~~~Ill Mannered and Occasionally Unseemly Outbursts~~~
"If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to be a horrible warning." --Catherine Aird
This was sent to me in my email from one of the premier local blogger/activists, Karen Gadbois. Since I know so many of you reading my blog are out of towners, I wanted to post this in toto. It's important and really wonderful.
Please, if you have it in your heart, send some bucks to these folks. We know how they feel and know how much public generosity meant to us.
A collaboration has been formed between Beacon, LCIA and Episcopal Diocese. We have started a fundraising campaign for the flood victims of Iowa. We will buy gift cards to give to displaced residents that can be used for clothing, food, water or building materials. On-line donations can be made through our website: www.lakewoodbeacon.org using PayPal or Just Give. Please make checks payable to Beacon of Hope and write Iowa in the memo. Checks can be dropped off or mailed to: 6268 Vicksburg Street, NOLA 70124 or 145 Robert E. Lee Blvd., Ste. 210, NOLA 70124. All donations are tax deductible as we are a qualified 501(c)3. Donations received will not be spent on our travel expenses.
Connie Uddo, Al Petrie and me, Denise Thornton, are going to Cedar Rapids, Iowa on July 13 through 17th. The Episcopal Diocese and Vineyard Church have already set up a distribution centers and camps in Quincy and Cedar Rapids. There are approximately 5,000 displaced residents in Cedar Rapids. We're taking Chef Mark Uddo to do a community dinner, New Orleans style. The distribution center will get flyers out in advance of our arrival. We will hold workshops like contractor fraud & mold remediation. We will hand out the gift cards at the dinner in exchange for their contact information and we'll start a database and try to identify a Beacon Administrator and a Volunteer Coordinator. We're taking the Beacon Procedure Manual. We will make contact with government leaders. I have obtained letters of support from our city council and police department which will give us instant creditability in that arena. Connie's 18 year old daughter is going with us and she'll try to start a Youth Recovery Program which will involve the high school(s). We have learned so much about our own recovery that will be helpful to them long after we're gone. If any of you have any thoughts or ideas on how we can make this trip more productive, please let me know..
So nothing's been posted here for a long time. Here's why.
I was out with a friend a few nights ago. We talked about his recent trip to France, various family stories, how squinting one's eyes to really helps one see what the Impressionists were doing. We also talked about the last three months in my life, and my determination to write a ruefully sardonic piece called, "I Know Too Many People Who Die," playing a bit on the inevitability of death. He laughed and then said, "Hey, you live in New Orleans where people have always been on a first name basis with Death. Why do you think we have Mardi Gras?"
We both have dark senses of humor, and that's one reason we're such good friends.
Nevertheless, the last three months have made me wonder if I need to just turn this blog into an obituary column and be done with it. Three months, three deaths. Okay, four actually, but one had had a good run and had been ill for a while, so fell into the "very sad but inevitable" category. The other three came outta nowhere. We've had lots of folks telling us, "Well, ya know, you're getting to that age!" Yup, true enough, but these three all in a row just don't fit that truism.
April brought the loss of Ashley Morris. A firebrand, an activist. A young man, only in his 40's, leaving a wife and three pre-school children. All of us who knew him have written something about the void he has left, and we still instinctively click his link with our morning coffee. Gratefully his wonderful wife has taken over his blog and keeps us in touch with what's going on with her. We are all concerned. (BTW, we did collectively get a donation point together as the family needed and continues to need some help. Let's not let that dry up. Please remember Ashley and help his family by making a donation at: http://www.rememberashleymorris.com/ or you can just click the photo of the young man with the hat on on the upper right side of this blog.) Young man, young family, sudden heart attack. In typical New Orleans fashion, one of the first responses to the news was, "Geez, I am REALLY hoping this is an April Fool's joke." His funeral was also terribly sad, but raucous, with donations of food, booze, cigars, books, beads, you name it, tucked into the coffin with him. The wonderfully understanding funeral director asked tentatively, "Um, does all this go WITH him?" Well of COURSE it does was the answer. His interment was followed by wild dancing, life affirming celebration and roller skating.
He's still very much missed but we got through the initial sadness, knew we couldn't do a thing about it, and continued on. What else can ya do? But the "getting over it" doesn't just take a week or some particular increment of time on a calendar. There's no such thing as the definition for time of grief: Grief: an emotion that generally evolves into acceptance within two weeks of the initial loss. Uh uh. It just ain't like that. Anyone who's lost a loved one can tell you that.
So while still feeling that loss, May arrived. The phone rang and my sister told me that my Mama's husband had passed. He'd been ill for a long time. He wasn't hurting anymore. I felt for my Mama, she'll miss him. But this was the "sad but inevitable" death. It was different. Still I felt badly for Mama, and was out running some errands that day when I got hungry. I stopped into Buffa's on our corner for a quick burger, and upon sitting down heard the bartender say, "I just can't believe it! It's not LIKE Little Kenny at ALL." She continued to talk for a bit before it clicked in who she was talking about and I asked, "What? What are you talking about?" I'm really quick on the uptake. A look of horror came over her face as the horrible words, "Oh my god, you haven't heard" came out of her mouth, slowly, with lots of distortion and reverb. "Haven't heard what?" came my voice, barely audible, with an echo. Then came the story, quickly, like water over a levee, it poured down on me fast and dirty and cold.
"Mid-City Couple Stabbed to Death" read the headline.
Ms. Brenda, as we called her, Brenda Joyce Lee Jackson as she was named at birth, and Kenneth Lewis were stabbed to death in their home on Orleans Avenue, allegedly by Mr. Lewis' 20 year old son. They hadn't been found for a couple days, it was Little Kenneth who found them, and it was Little Kenneth who turned himself in days later. Each had been stabbed more than ten times. This was a real horror show.
Ms. Brenda had cooked at Buffa's for years, ever since the storm I think. She had cooked for the Rising Tide folks as we held meetings there last year. She was a good friend of mine, and I had intended for her to be my first Katrina's Daughter, but she worked so hard with a difficult schedule that we never could get the hour or so I wanted to just sit and listen. I did, however, get some of her story in bits and pieces as I'd stand in the kitchen at Buffa's and talk to her while she cranked out burgers and fries and tamales and BLT's. She had lived in a hotel up until about 6 months ago having been unable to find an affordable place to rent since the storm, and this woman wasn't making buckets of money, nor did she collect welfare, nor did she get thousands from FEMA and buy a big screen TV. She worked. It's what she did all her life. She came from LaPlace, pretty much raised her 11 brothers and sisters, was devout in a non-pushy kind of way. She didn't smile often, but always when I'd say hello and hug her, or my grandson would go into her kitchen and ask her to make him a burger "you know how I like it" with a big grin on his face. She'd just light up and make it special. If he saw her walking to work, trudging slowly down our block, he'd run up the block to give her a hug. She'd see him coming and then, boy then, she smiled. She was so thin we worried she'd work herself to death. At 57 years old, she wouldn't have known what to do besides work and "do" for someone else. She wrote poetry, had copyrighted a piece about 25 yrs ago. Always wanted me to read it but we could never find it and the only copy had been washed away in Katrina's waters. She was very proud of it. She was proud of having written it and under different life circumstances she probably would have been a teacher. She would have been good at it.
