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.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
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.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
What It's Like Here
No one says it better than Chris Rose. Check out:
blog.nola.com/chrisrose/2008/02/letters_from_the_center_of_the.html#more">
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Sign Evolution
I was having lunch today (at Bud's Broiler -- yum!) with a parishioner, and as we spoke together about life in the "new" New Orleans, he pointed out something to me that I had noticed but not taken conscious note of (if you get the distinction). He said he was enjoying how the small signs on wire stands on the neutral grounds around the city had changed, and I realized he was not only right, but he was onto something.
When I first returned to New Orleans immediately after the Storm, in late September/early October 2005, the signs on the neutral ground were all about gutting and demolishing houses and remediating mold. (One guy, calling himself "Mold Man," had signs all over the place. I dunno how effective that was, I just know I wouldn't want to be known by that appellation.) Then, when I came back again for Mardi Gras, in late February '06, the neutral ground signs advertised tree cutting and house leveling.
The next year's Mardi Gras brought signs for handymen ("No job too big or too small") and assorted contractors, electricians, and carpenters. When Big Man and I came back in spring '07 for Jazz Fest (and his 50th birthday!), the signs promoted neighborhood meetings about the levees, and attorneys and consultants who said they could help with the paperwork associated with Road Home, home owners' insurance, and ITC. And there was a time this fall (which I've already written about in this blog) when the signs excitedly let us know that the streetcars were on their way back.
Today, the signs on the neutral ground are mostly for various charter schools, and some that advertise farmers' markets and arts and music festivals. You don't promote a service or a product unless you believe there is a market for it, so the signs for schools are another hopeful indication that families with children are coming back home to the city. And the signs for festivals and markets show that we are slowly moving away from recovery-mode to real-living, enjoying the delights of city life and New Orleans culture.
We're coming along, maybe incrementally and glacially slow, but still, we're coming along. Hope abounds. And one of the ways you can tell is by those signs on the neutral grounds.
When I first returned to New Orleans immediately after the Storm, in late September/early October 2005, the signs on the neutral ground were all about gutting and demolishing houses and remediating mold. (One guy, calling himself "Mold Man," had signs all over the place. I dunno how effective that was, I just know I wouldn't want to be known by that appellation.) Then, when I came back again for Mardi Gras, in late February '06, the neutral ground signs advertised tree cutting and house leveling.
The next year's Mardi Gras brought signs for handymen ("No job too big or too small") and assorted contractors, electricians, and carpenters. When Big Man and I came back in spring '07 for Jazz Fest (and his 50th birthday!), the signs promoted neighborhood meetings about the levees, and attorneys and consultants who said they could help with the paperwork associated with Road Home, home owners' insurance, and ITC. And there was a time this fall (which I've already written about in this blog) when the signs excitedly let us know that the streetcars were on their way back.
Today, the signs on the neutral ground are mostly for various charter schools, and some that advertise farmers' markets and arts and music festivals. You don't promote a service or a product unless you believe there is a market for it, so the signs for schools are another hopeful indication that families with children are coming back home to the city. And the signs for festivals and markets show that we are slowly moving away from recovery-mode to real-living, enjoying the delights of city life and New Orleans culture.
We're coming along, maybe incrementally and glacially slow, but still, we're coming along. Hope abounds. And one of the ways you can tell is by those signs on the neutral grounds.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
This Is Happiness
Saturday, February 9, 2008
So this is what happiness looks like, New Orleans-style:
I wake up early on Saturday and find that it is a beautiful day. I get dressed, putting on a light jacket, and head out to go vote in the Louisiana Primary. As I stroll down to the International School, my polling place, I notice I'm overdressed for the weather -- it's so sunny it's sparkling and warm, in the 70s. On the walk, I see azaleas and irises and camellias in bloom. And folks used to wonder, when I lived up North, why I wanted it to be Spring in February.
At the International School, I see that one of my polling commissioners is someone I've known for years, but whom I haven't seen since I moved home. I was delighted by this small coincidence, just another example of New Orleans as a small town. After voting (don't ask, it's private!), I walked with Ellen as far as the totally-fabulous Surrey's, where she would be taking her lunch break. (There was a big crowd on the sidewalk, waiting to get in. If you're going to eat there on a Saturday or a Sunday, get there EARLY.) She told me that normally she doesn't work on Saturdays, it being Shabbas, but that serving as a poll commissioner seemed like a spiritual exercise to her. I smiled at that.
