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.