Good Friday, March 21, 2008
Big Man and I spent a totally enjoyable and nostalgic two-plus hours at Dooky Chase for the traditional Maundy Thursday gumbo d'zerbes lunch in the Gold Room -- the old original Main Dining Room. (I'd write more about that great event, except what is there to say? I laughed, I cried, I saw folks I hadn't seen in 15 years, I ate the best green gumbo ever, I hugged Ms. Leah Chase, and I gave thanks once again to be finally home. For the rest of you who haven't been yet, Dooky Chase's dining room is now open for the first time since Katrina, and everything looks just as it should.)
With that as an intro to the Easter weekend, we looked forward to Good Friday. And when it arrived, it was gorgeous -- full sun, high deep blue sky, gentle breeze, temperatures that started off cool but warmed up as the day went on, the kind of day you wish the Tourist Commission could bottle and send around the country at this time of year. (Ironically, and amusingly, the local weatherman Dan Milham refused to give the day a rating of "10," demoting it to a "9" because, he said, it was too cool in the morning to be a 10! Now that's funny.)
Since both of us ended up with commitments during the day, we did not follow the old custom of visiting 9 churches, but I know, given Big Man's love of fine church architecture and decoration, that we will have to do next year if we can. We got together in the beautiful afternoon, and spent some time out and about, marveling about the weather. Late in the day, we attempted some Easter shopping, but could hardly find any parking. It was so packed, we abandoned the effort, thinking we could take care of it on Saturday instead.
Big Man had gotten a call earlier in the week for a some kind of gig on Good Friday, to back up Joe "Cool" Davis doing gospel music in the late afternoon/early evening somewhere in Central City. The event was promised to be less than an hour, was a paying gig, and allowed plenty of time for Big Man to make it to his regular gig on Bourbon Street, and so was accepted with alacrity.
We followed the directions we had received, and found ourselves on the corner of Simon Bolivar and Jackson, where one corner boasted the well-known Chicken Shack, and the opposite corner held an open pavilion that before Katrina had been a neighborhood farmers' and fish market. We could see some folks sitting on folding chairs, and a band setting up, so we parked the van across the street and headed over. As we crossed the street, a heavenly aroma wafted over to us -- the unmistakable smell of catfish being perfectly fried. Omigod.
A makeshift stage area had been set up at one end of the pavilion, with folding chairs set up in two sections with a center aisle. The back area had long tables set up with more chairs, so that folks eating would not have to juggle plates on their knees. At the opposite end of the open-air shed from the performing area, there were several tables serving as the food prep section, where several women were putting together catfish dinners: one nice-size fried cat filet, plus a generous scoop of creamy home-made potato salad, a spoonful of green beans seasoned with bacon bits, a chunk of bread, and a piece of yellow cake studded with pecans and topped with a pecan icing, all for $7. What a bargain!
We hardly knew what to do. We had not known anything about the food, and Big Man had eaten dinner before leaving the house. Me, I had promised to have dinner at a parishioner's house, and didn't think it would be cool to show up with no appetite. (And I *knew* better than to attempt to eat two dinners!) So we tried to resist, but it was hopeless, what with having to smell that great smell all during the music, and watching other folks chow down on it in front of us. We simultaneously came to the same compromise -- buy two catfish dinners, and then TAKE THEM HOME FOR LATER. Brilliant!
The event turned out to be a neighborhood Good Friday service and fish fry. All the performers were gospel-oriented, although Joe Cool's contribution was flavored heavily by an R&B/rock'n'roll influence (thus the necessity for a horn line -- in addition to Big Man's trumpet, there were two saxophones). The set started with some instrumental hymns on keyboard with guitar and bass; then there was a blind singer/guitarist, backed up by a lady on the keyboard and an older guy on the drum kit. Next up was an amazing group, consisting of two elderly ladies in matching bright-blue suits, and the 8-year-old great-grand-daughter of one of them in a coordinating royal blue velvet outfit. They were accompanied by the keyboard, and a young boy, maybe 12, on the drums. Their first number was terrific called "Gawd Did It" with the theologically great chorus, "Everything that is good in my life, Gawd did it." By the time they were into the 3rd or 4th verse, the crowd was on their feet, clapping and shouting, raising their hands high, singing along. I have to say I was in that number. They sang two more, and Big Man was predicting big things for the 8-year-old's future.
Then it was time for Joe Cool's set, with Big Man and the other horn players. Joe did his own version of several well-known old hymns -- including an INCREDIBLY hot up-tempo take on "Everlasting Arms" that had all of us shaking, and a "switch" on an old Bobby Blue Bland love song, turned into a hymn of praise to God and Jesus. Despite the lack of familiarity and the absence of charts the horn section did great and received a lot of praise fro the crowd -- Big Man's solo made the back row of chairs stand straight up!