When I got home, in an excellent mood, Big Man was up and dressed, and more than ready to eat. I told him it was a perfect Magazine Street day, and he readily agreed. (We'd been talking for months about taking a day where we just walked Magazine.) I ditched the jacket I had on, and we left the house and began walking the 2 blocks to Magazine. The sun was so bright I regretted not putting on any sunblock or a hat, but I thought a little sunburn would be a good price to pay for such a day.
We decided to eat at J'Anita's, whose sign outside said "Breakfast-BBQ-Beer." But it was too late in the day for breakfast, so we ordered coffee and lunch -- the excellent barbequed beef brisket. We loved the feel of the place, the little history on the menu (telling how the owners, a married couple, had run a barbeque trailer in Mid-City after Katrina and had ended up with this little place, named after the husband's parents), the local art on the walls, the tiny courtyard in the back. The owner, Craig, came out and passed some time with us, very friendly and personable. The check was amazingly cheap and we overpaid. In a good mood, we continued down Magazine.
We popped into every antique store we passed (Big Man enjoys this as much as I do, so don't think he was forcing himself), class to kitsch, vast hodgepodges of real antiques, semi-antiques, used furniture, and absolute junk in prices from the affordable to the astronomical. Shopkeepers were friendly and chatty. We all agreed that this weather, this kind of day, was one of the best reasons to live in New Orleans. (On this trip, we skipped all the dress shops -- that's going to have to be another Magazine Street day with my sister.)
At Jackson Avenue, we crossed the street and headed back in the direction of our house. We went into Stein's Deli at the corner of Jackson and Magazine, and got some good ol' Philly-style Italian cold cuts and cheese and reminisced with the counter men about good times on 9th Street in the Philadelphia Italian Market -- one of the things we miss most. Swigging from a bottle of Italian soda water, we continued on the other side of Magazine. We came upon a little store called Prince Michael's Chocolates, which I had heard about, so we went in. A small glass counter held handmade chocolate truffles, including a plate labelled "Chipotle Cinnamon Truffle." A youngish woman was in the back, working on something, and called out to greet us. I said I had heard good things about her shop, and that we wanted to try the chipotle chocolates. She laughed. "I'm making more of them right now," she said. "Here, try them" and she held out in cocoa-encrusted hands two halves, one for each of us, and we opened our mouths and took them straight from her hands, like communion.
First there was a burst of intense and rich dark chocolate flavor, then the taste of cinnamon arose, then it finished with the heat of the chipotle pepper. "Oh-my-God," breathed Big Man, when we could finally speak. "I bet you hear that more often than a Bourbon Street hooker," he told the owner, and she laughed again. "I do, I really do." We purchased 2 of the heavenly little truffles and, noticing that she made her iced coffee with COFFEE ICE CUBES, ordered that as well. (Why hasn't anyone else thought of that?? It's brilliant!) While the owner made our coffees, we chatted with her. She told us that the shop was a lifetime dream for her and her brother, Michael, but that he had died before it opened, and in his honor, she had decided to name the shop after his nickname. We offered our sympathy, complimented her on the beautiful shop and her wonderful wares, said we'd be back, and headed back out into the sunshine, armed with fabulous iced coffee.
A stop at a bank-turned art gallery revealed wonderful colorful works by a local black artist, portraits of Mardi Gras Indians, jazz musicians, and perky fleur de lis (of course!). We visited tiny Sophie Wright Park, admiring the statue by New Orleans artist Enrique Alvarez. Since we both needed a restroom, and being across the street from J'Anita's, where we had started the walk, we crossed over. While Big Man headed to the restroom, I ordered a beer -- and got a long explanation from the young waitress about not having a liquor license yet, but she could let me have one of the owner's beers for a "donation." I got a nice cold Abita draft, and license to use the rest room. Craig, the owner, came out and saw us, and we had a long conversation about music and food -- 2 of New Orleanians' favorite subjects.
Beer and conversation finished, we crossed back over to the world-famous Jim Russell Music store and spent a very pleasant half-hour browsing through stacks and stacks of vinyl and cassettes and CDs (and even 8-tracks!). The current owner sat on a stool near the front door, near a big glass jar labeled "Jim Russell Roof Fund." She told us that Katrina had damaged the roof of the building, revealing something that no one had known: that there had been a fire some time in the 1800s, and that instead of actually repairing it, in those days they had just created another roof on top of the fire-damaged one. Katrina's winds blew holes in the second roof, revealing the damaged roof beneath. She said she had leaks all over the place. Even though we didn't buy anything (on THAT trip!), Big Man put some bills in the jar.
