Athena calls them, “broken houses”) would be a smart or even responsible move, but really, my street in Gentilly has become quite kid-friendly—ideal almost. Our yard is a giant sandbox. Woodpeckers that didn’t exist pre-Katrina peck merrily at the telephone poles to the delight of Athena. She chases after the feral cats and homeless dogs. There is no crime and no traffic. We take wagon rides and find all sorts of things to play with: Big Wheels, deflated balls, small slides—anything that’s plastic more or less made it intact and can be washed with bleach to be played with again.

At night with no TV, no internet, I pretend that we live in the country, that it was a deliberate choice to live simply, surrounded by nothing but solitude and silence. I light a fire in the chimney that had stayed mired to our porch during the flood, heavy as an anchor, and tell Athena to make wishes on the stars we can now see. Luckily, she is still too young to be scared of the bangs and slams echoing in the darkness from the abandoned houses that sound too much like angry ghosts looking for their living.