And then, as if it hadn't been great enough already, Joe Cool announced that the next act would be the world-famous and totally-fabulous Zion Harmonizers (unfortunately minus Sherman Washington, who is ill right now, bless him). I could hardly believe this kind of good luck -- the only time I get to see the Zion Harmonizers is at Jazz Fest , once a year, and then only as part of a gigantic crowd in the Gospel Tent (and me usually way in the back). So here I am, one of only 6 white people in a crowd of maybe 60-70, standing a mere 10 feet from one of the greatest gospel groups EVER, who've been together for over 65 YEARS, and they swing into their own arrangement in multipart harmony of "If I Had a Hammer." It was absolutely amazing, a gift.
By now I'm juggling 2 hot catfish dinners in styro containers and Big Man is done and holding his gig bag and the smell is making us crazy, plus we both have other places to go, so we only stayed for one more hymn by the Harmonizers. Then, blessed and happy, like folks who've been to church, we went home. We managed NOT to eat the catfish dinners.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
"This is the heart of America!"
Big Man's older sister and her husband arrived on Sunday from Pennsylvania for the husband's business conference downtown at the Convention Center (the annual "Corrosion Conference" whatever that is). We picked them up that morning at the airport and drove them to their hotel, giving them the quickie tour along the way, showing both damage and progress since Katrina. (Newcomers never get it about the progress, they're too blown away by all the damage they can still see 2 1/2 years later.) We made a date to pick C up on Monday to give her the "full treatment."
Monday was warm and muggy and while not a picture postcard kind of day, at least it was way better than the bitter cold winter it still is in Philadelphia, so C was appreciative. We drove down St. Charles Avenue, pointing out the sights, and recommending the streetcar both for diversion and transportation. We turned into the Garden District and slowly went round and round the blocks, C's head swiveling from left to right as she exclaimed over the gorgeous houses and the full-blown gardens, showing off Japanese magnolias, azaleas, irises, lilies, snap dragons, petunias, camellias and gardenias. At lunchtime we stopped at the newly-reopened Copeland's Cheescake Bistro and enjoyed their enormous portions and good food (that crawfish, lump crabmeat, artichoke heart and 3-cheese dip is *unbelievable*!) We took C to our house (we had cleaned up for the visit) and then to my sister L's house Uptown, with its $100,000 kitchen renovation (they had to do something with the insurance money from my brother-in-law's drowned Lakeview house). We pointed out some restaurants off the beaten path we recommended, and then parked on our favorite stretch of Magazine Street (between Felicity and Jackson -- I've written about this section of the Street of Dreams in this blog before).
We popped into several shops (including one with no one inside, the door unlocked), checked out our favorite antique stores (in the warehouse behind one we found an intact ancient pharmacy, counters, cabinets with multiple drawers and glass fronts, jars with calligraphy labels, and a chopping block with a worn top. Dunno how much it was -- probably negotiable -- but it made me dream of opening a spa or beauty boutique, and having these beauties as my store fixtures. We cruised through a couple of dress shops, House of Lounge's incredible collection of delectable undies, and Aidan Gill for Men. We showed her the old movie theater that is now an antique rug shop, and we looked into windows of places being renovated.
Then we took her into Prince Michael's Chocolates, and we all almost lost our minds. C bought 2 of everything, and I had to taste the marzipan-stuffed fig dipped in dark chocolate. Big Man and I also had to split another one of those *incredible* dark chocolate truffles with cinnamon and chipotle. (We had to see if the first one we ate was a fluke -- it wasn't. Just as amazing the second time.)
On the way back to C's hotel, we drove past Congo Square, and Big Man explained all about it, the enslaved people with their drums, the Native Americans, how the French came to see it and didn't forbid it, how ALL American music was born there, and his own powerful emotional/spiritual reaction to the place on his first visit.
C then exclaimed, "Why, this is the heart of America! And I never knew it before! You are so lucky to live here!" Yes, we said, it is truly and really the heart of America, and we are lucky to live here.
Monday was warm and muggy and while not a picture postcard kind of day, at least it was way better than the bitter cold winter it still is in Philadelphia, so C was appreciative. We drove down St. Charles Avenue, pointing out the sights, and recommending the streetcar both for diversion and transportation. We turned into the Garden District and slowly went round and round the blocks, C's head swiveling from left to right as she exclaimed over the gorgeous houses and the full-blown gardens, showing off Japanese magnolias, azaleas, irises, lilies, snap dragons, petunias, camellias and gardenias. At lunchtime we stopped at the newly-reopened Copeland's Cheescake Bistro and enjoyed their enormous portions and good food (that crawfish, lump crabmeat, artichoke heart and 3-cheese dip is *unbelievable*!) We took C to our house (we had cleaned up for the visit) and then to my sister L's house Uptown, with its $100,000 kitchen renovation (they had to do something with the insurance money from my brother-in-law's drowned Lakeview house). We pointed out some restaurants off the beaten path we recommended, and then parked on our favorite stretch of Magazine Street (between Felicity and Jackson -- I've written about this section of the Street of Dreams in this blog before).
We popped into several shops (including one with no one inside, the door unlocked), checked out our favorite antique stores (in the warehouse behind one we found an intact ancient pharmacy, counters, cabinets with multiple drawers and glass fronts, jars with calligraphy labels, and a chopping block with a worn top. Dunno how much it was -- probably negotiable -- but it made me dream of opening a spa or beauty boutique, and having these beauties as my store fixtures. We cruised through a couple of dress shops, House of Lounge's incredible collection of delectable undies, and Aidan Gill for Men. We showed her the old movie theater that is now an antique rug shop, and we looked into windows of places being renovated.
