Survivor’s Syndrome Redux
by Dana Harrison-Tidwell

Dana Harrison-Tidwell explores the relationship between shame, fame, and the guilt of surviving on the anniversary of several undoings.

I am ashamed.

I am guilty.

Let me explain. John Mark Karr was arrested yesterday in Bangkok, Thailand, for the murder of JonBenét Ramsey. Various headlines reminded me that JonBenét was found dead on my 28th birthday, December 26, 1996.

I am ashamed I cannot recall what I was thinking almost 10 years ago on that day – my own birthday.

Since I cannot remember, the news of the murder of an innocent girl must not have made much of an impression. I am ashamed that I cannot recall what I was doing when I – a woman who had been judging beauty pageants all over the Southeast for 10 years – heard the news that JonBenét was found dead by her father in the basement. I was close to the industry that took a huge one-two from the media in the aftermath following a little girl’s death, and yet … the gravity of it simply did not sink in.

I realize that many such reports of unthinkable, unbearable crimes have simply floated through my life without leaving the distinct footprint which their weight should carry.

I am guilty of apathy.

I look at the calendar. Today is 10 days before the first anniversary of my flight from New Orleans at 3AM, one hour after Katrina turned Cat 4 and four hours before she yawned into Cat 5.

I have started to remember random details of my life in the days as it revolved around Katrina, and for not facing those details sooner, for not meeting Katrina head on, for not staying and helping or housing others, for not leaving my door at least unlocked, I am both ashamed and guilty.

The very thought of Katrina torques my love/hate with New Orleans almost to the point of heartbreak today, and I read the lines in the Reuters article over and over again:

Karr told the Associated Press: "I am so very sorry for what happened to JonBenét. It's very important for me that everyone knows that I love her very much, that her death was unintentional, that it was an accident." When asked what had happened when JonBenét died, he replied: "It would take several hours to describe that. It's a very involved series of events that would involve a lot of time. It's very painful for me to talk about it."

Twisted beyond help. Sick fucker. Detached and with little remorse, this man raped and murdered a little girl, then hid her in her own parents’ basement. Though he claims to have loved her, he got the hell out of Dodge, didn’t he? Wove himself almost seamlessly into other parts of the country, then other parts of the world. He doesn’t want to talk about it now – it’s too painful. He’s so very sorry. Mea culpa.

Sound familiar, though? It does to me. Karr’s words are almost exact duplicates of my own when I speak about my “Katrina Experience.”

For this, I am ashamed. I am guilty.

As Katrina’s first anniversary seeps up into media redux, anniversary news editions, “Where Were You When The Levees Came Down” features on websites all over the world, I realize I have spent a year pretending to weave myself into a Southwestern culture into which I don’t really fit. I have spent a year wallowing in self-righteous self-impotence when I could – should – have been doing something, anything, to help rebuild the city I called alternately “Hell” and “Home” for seven years. I have spent a year sitting in the middle of my new living room in my new life, looking around at all the New Orleans I was able to save, and feeling I somehow don’t deserve any of it. I have spent a year feeling I cheated, somehow. A year afraid to talk to my friends who went back to (or never left) New Orleans because most of them lost everything. And I lost nothing. Nothing.

I don’t know how long it will take to unfreeze myself from this huddled holding pattern I’ve looped myself into. I don’t know, honestly, if I can break it. But I do know that I’ll never again forget the date John Mark Karr killed JonBenét Ramsey, and I know that I’ll never forget the date Katrina wounded New Orleans almost – almost – mortally.

Karr, I have no doubt, has a few days left before he’s shanked in prison. He’s weary of running, I think, and surely knows what happens to child molesters and murderers in the joint. The best he can do is tell his truth, try to keep breathing long enough to tell what really happened.

The best I can do now is start facing mirrors again, and be honest.

Yes. I am still ashamed. Yes. I am still guilty.

But I’ve stopped trying to rise above this year. No. I’m learning now, slowly, that to repair some of my own damage, I can’t ever stop remembering.

Dana Harrison-Tidwell is a writer and editor for a small publishing company in New Mexico. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from UNO, and still considers New Orleans “home.” She can be reached at dhtidwell@yahoo.com.