She was so quiet that we've all been searching for three weeks for one photograph of her. Finally I heard the other night we might just have one.
Actually she did teach. She taught me patience and forbearance and how to make a roux, which of course, requires both. One night she was thinking about making a gumbo I think it was. She said, "Well, first you need a roux." I told her I didn't know how to make one, hanging my head in shame. Looking shocked, she started firm but clear instructing: "You need flawr and erl. That's all you need girl, and a patient arm." She poured the ingredients into a huge cast iron skillet, checked the heat, and handed me a spoon. "Stir," she said. "How long?" I asked. "I'll let ya know when it be done." So I stirred, and I stirred, and I stirred. Occasionally she'd come over and nod and smile, other times she'd come over and tell me to smell it, "It need to smell like that, then you know you got the proportions right. Keep stirring." I stood there stirring for an hour and a half, but when she finally decided it was done, it was a glorious brown, "You gotta watch for the right color. Proportion, smell, color, consistency, that's what make a roux right." I thanked her, she thanked me and we both laughed in the narrow kitchen as the owner came in and said that we hadn't made enough, needed more. She was a sweet friend, sometimes sitting on my stoop talking before she went off to make yet more burgers.
Kenneth Lewis was a Mardi Gras Indian, "Wild Man" member of the Fi Yi Yi Mardi Gras Indians, had graduated from Mc35, was pretty well known around. He was 46. He often did odd jobs at Buffa's and he and Ms. Brenda had lived together on and off for ten years. He had gentle eyes, drank a little too much, couldn't be relied upon mostly, but every time he saw my grandson he'd teach him another Mardi Gras Indian song, his eyes sparkling. He had lost his suit and all his beads and feathers in the storm. I had a fishing tackle box full of beads, so I took it over and told him to take what he wanted. He was so grateful, kept saying I understood how expensive those beads could be and was I sure I wanted to give them away. One day about a year ago, my grandson and I were approaching the corner of Burgundy and Esplanade, and I heard "Mighty Kootie Fiyo on a Mardi Gras Day, If ya don’t wanna play get the hell out the way!" then Kenneth's face appeared around the corner of the building and he smiled and danced and taught my grandson how to say those words correctly.
His son, Kenneth Johnson, or Little Kenneth (always somehow pronounced without the final H, like Kennet) turned himself in and has been charged with the horrific crime. This is a bafflement. This was not the "nice quiet young man" that you knew would snap. The cops couldn't find more than a traffic ticket on his record. He didn't hang with gangs, I never saw him even drunk. We talked a lot about his going to college. I'd often see him as I walked my grandson home from school, or when I stopped into the Esplanade Mart across from Port of Call. He lived upstairs and would sit on the stoop sometimes watching his nieces and nephews and we'd say hi and talk a little. I would have trusted him with anything. He has not confessed, contrary to some printed reports. If he did it we all want to know why. I mean, really, WHY??? What kinda rage does twenty stab wounds take? Was this sweet kid really capable of that? No one knows. The rumors are rampant. My personal thought on the subject is probably Kenneth, Sr. owed someone some money, but I can't prove a thing and don't know anything first hand. I do know that Kenneth had a huge Mardi Gras Indian funeral. Ms. Brenda was quietly laid to rest with no fan fare, probably in LaPlace. Everyone wants to do some kind of memorial for her. She was a friend/aunt/mother to so many and suddenly she was gone. Neither of them deserved this kind of violent end, and Little Kennet::::::::::::::all I can do is shake my head cuz I can't put that kid and this act in the same context::::::::::: If he did it, then there are three ruined lives here. I have more to say on that, but I'll save that for another time.
So April, May, June.
The phone rings. A friend who had moved to Portland. "So good to hear from you," I say. Then come the words, "I guess you haven't heard." "He's gone," say I. "Yes," she says. "Overdose?" "No, brain hemorrhage on his 34 1/2 birthday." I was gasping for air.
Adam "Dean" Lutz, 34, died suddenly in San Francisco. Memorial was this Monday past. We all knew he'd be a short timer on this planet. He was too sensitive, too brilliant, too brave, just too bright a flame to last. We nevertheless all hoped that he'd be like the birthday candles that you can blow out and they come back, blow 'em out again, and back they come. Nope. Nice idea though.
Dean, as we all knew him, was also known to denizens of Checkpoint Charlie's Bar, Grill and Laundromat as Patient Zero. I had started a short story on him and that place about a year ago. Read part of it at his memorial and evidently touched some people with it so I guess now I'll have to really finish it since I can't bear the thought of both him and the story being unfinished forever. He'd slosh down the beer, a xanax, smoke a bowl, then come out with some of the most insightful and interesting comments before launching into either an flagrantly political song or a patently obscene one. He had put out a CD, which included one of his fans' all-time favorites, "Vote Like a Fag," the actual title of which is "Go Ahead." In this song he tells everyone to vote "like they're gonna act." The guy was the bravest bastard I ever saw. Ever the clown but always the philosopher. At the memorial as we're coming through the Marigny in the second line, more than one of us expected him to be onstage when we got to Checkpoint's laughing and saying, "Hey, y'all, I figured this would be a good way for me to announce my homecoming! Tell everyone my head exploded! Hey, Shayne, can ya get me a Jaeger?" laughing with his neon orange dreadlocks shaking around his head. He would have loved that. He would have written a song about his cause of death, I can almost hear him now, hollering, "My head exploded! Don't ya LOVE it? Now ya all KNEW that's what would happen! Too bad I couldn't have figured out a way to do it at my Halloween show! And believe it or not, my tox screen was virtually CLEAN, man! No kidding!" It was, as it turned out, virtually clean. Everyone danced, cried, laughed, and sang along with his songs at the memorial Monday night. His guitar will now be a permanent fixture at Checkpoint's, a dubious honor to most, but he'd love it.
June is almost over. I will probably not answer the phone in July. I will most assuredly hang up if I hear the words, "Oh my god, I guess you haven't heard." No, I won't really. I'm too curious for that. I could, however, stand a month of not being on a first name basis with death. A month where I didn't hear the word "memorial." One single month where my poor white handkerchief wasn't going to flap in the wind to a second line for a funeral. We'll see.