Then we took her into Prince Michael's Chocolates, and we all almost lost our minds. C bought 2 of everything, and I had to taste the marzipan-stuffed fig dipped in dark chocolate. Big Man and I also had to split another one of those *incredible* dark chocolate truffles with cinnamon and chipotle. (We had to see if the first one we ate was a fluke -- it wasn't. Just as amazing the second time.)
On the way back to C's hotel, we drove past Congo Square, and Big Man explained all about it, the enslaved people with their drums, the Native Americans, how the French came to see it and didn't forbid it, how ALL American music was born there, and his own powerful emotional/spiritual reaction to the place on his first visit.
C then exclaimed, "Why, this is the heart of America! And I never knew it before! You are so lucky to live here!" Yes, we said, it is truly and really the heart of America, and we are lucky to live here.
St. Joe's, St. Pat's, and Super Sunday
Big Man says the New Orleans Tourist Commission should have a slogan like, "Another festival every weekend!" Maybe so. The last two weekends prove it.
Saturday, March 8, was designated by the Catholic Archdiocese as the evening for the St. Joseph's Parade through the French Quarter by the Italian-American Association. (The Feast Day of St. Joseph is, of course, March 19th, but local Catholic authorities juggled the dates of both St. Joseph's and St. Patrick's, so as not to interfere with Holy Week.) Big Man and I arrived early, intending to drop off his trumpet at the Blues Club, enjoy the parade, have dinner, and then he could go straight to work on Bourbon Street. However, a glitch occurred in our best-laid plans when I clumsily slipped/tripped on a piece of broken pavement on Canal Street, and went down HARD, my left foot folding under me in a way it's not supposed to go, my left knee boinking the sidewalk, my left elbow as well. Big Man solicitously helped me up (hauled me up?), and I gingerly tried stepping down on my left side. I was worried about my left ankle, weak since I broke it so badly in 2001, but it seemed fine. The pain was all in my toes and my left knee. I was pretty sure I had broken at least one toe (turned out to be two) and possibly sprained my knee. Do you think this prevented me from enjoying the St. Joseph's Day Parade? Ha! No more than pouring rain stopped me from seeing a Carnival parade a month ago. Big Man was mighty concerned, and more than willing to drive me right back home and put ice all over my left leg, but I insisted I was fine. Priorities, you know. I hadn't seen a St. Joseph's Parade in over 15 years, and I wasn't going to miss this one.
So, limping a bit, and leaning on Big Man for support, we walked down Bourbon to the club and dropped off his gig bag with the trumpet in it, saying Hi to club employees as we passed in and out. We went down to the next corner just in time to see an impromptu little walking parade apparently in honor of George Rodrigue's Blue Dog. (Now, don't get me started on that damn Blue Dog, and how great an artist Rodrigue was before his stupid dog died and he had to go putting old Tiffany into every single painting and print for the rest of his life. Give it a rest, George! Dump the Blue Dog! You are better than that!) The little second-line parade had 2 brass bands, and costumed people walking with beads and throws, and a few people in a little carriage. Tourists hollered for beads and stuff and when it passed, one man said to us, "So that was the parade?" We scoffed. "That was nothin' -- the real parade hasn't even started yet."
We continued on to Chartres Street, and caught the very beginning of the parade, with the celebrity Grand Marshals, stars of "The Sopranos." (Folks were hollering their characters' names.) We watched the Queen's float and her court of Italian-American beauties, some of whose last names reflected intermarriage with other New Orleans ethnic groups: French, German, Yugoslav. A float depicting a St. Joseph altar went by (sponsored by local grocery chain Rouse's) and Big Man was mighty impressed, until I said that it was a small representation of the real thing. Old Italian guys went by in motorized vehicles, and then dozens and dozens of Italian men in walking groups, in fancy tuxes with green-white-red sashes and giant walking sticks studded with flowers. I was a little concerned that I was beyond the age where I could attract the kisses and flowers of such marchers, but, whether out of kindness, blindness, being so much older than me that I looked young, OR being so much younger than me that I looked like their mamas, I collected a small bouquet as the parade went by.
We kept to our plan to eat in the Quarter, and I had suggested the good ol' Alpine (where my sister L had once wrangled a discount, on the grounds that we were locals and they should treat us better than they do tourists), but as we turned a corner, we came upon a little place with a nondescript sign that listed as its specialties Cuban, Mexican, and steaks. Something for almost everyone. We went in -- it was a tiny little place, decorated in cheesy south-of-the-border style (the usual dingy-looking piñatas and several strings of lit-up parrots) and dominated by a long and obviously old bar. The ceiling was the original pressed tin, painted bright red, and the place smelled really good. A pretty Latina (Cubana?) led us to a table, and we ordered off their extensive menu. We could hardly believe from the prices that we were still in the Quarter, everything was so reasonable. (One sangria, a diet soda, a shared fried calamari appetizer, a big steak for the Big Man, and a plate of ropa vieja for me all came to less than $40, with tip!) Afterwards, Big Man insisted on driving his crippled spouse home before he went back to the nightclub to retrieve his horn and blow his heart out. (At home I was glad to soak my poor foot in epsom salts and wrap up the whole injured thing in an ace bandage. Next day, I had to preach from crutches!)
