Since the storm, things are a little mixed-up in the Crescent City. (Not like things were "normal" before, but still...) In this newly topsy-turvy world, certain values and expectations are turned upside-down, sometimes in a good way, sometimes not.
One obvious example would be great big piles of debris and trash. Anywhere else in this country, or even here before Katrina, giant heaps of broken stuff on the curb would be cause for concern, a sign that something is wrong. Here, it is a signal of hope, a sign that work is finally being done on a house or a building. Instead of driving by and thinking, "How awful!", New Orleanians drive by and think, "Yes! They're back! Thank God!" We greet these former eyesores the way winter-weary Yankees welcome signs of Spring. (One enterprising local candy shop actually invented a new confection of pretzel sticks, coconut shreds, raisins, and nuts drizzled over with chocolate, called "trash piles.")
Pre-K (as we say here), the antics of incompetent and/or dishonest elected officials were the stuff of jokes, the cause for world-weary amusement. Show us another awful thing done by a governor or a mayor or a legislator, and we'd shrug and give a wry smile, or even top the story with another one. Nowadays, we've been through too much to find it funny. (As Paul Simon sings, "I don't find this stuff amusing any more.") Governor Blanco is not considered a sort of folk hero as Edwin Edwards once was (apparently still is, to some people, judging by the Letters to the Editor to let the "poor man" out of prison), and we're way past finding the inane (insane?) remarks of Mayor Nagin something to laugh about. And don't even get us started with District Attorney Jordan, who seems even more mortifyingly embarrassing than even Big Jim Garrison back in the day. Every day, you hear calls for some elected official or other (sadly, too many to list here) to resign and let us get someone/anyone better to serve in their place. You never used to hear that years ago.
On the other hand, one way New Orleanians cope with all they have to cope with is a savage irony married to a graceful gallantry. Example #1: Discovering that the mayor spent close to a half million dollars on "bomb-proof" tiny trashcans that were too small to be used and thus were going to be quietly (read: secretly) disposed of, the local satirical paper "The Levee" (motto: "We don't hold anything back") announced that the police department was going to be given the cans for use as bullet-proof vests. Example #2: The Bourbon St. band that Big Man plays with was named The Levee Board before the hurricane. After the storm, they discovered there was too much negative connotation to that name, so they changed their name. To Category 5 -- which I guess had a better impact on the public. Example #3: Hand-painted sign seen inside Crabby Jack's (arguably some of the absolute best po-boys in the area) -- "Save da Parish." Gee, before The Thing, who would've supported "saving" St. Bernard Parish, except for those who lived there, who probably wouldn't be eating in Crabby Jack's anyway? Example #4: Printed sign in a yard in formerly flooded Broadmoor -- "I'm not leaving, and they can't make me." Example #5 (really, and then I'll stop, since there are too many): In any poster or T-shirt shop in the city, you can find approximately 2-3 dozen (I'm not exaggerating, for once) different Katrina-related designs of varying levels of artistry and black humor.
The fleur de lis has been on the flag of the City of New Orleans for a long time, and has been the symbol of the Saints NFL football team for several decades. Before the storm, that was about it. We never thought much about it. Now, the fleur de lis is ubiquitous, and is an unspoken and unofficial symbol of love for and commitment to New Orleans. One bumper sticker even says, "I )I( NEW ORLEANS" with a fleur de lis where in other places a heart graphic would be. Fleur de lis float from banners and flags draped on St. Charles Avenue mansions and newly-gutted brick ranchers in Lakeview; one flag notably is a take-off of the stars and stripes, with fleur de lis as stars on a field of purple, green and gold (of course). They appear on T-shirts and backpacks and are woven into silk jacquard for neckties. There's even a polo-style shirt with an embroidered fleur de lis where the polo pony used to be. Candidates for office put fleur de lis on their campaign material. Fleur de lis as decorative hooks for installing in your home and as ornaments to be hung from windows and on walls fly off the retail shelves. Giant fleur de lis painted and decorated by local artists are installed around town in public places -- my favorite is the fleur de lis which has been transformed into a portrait of Chief of Chiefs Tootie Montana. It wouldn't surprise me at all to see folks dressed as fleur de lis at Carnival -- it's become the emblem of the grit and spirit of New Orleanians, and our love for this crazy-wonderful place.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Farewell for Kerwin James
After all the controversy over the arrests in Treme during the traditional secondline farewell after the death of Kerwin James, noted tuba player for the New Birth Brass Band, we knew that we had to show solidarity and respect by attending his funeral on Saturday, October 6. That morning, I put on my kente cloth minister’s stole over a black summer dress, and we headed out.