Below is a compilation of various performances of his song, "Go Ahead." It is copyrighted by big medicine production, shot and edited by Michael Bradley. If you have a problem with a warped sense of humor or four letter words, don't click the video. If you're curious, please do, then you can "Come and MAYBE Get It" as he named his CD. The editing can be a bit jarring, but we're so grateful to Michael for getting this footage of three different performances (in fact, you can hear my husband hollering "we KNOW that, Dean" in one of them), it's worth the time to watch it all the way through. Then, maybe if you're really brave, go watch "I am the WalMart" at his website.
. . . .I saw this this morning. If you have an aversion to the F word, don't watch this. If you have an aversion to Bill O'Reilly and a perverse sense of humor, DO watch this.
EDIT: YOUTUBE PULLED THIS VIDEO AS YOU'LL SEE IF YOU CLICK THE FIRST VIDEO. BREAK.COM APPARENTLY STILL HAS IT AND THE SECOND VIDEO SHOULD PLAY. AT LEAST AS OF 2:30pm TODAY.
EDIT #2: BREAK.COM TOOK IT OFF AS WELL BUT IT CAN STILL BE FOUND, AT LEAST FOR TODAY AT http://gawker.com/5008668/bill-oreilly-meltdown-resurfaces
We couldn't make it to JazzFest this year---ticket prices too high and too long a walk yet for the husband. We were seriously miserable about it. But thanks to WWOZ (yes, Loki, I will post this over there later today) LiveWire, we heard that Bonerama was playing at dba on Frenchman St. at midnight Saturday night. He could walk the four or five blocks from our house to Frenchman St.
So off we went at 12:30AM for a late night date to get the cobwebs blasted out of our heads with bone and rum. It worked, quite nicely, although we spent most of Sunday a bit hungover after being out there til after 3AM. Frenchman Street was jammed, dba was jammed, and Bonerama dragged our spirits out of the gutter and blasted them all over New Orleans. Half the crowd was singing Whipping Post at the top of their lungs, almost, but not quite, overtaking the sheer volume of the band. Glasses overhead, brass screaming, people singing, "Good Lord, I feel like I'm dying," with big grins on their faces.
I found this very short clip from the Louisiana Music Factory at YouTube. This should help you through your Post-Fest Blues.
Oh yeah, and Part 2 is being written, so enjoy the light side here while ya can.
As you all have no doubt noticed, I have posted very little for months now. There are a few reasons for that, but one of them is very definitely a feeling of impotence and an overwhelming anger at that sense of impotence. And grief. In the last nine months I have lost three friends, seems one every three months. That can put a dent in ya. Oh yeah, and those deaths, while personal were accompanied by news reports of lots of other deaths, which while less personally effecting, still registered and ramped up the grief and impotence.
As most of you know, my husband had a terrible accident in September. Certainly the posts shrivelled up during that time as he was in bad shape and needed some help. Naturally that became my first priority. But there was something else seething inside that I haven't written about in all these months. Now it's time I did.
The night my husband was wheeled into the ER at Charity Hospital was a nightmare and totally surreal. Was anything broken? Was he going to be alright? He was scraped up from head to toe and in shock thinking giddily that he'd be back out giving tours in two days. Hell, he told the ambulance guys they could go and he'd just finish the tour he had been doing---nevermind that people were bringing him his shoe from up the block and his hat from down the block and his glasses and his. . . . .personal debris all up and down St. Philip. Any one wanting his DNA could have sent a CSI guy to scrape the street and they'd have had plenty. I had asked the ambulance driver where they were taking him as I had no earthly clue where a hospital was, or which hospitals were now open. He told me, "Glue your front bumper to my back bumper and run all the red lights I do." So I did, almost getting broadsided in the process, but I got to the hospital and was there as they wheeled my husband in.
One of the EMT's looks at me and says blithely, "Ya know, the last fatality in New Orleans was on that very gurney your husband is on now," as though that's supposed to make me feel better. He follows with, "Dammit, I forgot to take my Risperdal today, I have notes all over the house saying TAKE YOUR MEDS STUPID but I keep forgetting." He laughed long and heartily over all this and I chalked it up to the black humored stress of being an EMT in New Orleans.
Hours go by as they x-ray, examine, set up IV's, examine again, do more x-rays. In the curtained area down from my husband was a woman, very large, ageless in that way that could be 40 or could be 70, who knew. She was pretty much unaware of her surroundings but was conscious and awake, just not there if you know what I mean. She had had an accident of some kind in her home, days ago, and had only just been found by a neighbor. It gave me the willies that some poor soul like her could spend days without anyone noticing she wasn't among them.
More hours go by. I go outside to have a cigarette, it's very late at night and I guess most of the docs and nurses were on break. They were all out there smoking, comparing types of cigarettes, talking about how bombed they were last weekend, just having a wonderful time. It was encouraging in a weird perverse way, at least for me. But by now it had been many hours and I still didn't know exactly what the damage was to my husband. I was getting impatient, asking questions, getting no answers, filling out more papers, trying to reach my daughter by phone which turned out to be a futile exercise but kept me busy hitting the redial button on the cell phone.
Suddenly all hell broke loose about 1AM.
People were running all over the ER, hollering "Seven shot at Charbonnet and Royal in the Lower 9. They're bringing four of them here." A nurse breathlessly tells me that they'll have to move my husband, so he's moved over behind a curtain to the left. The ambulances can already be heard screaming in the distance, the sound getting closer.
BAM! The doors of the ER slide/slam open and the first gurney is wheeled in. I was leaned up against the wall near my husband's bed at the edge of the curtain. A once white sheeted gurney passes me, it is now crimson with blood soaked everywhere, four people are running with it, some pushing it some holding the IV bags. On it is a young black man, no older than 20, 23 at the outside. He seems to be bleeding from everywhere. One doctor says quietly, "Take him to the OR. He'll probably be paralyzed. Bullet hit his spine." The young man, unconscious and bloody slides past me and is gone. Two cops walk in through the sliding doors and deposit large brown paper grocery sacks. They are labelled in large hand scribbled sharpie: UNKNOWN BLUE 50051484, UNKNOWN PURPLE 50051485. The bags contained any personal belongings that had been found at the scene. There might have been another one, I can't remember. I was just stunned by the labelling and wrote it down in my checkbook register so I wouldn't forget it. Absurd, but that's what I did.
The two cops, both black and large, joke around with the ER desk staff as they are setting the bags down. The cops and the desk staff carry on a strange latenight conversation, laughing but otherwise emotionless: "Yeah, there were seven of them, shot each other up." "Any reason or are they just trying to kill each other off?" "We don't know yet, but if they do kill each other off that's less for us to do." Laughs all around. My guess is they've seen this so many times that they are jaded, they can't care or they'd scream, so they become cold, inured to the bloody colors streaming by, scribbled on brown paper bags.