Our last visit was to the Bali Shop in the fabulous tropical triangle building at the junction of Magazine and Sophie Wright Place. The shop was filled with furniture and accessories and sculptures from Bali and Indonesia, beautiful stuff. Big Man noticed a wondrous carved bed and as we walked to it, the owner came out of a little office. I asked her, "Is that an opium bed?" (I had heard about them and read about them, but I don't think I've seen one before.) "Yes, yes!" she said delightedly, "Opium bed! Yes! It's beautiful, come see!" She was so enthusiastic about her lovely merchandise, we were charmed. We looked at everything and wished we had a place for a $43,000 carved and painted opium bed.
We walked home from there, a little tired, a little sunburned, sated and happy. When we sank down on the couch in the living room, we looked at each other and said, "Wasn't that great??" And Big Man said, "I am so happy we live here" and I had to agree.
So that's what happiness looks like, on an early Spring day in New Orleans.
So this is what happiness looks like, New Orleans-style:
I wake up early on Saturday and find that it is a beautiful day. I get dressed, putting on a light jacket, and head out to go vote in the Louisiana Primary. As I stroll down to the International School, my polling place, I notice I'm overdressed for the weather -- it's so sunny it's sparkling and warm, in the 70s. On the walk, I see azaleas and irises and camellias in bloom. And folks used to wonder, when I lived up North, why I wanted it to be Spring in February.
At the International School, I see that one of my polling commissioners is someone I've known for years, but whom I haven't seen since I moved home. I was delighted by this small coincidence, just another example of New Orleans as a small town. After voting (don't ask, it's private!), I walked with Ellen as far as the totally-fabulous Surrey's, where she would be taking her lunch break. (There was a big crowd on the sidewalk, waiting to get in. If you're going to eat there on a Saturday or a Sunday, get there EARLY.) She told me that normally she doesn't work on Saturdays, it being Shabbas, but that serving as a poll commissioner seemed like a spiritual exercise to her. I smiled at that.
When I got home, in an excellent mood, Big Man was up and dressed, and more than ready to eat. I told him it was a perfect Magazine Street day, and he readily agreed. (We'd been talking for months about taking a day where we just walked Magazine.) I ditched the jacket I had on, and we left the house and began walking the 2 blocks to Magazine. The sun was so bright I regretted not putting on any sunblock or a hat, but I thought a little sunburn would be a good price to pay for such a day.
We decided to eat at J'Anita's, whose sign outside said "Breakfast-BBQ-Beer." But it was too late in the day for breakfast, so we ordered coffee and lunch -- the excellent barbequed beef brisket. We loved the feel of the place, the little history on the menu (telling how the owners, a married couple, had run a barbeque trailer in Mid-City after Katrina and had ended up with this little place, named after the husband's parents), the local art on the walls, the tiny courtyard in the back. The owner, Craig, came out and passed some time with us, very friendly and personable. The check was amazingly cheap and we overpaid. In a good mood, we continued down Magazine.
We popped into every antique store we passed (Big Man enjoys this as much as I do, so don't think he was forcing himself), class to kitsch, vast hodgepodges of real antiques, semi-antiques, used furniture, and absolute junk in prices from the affordable to the astronomical. Shopkeepers were friendly and chatty. We all agreed that this weather, this kind of day, was one of the best reasons to live in New Orleans. (On this trip, we skipped all the dress shops -- that's going to have to be another Magazine Street day with my sister.)
At Jackson Avenue, we crossed the street and headed back in the direction of our house. We went into Stein's Deli at the corner of Jackson and Magazine, and got some good ol' Philly-style Italian cold cuts and cheese and reminisced with the counter men about good times on 9th Street in the Philadelphia Italian Market -- one of the things we miss most. Swigging from a bottle of Italian soda water, we continued on the other side of Magazine. We came upon a little store called Prince Michael's Chocolates, which I had heard about, so we went in. A small glass counter held handmade chocolate truffles, including a plate labelled "Chipotle Cinnamon Truffle." A youngish woman was in the back, working on something, and called out to greet us. I said I had heard good things about her shop, and that we wanted to try the chipotle chocolates. She laughed. "I'm making more of them right now," she said. "Here, try them" and she held out in cocoa-encrusted hands two halves, one for each of us, and we opened our mouths and took them straight from her hands, like communion.