We arrived before the start time of 10 am, but the little church was already packed with mourners. I signed the guestbook in the vestibule and then we waited in the street with a crowd of other folks, black and white, young and old. One guy had parked a giant wood-burning barbeque rig (looked like it was made from an old boiler) on the corner and was starting to grill burgers, hot dogs, and sausages – the smell wafted through the neighborhood, making mouths water. Several people were selling bottles of water and soft drinks from ice chests in wheelbarrows or on the beds of pick-up trucks. A few people had cameras, but most seemed like they were there to participate, not to observe and take pictures.
More people kept arriving, and it was starting to get pretty hot. We had left the house without getting coffee and the lack of caffeine was starting to tell. We left our spot in front of the church and walked to a little neighborhood bar on the corner, thinking we’d get coffee there. They opened the door for us (it’s one of those places where they keep the door locked and they have to buzz you in or let you in) and who should we see right off but Kermit Ruffins, for once without a kerchief on his head, dressed in a sharp black suit, his trumpet resting on the bar. His wife sat next to him, and there were 2 young white women next to them. Otherwise, except for the bar’s owner and employees, the place was empty.
I was kindly directed to the scrupulously clean Men’s Room, as the Women’s Room was out of service. Big Man ordered our coffees, although everyone else in the place was drinking beer. They said they would make a pot just for us. We waited, and were soon served 2 steaming plastic cups of strong New Orleans coffee with little containers of half & half. “How much?” asked Big Man, reaching in his pocket. “It’s on the house,” smiled the owner. We thanked him profusely, and tipped the barmaid as we left.
About 11:30 am, the service was over, and mourners began to spill out from the church. The street was packed with musicians – there were 6 or 8 tuba players, about 8 or so trumpet players, including Kermit, several ‘bones, and multiple drummers. A sigh went up from the gathered crowd as the casket was carried out, the pall bearers seemingly struggling with the weight of it. The slow strains of “Closer Walk” were taken up by all the musicians (Big Man was wishing he had brought his horn), and the casket was brought down the short flight of steps to the street. The crowd was massed around the pall bearers shoulder-to-shoulder, and from where we were standing, you couldn’t see the coffin any more. Suddenly, in time with the music, the bearers swung the casket high, and then down and around, as if dancing with it. They did this several times. It was an amazing moment – powerful, emotional, spiritual. I wiped away tears with my handkerchief, and I wasn’t the only one.
The coffin was eventually gently placed in the hearse. A thrown-together band with members I recognized from Rebirth, New Birth, and several other brass bands, plus Kermit, and other musicians, got in front, and a group of secondliners fell into place behind them. Then came the hearse, then another band, then the family and official mourners. Big Man and I took our place in the group immediately in front of the hearse behind the first band, and soon, a passionate version of “I’ll Fly Away” soared up. (Literally – most of the horn players were directing the bells of their horns straight up to heaven, a la Buddy Bolden.) At the chorus, many in the crowd lifted their voices: "I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away."
As the funeral parade made its way slowly toward Esplanade, people in the neighborhood came out onto their porches and stoops, many of them shimmying in the traditional secondline step. One man climbed on top of a parked van, and danced his heart out up there. As we crossed over Esplanade Avenue, a respectful police motorcycle escort held up traffic so we could cross – so different from the way the police acted earlier in the week, when 2 musicians in the memorial secondline were arrested for “disturbing the peace” and “parading without a permit.”
Folks came out of Lil Dizzy’s Café to watch as the parade passed by. Some held baseball caps over their hearts; some waved handkerchiefs. A group of employees came out the back door from the kitchen and danced hard on the sidewalk.
It was a good send-off for Kerwin, a fitting tribute. I thought to myself, "This is how we New Orleanians lay someone to rest -- this is how we honor their life and celebrate who they were," and despite the obvious storm damage in Treme, as elsewhere in the city, I was proud of the strength and beauty of my beloved hometown, and I felt glad, once again, to be finally home.
We arrived before the start time of 10 am, but the little church was already packed with mourners. I signed the guestbook in the vestibule and then we waited in the street with a crowd of other folks, black and white, young and old. One guy had parked a giant wood-burning barbeque rig (looked like it was made from an old boiler) on the corner and was starting to grill burgers, hot dogs, and sausages – the smell wafted through the neighborhood, making mouths water. Several people were selling bottles of water and soft drinks from ice chests in wheelbarrows or on the beds of pick-up trucks. A few people had cameras, but most seemed like they were there to participate, not to observe and take pictures.