As the repartee continues, a 40-ish black woman in scrubs and gloves walks by me carrying a large orange biohazard bag away from her body and slightly up in the air. Behind her is another red soaked gurney, another young black male body, but his face is barely there. As they wheel this victim past me I hear the EMT's saying, "Yeah, we just cleaned his brains and guts outta the rig." Oh, I think, so that's what was in the big orange bag. The doctor running alongside the gurney says, "This one isn't gonna make it."
Another gurney is brought in and put on the left side of the doors. There is a young black woman sobbing and howling as she lays on it. A woman in scrubs stands over her, trying to examine her and calm her. "I didn't know anything like this was gonna happen," the girl wailed. "I don't want to die. I didn't know anything like this was gonna happen." She repeated the same refrain for nearly 45 minutes, sobbing loudly, clearly terrified, probably no more than 19.
Finally the fourth ambulance arrives. Yet another young black man dripping buckets of red blood on the white sheets and floor. This one is semi-conscious and looks like a child. His face, unlike the previous young man's, was still intact, and I started to cry knowing that his mother had kissed that face many times over the maybe 21 years he'd been on this earth. No one saw me crying. I was still peeking out from behind the curtain, my husband drifting in and out of consciousness thanks to the painkillers they had administered. The desk staff asks if there are any more. The EMT says, "There are three more but they're taking them somewhere else, this is it for tonight." "Typical Friday night in the ER, huh?" ::::::chuckle chuckle:::::: "Looks like the girl and the last one will make it. Anyone know what this is about?" "Does there need to be a reason?" :::::::::chuckle chuckle:::::::
At that point, a young white doctor notices me, apparently looking shocked, still peeking from behind the curtain. He adopts a serious, kindly look, and heads my way. "Ma'am, as you can see we're a little overwhelmed here. We haven't forgotten your husband but. . . . ." "I understand," I say since my white husband isn't gushing blood all over the floor and I really do understand the seriousness of what I just saw and the fact that something has to be done instantly for these kids. "Ya, know," he says, "99% of the gunshot victims we see in here are black, male and under 23. They seem determined to kill each other. You probably think I'm cold, but if they want to do that, there's nothing I can do about it. It's hardly worth patching them up 'cuz they'll just be back in 6 months."
They did what they needed to do for my husband, at one point they kicked me out of the ER when I asked what was the diagnosis for my husband? Was he okay? Broken? What was broken? "Lady, go sit in the chairs in the waiting room and we'll call you." At 6:30AM the next morning (we'd gotten there about 10PM the night before) they released him and I brought him home.
I still don't know why seven kids were shot at Charbonnet and Royal Streets on September 14, 2007, nor do I know their names. I don't know who made it and who didn't. I only know that Unknown Blue 50051484 and Unknown Purple 50051485 were someone's kids. And they haunt me.
I have been thinking about this for days. There are others among the blogger group who were in closer touch than I was with Ashley, but we did have our moments. I learned a lot from this man. One of my favorite photos of him is the one above. I always thought we should make t-shirts out of it.
I learned that ignoring conventional wisdom regarding the wearing of horizontal stripes was a good thing and could make a statement while flattering one's figure, and that being comfortable in one's own skin made that work. So there, Mr. Blackwell.
I learned that lapdances were an appropriate gift for someone who had just had a heart transplant (this, according to him and his testosterone filled posse via email) as long as you provided a laptop for said transplant patient to get some work done between dances.
I learned that laughter and generosity coupled with sheer frustrated rage could be a productive combination. Much could be accomplished by opening one's mouth and screaming to the high heavens that something was just flat out WRONG.
I learned that if I didn't understand some of the geek stuff, he would always take the time to answer my emails, even with his plate so full with family, work and activism.
I learned that there was a big guy out there who loved cigars as much as my husband and would help look for that husband at a Krewe du Vieux after party when it was thought that the aforementioned husband might be drunk and passed out somewhere in a run down theatre on Rampart Street.
I learned that size DOES matter when it comes to fleur de lis tattoos and the size of one's heart.
I also learned some wonderful phrases which will be forever linked to him in my head.
FYYFF could be a password for a secret clubhouse of bloggers, and probably will be one day, but it often summed up everything the rest of us were thinking but didn't have the balls to write: Fuck you you fucking fuck.
Sinn Fein, obviously co-opted from the IRA, it nevertheless became a rallying cry for those of us who felt that the social contract had failed. We knew we were indeed in this ourselves alone a lot of the time.
Fuckmook. Well, what can you say about that? The first time I met him in person, after having several email exchanges within our little group, I walked up, introduced myself and told him that my husband and I had to thank him for that wonderful word. It has become a staple in the vocabulary around here, usually hollered loudly by one of us as we read some thoroughly appalling article in the paper. He laughed very hard and confessed that he hadn't made it up. He said, "That's what Johnny Depp says when he gets in the cab in 'Once Upon a Time in Mexico.'" I was delighted. Here was one other human being who had actually seen that movie and liked it in its bizarre-ness like I did.
Food Porn. A photo of a gorgeous cochon du lait with an Abita standing by, or a photo of. . . . . you name the food. He'd describe it in detail until you found yourself standing in the kitchen making peanut butter toast cuz it was 2AM, you just read it and now you were jones-ing with no hope of copping.
I learned that what we write here really does matter, and after a long layoff wondering if anything at all mattered, I thank him heartily for that.
Please make sure you click the photo/link in the picture to the right (the one where he has a plate in his hand). Donate if you can. His family can use it. I hope the family knows that we'll still be around to help out and to carry on what Ashley did so well. As Karen so perfectly put it: RAGE ON.
I have been unable to find the words for the grief I feel at this heroic man's passing. For now, this is all I can muster, but will be putting in more information this afternoon about funeral details and fundraising for the family. For now, please click the photo/link below which will take you to the memorial page.
We are a killing machine: Iraq (and maybe Iran pretty soon), Tennessee fired up its electric chair last night--the first time since 1960 (now THAT'S progress), our kids are killing each other and the NRA just spouts its standard "guns don't kill people" bullshit. We Americans are really good at killing one another. It'd be pretty easy to start thinking that life is just one big Gunfight at the OK Corral--with the corral moving it's way around our country and the globe.
That having been said, with all that's been said about the crime stats in New Orleans, I was perversely delighted to read one of my favorite bloggers, Mark Morford's latest column. (If you don't know about him, you should!) He makes a good point about not allowing ourselves to live in constant fear, and shows us that it's not just our city "sighing" under the weight of corpses in the streets.
Vote. Take action. Do something, but don't live in fear.
And maybe, just maybe, we should take a look at this country's penchant for killing. Death seems, lately, to be our biggest cash crop and our largest export. Why is that?
Just askin'.
EDIT: This just in, open your wallets, buy a round for the bar, we're all gonna need it, and that right soon.