First there was a burst of intense and rich dark chocolate flavor, then the taste of cinnamon arose, then it finished with the heat of the chipotle pepper. "Oh-my-God," breathed Big Man, when we could finally speak. "I bet you hear that more often than a Bourbon Street hooker," he told the owner, and she laughed again. "I do, I really do." We purchased 2 of the heavenly little truffles and, noticing that she made her iced coffee with COFFEE ICE CUBES, ordered that as well. (Why hasn't anyone else thought of that?? It's brilliant!) While the owner made our coffees, we chatted with her. She told us that the shop was a lifetime dream for her and her brother, Michael, but that he had died before it opened, and in his honor, she had decided to name the shop after his nickname. We offered our sympathy, complimented her on the beautiful shop and her wonderful wares, said we'd be back, and headed back out into the sunshine, armed with fabulous iced coffee.
A stop at a bank-turned art gallery revealed wonderful colorful works by a local black artist, portraits of Mardi Gras Indians, jazz musicians, and perky fleur de lis (of course!). We visited tiny Sophie Wright Park, admiring the statue by New Orleans artist Enrique Alvarez. Since we both needed a restroom, and being across the street from J'Anita's, where we had started the walk, we crossed over. While Big Man headed to the restroom, I ordered a beer -- and got a long explanation from the young waitress about not having a liquor license yet, but she could let me have one of the owner's beers for a "donation." I got a nice cold Abita draft, and license to use the rest room. Craig, the owner, came out and saw us, and we had a long conversation about music and food -- 2 of New Orleanians' favorite subjects.
Beer and conversation finished, we crossed back over to the world-famous Jim Russell Music store and spent a very pleasant half-hour browsing through stacks and stacks of vinyl and cassettes and CDs (and even 8-tracks!). The current owner sat on a stool near the front door, near a big glass jar labeled "Jim Russell Roof Fund." She told us that Katrina had damaged the roof of the building, revealing something that no one had known: that there had been a fire some time in the 1800s, and that instead of actually repairing it, in those days they had just created another roof on top of the fire-damaged one. Katrina's winds blew holes in the second roof, revealing the damaged roof beneath. She said she had leaks all over the place. Even though we didn't buy anything (on THAT trip!), Big Man put some bills in the jar.
Our last visit was to the Bali Shop in the fabulous tropical triangle building at the junction of Magazine and Sophie Wright Place. The shop was filled with furniture and accessories and sculptures from Bali and Indonesia, beautiful stuff. Big Man noticed a wondrous carved bed and as we walked to it, the owner came out of a little office. I asked her, "Is that an opium bed?" (I had heard about them and read about them, but I don't think I've seen one before.) "Yes, yes!" she said delightedly, "Opium bed! Yes! It's beautiful, come see!" She was so enthusiastic about her lovely merchandise, we were charmed. We looked at everything and wished we had a place for a $43,000 carved and painted opium bed.
We walked home from there, a little tired, a little sunburned, sated and happy. When we sank down on the couch in the living room, we looked at each other and said, "Wasn't that great??" And Big Man said, "I am so happy we live here" and I had to agree.
So that's what happiness looks like, on an early Spring day in New Orleans.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Mardi Gras Report: Normal for Us
Ash Wednesday 2008
Today I had a conversation with Big Man that sort of underscored a truism about New Orleans. He was going on and on about something he's recently discovered about life in the city (doesn't matter what, it could be almost *anything*), and my reaction was something like, "Yeah, that's normal for us." And Big Man exclaimed, "That happens all the time! I mention something about New Orleans that is unusual or wonderful or crazy, and some New Orleanian always says with a shrug, 'That's normal.' " This Mardi Gras we all got back to "normal for us" or, as my son's parain the poet likes to say, "back to abnormal."
A week or so ago, the humor columnist for the Times-Picayune reported that the guy who delivers his bottled water had left him a printed card, detailing the parade, float, side and location he -- the water delivery man -- would be on. Since the card was printed, you have to assume that the water guy left this same info all over his route to all his other water customers -- which means that he had to be prepared for dozens and dozens of people hollering his name on the parade route, expecting to be showered with Carnival booty. Gee, spending extra hundreds, even thousands, of dollars so that you can throw to even more people than you already were going to? Normal for us.
Going back several days ago, on the Friday before Mardi Gras, I accompanied my sister, her stepson and his wife, and a friend of theirs to a T-shirt shop Uptown on Magazine Street that they knew about but we didn't. (They had apparently found it on the Internet.) The T-shirts were all New Orleans-themed, but with a twist -- they were certainly NOT your normal tourist fare. There was a shirt that promoted "Ruffins for Mayor" and one with a silhouette of a Venetian gondelier with the logo "New Orleans -- we're not going anywhere." There was a white shirt that was dyed to look as if stained a dirty brown halfway down, with a red arrow saying "It was up to here." (Check them out yourself at "http://dirtycoast.com") All the T-shirts were self-referential (self being New Orleans, of course) with a great deal of wit, and good design as well. They also sell doormats/floormats that are replicas of the beloved New Orleans Sewerage and Water Board meter covers in various colors, which we all oohed over. Normal for us.