Later that week, I took Eric around to several of the St. Joseph's altars around town -- St. Mary's Assumption Church in the Irish Channel, where we viewed the artifacts in the Blessed Father Seelos shrine (his tiny cast-iron coffin! the little collar of thorns he wore! his breviary!), AND ate a helluva Italian lunch for only $5 each, then St. Joseph's Church on Tulane. It was fun comparing all the different methods of making those fabulous Italian fig cookies (Big Man said, "So fig newtons are just a poor bastardization of these, huh?"), watching Big Man feast his eyes on the gorgeous displays of culinary-religious art (my favorite: the Lamb of God cakes covered in soft coconut "wool."), making our little petitions to St. Joseph, and receiving the obligatory lucky fava beans and St. Joseph holy cards. Big Man was amazed at the tradition, which, despite his extensive contacts with Italian-Americans in the Northeast, he had never seen before. I tried to convey to him that even the most elaborate of the altars we were seeing could not compare to the ones of my childhood, with their enormous bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, and giant trays of lasagna, and stuffed artichokes as big as basketballs. Still, he was blown away, and enjoyed, as always, the church tour. (Big Man may not be conventionally religious, but he sure loves an elaborate church.)
The next weekend, Saturday, March 15th, I was awakened by the sounds of voices and cars through the open dormer window in our bedroom. Normally, our neighborhood is pretty quiet, so I got up to see what was going on. To my surprise, the St. Patrick's Day Parade was lining up on the corner of our street! I had read that the parade started at Magazine and Felicity, and has assumed that meant the parade lined up on Felicity, but instead, here they were. Folks in green costumes were laughing and calling to each other as they hauled bags of cabbages and potatoes and beads and trinkets up to the floats. The street swirled with discarded cardboard boxes and plastic bags -- which all miraculously disappeared after the parade, when the sanitation crews came through.
Big Man got up around 11 am, and we headed out to the parade route on Magazine, looking for brunch and the best spot to see the parade. The day was absolutely gorgeous -- not a cloud in the sky, the sun brightly shining (later that day, we'd see a number of lobster-red people who should've worn sunblock), a light wind blowing. As we walked past the floats, parade riders greeted us and some threw beads. We walked all the way to Jackson, and got sandwiches at Stein's Deli (Big Man got a Philly-style hoagie and I got corned beef in honor of the day). The parade was just rounding the corner of Magazine and Jackson when we emerged. (The owner of the deli had gone outside to check on parade progress, and had come back into the shop, telling his employees, "If y'all wanna go out and see the parade, go ahead." Only in New Orleans.)
I had brought a big canvass bag to hold our throws, since I was counting on lots of cabbages, potatoes and carrots for Irish stew, and we filled the bag to such a point that I started giving cabbages away as we walked. We declined most of the beads thrown to us (like we don't have enough already), and I gave the moonpies I caught to kids along the route. We walked all the way back home, and there were still floats on our corner, dying to throw to us. When we arrived at our porch, Big Man said to me, "I can't wait to tell people this was a normal day in our neighborhood" and so it was.
But the festivities weren't over yet. On Sunday, March 16, after a meeting at church, we went to the traditional corner of LaSalle and Washington to watch the Mardi Gras Indians parade through the neighborhood. The people-watching was totally great, and local entrepreneurs had set up their little businesses: snow balls, cold water and beer and soft drinks, several people barbequeing on the backs of their trucks, one guy with a full bar on display on top of the cab of his truck, and Ms. Linda's home-made gumbo and ya ca mein. Big Man got a BBQ pork chop sandwich, and I, full of nostalgia and at a loss how to explain to it to Big Man, ordered the shrimp and beef ya ca mein, as Ms. Linda told me about her booth at Jazz Fest. The food was great, the pork chop smoky and charred but juicy on the inside, and the ya ca mein so hearty and spicy and filled with both protein and carbs (shrimp, lots of roast beef, and the traditional hard-boiled egg in a rich spiced broth over noodles), that it's clear why it had always been thought a hangover remedy back in the day.
We watched as several Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs and individual and small groups of Indians marched and danced by with their brass bands (including Rebirth), on their way to -- where? A few inquiries led to the realization that A.L. Davis Park (formerly Shakespeare Park, after a long-ago mayor thus named, not the bard) was no longer the gathering place. We went back to our car and headed to Taylor Park, now Marcus Garvey Park, behind the Rex den on Claiborne (kind of ironic -- a giant Mardi Gras Indian gathering in such close proximity to the headquarters of the floats of the white King of Carnival), which was filled with families and kids and booths and a stage. The air was filled with the scent of boiling crawfish and barbequeing meats, and the sounds of tambourines and hand drums and voices singing and chanting ('Liza Jane, Shallow Water, Shoo Fly, Tu-way Pocky Way, Indian Red -- all the classics). The day had started cool, but the afternoon was warm and sunny, with a nice breeze.