The anniversary of the Federal Flood was a just plain odd feeling day. Something felt a bit off all day, nothing I could put my finger on, except maybe the helicopters going over shuttling Bush around the city. Every paper coast to coast had some kind of retrospective and the sadness and anger rose up in my throat and the venomous hatred from some Texans overflowed onto Ashley Morris' blog, where he had posted this information from Shelley Midura in its entirety. An open letter to the President, I hope he read it but hope springs eternal and isn't always rewarded.
So as the helicopters went overhead, and Bush told some kids in the Lower 9 that "better days are coming" and he hugged Leah Chase for the cameras, to show that he does, contrary to Kanye West's belief, care about black people, the above stuff was what was showing up in my mailbox and being written about by the locals.
My grandson comes home from school that day and tells me about how his best friend had been eating a taco at lunch in a really gross way, and that tacos are "very rare on the lunch list." He then says, out of the blue:
GS: There are only three kids this color (pointing at his arm) in my second grade. Me: Really? Does that bother you? GS: No (said with utter disdain, the tone going up at the end of the NO), there are kids that are light brown, some are dark brown, some are really dark brown. There are three this color (again pointing to his own arm). What's the difference? Me: None. GS: Then why did you ask if it bothered me.
I then launch into a Cliff Notes for seven year olds version of segregation, civil rights, lunch counters.
GS: Well even if Eddie was eating his taco in a really gross way, why couldn't we eat them together back then? Me: Some people were really stupid back then. (I mean what else am I gonna say?) GS: Well, then someone farted and we all laughed for an hour and got yelled at for laughing but we just couldn't stop.
Grandma's teacher dismissed the class, then we read a chapter of a book in which the entire chapter was a discussion of lying (if the neighbor kid's hamster dies, do you put another one in that looks just like it so the neighbor kid doesn't know?)
Like I said, very strange day.
Maybe some day when it asks us on a form about our race, we can say "This color!" then fart really loud, laugh like seven year olds, and trust that our government won't lie to us.
For further information on where we stand now, please check out Hurricane Katrina News, as well as any of the local bloggers who have dedicated themselves to the aftermath of the Federal Flood disaster known as Hurricane Katrina. They can be found on the blogroll to the right of this post.
(Remember graphic courtesy of Mark Folse. We Are Not Okay graphic courtesy of Greg Peters.)
. . . and luckily no one here has to be, at least today. The latest computer models show Hurricane Dean heading for Mexico, he has already beaten up Jamaica or is as we speak. Bless them. He might hit the southernmost tip of Texas, near Brownsville, a town known for over the top poverty and people living in shacks that would make a FEMA trailer look like the Ritz. They'll be needing some help. We better get our checkbooks out, since, well ya know how well the powers that be handled New Orleans.
As I was checking around for Dean info this morning, I came across several articles about Kerouac's "On the Road" turning 50. Always a Kerouac fan, even though he really was an avowed conservative and never understood the hippie kids like me who got something else out of his work, I was delighted that a 50th Anniversary edition was coming out and might have to procure one. The original long scroll upon which the first draft was typed in a blaze of amphetamine stream of consciousness will be on display in New York. I wish I could see it.
But in my 'net meanderings, I found this at the New York Times. A great slide show of international "On the Road" bookcovers over the years. Some are hilarious like this one from Czechoslovakia:
He probably would have giggled about that. Some of the others are interesting, one from China is just plain bizarre.
There are tons of editorials and critiques out there about whether or not "On the Road" was or is relevant, whether it was or is good writing, whether it was or is influential. For me, reading "On the Road" every couple of years reminds me that rhythm in everything is important. Some people find Kerouac "wordy," I find his extra words to be like eighth notes in a piece of music. I think he'd be surprised that people are even still talking about this, this work he never really got the significance of, this work that nearly paralyzed him from doing any further work. Oh yes, he wrote several more books--some better than "On the Road", but the pressure to write another "On the Road" along with the cultural issues that book evoked and with which he was at odds, in the end, pretty much killed him.
At any rate, raise a glass to Jack today. Be content that, at least for today, some of our citizens aren't on the road running from Dean. No, not Dean Moriarty, Dean the Hurricane, (although in some minds, they could be the same thing!)
Over the course of today, I've gotten nearly 20 emails pertaining to Hurricane Dean's presence in the Gulf. If you're anywhere within a 100 mile radius of New Orleans, you can smell it, the fear, the anxiety, it's palpable.
People are rabidly checking the storm tracking, some at work but distracted by the possibility of a replay, so near the anniversary of Katrina. That would be the TWO year anniversary.
Little notes are scurrying around through email: I'm not leaving no matter what. I have to leave I have kids. I hope my house which I can almost move into because it's almost done, will be okay.
Just letting all friends and family know, we won't be leaving. Not again. We will send our daughter, her husband, our grandson and all the pets but the big guy out if there is an evacuation. (BTW, this is just to let everyone know that it's not just Dean prompting this post, it's any subsequent storms that may crop up over the next month.) But we will stay. We cannot deal with watching CNN helplessly when people needed help like we did with Katrina, and although we got back the day after Labor Day, and we were able to help, we could have done more if we'd just stayed put like we wanted to.
Okay, that's out of the way.
Nevertheless, with Dean so close, you can smell the anxiety even through the sweat of this horrendously hot weather. Those of you out there who pray, please keep praying. We'll take all the help we can get.
Other local bloggers have already talked at length about the fall of New Orleans Councilman Oliver Thomas. Chris Rose already wrote about it in the Times Picayune.
Corruption. Scandal. Graft. Racism being hinted at by some. Just like any other day in New Orleans, it would seem.
But it isn't. It so isn't. Oliver Thomas' fall has broken hearts. No one grieved when Bill Jefferson was found out and indicted. No one is surprised by the Nagin Gang's various contract schemes from trash bins to parking meters to the reconstruction of the French Market. But Oliver Thomas was someone many of us thought was one of the good guys. Many of us were pinning our hopes on his becoming Mayor and actually getting something done around here. His comments generally made sense, were on target and made some of us believe that not everyone in New Orleans politics was either a nutcase or a power/money hungry maniac or both. My stomach hurt upon hearing the news about Oliver. I really liked the guy.
What's interesting about my response to this is that I've been thinking a lot about social contracts lately. As I've said before, the response to Katrina shook my belief that social contracts existed right outta me like salt out of a shaker. We've all talked about it for two years, putting it in various lights--it did exist but doesn't now, it never existed and anyone who thinks it did is nuts, it did exist but has morphed into something else.
Katrina and Oliver Thomas. Well, well, color this optimistic cynic (not a contradiction in terms!) jade green. I still believed that this country hadn't been given over completely to the money changers. Katrina shook that belief, Oliver Thomas dashed it on the rocks lining the Mississippi.
It's not just New Orleans in which beliefs have been dashed, by the way. In fact, it seems to me incredible that any of us have any optimism left.