That night, there were four parades, counting the one that had gotten rained out from a few nights before. It was also the night of my sister's Cook-Off Party, which this year was a gumbo contest instead of red beans. (My sister says that after 20 years, she's over every possible permutation of red beans.) I spent part of that afternoon helping her glue representations of gumbo pots onto her old red beans trophies to use for the winner and runner-up. People started arriving about 4:30 pm, and with all the parades and so on, the party did not end until 2 am. As we sank exhausted into chairs and sofas, we all agreed that four parades in one night was just too much. However, agreeing on that did not mean that we did not feel obligated to be out there, hollering and jumping and waving our arms, and then hauling away bags and bags of beads and stuffed animals and god knows what all. Normal for us.
One of that night's parades was Muses (rescheduled from rainy Wednesday), and my favorite float paid tribute to the way we New Orleanians have now embraced the fleur de lis as the sign of our rebirth and renaissance. This year's Muses' theme ("Muses Night Fever") took old disco tunes and rewrote them for the Crescent City today, and this float was covered with large and small flashing fleur de lis, and was entitled "We Are Fleur de Lis." Sung to the tune of "We Are Family," the next line was "I got all my symbols with me." The riders threw various permutations of fleur de lis (stuffed, jeweled, glittered, blinking, on beads, as medallions, etc.), and the crowd went wild trying to catch them, because we're all about fleur de lis now. My son's parain caught a gorgeous fleur de lis necklace and refused to trade with me, despite my offer of 10 to 1. But when the parade was over and we walked back to my sister's, he handed it to me. Fight over and beg for throws, refuse to give them up, and then just as easily, pass them on. Normal for us.
The next day, Saturday, I was driving back to my house from seeing the day parades Uptown at my sister's, using back streets to avoid the traffic and the ongoing parades. As I got to the traffic light at the corner of Jackson Avenue and Carondelet Street, the light changed and I stopped. It was another warm and lovely Carnival day, and my windows were rolled down; through the air came the sounds of traditional Mardi Gras songs from somebody's outdoor speakers. Bobbing my head to the music, I looked around and saw, catty-corner across the street, 2 little black kids, a girl about 10-12 and a boy about 6-8, probably her little brother, each of them holding toy spears, the kind often handed down from parade floats, especially to kids. To the sounds of the music, they alternately were marching, as if in a band, and then dancing, boogeying down hard, shaking their little booties almost down to the sidewalk, and then straightening up and marching again, all in time to the music. Practicing to be in a parade. It made me smile, and I wondered if this could be happening anywhere else. Normal for us, though.
Big Man and I attended the MOMs Ball Saturday night (MOMs stands for Mystics, Orphans, and Misfits) after last year's forced absence. I will not go into great detail here about that ball (I think I need a lot more anonymity for that!), but I will say that the requirements for costuming at that event are indeed strict. Big Man and I are never at risk, but three stories emerged concerning this year's MOMs. My sister (who was in the court this year as one of her close friends, a local attorney, was king) witnessed a young couple's despondency on being refused admittance to the ball. They had been told that the young man was not wearing a costume -- he had on a top hat and a tux jacket over shorts and running shoes. (The young lady was not in jeopardy, as she had on a spangled top, a tutu skirt, fishnet tights, a mask and a feathered headdress.) My sister eyeballed them, instantly assessed the situation, and pronounced judgment, directing the girl to give her tutu to the boy. Voila! Instant costume, and the couple got in. A local newspaper columnist reports in this morning's Times-Picayune that he saw a young man in a "lame cowboy outfit" get refused entrance that same night; that young man's problem was solved by simply removing his pants, whereupon he was allowed in. The third situation concerned a young man we saw who was completely naked, except for black body paint (the MOMs theme for Groundhog Day was "Show Us Your Shadow"); apparently being naked in body paint IS a costume, and he was let in. Normal for us.
