Dear Loyola,

I’m baaack!

When I left you seven years ago, we parted on good terms. I really liked working here, but the lure of fame and fortune (mostly fortune) was too strong. I packed my bags and headed east. And north.

Living above I-10 and outside Louisiana was something I’d done before, but this time was different. I was living among folks who honestly believe you have to commit lewd acts to get Mardi Gras beads, that we all talk like chef Justin Wilson, and that Emeril is from town.

I tried to fit in, to adapt. I really did. I pretended to be happy with fried catfish that grew in waters I’d never heard of. I worked each Fat Tuesday while my friends back home were reveling. I learned about the ABC stores, where liquor is sold (as opposed to the drug store or grocery), and blue laws.

At the same time, I tried to be a good ambassador for my home state, teaching people the correct pronunciation of “crawfish” and “praline” and “New Orleans” and “Tchoupitoulas.” I gave impromptu talks on Natchitoches, the oldest city in the Louisiana Purchase; the reason the Sunshine Bridge was given that name; why only dead people have buildings named after them.

I traveled around to lots of towns that end in “-ville,” populated by nice people who regrettably don’t know how to cook jambalaya. I read books by people who hadn’t spent their best years in French Quarter bars.

As fascinating as all this was, it wasn’t home. I found myself tolerating the bad accents and cultural inconsistencies in movies and TV shows about this place – you know the ones I’m talking about – longing for a glimpse of something familiar.

After weeping along with the rest of the world through August and September of 2005, I tried to help people understand why anyone would want to live in a place that could so easily be devastated again and again. How do you explain “home” to someone whose notion of this part of the world is that it’s sordid and sad?

No longer willing to be silent while newspaper columns and reader’s letters questioned efforts (and funding) to recover and rebuild, I took issue in writing with those who decreed it God’s will that 300 years of art, history, music, culture and life be destroyed as penance for decadence, partying, a laissez-faire attitude and corrupt politics.

I knew I had to come back. First it was for a few days. Following the advice of the Convention and Visitors Bureau, I spent money eating in restaurants, buying local products and souvenirs. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to roll up my sleeves and get to work on whatever little things I could do to help.

And then it hit me. I could move back.

Amid the “bon voyages” of my friends and colleagues were questions and disbelief. Why would I want to come back to a city still reeling from disaster, staggering under the burden of failed government “assistance,” riddled with more crime than usual? What compelled me to return to the scene, with a governor in prison, a mayor becoming a laughingstock, a Congressman under indictment?

It was easy. It’s Louisiana. It’s almost business as usual.

Loyola welcomed me back with open arms, as did the city and state. I run into old friends almost every day, reminding me of how small this town really is. They seem truly glad to see me, after all this time. They warn me that things are different. We all know that’s an understatement.

It’s hard some days, but it’s hard everywhere. Try living for five years in a town with no Target.

In this new version of New Orleans, I worry that my Volkswagen will get lost in a giant pothole or that my rent will go up so much I’ll be living in that Volkswagen. The “open 24 hours” establishments that I used to frequent now keep banker’s hours. Tempers are short; lines are long. It took almost three hours to get my driver’s license. It’s taken nearly two months to find furniture, and my purchases won’t arrive for two to three months.

I try to remember how fortunate I am. Not many miles from where I live are houses still awaiting demolition crews. Furniture is the least of those homeowners’ worries.

And while so much has changed, not everything is different. Every day on campus I see eager students from all around the world who’ve chosen to come to Loyola, despite what some might say are compelling reasons to be anywhere else. I hear half-formulated plans for meeting at The Boot or The Fly. I can’t miss the half-hearted grumblings of sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated seniors counting the days until graduation.

I recently saw a bumper sticker with the lyrics to that old song, “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?” I sure do. I know exactly what it means.

With my apologies to Tom Wolfe, you can go home again. I did.

Valerie Andrews is a professor in the School of Mass Communication.