The entire country has been lied to throughout this President's tenure, and no one seems really outraged. Okay, okay, a few people are really outraged, but not most. Every single day another news story comes out about some administration official dodging a subpoena, or changing the interpretation of the Constitution, or saying they are not a member of this or that branch of the government, regardless of what the law says. The last hold outs for Bush grab onto the "Clinton lied" thing, knowing in their hearts that although what Clinton did was stupid, it wasn't nearly on the scale of the lies we've heard and paid for since.
Hurricanes blow nearly an entire state away, completely destroy the Gulf Coast. An outpouring of sympathy for a few news cycles, some tsk tsk-ing here and there, some remarkable volunteers arriving to help. A section of the Big Dig in Boston falls on someone (thanks, Corps of Engineers!) and kills someone. Again, tsk tsk-ing then nothing much. A bridge collapses killing many people, divers risking their lives on the bottom of the top of the Mississippi River, tsk tsk, it's a damn shame, can't shake my head too much I'm having a good hair day besides I'm late for work and this is too depressing and my Lexus needs servicing---I hope they have a loaner car.
Levees all over the country are determined to be prime for failure. Bridges all over the country are also determined to be prime for failure. Oh yeah, and the subway system in New York, which is old and deteriorating seriously, criminally, floods during a gigantic rainstorm causing no end of problems for commuters. (Imagine if the big hurricane expected to hit there at some point in the "100 year cycle" ever did hit! Geez, a big rainstorm overwhelms their pumps.) Oh yeah, and the pumps in New Orleans. . . . . . . . .
I read an article on the bridge collapse and one of the commenters mentioned that we have built, and had blown up by terrorists or blown up ourselves, the SAME bridge in Baghdad eight times. EIGHT TIMES????
The lies and the greed and the corruption in this country, from the Prez at top of the ladder to the "great hope for New Orleans" councilman, have taken this country from the top of the heap to the depths of dysfunction. Things like infrastructure for this country are tabled in order to take our tax dollars and funnel them into corporate cronies' pockets to rebuild infrastructure that we blew up elsewhere. The feds say it's the states' responsibility to take care of the infrastructure once it's built, and some states can't afford to do that. The feds can. But instead they tsk tsk, shake an accusing finger at the local leaders and go on to their meeting with some war profiteering contractor---behind closed doors, no press allowed, and no logs of the meeting kept.
Forget about any kind of social services, we can't keep our levees and bridges up.
We're all so used to it that we skim the articles, rant over dinner if we're in our cups, and go on to work the next day because lord knows the insurance companies who never have to really, I mean REALLY, take on any risk have to be paid and the energy companies who get bailouts have to be paid, and the mortgage has to be paid to keep a roof over both the mortgage company's head (even if they made hideously stupid loans for the last several years, planting false hope in many family's futures--"No PROBLEM, the balloon payment won't come up for five years!") and our own, and we have to pay our taxes next April so they won't attach our paychecks or put a lien on our house to collect the bucks they want from us so they can rebuild that fucking bridge in Baghdad for the ninth, tenth, eleventh time. Don't take a breath. Keep running, Joe, like a hamster on a wheel, you're getting older now and you have no stock portfolio, no health insurance, no retirement savings, you don't have time to do anything about the lies. Remember, though, Joe, all those bucks you're sending in with your 1040 won't do you any good if a disaster strikes, whether it be a hurricane or a heart attack.
There is no social contract. Faith in government will surely break your heart. Faith in companies will break your heart.
I had a conversation with a neighbor this week who said his mom keeps telling him to move to the suburbs and "get a good job with benefits." No, Mom, there ARE no jobs that just GIVE you health insurance anymore, no jobs that just GIVE you the gold watch and the pension plan for putting in your 30 yrs. In fact, Mom, there are very few companies in which someone can survive and build a career for 30 years--the stockholders must be paid, the profits MUST go up, and anyone, anyone at all can be downsized at a moment's notice. It is not 1960. The government will spend their money on everything but you or your city or infrastructure, and the corporations will just divvy some of their profits out to their stockholders and CEO's (unless the CEO winds up in jail, then dies, in which case the widow can hold on to the illegal stock sale windfall as it's part of an inheritance) but they won't take care of the workers who made them the money. Nor will they take care of the customers who buy their product, a computer will or a worker in India or Jakarta or anywhere-but-here will---they "downsized" their labor force so that cute little Ashley in customer service that you talked to last week is now working at Starbuck's for minimum wage and her kids are home alone watching TV and playing video games and dreaming of a Glock 9mm which would really show that stupid Jimmy who hollered, "You're a piss ant" on the playground the other day. She won't have to worry about her daycare situation too much longer. Her oldest son is 15. He'll be dead in a year.
These are the reasons that I was surprised by my response to the fall of Oliver Thomas. I didn't think I still had it in me.
Wow! That vase made a cool sound as I dashed it against the wall.
Ah well, Karl Rove will totally miss the irony and have a great time after he resigns "hunting doves in West Texas."
Twenty days ago, I lost a friend. Someone who'd been my friend for years, 15-17, we can't remember, wait, past tense, couldn't remember. He loved New Orleans. He loved books. He loved learning. He loved life. Oh yeah, he loved red wine, and good rum and had a serious jones for boiled crawfish and softshell crab--fried. He loved dark beers, the darker the better. He had better tits than I did, if he pushed them together with his coy look. He loved my idiosyncracies even when he was exasperated by them. He loved his partner, even when he was exasperated by him. He loved his family and more importantly, his "chosen" family even when he was exasperated by them. And ya know, they were all there when he left this earth, just as he wanted.
He believed he'd been a madam here, and of course, those of us who loved him were his whores back then. Makes sense to me, we probably were. He loved history, and big ships with sails or aircraft carriers with big airplanes, which mattered not to him: He preferred to float, not fly.
I haven't cried yet.
He asked that I be there before he left, not after, so there I was, but I had to leave him while he still suffered on this plane. Not to get all metaphysical on y'all, but that mattered to me. I told him as I left that I'd meet him at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shoppe, so this weekend I finally did that. I smeared rum on the bricks on the far side of the fireplace, a spot in which we kept warm when he visited once, visiting me when we lived in a place that had no heat other than space heaters which didn't do much in the middle of February. It was the warmest place we could find. So there we sat, talking and warming and drinking for hours til we had to go back home to the cold.
I went to Pirate's Alley Cafe, which we called "visiting Belize in the U.S." and smeared some rum and coke on the chair he sat in the last time he was here in April/May of this year, convincing me that although he looked bad and was losing weight all the time, that he was just FINE. I knew it was a lie, but I let him lie. We'd lied to each other many times in the past, always knew when we were doing it, it was part of our contract: "You lie to me and I won't call you on it and I'll lie to you and you won't call me on it, unless of course, it's REALLY important." To us, death was just the natural order of things, not necessarily REALLY important, even though we were so not suicidal---anything but. We just accepted that things happened, people were born, people died, that was the way it was determined by whatever had caused, created, or manipulated reality on this planet.
