Discovering My Inner JAP in the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans

I always wanted to the kind of person who could “rough it.” I admired my peers who did Outward Bound-type programs every summer, and the families who went camping for spring break. My only experience that remotely mimicked camping was a three-day-long sixth grade trip to a YMCA somewhere an hour outside of Philadelphia. I still remember sobbing uncontrollably when I learned that I would have to pee in the woods, during a day-long hike to some sort of rock forest. Eight years and a few more outdoor bathroom trips later (I was stuck in toilet-less terrain quite a few times during cross country meets in high school), I thought that I would be mature enough to endure a week of “roughing it” in order to perform some valuable community service and spend my spring break in a warm locale. I was wrong. All I knew before I arrived in New Orleans last week was that I would be sleeping in the basement of a church in the Lower Ninth Ward. It was spring break, and I had signed up to do Hurricane Katrina clean-up in the most hard-hit area of the city. I was instructed to bring a sleeping bag, but I wasn’t too worried – after all, I had borrowed a high-tech Northface sleeping bag (with a hood!) for the trip. The “church” turned out to be a huge, gutted-out building adjacent to a large, busy street, a parking lot and three non-flushing porta-pottis. A sink-like contraption was filled with stagnant water, not suitable even for teeth-brushing. We were warned to throw out all food we may have brought, due to the “cat-sized” rats that inhabited the building. I considered my options: should I keep my chai tea-flavored Luna bars, at the risk of tripping over a rat on my way to the portapotti at night, or should I subsist off meals from the soup kitchen across the street for the whole week? I was torn. This was inner-city camping. Considering the third-world conditions that New Orleans residents had to suffer through during and after the storm, my complaints felt incredibly selfish and trivial. I reminded myself of this fact as I sat on my mattress during the first night of the trip, contemplating the five nights ahead of me. But though I had been highly anticipating the trip, and I was excited to clean up the Lower Ninth Ward, I simply could not shake my urge to flee to a cheap motel and commute to the site for the rest of the week. I was struck with a troubling notion: despite my thirteen years of Quaker school education, which emphasized service and simplicity over comfort, I was still sort of a Jewish American Princess. I lasted the week in the church, but my friend and I traveled by cab to different areas in New Orleans every evening, to eat, explore and, of course, go to the bathroom. (I have a list of all the bathrooms I visited in New Orleans, ranked from best to worst, in case you’re interested.) But my first night back to school, in my narrow twin bed and with three flushing toilets down the hall, was glorious.
Despite my shame at my inability to adapt, I think I have officially shaken my dream of becoming a person who can “rough it.” I will never be like the girl in my high school who slept in a hammock in her backyard, just because she liked the fresh air. Hell, I may never even go anywhere without a flushing toilet again. I’m a JAP. At least now I know.