The Patterson home welcomed the new year with a countdown and a confetti shoot-out in the front yard before rushing to bed to catch some much-needed sleep. For Christmas, our oldest son James was given a ticket to the New Orleans Saints versus Las Vegas Raiders game in New Orleans, and we had just returned from our trip earlier that morning and were exhausted.
So, you can imagine my shock to wake up on New Year’s Day with the devastating news of the Bourbon Street terrorist attack, an attack that took place just steps away from the hotel we were staying at with our young family just several hours prior.
I had not even turned on the news yet while I was making a cup of coffee before my phone started alerting me with a series of texts. Family members were making sure we didn’t decide to stay for New Year’s Eve, which was an option we tossed around. Friends who knew we had returned home earlier sent messages of “can you imagine if y’all had stayed?” Even my best friend from high school texted me, “aren’t you in New Orleans? Let me know!”
Within minutes, my family and I were gathered around the television to witness the aftermath of the tragedy. As the news stations showed clips of the area, our youngest son Jase began to share his thoughts.
“I remember seeing that crane when we walked back to our hotel room,” he said, with confusion in his voice. “Look, there is our hotel.”
Even our oldest son James remained silent as he watched the scenes from streets he had just walked, eager to celebrate a football game and get a cup of crawfish etouffee from his favorite Bourbon Street restaurant.
“We would not have been out that late, but it’s just weird to see what changed in one night,” he said. “We were just there, and everything seemed fine.”
That struck a nerve with me. Everything did seem just fine. And that is what is so frightening when these horrible types of disasters happen. Right before they do, everything seems fine.
My family and I spent three days in New Orleans, visiting museums and an aquarium. We walked the streets of the French Quarter, soaking in her sounds and characters. We sat down to delicious food, together as a family, surrounded by alligator bites, gumbo and hot bread. We drifted off to sleep, safe and happy, with the sounds of brass bands and the trolley ringing through our hotel room.
It was all fine until it wasn’t.
We were shocked to hear that a few of our friends were on Bourbon Street when the attack happened. Thankfully, they returned home safe, but I can’t imagine their mindset as they replay the scenes and fear in their heads.
But the state of happiness my family found in those New Orleans streets over the course of our three-day getaway could have been felt on any street in our country. We have never felt uneasy in any of our trips, which have taken us all over the country. We travel to these locations to make memories, share laughter, put our problems behind us, escape.
And I guess that is the point of these terrorist attacks. I am no expert and don’t claim to be, but I feel like creating a feeling of fear, uncertainty, and very much terror, is one of the goals.
It was heartbreaking to see the images that flooded our television and social media feeds of the aftermath from New Orleans. It was devastating to hear the stories of the family members and friends who lost loved ones. It was sad to hear the accounts from survivors who left the much-loved city, different and changed.
But it moved my spirit to see the footage of brass bands returning to Bourbon Street days after the attack. Residents of the French Quarter were filmed on their balconies, a few even putting American flags up. To me, it wasn’t a statement of “let’s get back to business” or “tourism is back open, all is fine,” which has been the criticism of some. To me, it was a simple move of bravery, showing that even though we can’t explain it or perhaps still have questions, we are here. And fear will not win. There is still space needed to heal. The people deserve a chance to rest and recover. But the enemy cannot win.
It was so interesting to me that just two days before the attack, my family and I spent the entire day at the World War II Museum on Magazine Street. The impressive museum really put in perspective to our three young children about the war, the country and world’s response, the tragedies, the victories, the background, the fears and the hope.
Walking through its maze of exhibits, our three children saw what their great grandparents endured from my own grandfather in Europe, Jason’s grandfather in the Pacific and our families who remained at home.
At one point, I think it all made sense to James, who stood by me as we walked through exhibits.
“I didn’t realize just how bad the enemy was or what they stood for,” he said. “I see now why the Allies had to win.”
And days later as he gathered around our home television set to witness another moment in history, I think he understood that same statement. He witnessed what the enemy stood for…and why we must come together.