And I still haven't cried.
In front of me is a bar of lavendar soap he bought for me at Vive la France, his favorite store in the Quarter, on Royal Street. He, over the years, bought me the various sized tumblers with the Fleur de Lis on them, knowing that we both had a penchant for it. This last time he bought me the carafe, telling me as he gave it to me that he wanted to make sure "the set was completed." I will never use that soap, which will no doubt piss him off, but I smell it every day. The carafe? Oh yeah, I'll use that. I'll mix up some Sailor Jerry's and coke, just for him and leave a glass on the table til it evaporates or turns to mold. Then I'll wash out the glass, make life clean again, and know that the glass can always be refilled: Never with the same substance, but another, just as valid, just as sweet, just as generous.
For Christmas last year, I was told to go to the Bag Lady Shop on Decatur. (He could be both extremely generous and extremely cheap, depending on the day!) I went down there, it was a hard time financially for us. I had written a post about supporting local businesses, and he found her through that post and called her and bought me a present. I finally got down there, days after I should have, she said, "Oh YOU are her! This is for you." At that she hands me a black cashmere coat, down to my ankles, the warmest thing I'd ever seen. I had expected a scarf or a wallet. I sank to my knees and sobbed in full view of the tourists on Decatur who were perusing her shop. I called him speechless and sobbing. He said, very simply, "Baby, I couldn't let you be cold."
The toads are crying tonight. I'd written him a poem, three weeks before he passed, about the toads, their mating, their progeny. I read it to him before he left us. He said through his morphine haze, "It's good." He was one of a few who knew my pen name. He liked it. I did well on that, and the toads are still crying and I'll read it at the Gold Mine next Thursday.
But I haven't cried yet.
His name was Wes Vincent. He was remarkable and I'll miss him more than words can ever express.
But he'd be pissed. Like atomic blast super pissed (which he was very good at being) if I gave up now.
I've been reading Josh Clark's book about his experience during Katrina (a serious MUST read.) It is so reminiscent of my husband's and my experience, although we did leave for about five days. While Josh was standing looking at the stars on this side of the wondrous Mississippi, my husband and I were drinking warm rum and coke, sweating in the same clothes we'd worn for a week, on the other side of the river, the Westbank, which is actually kinda more South. We were struck by the eerieness of seeing NO skyline, no nothing on the other side of the river. Like a great black void our city stood, not sending out a message, not telling us how many had died and under what circumstances, not telling us that two years later we'd still be missing friends, and housing, and schools and oh yeah, a Mayor and a DA. As we stood there, bodies were still washing out to the Gulf or being ravaged by hungry dogs and rats, but there we stood, feeling that we were at least, doing something to help.
We stopped in Johnny White's this weekend. We had been bringing ice over for them and milk for one of the regular denizens (only because the Nazis in Gretna were allowing people into the Walgreens there, with M16's on their laps). Johnny White's was sticky, and scary, and filthy and the de facto supply depot for the Quarter. Last Saturday night it was clean and we were the only ones in there. Wow. The bar wasn't scary to touch, in fact the bar had a smooth sheen to it. We had a couple drinks, then went for dinner. Tourists were cavorting on Bourbon, it was lovely to see them. We still live in the only place on earth where it's okay to run amuck now and then. That's a blessing.
Intermittently since the storm I've cried for no reason, here and there and not with any kind of closure. I hear about a killing in Iberville and it breaks my heart. I hear of three families living in the Lower 9 on one block, ONLY three, and it breaks my heart. I see the businesses toughing it out, and it breaks my heart. I look, two years later, at the four boxes of photos and ephemera that I saved from our storage unit on Tulane that sat under 10 feet of water for weeks, even though my home was spared, and it breaks my heart. I still can't just get rid of them. It would be like getting rid of my entire history.
I get involved in activism on whatever level I can because I must, I can't let this city die from neglect and corruption and greed. I walk the sidewalks knowing of the luminaries that walked them before me, and feel a need to honor their courage, tenacity and contribution. I look at the slate roofs that named my blog, such as it is, and marvel at their fortitude and their beauty in a soft summer rain. I watch as my husband scrapes the dog hair off the air conditioner filters and remember the heat of September 2005, when no matter what we couldn't get cool.
It's always just kinda back there, ain't it?
So, for Wes Vincent, and all the others named or un-named who are gone now:
I'M NOT GONE. WE ARE STILL NOT FUCKING OKAY. HEAR THAT AMERICA????? AND GUESS WHAT, I'M NOT LEAVING. YOU ARE STUCK WITH ME, THE LUNATIC WHO BELIEVES THAT LIFE IS WORTH LIVING AND RUNNING AMUCK IS WHAT WE'RE HERE FOR SOMETIMES. AND DON'T LET THESE GREED HEADS KILL THE DREAM, THE DREAM OF NEW ORLEANS AS IT WAS DREAMT BY IBERVILLE AND BIENVILLE---WE CAN LIVE ON THIS GROUND.
As you can see from the comments section in my George Bush/Kermit Ruffins post, some people are really upset with me.
I said there and I'll say again, that I had not seen the video when I wrote that. I had only read the transcript, and hey, read it yourself and you might see how I could get the idea that our President was directing the comment to Mr. Ruffins.
Okay, I get it. He wasn't.
That having been said, one commenter called New Orleans residents, probably me in particular, whiners. I have to reject that.
In my opinion, the insensitivity of both the theme and the comment is still troublesome. Someone up there thought a Mardi Gras themed party for Congress, held in mid-June, was a good idea. I find that bizarre and yes, culturally insensitive--but then Americans have always been a bit dense in the area of cultural sensitivity. Just ask the Native Americans, the Vietnamese or the Iraqis.
It was also insensitive to be celebrating an aspect of a city that Bush clearly wishes to forget. He wants to forget his horrendous response to the storm named Katrina, and although he promised that the US Government would stay as long as it took, etc. (his speech is burned into New Orleanians' memories word for word and still lit by arc lights), he has let the Corps of Engineers continue to hold us hostage to their levee and floodgate serendipity. ("We'll build temporary floodgates, no we won't, we'll build permanent ones. They'll be done by 2012.")
Meanwhile, here in the City, the Corps posted maps showing the possibility of flooding pre-Katrina in any given area in the city, and now the possibility post-Katrina. Many people are re-building homes in the areas that are still prone to flooding, and taking their anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills hoping not to lose what they are just getting back. And at that, there are still entire areas of this city that look like a bomb hit them.
I say to Mr. Bush, come on down and really do something. Then I'll say thanks for coming, we'll take you to K-Paul's for dinner, Mr. Ruffins is playing at the Blue Nile Friday night, we'll give you some beads, and we hope you'll pick up the trash left by the Corps' incompetent levee design on your way out.