More people kept arriving, and it was starting to get pretty hot. We had left the house without getting coffee and the lack of caffeine was starting to tell. We left our spot in front of the church and walked to a little neighborhood bar on the corner, thinking we’d get coffee there. They opened the door for us (it’s one of those places where they keep the door locked and they have to buzz you in or let you in) and who should we see right off but Kermit Ruffins, for once without a kerchief on his head, dressed in a sharp black suit, his trumpet resting on the bar. His wife sat next to him, and there were 2 young white women next to them. Otherwise, except for the bar’s owner and employees, the place was empty.
I was kindly directed to the scrupulously clean Men’s Room, as the Women’s Room was out of service. Big Man ordered our coffees, although everyone else in the place was drinking beer. They said they would make a pot just for us. We waited, and were soon served 2 steaming plastic cups of strong New Orleans coffee with little containers of half & half. “How much?” asked Big Man, reaching in his pocket. “It’s on the house,” smiled the owner. We thanked him profusely, and tipped the barmaid as we left.
About 11:30 am, the service was over, and mourners began to spill out from the church. The street was packed with musicians – there were 6 or 8 tuba players, about 8 or so trumpet players, including Kermit, several ‘bones, and multiple drummers. A sigh went up from the gathered crowd as the casket was carried out, the pall bearers seemingly struggling with the weight of it. The slow strains of “Closer Walk” were taken up by all the musicians (Big Man was wishing he had brought his horn), and the casket was brought down the short flight of steps to the street. The crowd was massed around the pall bearers shoulder-to-shoulder, and from where we were standing, you couldn’t see the coffin any more. Suddenly, in time with the music, the bearers swung the casket high, and then down and around, as if dancing with it. They did this several times. It was an amazing moment – powerful, emotional, spiritual. I wiped away tears with my handkerchief, and I wasn’t the only one.
The coffin was eventually gently placed in the hearse. A thrown-together band with members I recognized from Rebirth, New Birth, and several other brass bands, plus Kermit, and other musicians, got in front, and a group of secondliners fell into place behind them. Then came the hearse, then another band, then the family and official mourners. Big Man and I took our place in the group immediately in front of the hearse behind the first band, and soon, a passionate version of “I’ll Fly Away” soared up. (Literally – most of the horn players were directing the bells of their horns straight up to heaven, a la Buddy Bolden.) At the chorus, many in the crowd lifted their voices: "I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away."
As the funeral parade made its way slowly toward Esplanade, people in the neighborhood came out onto their porches and stoops, many of them shimmying in the traditional secondline step. One man climbed on top of a parked van, and danced his heart out up there. As we crossed over Esplanade Avenue, a respectful police motorcycle escort held up traffic so we could cross – so different from the way the police acted earlier in the week, when 2 musicians in the memorial secondline were arrested for “disturbing the peace” and “parading without a permit.”
Folks came out of Lil Dizzy’s Café to watch as the parade passed by. Some held baseball caps over their hearts; some waved handkerchiefs. A group of employees came out the back door from the kitchen and danced hard on the sidewalk.
It was a good send-off for Kerwin, a fitting tribute. I thought to myself, "This is how we New Orleanians lay someone to rest -- this is how we honor their life and celebrate who they were," and despite the obvious storm damage in Treme, as elsewhere in the city, I was proud of the strength and beauty of my beloved hometown, and I felt glad, once again, to be finally home.
Night-Blooming Jasmine & Other Reasons for Tears
There are many joys to returning home to the Crescent City. For this long-time exile, most of them bring tears to my eyes. Some of it may seem silly or trivial, especially to outsiders, but even the tiniest evocation of what it means to be a New Orleanian chokes me up.
The first time happened the end of the week we were in New Orleans to find a place to live. My husband and I were filling up the van with gas, and noticed that the gas station had a little take-out place. Big Man went in to check out the goods, to see if there was anything we’d want for the road food for our trip back north. He came out with 2 paper bags, which we tore open in the van, to reveal steaming hot fried chicken livers and a plate of homemade spaghetti and sauce. The chicken livers were like butter, melt-in-your -mouth wonderful, perfectly fried, only lightly covered in batter. The spaghetti was old-fashioned comfort food, tasting “just like Mama used to make.” Big Man said to me, “I can’t wait to live here if this is the food you get in gas stations.” I was so proud of my hometown’s culinary excess that I got tears in my eyes – which recurred every time my spouse bragged to someone up North about the fabulous food available in New Orleans gas stations, let alone the restaurants.