And the suits! My God, the suits were amazing. (Please, don't ever call what Mardi Gras Indians wear "costumes"!) The plumes, the feather, the ribbons, the shredded and gathered satin! The sun glinting off the glass beads and sequins was almost blinding, and the colors just glowed in the bright light. There were traditional designs and new, creative take-offs. Black, soft pink, hot pink, baby blue, lime green, hunter green, orange, yellow, pure white, buttercream, multi-colors, African-themes in earth tones and multi-brights, and beaded panels showing Native Americans at work, at play, at war. The craftsmanship was off-the-hook, and I couldn't help but wish that there could be some way for Indians to make a living with their artistry. (Big Man said, "If you went to some other city, and suggested that young and middle-aged black men could design and sew and publicly wear these outfits, and that it would be a very masculine, prideful thing, they'd think you were nuts.") An amazing afternoon. At one point, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of my first Uptown Super Sunday in over 15 years, I began to cry with happiness and Big Man held me close, stroking my hair, murmuring, "It's good to be home, huh?"
So the week after this is Easter, and there will be another parade, this time in Marigny, and the week after that, the Downtown Indians will hold their Super Sunday on Bayou St. John. "Another festival every weekend!" indeed. You gotta feel sorry for folks who have to live elsewhere.
Saturday, March 8, was designated by the Catholic Archdiocese as the evening for the St. Joseph's Parade through the French Quarter by the Italian-American Association. (The Feast Day of St. Joseph is, of course, March 19th, but local Catholic authorities juggled the dates of both St. Joseph's and St. Patrick's, so as not to interfere with Holy Week.) Big Man and I arrived early, intending to drop off his trumpet at the Blues Club, enjoy the parade, have dinner, and then he could go straight to work on Bourbon Street. However, a glitch occurred in our best-laid plans when I clumsily slipped/tripped on a piece of broken pavement on Canal Street, and went down HARD, my left foot folding under me in a way it's not supposed to go, my left knee boinking the sidewalk, my left elbow as well. Big Man solicitously helped me up (hauled me up?), and I gingerly tried stepping down on my left side. I was worried about my left ankle, weak since I broke it so badly in 2001, but it seemed fine. The pain was all in my toes and my left knee. I was pretty sure I had broken at least one toe (turned out to be two) and possibly sprained my knee. Do you think this prevented me from enjoying the St. Joseph's Day Parade? Ha! No more than pouring rain stopped me from seeing a Carnival parade a month ago. Big Man was mighty concerned, and more than willing to drive me right back home and put ice all over my left leg, but I insisted I was fine. Priorities, you know. I hadn't seen a St. Joseph's Parade in over 15 years, and I wasn't going to miss this one.
So, limping a bit, and leaning on Big Man for support, we walked down Bourbon to the club and dropped off his gig bag with the trumpet in it, saying Hi to club employees as we passed in and out. We went down to the next corner just in time to see an impromptu little walking parade apparently in honor of George Rodrigue's Blue Dog. (Now, don't get me started on that damn Blue Dog, and how great an artist Rodrigue was before his stupid dog died and he had to go putting old Tiffany into every single painting and print for the rest of his life. Give it a rest, George! Dump the Blue Dog! You are better than that!) The little second-line parade had 2 brass bands, and costumed people walking with beads and throws, and a few people in a little carriage. Tourists hollered for beads and stuff and when it passed, one man said to us, "So that was the parade?" We scoffed. "That was nothin' -- the real parade hasn't even started yet."
We continued on to Chartres Street, and caught the very beginning of the parade, with the celebrity Grand Marshals, stars of "The Sopranos." (Folks were hollering their characters' names.) We watched the Queen's float and her court of Italian-American beauties, some of whose last names reflected intermarriage with other New Orleans ethnic groups: French, German, Yugoslav. A float depicting a St. Joseph altar went by (sponsored by local grocery chain Rouse's) and Big Man was mighty impressed, until I said that it was a small representation of the real thing. Old Italian guys went by in motorized vehicles, and then dozens and dozens of Italian men in walking groups, in fancy tuxes with green-white-red sashes and giant walking sticks studded with flowers. I was a little concerned that I was beyond the age where I could attract the kisses and flowers of such marchers, but, whether out of kindness, blindness, being so much older than me that I looked young, OR being so much younger than me that I looked like their mamas, I collected a small bouquet as the parade went by.
We kept to our plan to eat in the Quarter, and I had suggested the good ol' Alpine (where my sister L had once wrangled a discount, on the grounds that we were locals and they should treat us better than they do tourists), but as we turned a corner, we came upon a little place with a nondescript sign that listed as its specialties Cuban, Mexican, and steaks. Something for almost everyone. We went in -- it was a tiny little place, decorated in cheesy south-of-the-border style (the usual dingy-looking piñatas and several strings of lit-up parrots) and dominated by a long and obviously old bar. The ceiling was the original pressed tin, painted bright red, and the place smelled really good. A pretty Latina (Cubana?) led us to a table, and we ordered off their extensive menu. We could hardly believe from the prices that we were still in the Quarter, everything was so reasonable. (One sangria, a diet soda, a shared fried calamari appetizer, a big steak for the Big Man, and a plate of ropa vieja for me all came to less than $40, with tip!) Afterwards, Big Man insisted on driving his crippled spouse home before he went back to the nightclub to retrieve his horn and blow his heart out. (At home I was glad to soak my poor foot in epsom salts and wrap up the whole injured thing in an ace bandage. Next day, I had to preach from crutches!)