On Sunday I spoke to my son in Atlanta. He was, of course, miserable homesick -- it's a hard weekend for a New Orleanian to be away, even if they love where they live, as my son does. He related to me that he and some friends had eaten Saturday night at a new New Orleans-style restaurant that had opened in his neighborhood. Like all children of the Crescent City, he was a little leery of a restaurant so far away from home proclaiming itself to be "New Orleans-style." He told me, "But then, Mom, I saw on the menu right under the listing of their po-boys, it said, 'We only use Leidenheimer's French bread.' Mom, I was so happy I wanted to cry." I understood that, although apparently his friends didn't. REAL bread from home, from the good folks whose old commercials used to say "Leidenheimer's -- that's French for bread!" Of course that could make you choke up. Normal for us.
Mardi Gras dawned early for Big Man, who got home from the Bourbon Street nightclub about 3 am and then had to leave 6:15 am to get to the Irish Channel Corner Club for the Mardi Gras morning march. It was a great honor that he was asked to march with the Paulin Brother Brass Band in this 90-year-old Carnival tradition; an honor for any newcomer musician to the city, but especially for a white musician. As it was, for Big Man to be the only white player in a brass band called the Paulin BROTHERS is quite a sight and caused a great deal of comment as they marched and meandered around the Channel before taking their place behind Zulu and in front of Rex. Big Man says they were feted in old Irish Channel bars that didn't even look open but were perfectly viable neighborhood establishments. No outside signs, of course. Normal for us.
Being thus left alone on Mardi Gras, I got up around 8 am and dressed in my costume and mask. I filled my folding grocery basket with parade supplies: sandwiches, sausage slices, cheese, Zapp's potato chips, potato salad, olives, ice gel packs, napkins and plastic cutlery, toilet paper in a ziplock bag, bottles of hand sanitizer, plastic grocery bags to use for trash and throws, purse with wallet and lipstick. I made myself a tall ICED Irish coffee (it was hot and muggy, though thank goodness the wind was blowing) and walked down to St. Charles, approximately 6 or so blocks from my house. I admit I was feeling a little blue about it, having to spend Mardi Gras Day by myself. Little did I know.
When I got to the corner of Euterpe and St. Charles, Zulu was going by. (I had already missed Pete Fountain's Half-Fast Marching Club.) Euterpe was blocked by a line of trucks, the one closest to St. Charles filled with a black family, the young matrons of which were wearing two bras -- one underneath and then another over the top of their tank tops. It was a look. They were New Orleanians, living since Katrina in Dallas; as I would later discover, they had to work the next day back in Texas, and had worked all day Monday. They had driven like fiends through the night to get to this spot to watch Zulu and spend Carnival Day at home where they belonged, and right after Zulu they had to make a mad dash back. Another family had to leave before the trucks after Rex, since the father had to work in Mississippi that evening, but they had made the trip to enjoy as much of Mardi Gras as they could. Normal for us.
The area around us was all families, black and white and Latino, most with full ice chests, many with barbeque pits and smokers (and one giant propane grill), almost all with various kinds of chairs. I was immediately welcomed, and given a place for my chair and rolling basket. As the day went on and the parades rolled, I was offered food and drinks. I proffered what I had brought, and we all shared the throws that showered down on us. Somebody noticed I didn't catch a Zulu coconut and then made sure I got one. (I was a big hit with my bottles of hand sanitizer, since you can't wash your hands on a parade route.) I have spent too many Mardi Gras days with family and people I already know -- I had almost forgotten the warm and wonderful instant community that springs up for Carnival. My new friends cheered with me as Big Man went by with the Corner Club and the Paulin Brothers. I was NOT alone on Mardi Gras -- I was with friends who took care of me and spent quality time with me. Normal for us.
This morning's news reports on TV and in the newspaper tell us that it was not just a good post-Katrina Mardi Gras-- it was a great Mardi Gras, surpassing those of the pre-storm years. Mardi Gras is officially back to normal -- normal for us, that is. And that's not just a good thing, it's a blessing.
Today I had a conversation with Big Man that sort of underscored a truism about New Orleans. He was going on and on about something he's recently discovered about life in the city (doesn't matter what, it could be almost *anything*), and my reaction was something like, "Yeah, that's normal for us." And Big Man exclaimed, "That happens all the time! I mention something about New Orleans that is unusual or wonderful or crazy, and some New Orleanian always says with a shrug, 'That's normal.' " This Mardi Gras we all got back to "normal for us" or, as my son's parain the poet likes to say, "back to abnormal."