Soon after we had settled into our new home in the lower Lower Garden District, we were “making groceries” at the A & P on Magazine Street. We turned into an aisle and were faced with row upon row of different brands of hot sauce, 5 different labels of Cajun-injector, seemingly endless displays of New Orleans and Louisiana spice mixes, and all the Blue Plate mayonnaise you could ever want. I couldn’t help it, I got all teary, and said to my husband, “Look at all this – we never have to have groceries shipped to us again!”
Big Man and I attended a free concert (the city is awash in free concerts) at Washington Square Park in the Marigny, to see our friends the Pfister Sisters perform. The day was warm, with one or two small gray clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. Just before the girls were supposed to go on, it began to rain lightly. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was bright blue, and one tiny little rain cloud decided to unload on us; it was funny, really, and folks in the crowd didn’t even run for cover or break out the umbrellas. We just turned our faces to the shower and let it rain gently on us while the sun shone. Then it stopped, and the Pfisters took the stage, their wonderful harmonies filling the square and our hearts. A group of little kids, aged about 2 or 3, gathered in front of the stage and danced unselfconsciously to the music, waving their chubby arms and twirling. In between songs, Holley Bendtson pointed to the little chorus line and said to the crowd, “Isn’t it great to see children again? Remember after the storm when there were no kids in the city, how awful that was? I love seeing these kids, it means so much to have kids again in New Orleans.” Her voice thickened, and people in the crowd nodded and smiled, and wiped their eyes. I teared up too.
The St. Charles streetcar has not been in operation since the storm, due to damage to the overhead power lines and to the tracks. The RTA has been working on the situation, and occasionally you can see an empty streetcar marked “Not in Service” going down St. Charles, testing the system. Drivers going by beep their car horns and wave to the streetcar driver, who generally waves back. About a week or so ago, all along the tracks, the RTA put up small purple-lettered signs that said, “We’re coming back! Look out for us!” with a little purple streetcar in one corner. I’m so far gone that actually seeing those signs made tears come to my eyes. (Interestingly, the signs began disappearing almost immediately – I suspect streetcar-missing New Orleanians are copping them as keepsakes.)
Another streetcar incident: Big Man and I were at another free concert, this time in Lafayette Square, across from old city hall. While we were grooving to the music of Paul Sanchez, 2 members of Bonerama, and Ivan Neville, a streetcar went by behind the stage. People have gotten used to the RTA testing the tracks, so no one paid any attention. But then a streetcar went by that had about a half a dozen passengers in it, and they were hanging out of the windows and waving like crazy. These were “civilians” too – they weren’t wearing RTA uniforms or anything. The crowd in the square went crazy, roaring with approval, and waving back like mad. Every streetcar that went by after that got a hand from the crowd. (I never did find out how those people got to ride the streetcar when it still wasn’t officially in service, but I sure did envy them.) Seeing a streetcar with actual people in it was touching enough, but the way the folks in the square received it really got me. You gotta love these people.
The thing that really got me, though, happened the first week I came back to my beloved home. One evening in August, as I waited for the Big Man to wrap up the rest of the move back east and get here, I was unloading a carload of stuff that had been stored for us at my sister’s. I pulled up in front of our little Creole cottage, grabbed an armload, climbed out of the air-conditioned car – and was hit in the face by the scent of night-blooming jasmine in the warm dark. My eyes welled up, and I drew in deep, ragged breaths. That seductive, familiar scent meant I was home.
Lots of things in New Orleans make me cry happy tears of homecoming. Night-blooming jasmine is just one.
The first time happened the end of the week we were in New Orleans to find a place to live. My husband and I were filling up the van with gas, and noticed that the gas station had a little take-out place. Big Man went in to check out the goods, to see if there was anything we’d want for the road food for our trip back north. He came out with 2 paper bags, which we tore open in the van, to reveal steaming hot fried chicken livers and a plate of homemade spaghetti and sauce. The chicken livers were like butter, melt-in-your -mouth wonderful, perfectly fried, only lightly covered in batter. The spaghetti was old-fashioned comfort food, tasting “just like Mama used to make.” Big Man said to me, “I can’t wait to live here if this is the food you get in gas stations.” I was so proud of my hometown’s culinary excess that I got tears in my eyes – which recurred every time my spouse bragged to someone up North about the fabulous food available in New Orleans gas stations, let alone the restaurants.
