As I walked down Royal Street an hour ago, a man was perched on the top of a huge dumpster, one of the many testaments to Hurricane Katrina that surround us here in New Orleans. Even in the Bywater bubble, where many of those of us who are fortunate enough to have housing in New Orleans live, signs of destruction and recovery are constant. The industrious young man wass ripping open boxes, a cart improvised from a cast iron chaise lounge with wheels stood loaded next to the dumpster. “Anything good?” I asked him. He looked down at me, mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes, but his voice was friendly. “Yeah,” he answered, “who ever lived here was a glass blower.” I walked closer to his cart and saw that it was filled with broken pieces of hand blown glass. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

Unfortunately, neither mayoral candidate fits into the latter category for me. I’ve just returned from pushing the buttons at the local voting station. It took less than 30 seconds, but my speed was due neither to enthusiasm nor to conviction. Since I returned to New Orleans last Saturday, I have found myself in the uncomfortable position of supporting Landrieu, a candidate who inspires ambivalence. But Nagin already dropped the ball; better to go with someone who has a chance of being decent, right? I have the same resigned feeling I did during the 2004 presidential election. Nowadays, voting is like buying tampons. Necessary? Yes. Fun? No.

So I’ve done my job. A friend is on her way over. We’ll watch the election returns together, like my parents did with their friends when I was little. Election parties always seemed so boring. Even tonight I’m not watching out of excitement; I’m watching because it’s part of the fate I’ve chosen. I will participate in the rebuilding of this city in any way I can. I didn’t choose to be born in New Orleans, but I choose to stay here, come hell or high water.