It's hard to know what to say about the 5th anniversary of the federal levee failure after the landfall of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. New Orleanians were of two minds about it -- those who wanted to cocoon, stay home, turn off all media, and try to not to think about the whole thing; and those who with varying degrees of mixed feelings, felt that the occasion should be marked.
Accordingly, the variety of commemoration events was enormous, running from the religious (several interfaith/ecumenical worship services were held at congregations of different faiths, from St. Louis Cathedral to small neighborhood Baptist churches, to the grand St. Charles Ave. Presbyterian Church, where the Uptown Interfaith group held its service, in which I participated), to the cultural/spiritual (several secondlines starting at levee breaks and proceeding through recovering or struggling-to-recover neighborhoods, and at least one voodoo ceremony), to the educational (lectures and programs at Tulane, Loyola, UNO, and Xavier on different aspects of What Happened), to the entertaining (countless concerts and musical events and of course the play in St. Bernard I already posted about), to the cinematic (Spike Lee's 2-part follow-up to When the Levees Broke, entitled God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise; Harry Shearer's angry movie The Big Uneasy). News media outlets were everywhere, every network and organization you can think of and probably several small ones you wouldn't.
Nearly everyone who is anyone at all got interviewed. (Even *I* got interviewed! by a small public radio station owned by a university Up North.) Some people got interviewed too many times -- Ms. Leah Chase grumbled to me and a friend that she was "sick of bein' interviewed," and added, "Wish there was nothin' to interview me about."
While I did watch the Spike Lee documentaries (and as always, he gets some things right and some things wrong, but his heart is in the right place), and did watch some of NBC's Brian Williams' reports (god bless him for not giving up on us!) and the Frontline on the NOPD criminal misconduct, I mainly tried to avoid Katrina overload. Some pictures and films just bring it all back to me, and I don't want to end up paralyzed with grief and rage as I was 5 years ago. (At one point, Big Man actually thought he'd have to put me in a hospital!)
Yes, things are better -- not as many as you would think/expect/hope for the so-called "greatest country in the world" but still things are better and getting mo' better all the time. Just not as quickly as you'd want.
And some things, some people, some parts of the city, are gone forever, though we will remember them always.
Here's the Prayer of Remembrance I shared at the Interfaith Katrina Commemoration Service on Sunday night:
We ask for the presence of the Spirit of God
as we come together in a spirit of prayer and remembrance:
We remember our old sense of invulnerability,
how we used to think, “Hurricanes always turn away,” or
“Hurricanes always lose strength as they come onto land,”
and we wonder, will we ever feel so safe again?
Keep us safe, we pray, O God.
We remember family members, friends, acquaintances,
neighbors, members of our religious communities,
some of whom have died directly or indirectly from the Storm,
and others who have had to make the hard decision to live elsewhere.
We miss them, each and every one, each and every day;
in our lives, in everything we do, we keep them in our hearts.
Keep them within your care, we pray, O God.
We remember the simple yet important landmarks of our lives,
the fabric of neighborhoods, the homes, schools, businesses,
places of worship, restaurants, places intimate to us,
and those we only knew from driving by,
washed away or demolished, irrevocably lost to the Storm.
The lost city of our memories will remain with us;
we will forever be saying “where this and that used to be.”
Keep our city from losing dear and familiar landmarks,
we pray, O God.
When our hearts were broken and we were near despair
we remember what it took for us to come this far –
courage, hard work, humor, the celebrations of our culture and heritage,
the kindness of many many strangers,
and most of all, faith.
Help us keep the faith, O God, and remember us
as we remember and remember.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Friday, August 27, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Bless You, Boys -- Again
It's the off-week for the Saints summer training camp, and instead of the usual diversions coaches dream up to help the team cohere and stay together while not actually practicing (like team bowling, for example), Coach Peyton and team owners the Benson Family have come up with something quite different.
For the past few days, the Saints have gotten onto buses (one hopes air-conditioned!) and driven hours to the end of Plaquemines Parish and, the next day, down to Grand Isle, to meet with the folks most closely affected by the Gulf Oil Spill. They gather in a local community center with fishermen, oystermen, shrimpers, and oil workers and their families, and other folks like shop owners and catering workers and restaurant owners and their families, and listen to their stories. They shake hands with hundreds of people with work-hardened hands, get countless hugs from maw-maws, and ruffle the haircuts of hundreds of kids. It's like being politicians, only they're not running for anything.