This week, President Bush gave a picnic for Congress on the South Lawn. The theme, no, I'm not kidding, MARDI GRAS. Paul Prudhomme catered, Kermit Ruffins and his band played.
Not a word about the current state of New Orleans, or Louisiana, just a really badly racist and demeaning joke about "picking up the trash." You gotta see it to believe it.
President and Mrs. Bush Host Congressional Picnic South Lawn
8:10 P.M. EDT
THE PRESIDENT: Thank you all for coming. Laura and I welcome you to the South Lawn. This is an opportunity to thank the members of Congress and their families for serving the United States.
First, I want to recognize the Speaker. Madam Speaker, thank you for joining us. It means a lot that you've come. I appreciate the leadership of the House and the Senate who have joined us. For all the wives and husbands, thank you for standing by your spouse. It's not easy to be in public office. It's a lot easier, though, when you have somebody who loves you to help you do your job. And so Laura and I want to thank you all, in particular. We're proud to be serving with you. Occasionally we might have our differences, but one thing we all agree on is we represent the greatest country on the face of the Earth. (Applause.)
I want to thank our Chef, Paul Prudhomme, from New Orleans, Louisiana -- one of the great chefs in America. Thanks for coming, Paul. (Applause.) I thank Tony Snow and his bunch of, well, mediocre musicians -- (laughter) -- no, great musicians. Beats Workin, thanks for coming. (Applause.) Kermit, come up here. Kermit, we're proud to have you.
MR. RUFFINS: Well, thanks for having us.
THE PRESIDENT: Kermit Ruffins and the Barbeque Swingers, right out of New Orleans, Louisiana. (Applause.)
MR. RUFFINS: Thank you. Thanks for having us. We're glad to be here.
THE PRESIDENT: Proud you're here. Thanks for coming. You all enjoy yourself. Make sure you pick up all the trash after it's over. (Laughter.)
God bless you, and may God bless America. Thanks for coming. (Applause.)
As we all know, John Lennon wrote a song called "Imagine." What we imagine when we think of him and that song is a huge white grand piano, thanks to an album cover image that's stuck in our heads. The piano that he actually wrote the song on is not a huge white grand at all, it's a rather small upright which now belongs to George Michael.
The folks at The Lennon Piano Project have taken this piano all over the country in a van, no less. Their hope is that the piano upon which a great anthem for Peace was written will help bring peace in the playing and displaying of it. (They have some great photos at their link.)
Friday evening the piano was at the Ogden Museum. Saturday night it was at the end of its tour, the last night for it to travel. It sat in front of the hearth at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shoppe on Bourbon Street. Piano players from all over the city were showing up to play ten or twenty minutes on that piano. The place was packed. It was really lovely and some great music was played, although I haven't identified all the players yet, (one is Bruce Elsensohn)and I missed about the first 45 minutes.
The Lennon Piano for Peace people are doing a documentary, which upon completion, will be shown at the Ogden. For now, we have some photos. The one above is the piano with tips on it. I found it odd and funny to see tips on top of John Lennon's piano. (I will also say that when everyone was finished, I quietly walked up to it and played two notes, just to have done it. I noticed a lot of others doing the same thing, like a little connective ritual between the piano, its travels, its message and us.)
I have posted more photos here at Flickr. I hope to identify the other players and label the photos.
It is a lovely idea, and it was a lovely evening.
I'm guessing the tips will go in the gas tank of the van.
In the last three weeks, we have gone to three farewell parties, two just this Sunday. One couple is moving to Portland, Oregon hoping to find more stability. One woman is moving back to Connecticut as her dad is ill and she needs to help him. She was also struggling to find an affordable apartment in NOLA on her bartender's salary. Another guy is moving back home, to Monroe, LA, not so far and he says he was only here for a short time anyway, which was true. While attending that crawfish boil, one of the other bartenders said he was moving soon. Back to Chicago where he owns a home and is a chef. He has no timeline, but thinks it won't be long. My guess is he'll become a snowbird and go to Chicago for summers and return here during the fall and winter.
Still it was disheartening. I understood all their reasons for leaving, and they were good ones. We didn't bear them any ill will, feel that they were traitorous for leaving, or feel superior to them for staying. We did, however, wish they had made different choices because we'll miss them. What was interesting was that with the exception of the apartment hunting bartender, most weren't saying they were leaving NOLA because it was doomed, or hurricane season was coming, or anything like that. That was progress on a strange level, and a level that only we who live here can probably understand. These three, soon to be four, weren't leaving out of complete despair like the exodus after the storm. I truly wish them well. They were part of the fabric of the city for us.
One of the evenings we were walking a couple blocks from our house, heading for the corner store. My husband had wanted to point out a "really unique brick building" about two blocks from our house. We went over to look at it, and it looked just like the slave quarters at the Hermitage in Tennessee, Andrew Jackson's home. Small, very compact, tight bricks, square and squat. Definitely an architectural anamoly here in the Marigny. Next to it is an imposing home, in front of it a fence in need of repair with two gates gaping mouth open toward the sidewalk.
We see a man sitting there in the dark in a plastic lawn chair, and so we ask him what the building was back in the day. He says, "It's the slave quarters." We tell him we hadn't been sure, but that it really looked like the ones we'd seen in Tennessee. I commented that the quarters were so very small, it must have been very hard to live in there with possibly two parents and a few kids. His response, "Well, it was better than living in a mud hut in Africa waiting for the Chief to sell you." We were both stunned, both trying to find a way to extricate ourselves from the conversation, when suddenly he became chatty.
"You say you live near here? Not north of St. Claude do ya? Ya know we call that the Congo." Shocked we tell him where we live. He continues, "Well ya know with all the drunks and druggies, I've had to shoot a few of them," at this he starts laughing conspiratorily. "It's not worth renting this thing out. Those people just. . ." at that point I start moving quickly to the open gate knowing that if I stay there another ten seconds I'm going to open my mouth and say something that I'll regret. My husband felt the same and was backing out behind me. We left quickly and headed up to the corner store, both of us shocked that anyone could actually feel that way in this town in this century and worse in our neighborhood.
Once we got over the shock, we realized the guy was about 70 and he was never going to see things another way. No matter what we had said, his mind would not have been changed, and that was the scary part. We learned long ago that some people are not worth wasting your outrage or your breath on as they will go to their graves, prejudice gripped tightly to their still bosoms like a talisman that brings them safety. As Poppy Brite says in "Prime," (paraphrasing), "Some old white guys in this city felt that THEIR black workers or co-workers were okay, but all the others were criminals or worse." This guy definitely fit into that category.
I can still see his bald white pate glowing and nodding, conspiratorial grin on his face, waiting for our agreement. I wonder if it bothered him that we clearly didn't agree. I'd like to feel sorry for him and his behemoth ignorance, but instead, both of us carried disgust with us all weekend, as we said good bye to some people we cared for.