Later that week, I took Eric around to several of the St. Joseph's altars around town -- St. Mary's Assumption Church in the Irish Channel, where we viewed the artifacts in the Blessed Father Seelos shrine (his tiny cast-iron coffin! the little collar of thorns he wore! his breviary!), AND ate a helluva Italian lunch for only $5 each, then St. Joseph's Church on Tulane. It was fun comparing all the different methods of making those fabulous Italian fig cookies (Big Man said, "So fig newtons are just a poor bastardization of these, huh?"), watching Big Man feast his eyes on the gorgeous displays of culinary-religious art (my favorite: the Lamb of God cakes covered in soft coconut "wool."), making our little petitions to St. Joseph, and receiving the obligatory lucky fava beans and St. Joseph holy cards. Big Man was amazed at the tradition, which, despite his extensive contacts with Italian-Americans in the Northeast, he had never seen before. I tried to convey to him that even the most elaborate of the altars we were seeing could not compare to the ones of my childhood, with their enormous bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, and giant trays of lasagna, and stuffed artichokes as big as basketballs. Still, he was blown away, and enjoyed, as always, the church tour. (Big Man may not be conventionally religious, but he sure loves an elaborate church.)
The next weekend, Saturday, March 15th, I was awakened by the sounds of voices and cars through the open dormer window in our bedroom. Normally, our neighborhood is pretty quiet, so I got up to see what was going on. To my surprise, the St. Patrick's Day Parade was lining up on the corner of our street! I had read that the parade started at Magazine and Felicity, and has assumed that meant the parade lined up on Felicity, but instead, here they were. Folks in green costumes were laughing and calling to each other as they hauled bags of cabbages and potatoes and beads and trinkets up to the floats. The street swirled with discarded cardboard boxes and plastic bags -- which all miraculously disappeared after the parade, when the sanitation crews came through.
Big Man got up around 11 am, and we headed out to the parade route on Magazine, looking for brunch and the best spot to see the parade. The day was absolutely gorgeous -- not a cloud in the sky, the sun brightly shining (later that day, we'd see a number of lobster-red people who should've worn sunblock), a light wind blowing. As we walked past the floats, parade riders greeted us and some threw beads. We walked all the way to Jackson, and got sandwiches at Stein's Deli (Big Man got a Philly-style hoagie and I got corned beef in honor of the day). The parade was just rounding the corner of Magazine and Jackson when we emerged. (The owner of the deli had gone outside to check on parade progress, and had come back into the shop, telling his employees, "If y'all wanna go out and see the parade, go ahead." Only in New Orleans.)
I had brought a big canvass bag to hold our throws, since I was counting on lots of cabbages, potatoes and carrots for Irish stew, and we filled the bag to such a point that I started giving cabbages away as we walked. We declined most of the beads thrown to us (like we don't have enough already), and I gave the moonpies I caught to kids along the route. We walked all the way back home, and there were still floats on our corner, dying to throw to us. When we arrived at our porch, Big Man said to me, "I can't wait to tell people this was a normal day in our neighborhood" and so it was.
But the festivities weren't over yet. On Sunday, March 16, after a meeting at church, we went to the traditional corner of LaSalle and Washington to watch the Mardi Gras Indians parade through the neighborhood. The people-watching was totally great, and local entrepreneurs had set up their little businesses: snow balls, cold water and beer and soft drinks, several people barbequeing on the backs of their trucks, one guy with a full bar on display on top of the cab of his truck, and Ms. Linda's home-made gumbo and ya ca mein. Big Man got a BBQ pork chop sandwich, and I, full of nostalgia and at a loss how to explain to it to Big Man, ordered the shrimp and beef ya ca mein, as Ms. Linda told me about her booth at Jazz Fest. The food was great, the pork chop smoky and charred but juicy on the inside, and the ya ca mein so hearty and spicy and filled with both protein and carbs (shrimp, lots of roast beef, and the traditional hard-boiled egg in a rich spiced broth over noodles), that it's clear why it had always been thought a hangover remedy back in the day.
We watched as several Social Aid & Pleasure Clubs and individual and small groups of Indians marched and danced by with their brass bands (including Rebirth), on their way to -- where? A few inquiries led to the realization that A.L. Davis Park (formerly Shakespeare Park, after a long-ago mayor thus named, not the bard) was no longer the gathering place. We went back to our car and headed to Taylor Park, now Marcus Garvey Park, behind the Rex den on Claiborne (kind of ironic -- a giant Mardi Gras Indian gathering in such close proximity to the headquarters of the floats of the white King of Carnival), which was filled with families and kids and booths and a stage. The air was filled with the scent of boiling crawfish and barbequeing meats, and the sounds of tambourines and hand drums and voices singing and chanting ('Liza Jane, Shallow Water, Shoo Fly, Tu-way Pocky Way, Indian Red -- all the classics). The day had started cool, but the afternoon was warm and sunny, with a nice breeze.
