I'm at the Treasure Bay Casino in Biloxi, Mississippi, but I'm not here to gamble.
Ever since I pulled into the parking lot and saw the hotel sign, I've had the jingle of another casino in my head: "At Treasure Chest Casino you're a winner every day! Ooooooh, I feel lucky today!" This jingle belongs to a New Orleans casino and is played on the radio a lot.
Anyway, I'm here, at the Treasure Bay (not to be confused with the Treasure Chest) for work. Admittedly, I was bummed to find out I was being detailed to some Air Force base in Mississippi during Mardi Gras, but now that I'm here it's not so bad. As a general rule, I find it hard to complain any time I'm within sight or smelling distance of saltwater.
In February the waves here on the coast at Biloxi crawl up on the white sand, whisper secrets and retreat. Thirty yards inland the gritty powder whirls in wisps around the wheels of cars passing by at 45 miles per hour on Highway 90.
There aren't many palm trees here since the storm.
To me, Biloxi looks like a little coastal casino town that was leveled by a storm surge about three years ago and is now attempting to recover during a global economic meltdown. First impressions can be misleading, but I have a feeling I'm right about this one.
Based on the view from my balcony, my hotel seems to be mostly empty. The parking lot, however, was packed full when I checked in at around 5 pm today. From the check-in desk I could see that rows and rows of penny and nickel slot machines on the first floor were occupied, as well.
Earlier today as I exited a file room at Keesler Air Force base I caught a glimpse of a breaking television news broadcast. Some old white man was yammering on (presumably a member of the Senate or House who I don't recognize). Joe Lieberman was standing behind him. The gist was that the House and the Senate had reached a deal. The economic stimulus package was to become real. I approached the television and paused, standing directly in front of it in a way I only do when History can only be witnessed by standing in front of a television and taking note of where you are. No one else in the area seemed to be paying attention. I felt a surge of simultaneous, equal and opposite emotions: intense fear and uplifting hope.
My brother, after fighting tooth and nail against a stop loss that was to take place mere months before his scheduled discharge from the Army, settled peacefully (and legally) in the Florida panhandle, free at last after experiencing the horrors of war. Before he had a chance to take a breath, however, he realized the gravity of his fate here at home: unemployment, sky-high food, fuel and housing costs and a plummeting stock market.
An old friend, living now in the Northeast, wrote last week to tell me he has unexpectedly lost his job and may have to return to the hills of Southeast Ohio.
At work, I am regularly required to take down testimonies from government workers and members of our military who have financial delinquencies, many resulting in bankruptcy and/or home foreclosure. Many of the home foreclosures described to me have been due to mortgage loans with flexible rates and balloon payments. No matter the circumstances, my job requires me to obtain all the nitty-gritty details of each individual's financial troubles. This provides me with a clear window through which to view the all-too-typical downward spiral.
I'm not allowed to react to their stories. Sometimes I secretly blame them. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I feel like crying for them. Sometimes I'm angry at them. The experiences always make me feel powerless and frightened.
Within the last few months, a handful of my family members and friends have been forced to make desperate, long-distance moves across the country for jobs that they admit aren't even that great.
Everywhere I look people seem to be hitting rock bottom suddenly, randomly. Luck seems to be the only thing anyone expects to rely on. I dream about caravans of covered wagons traveling west in search of something better. It's 2009, the end of the gold rush.
We live in New Orleans. Gabe bought a small sailboat. He has been wanting one and saving up for years, and the right one just magically appeared last weekend. So we drove to Pensacola on Sunday to have a look at it. The owner was a school teacher in the Florida panhandle. He and his wife had both recently lost their jobs and they were moving their family to Atlanta. The elementary school where he worked had gone from 1200 students to 800 within the last 2 years. Not because of the Storm (I asked). Because of the economy. The parents of the school children have lost their jobs and moved elsewhere.
For us, the silver lining seems to be that New Orleans has somehow been insulated from all of this. Of all the dire stories I've been hearing, none of them have come from our home front.
So I take what I can: I feel lucky today.
I worry for my parents in Ohio and my brother in Florida. I worry for my friends and extended family. I worry for everyone, for the relative safety and abundance we enjoy in this great country. I reserve a conservative portion of the worry for myself. We have been lucky so far. We are hardy but we are not immune.
I consider the irony that we are sheltered now in part because of our misfortune. We fell to the ground just over three years ago. We enjoy our relative safety now because we are busy with the task of picking ourselves back up.
This thought encourages me: If fraud and neglect and tragedy and disaster and hell and high water can bring economic stimulus to New Orleans, then the Nation stands a chance. The economic stimulus package stands a chance. Investing in infrastructure, no matter what the cost would seem to be a reasonable choice. Based on our American microcosm, it seems to work.
I don't know anything. I know less than nothing about macroeconomics. I know I don't want my children to pay for this. I don't think I did anything wrong; I don't think I did anything to deserve this. I refuse to be afraid. I reserve the right to be a little angry.
