“What a year this has been” is a cliché that I just can’t resist.

A year of shock and disbelief, incredible sadness, anger and despair turning to joy (when someone you thought was lost was found safe). It has also been a year of guarded hope and optimism. It has been a roller coaster of emotions every single day for us who live here.

Last year at almost this very same time, we sent our September issue to press, and were planning a big release party at the Blue Nile to celebrate Shannon McNally appearing on the cover. Shannon was set to play the night of Monday August 29, the day Katrina blew in.

Little did anyone know that the September issue of OffBeat would be ready and printed in time for the biggest national disaster in this country’s history, and that it would sit in our printer’s warehouse for almost a month. We had plenty of magazines but no way to distribute them, no one to distribute them to, and no way to mail them to our subscribers.

We had no clue what we were in for. Little did we know that our printer would shut its doors; that all of our employees would flee to other cities (all were safe and sound, thank God. One of our advertising reps had left on Friday with her daughter to visit her parents in St. Louis, and her place was totally destroyed).

But we were the lucky ones. Our office sustained damage and so did our home, but neither was flooded. Our kids are okay. My poor mother lost her home in Slidell and everything in it, but she’s safe and well and living in Baton Rouge. Being the indomitable person she is, she seems to be thriving. My friends Sammie and Shanekah, Lolet, Irma, and so many more are not living here now. Some can’t return, some want to come back, and some say they’ll never return to the city because of what they’ve endured. It makes my heart ache.

Although we’re patching up our business thanks to our staff, subscribers, the insurance company, the folks who have helped us out with grants, and of course to our advertisers—it has been a walk in the park compared to what a lot of people have endured and are still enduring post-Katrina.

A couple of weeks ago, we took our daughter (who lives in Norway) and her friend on a “devastation tour” through the Lower Ninth, Lakeview, Gentilly, New Orleans East and Mid-City. They wanted to see for themselves if New Orleans was really that bad. Not only was it bad, it doesn’t seem to have changed since the storm, except that there are a few FEMA trailers parked in the destroyed neighborhoods.

It was shocking to them, and very disturbing to us as well. I’ve seen it several times, and it still turns my stomach and brings tears to my eyes. What is going to happen to our beautiful city? How will the miles of neighborhoods be recovered? Will they ever be rebuilt? How will people manage to rebuild their lives after this catastrophe and losing everything—their houses, possessions, loved ones and hometown?

Those questions haunt all of us who live here every single day. We grasp at threads of hope—“Great! Someone finally picked up the pile of debris in front of Helen’s house!”—only to find a few days later a much bigger, uglier pile in front of another neighbor’s house. When is the nasty construction crew from Ohio that set up business in my next-door neighbor’s house going to quit parking the 18-wheeler on the street in our neighborhood?

When can we stop expecting to hear about another teenager or 20-something man being shot dead right around the corner? When are the levees going to be repaired? When are the musicians going to be able to move back to town? When is someone going to do something about the rental housing in the city (I don’t see many apartments being built, but lots of expensive condos)? When are we going to get back to normal?

I supposed the answer is probably never. The New Orleans we know and love will never be the same. The best we can hope for is that the core of the city’s historic buildings and businesses will be repaired and survive. What really concerns me and should concern anyone who loves New Orleans deeply is that New Orleans is nothing without her people. Unless we can find a way for them to return to their city, New Orleans is going to evolve into something different, a city that may look like what it did before, but certainly will not be the same. Or feel the same.

Last evening, I watched one of Peggy Scott Laborde’s wonderful looks at New Orleans’ history on WYES (thank goodness we have people who are preserving parts of the city’s culture for future generations). I suppose, as we get older, we all want to hang on to the traditional ways. That’s especially true in this city. We want to hold on to the familiar and old, whether it is a restaurant, music, Mardi Gras practices, or a certain gingerbread on a French Quarter house. It’s what defines our culture and our New Orleans. But our people comprise our culture.

One thing worth remembering, though, is that this city is being resettled and revitalized by people for whom New Orleans’ culture is a religion. There were so many reasons not to come back—houses and family members lost, jobs left, schools that didn’t reopen—and no guarantees that we won’t have more horrific storm damage. The people who are living here now are the diehard New Orleanians who aren’t going to let New Orleans go—a note of optimism to end a year of so many sad realizations