And the suits! My God, the suits were amazing. (Please, don't ever call what Mardi Gras Indians wear "costumes"!) The plumes, the feather, the ribbons, the shredded and gathered satin! The sun glinting off the glass beads and sequins was almost blinding, and the colors just glowed in the bright light. There were traditional designs and new, creative take-offs. Black, soft pink, hot pink, baby blue, lime green, hunter green, orange, yellow, pure white, buttercream, multi-colors, African-themes in earth tones and multi-brights, and beaded panels showing Native Americans at work, at play, at war. The craftsmanship was off-the-hook, and I couldn't help but wish that there could be some way for Indians to make a living with their artistry. (Big Man said, "If you went to some other city, and suggested that young and middle-aged black men could design and sew and publicly wear these outfits, and that it would be a very masculine, prideful thing, they'd think you were nuts.") An amazing afternoon. At one point, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of my first Uptown Super Sunday in over 15 years, I began to cry with happiness and Big Man held me close, stroking my hair, murmuring, "It's good to be home, huh?"
So the week after this is Easter, and there will be another parade, this time in Marigny, and the week after that, the Downtown Indians will hold their Super Sunday on Bayou St. John. "Another festival every weekend!" indeed. You gotta feel sorry for folks who have to live elsewhere.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
What It's Like Here, Part 2
There's 2 sides to everything, I guess, and there's certainly 2 sides to New Orleanians feeling like this beloved old city, battered as she is, is the "center of the universe" as Chris Rose writes. The other side is that post-Katrina New Orleanians, across almost all the categories of race and class and gender, are hurting.
A friend of mine who used to live here (and who moved away before Katrina) alerted me that her former landlady was deeply depressed and agoraphobic, and on top of her own worries had an adult son who was apparently "drinking himself to death." Agoraphobia is rampant in the city right now, and some folks do indeed have the full-fledged deal, stuck in their house or trailer, unable to go outside. But a lot of people in New Orleans seem to have a milder form, kind of partial agoraphobia, meaning they can go to work, to the job they need to live on, but then they go back in their shell, and stay holed up and away from other people til the weekend's over.
A great deal of my ministry right now is just pastoral care, finding resources for people, referring them to what few counseling/social work/psychiatric/psychological services we actually have right now. Resources are scarce, plus there's that inertia and agoraphobia, so people are self-medicating big time with alcohol and other substances, legal and illegal. Big Man, who is in AA (sober since 1990, yay!), has been out on a number of AA-related intervention calls in the 6 months since we've been here, more than the 4 years we lived together in the Philadelphia area.
We don't like to talk about it, especially not in the media, since it just leads to copy-catting, but suicide is endemic here. Almost every person in the city is connected, either directly or indirectly, to someone who has committed suicide. The jail is our biggest mental-health facility these days. In addition to agoraphobia and suicide, there's also recurrent nightmares, chronic, clinical and subclinical depression, anger issues galore, and weird traffic accidents. You wouldn't believe the number of light poles and traffic lights lying on the ground as a result of being hit by cars -- every day there's more. It's strains credulity to believe all these hits are random, folks have to be *aiming* at the poles, perhaps self-destructively, perhaps without realizing that the poles are designed to break off and away from the vehicle striking them. (It would be VERY difficult to kill yourself hitting a light pole or traffic light pole, but maybe folks don't know that.)
Plus there's the general paranoia, which, after all, is based on having people *really* out to get you and do you harm. The Army Corps of Engineers, the Levee Boards, FEMA, your homeowner's or renter's insurance company, your car insurance company, the SBA, the Road Home, the ITC, the New Orleans Recovery Association, HUD -- who's to say they're NOT trying to hurt us? Isn't it at least a little bit sensible to walk around suspicious?
Then, there's the relationships crashing. In a congregation officially less than 90 adults, I know of 3 divorces/split ups; there may even be more than I'm not yet aware of. One couple in my church, long-time members, are planning to live at least 6 months away from the city, having purchased a house out of state. The wife is traumatized and can't take it here any more; she doesn't feel safe. A New Orleans attorney, friend of mine for close to 30 years, says that right after Katrina it was the men who went crazy while the women held things together; 2 years later, the men are doing OK and the women are dropping like flies. My friend says that periodically his wife brings up leaving the city -- and they go round and round for a while, talking about where they might live, and in the end, they come to the conclusion, Where would we go? How could we live anywhere else?
How could we? How could we live anywhere else? Living someplace else would mean having to explain yourself all the time, why you are the way you are, translating the weird things you say into English, trying to fit in a world less wonderful than the one you left. I happen to know all this is true, having lived away from the city for close to 15 years, I can testify that New Orleanians do NOT easily fit in elsewhere. We have likes and dislikes and preferences and expectations that do not fit in a "normal" place.
My attorney friend and I agreed tearfully that living with everything we have to deal with in a broken and wounded New Orleans was better than living somewhere else clean and efficient and safe, where we could not be ourselves.
