The Somewhat True History of St. Bernard Parish

(Abridged): A Love Story

As part of the Katrina Anniversary commemorations, I went with my sister and her husband, another sister, and several friends, to go see the premiere of this play at the Nunez Auditorium in Chalmette. The play was written and directed by a Chalmette High School English teacher, and performed with love and good will by a troupe of local amateurs. There were two acts, each with about six scenes, depicting different highlights of the history of St, Bernard Parish.

The play was alternately funny, silly, moving, angry, sad, and informative. Lots of jokes about St. Bernard accents and "cultcha" -- things like "berled" shrimp and Rocky and Carlo's baked macaroni. A particularly good line was made about a combination Betsy-Katrina Hurricane cocktail: you drink it and then 40 years later it knocks you on your ass.

There were things in the play that were educational. I actually learned several things I never knew before about the parish where I lived from birth to 17. I had never known about the all-male Fiipino village in the swamps, where they dried shrimp by "dancing" on them in the sun. I don't think I ever knew that Arabi was once in Orleans Parish (and the line was moved to accommodate an abattoir!). And I had never heard tales of the German U-boats in the Gulf and up the river during World War II.

But the story that really got to me was about Fazendeville, a tiny, all-black community between the Mississippi River and St. Bernard Highway that was originally located on part of the area where the Battle of New Orleans was fought in 1814. (The entire battlefield area that is not currently under the river comprises the present National Park and National Cemetery, and at least three industrial areas.) Apparently, at the time of the battle, there was a small rice plantation owned by a free man of color named Jean Pierre Fazende (interestingly, I've since learned that "fazenda" means "plantation" in Brazil).

What follows was inspired by what I heard in the play, with additional details gleaned form the Internet.

After the Civil War, the Fazende heirs sold small parcels to freed slaves, and a lane was developed through the skinny slice of property from the highway to the river. An old mill run became a sort of stream or ditch where kids in the little community could wade and play and crawfish, and nearby there was a pecan grove where residents gathered pecans for pies and pralines. Over time, about 50 close-knit families lived there, and there was a Baptist church, a dance hall, and a small store.

As the time of the 150th anniversary of the Battle of New Orleans approached, in the early 1960s, a movement developed to beautify and expand the little National Park dedicated to the battle, and to unify the park with the National Cemetery that was on the other side of Fazendeville. Petitions were made to the federal government, and one of the last things President Kennedy ever did was sign the legislation authorizing the eminent domain seizure of the private property involved -- the entire community of Fazendeville. The land was completely cleared -- even the pecan trees had to go! -- and incorporated into the park.

While at the time, residential property in general in St. Bernard Parish was valued around $16,000, the black families of Fazendeville received only $6,000 -- which would not have allowed to buy anything similar to what they were losing. And of course, it goes without saying that taking away that property would completely dilute a black voting bloc in St. Bernard Parish. Many of the folks moved over to Orleans, to the Lower Ninth Ward, where they re-established their church, still calling it the Battle Ground Baptist Church (and which, sadly, was destroyed twice, once in Betsy and then again in Katrina). [Some pictures of the community and the lives lived there can be found at http://www.doyouknowwhatitmeans.org/fazendeville.html]

I was 10 years old when this all happened -- old enough to have visited the park as part of a school group to learn about the battle, but too young to have heard about the destruction of the Fazendeville community.

I am disturbed and unsettled by this story. I feel the families of Fazendeville, if their descendants could be found, are owed compensation from the federal government, as recompense for the unfair treatment they received. I feel the pressure of my white privilege that kept me from knowing this story, and from, in a sense, my benefiting from their terrible loss.

This needs more thought.

Only in New Orleans, Part Whatever

Walking in the rain today to go vote (earlier this morning, an Arab-American at a gas station Uptown told me it "always" rains on the Katrina weekend), I passed an open garage door on Euterpe Street and happened to glance inside. Stacked neatly against the wall inside the garage was a large double stack of sandbags.

I'm thinking that there aren't a lot of places where you'd see that -- or where else it might even be conceivable as a good idea.

Hiatus over (Finally!)

Dear Readers (whoever you are, wherever you are),

I am sorry to have been away for so long. Part of the reason is that Big Man and I were away for 2 long trips this summer (we put over 8,000 miles on our van!), and since this Blog is oriented to tales of life in New Orleans, reporting on our travels didn't seem appropriate. The other part of the reason is that once you get out of the habit of blogging, it's hard to get back into it. (Approach-avoidance, don't you know.) There always seems to be something more pressing to get to first. But with the Katrina Anniversary hard on my heels, I knew I had to get back, and so here I am.

A few observations gleaned from our travels:

Everywhere we went this summer, west and east, during the 100 days of the BP oil spill, as soon as we said we were from New Orleans, people everywhere -- UU and non-UU, service personnel, hotel workers, guests at a B&B near Mount Rushmore, my sister's friends in Minneapolis -- they all acted like somebody had died, and we were the bereaved. "We're so sorry," they would say, sometimes laying a hand sympathetically on our arm or shoulder. Or they would ask us solicitously, "Are you folks OK?" We appreciated their concern, really we did, but it got old. I mean, if you're on vacation, you're trying to get away from everything that's worrying you or making you sad. And what were we supposed to say, "No, we're so NOT OK -- we're bloody sick and tired of being public victims, the nation's designated downtrodden."

And it was especially grating to have folks ask if we could smell the oil, for pete's sake, from our house or from our church or from the French Quarter. No, and we couldn't see it, either. Why do so many people around the country seem to think New Orleans is located right on the Gulf of Mexico? (Although, God forbid, if we keep on losing wetlands, we will eventually be on the damn coast1) I also hated the questions about whether I supported the deep-water drilling moratorium (I don't) and whether I am seeing any effects inside my congregation (I am, believe me, I am), and whether I would feel safe eating Louisiana seafood (geez, like I think either Louisiana or the Feds would allow us to sell our seafood if it wasn't safe -- what good would that do?). Let me just testify -- like almost every other non-allergic, non-vegetarian New Orleanian I know, I am eating Louisiana seafood literally like there was no tomorrow.

Another thing we noticed was how differently people from "away" (those not from New Orleans) think about food. Even relative foodies elsewhere don't think about food the way we do. Few people in other places think it's proper to discuss or reminisce about other meals while you are in the midst of a meal. Folks looked askance at us when we mentioned our ambition to eat as many cheap Maine lobsters as we could on one week's time (gee, not like we were trying to eat 'em all at one sitting!). Being particular about food was seen as strange or quaint, or maybe snobbish. Hot sauce was exotic. That we avoided chain restaurants and fast food while on the road was seen by many people as unnecessarily adding time and miles and expense to our trip (maybe so, but we sure ate better!). Our obsession with good food is one of those thing about New Orleans that I do already know, but these 2 trips really brought it to mind.

Anyway, it was good to get home, heat and humidity notwithstanding.