Soon after we had settled into our new home in the lower Lower Garden District, we were “making groceries” at the A & P on Magazine Street. We turned into an aisle and were faced with row upon row of different brands of hot sauce, 5 different labels of Cajun-injector, seemingly endless displays of New Orleans and Louisiana spice mixes, and all the Blue Plate mayonnaise you could ever want. I couldn’t help it, I got all teary, and said to my husband, “Look at all this – we never have to have groceries shipped to us again!”
Big Man and I attended a free concert (the city is awash in free concerts) at Washington Square Park in the Marigny, to see our friends the Pfister Sisters perform. The day was warm, with one or two small gray clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. Just before the girls were supposed to go on, it began to rain lightly. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was bright blue, and one tiny little rain cloud decided to unload on us; it was funny, really, and folks in the crowd didn’t even run for cover or break out the umbrellas. We just turned our faces to the shower and let it rain gently on us while the sun shone. Then it stopped, and the Pfisters took the stage, their wonderful harmonies filling the square and our hearts. A group of little kids, aged about 2 or 3, gathered in front of the stage and danced unselfconsciously to the music, waving their chubby arms and twirling. In between songs, Holley Bendtson pointed to the little chorus line and said to the crowd, “Isn’t it great to see children again? Remember after the storm when there were no kids in the city, how awful that was? I love seeing these kids, it means so much to have kids again in New Orleans.” Her voice thickened, and people in the crowd nodded and smiled, and wiped their eyes. I teared up too.
The St. Charles streetcar has not been in operation since the storm, due to damage to the overhead power lines and to the tracks. The RTA has been working on the situation, and occasionally you can see an empty streetcar marked “Not in Service” going down St. Charles, testing the system. Drivers going by beep their car horns and wave to the streetcar driver, who generally waves back. About a week or so ago, all along the tracks, the RTA put up small purple-lettered signs that said, “We’re coming back! Look out for us!” with a little purple streetcar in one corner. I’m so far gone that actually seeing those signs made tears come to my eyes. (Interestingly, the signs began disappearing almost immediately – I suspect streetcar-missing New Orleanians are copping them as keepsakes.)
Another streetcar incident: Big Man and I were at another free concert, this time in Lafayette Square, across from old city hall. While we were grooving to the music of Paul Sanchez, 2 members of Bonerama, and Ivan Neville, a streetcar went by behind the stage. People have gotten used to the RTA testing the tracks, so no one paid any attention. But then a streetcar went by that had about a half a dozen passengers in it, and they were hanging out of the windows and waving like crazy. These were “civilians” too – they weren’t wearing RTA uniforms or anything. The crowd in the square went crazy, roaring with approval, and waving back like mad. Every streetcar that went by after that got a hand from the crowd. (I never did find out how those people got to ride the streetcar when it still wasn’t officially in service, but I sure did envy them.) Seeing a streetcar with actual people in it was touching enough, but the way the folks in the square received it really got me. You gotta love these people.
The thing that really got me, though, happened the first week I came back to my beloved home. One evening in August, as I waited for the Big Man to wrap up the rest of the move back east and get here, I was unloading a carload of stuff that had been stored for us at my sister’s. I pulled up in front of our little Creole cottage, grabbed an armload, climbed out of the air-conditioned car – and was hit in the face by the scent of night-blooming jasmine in the warm dark. My eyes welled up, and I drew in deep, ragged breaths. That seductive, familiar scent meant I was home.
Lots of things in New Orleans make me cry happy tears of homecoming. Night-blooming jasmine is just one.
About Me
I’m a 50-something native New Orleanian, 5th-generation on my father’s side, which makes my family relative newcomers among real New Orleanians. I’ve been away from my home city for over a decade, serving as a parish minister in a liberal religious tradition in various locations. With my beloved spouse, Big Man, a professional musician, I have returned home to the Crescent City post-Katrina to be a part of New Orleans’s rebirth, renewal, and restoration. Together, we have an adult son, an adult daughter, and a year-old grandson, none of whom live with us, and at home we share a cat named Smokey Robinson.
Other than religion and all things New Orleans (music, food, culture, traditions), my interests include politics, reading, crossword puzzles and other word games, cooking, fashion, and travel. (And I wish I had enough money to indulge all my interests!)
Other than religion and all things New Orleans (music, food, culture, traditions), my interests include politics, reading, crossword puzzles and other word games, cooking, fashion, and travel. (And I wish I had enough money to indulge all my interests!)
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