There is some help out there, but you have to be able to reach for it. As I constantly stress to my poor hard-working, dedicated parishioners, I have access to some therapists and counselors, and I can help fill out the Red Cross forms for anyone affected by Katrina to get money for counseling. My church has started an every Monday Buddhist meditation group, free and open to anyone. A neighborhood group approached me today about starting something in the church for people who just want to talk about how the Storm and the aftermath are affecting them; kind of a self-run help group, like Katrina-Anonymous.
So this too, is what it's like here. We're all a little crazy, including me. We WANT to live here, and we love this place, but we must deal, somehow, with all that is going wrong, all that hasn't been fixed, all the crazy plans the Powers That Be have to make us into something we're not, all the fears, anxieties, and nightmares that we're not safe, that IT could happen again. But, over and over, we come to the conclusion that the craziness here is better than sanity elsewhere.
A friend of mine who used to live here (and who moved away before Katrina) alerted me that her former landlady was deeply depressed and agoraphobic, and on top of her own worries had an adult son who was apparently "drinking himself to death." Agoraphobia is rampant in the city right now, and some folks do indeed have the full-fledged deal, stuck in their house or trailer, unable to go outside. But a lot of people in New Orleans seem to have a milder form, kind of partial agoraphobia, meaning they can go to work, to the job they need to live on, but then they go back in their shell, and stay holed up and away from other people til the weekend's over.
A great deal of my ministry right now is just pastoral care, finding resources for people, referring them to what few counseling/social work/psychiatric/psychological services we actually have right now. Resources are scarce, plus there's that inertia and agoraphobia, so people are self-medicating big time with alcohol and other substances, legal and illegal. Big Man, who is in AA (sober since 1990, yay!), has been out on a number of AA-related intervention calls in the 6 months since we've been here, more than the 4 years we lived together in the Philadelphia area.
We don't like to talk about it, especially not in the media, since it just leads to copy-catting, but suicide is endemic here. Almost every person in the city is connected, either directly or indirectly, to someone who has committed suicide. The jail is our biggest mental-health facility these days. In addition to agoraphobia and suicide, there's also recurrent nightmares, chronic, clinical and subclinical depression, anger issues galore, and weird traffic accidents. You wouldn't believe the number of light poles and traffic lights lying on the ground as a result of being hit by cars -- every day there's more. It's strains credulity to believe all these hits are random, folks have to be *aiming* at the poles, perhaps self-destructively, perhaps without realizing that the poles are designed to break off and away from the vehicle striking them. (It would be VERY difficult to kill yourself hitting a light pole or traffic light pole, but maybe folks don't know that.)
Plus there's the general paranoia, which, after all, is based on having people *really* out to get you and do you harm. The Army Corps of Engineers, the Levee Boards, FEMA, your homeowner's or renter's insurance company, your car insurance company, the SBA, the Road Home, the ITC, the New Orleans Recovery Association, HUD -- who's to say they're NOT trying to hurt us? Isn't it at least a little bit sensible to walk around suspicious?
Then, there's the relationships crashing. In a congregation officially less than 90 adults, I know of 3 divorces/split ups; there may even be more than I'm not yet aware of. One couple in my church, long-time members, are planning to live at least 6 months away from the city, having purchased a house out of state. The wife is traumatized and can't take it here any more; she doesn't feel safe. A New Orleans attorney, friend of mine for close to 30 years, says that right after Katrina it was the men who went crazy while the women held things together; 2 years later, the men are doing OK and the women are dropping like flies. My friend says that periodically his wife brings up leaving the city -- and they go round and round for a while, talking about where they might live, and in the end, they come to the conclusion, Where would we go? How could we live anywhere else?
How could we? How could we live anywhere else? Living someplace else would mean having to explain yourself all the time, why you are the way you are, translating the weird things you say into English, trying to fit in a world less wonderful than the one you left. I happen to know all this is true, having lived away from the city for close to 15 years, I can testify that New Orleanians do NOT easily fit in elsewhere. We have likes and dislikes and preferences and expectations that do not fit in a "normal" place.
My attorney friend and I agreed tearfully that living with everything we have to deal with in a broken and wounded New Orleans was better than living somewhere else clean and efficient and safe, where we could not be ourselves.
There is some help out there, but you have to be able to reach for it. As I constantly stress to my poor hard-working, dedicated parishioners, I have access to some therapists and counselors, and I can help fill out the Red Cross forms for anyone affected by Katrina to get money for counseling. My church has started an every Monday Buddhist meditation group, free and open to anyone. A neighborhood group approached me today about starting something in the church for people who just want to talk about how the Storm and the aftermath are affecting them; kind of a self-run help group, like Katrina-Anonymous.
So this too, is what it's like here. We're all a little crazy, including me. We WANT to live here, and we love this place, but we must deal, somehow, with all that is going wrong, all that hasn't been fixed, all the crazy plans the Powers That Be have to make us into something we're not, all the fears, anxieties, and nightmares that we're not safe, that IT could happen again. But, over and over, we come to the conclusion that the craziness here is better than sanity elsewhere.
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