A week or so ago, the humor columnist for the Times-Picayune reported that the guy who delivers his bottled water had left him a printed card, detailing the parade, float, side and location he -- the water delivery man -- would be on. Since the card was printed, you have to assume that the water guy left this same info all over his route to all his other water customers -- which means that he had to be prepared for dozens and dozens of people hollering his name on the parade route, expecting to be showered with Carnival booty. Gee, spending extra hundreds, even thousands, of dollars so that you can throw to even more people than you already were going to? Normal for us.
Going back several days ago, on the Friday before Mardi Gras, I accompanied my sister, her stepson and his wife, and a friend of theirs to a T-shirt shop Uptown on Magazine Street that they knew about but we didn't. (They had apparently found it on the Internet.) The T-shirts were all New Orleans-themed, but with a twist -- they were certainly NOT your normal tourist fare. There was a shirt that promoted "Ruffins for Mayor" and one with a silhouette of a Venetian gondelier with the logo "New Orleans -- we're not going anywhere." There was a white shirt that was dyed to look as if stained a dirty brown halfway down, with a red arrow saying "It was up to here." (Check them out yourself at "http://dirtycoast.com") All the T-shirts were self-referential (self being New Orleans, of course) with a great deal of wit, and good design as well. They also sell doormats/floormats that are replicas of the beloved New Orleans Sewerage and Water Board meter covers in various colors, which we all oohed over. Normal for us.
That night, there were four parades, counting the one that had gotten rained out from a few nights before. It was also the night of my sister's Cook-Off Party, which this year was a gumbo contest instead of red beans. (My sister says that after 20 years, she's over every possible permutation of red beans.) I spent part of that afternoon helping her glue representations of gumbo pots onto her old red beans trophies to use for the winner and runner-up. People started arriving about 4:30 pm, and with all the parades and so on, the party did not end until 2 am. As we sank exhausted into chairs and sofas, we all agreed that four parades in one night was just too much. However, agreeing on that did not mean that we did not feel obligated to be out there, hollering and jumping and waving our arms, and then hauling away bags and bags of beads and stuffed animals and god knows what all. Normal for us.
One of that night's parades was Muses (rescheduled from rainy Wednesday), and my favorite float paid tribute to the way we New Orleanians have now embraced the fleur de lis as the sign of our rebirth and renaissance. This year's Muses' theme ("Muses Night Fever") took old disco tunes and rewrote them for the Crescent City today, and this float was covered with large and small flashing fleur de lis, and was entitled "We Are Fleur de Lis." Sung to the tune of "We Are Family," the next line was "I got all my symbols with me." The riders threw various permutations of fleur de lis (stuffed, jeweled, glittered, blinking, on beads, as medallions, etc.), and the crowd went wild trying to catch them, because we're all about fleur de lis now. My son's parain caught a gorgeous fleur de lis necklace and refused to trade with me, despite my offer of 10 to 1. But when the parade was over and we walked back to my sister's, he handed it to me. Fight over and beg for throws, refuse to give them up, and then just as easily, pass them on. Normal for us.
The next day, Saturday, I was driving back to my house from seeing the day parades Uptown at my sister's, using back streets to avoid the traffic and the ongoing parades. As I got to the traffic light at the corner of Jackson Avenue and Carondelet Street, the light changed and I stopped. It was another warm and lovely Carnival day, and my windows were rolled down; through the air came the sounds of traditional Mardi Gras songs from somebody's outdoor speakers. Bobbing my head to the music, I looked around and saw, catty-corner across the street, 2 little black kids, a girl about 10-12 and a boy about 6-8, probably her little brother, each of them holding toy spears, the kind often handed down from parade floats, especially to kids. To the sounds of the music, they alternately were marching, as if in a band, and then dancing, boogeying down hard, shaking their little booties almost down to the sidewalk, and then straightening up and marching again, all in time to the music. Practicing to be in a parade. It made me smile, and I wondered if this could be happening anywhere else. Normal for us, though.
Big Man and I attended the MOMs Ball Saturday night (MOMs stands for Mystics, Orphans, and Misfits) after last year's forced absence. I will not go into great detail here about that ball (I think I need a lot more anonymity for that!), but I will say that the requirements for costuming at that event are indeed strict. Big Man and I are never at risk, but three stories emerged concerning this year's MOMs. My sister (who was in the court this year as one of her close friends, a local attorney, was king) witnessed a young couple's despondency on being refused admittance to the ball. They had been told that the young man was not wearing a costume -- he had on a top hat and a tux jacket over shorts and running shoes. (The young lady was not in jeopardy, as she had on a spangled top, a tutu skirt, fishnet tights, a mask and a feathered headdress.) My sister eyeballed them, instantly assessed the situation, and pronounced judgment, directing the girl to give her tutu to the boy. Voila! Instant costume, and the couple got in. A local newspaper columnist reports in this morning's Times-Picayune that he saw a young man in a "lame cowboy outfit" get refused entrance that same night; that young man's problem was solved by simply removing his pants, whereupon he was allowed in. The third situation concerned a young man we saw who was completely naked, except for black body paint (the MOMs theme for Groundhog Day was "Show Us Your Shadow"); apparently being naked in body paint IS a costume, and he was let in. Normal for us.
On Sunday I spoke to my son in Atlanta. He was, of course, miserable homesick -- it's a hard weekend for a New Orleanian to be away, even if they love where they live, as my son does. He related to me that he and some friends had eaten Saturday night at a new New Orleans-style restaurant that had opened in his neighborhood. Like all children of the Crescent City, he was a little leery of a restaurant so far away from home proclaiming itself to be "New Orleans-style." He told me, "But then, Mom, I saw on the menu right under the listing of their po-boys, it said, 'We only use Leidenheimer's French bread.' Mom, I was so happy I wanted to cry." I understood that, although apparently his friends didn't. REAL bread from home, from the good folks whose old commercials used to say "Leidenheimer's -- that's French for bread!" Of course that could make you choke up. Normal for us.
Mardi Gras dawned early for Big Man, who got home from the Bourbon Street nightclub about 3 am and then had to leave 6:15 am to get to the Irish Channel Corner Club for the Mardi Gras morning march. It was a great honor that he was asked to march with the Paulin Brother Brass Band in this 90-year-old Carnival tradition; an honor for any newcomer musician to the city, but especially for a white musician. As it was, for Big Man to be the only white player in a brass band called the Paulin BROTHERS is quite a sight and caused a great deal of comment as they marched and meandered around the Channel before taking their place behind Zulu and in front of Rex. Big Man says they were feted in old Irish Channel bars that didn't even look open but were perfectly viable neighborhood establishments. No outside signs, of course. Normal for us.
Being thus left alone on Mardi Gras, I got up around 8 am and dressed in my costume and mask. I filled my folding grocery basket with parade supplies: sandwiches, sausage slices, cheese, Zapp's potato chips, potato salad, olives, ice gel packs, napkins and plastic cutlery, toilet paper in a ziplock bag, bottles of hand sanitizer, plastic grocery bags to use for trash and throws, purse with wallet and lipstick. I made myself a tall ICED Irish coffee (it was hot and muggy, though thank goodness the wind was blowing) and walked down to St. Charles, approximately 6 or so blocks from my house. I admit I was feeling a little blue about it, having to spend Mardi Gras Day by myself. Little did I know.
When I got to the corner of Euterpe and St. Charles, Zulu was going by. (I had already missed Pete Fountain's Half-Fast Marching Club.) Euterpe was blocked by a line of trucks, the one closest to St. Charles filled with a black family, the young matrons of which were wearing two bras -- one underneath and then another over the top of their tank tops. It was a look. They were New Orleanians, living since Katrina in Dallas; as I would later discover, they had to work the next day back in Texas, and had worked all day Monday. They had driven like fiends through the night to get to this spot to watch Zulu and spend Carnival Day at home where they belonged, and right after Zulu they had to make a mad dash back. Another family had to leave before the trucks after Rex, since the father had to work in Mississippi that evening, but they had made the trip to enjoy as much of Mardi Gras as they could. Normal for us.
The area around us was all families, black and white and Latino, most with full ice chests, many with barbeque pits and smokers (and one giant propane grill), almost all with various kinds of chairs. I was immediately welcomed, and given a place for my chair and rolling basket. As the day went on and the parades rolled, I was offered food and drinks. I proffered what I had brought, and we all shared the throws that showered down on us. Somebody noticed I didn't catch a Zulu coconut and then made sure I got one. (I was a big hit with my bottles of hand sanitizer, since you can't wash your hands on a parade route.) I have spent too many Mardi Gras days with family and people I already know -- I had almost forgotten the warm and wonderful instant community that springs up for Carnival. My new friends cheered with me as Big Man went by with the Corner Club and the Paulin Brothers. I was NOT alone on Mardi Gras -- I was with friends who took care of me and spent quality time with me. Normal for us.
This morning's news reports on TV and in the newspaper tell us that it was not just a good post-Katrina Mardi Gras-- it was a great Mardi Gras, surpassing those of the pre-storm years. Mardi Gras is officially back to normal -- normal for us, that is. And that's not just a good thing, it's a blessing.
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