And for good measure, they carry in the sacred Lombardi Trophy and everyone there gets a chance to touch it, to lay hands on it. (I picture Sean Peyton polishing the smudgy hand prints off the thing with a chamois on the bus on the way back home.) And everyone takes advantage of this, pressing forward with their hands out-stretched like supplicants to a shrine, like the Lombardi has a magic power to heal and restore.
All of this would have been enough and I would bless them for it and be grateful they're the kind of team they are, but they didn't stop there. The Saints are offering for raffle one of the "extra" Superbowl rings they will receive as 2009 Superbowl Champs (apparently, each winning team gets a few extra, to gift any way they want -- who knew??), with ALL proceeds going to Gulf Relief. The lucky fan who wins will get his or her ring at the season-opener game against Minnesota in September. The minimum order is 5 tickets for $10, but the more tickets you buy, the more they are discounted (like, 100 tickets are $75).
Of course, Big Man and I bought tickets right away, as did I'm sure, nearly every member of Who Dat Nation who could possibly squeeze together $10 or more. When I went online last night to check on it, I Googled "Saints Superbowl ring raffle" and discovered that there were close to 650,000 Google pages devoted to this topic. The Saints announced that they were hoping to raise $1 million from the raffle -- but I'll be sure surprised if they don't get more than that.
Once again, the Saints under Sean Peyton are showing that they are more than just a professional football team and that they "get it" about their role in the city's and area's recovery. All I can say is, Bless you, Boys, bless you.
For the past few days, the Saints have gotten onto buses (one hopes air-conditioned!) and driven hours to the end of Plaquemines Parish and, the next day, down to Grand Isle, to meet with the folks most closely affected by the Gulf Oil Spill. They gather in a local community center with fishermen, oystermen, shrimpers, and oil workers and their families, and other folks like shop owners and catering workers and restaurant owners and their families, and listen to their stories. They shake hands with hundreds of people with work-hardened hands, get countless hugs from maw-maws, and ruffle the haircuts of hundreds of kids. It's like being politicians, only they're not running for anything.
And for good measure, they carry in the sacred Lombardi Trophy and everyone there gets a chance to touch it, to lay hands on it. (I picture Sean Peyton polishing the smudgy hand prints off the thing with a chamois on the bus on the way back home.) And everyone takes advantage of this, pressing forward with their hands out-stretched like supplicants to a shrine, like the Lombardi has a magic power to heal and restore.
All of this would have been enough and I would bless them for it and be grateful they're the kind of team they are, but they didn't stop there. The Saints are offering for raffle one of the "extra" Superbowl rings they will receive as 2009 Superbowl Champs (apparently, each winning team gets a few extra, to gift any way they want -- who knew??), with ALL proceeds going to Gulf Relief. The lucky fan who wins will get his or her ring at the season-opener game against Minnesota in September. The minimum order is 5 tickets for $10, but the more tickets you buy, the more they are discounted (like, 100 tickets are $75).
Of course, Big Man and I bought tickets right away, as did I'm sure, nearly every member of Who Dat Nation who could possibly squeeze together $10 or more. When I went online last night to check on it, I Googled "Saints Superbowl ring raffle" and discovered that there were close to 650,000 Google pages devoted to this topic. The Saints announced that they were hoping to raise $1 million from the raffle -- but I'll be sure surprised if they don't get more than that.
Once again, the Saints under Sean Peyton are showing that they are more than just a professional football team and that they "get it" about their role in the city's and area's recovery. All I can say is, Bless you, Boys, bless you.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The Kind of People We Are
Months and months ago, possibly even last year, someone came up with the great idea to hold the first-ever New Orleans Oyster Festival on the first weekend of June, this year June 5-6, next to the House of Blues on the edge of the French Quarter. Of course, back then, no one could have dreamed that we would be facing the loss of America's best oyster beds, which have been giving folks the best-tasting oysters in this country since like the 1870s.
Perhaps in some more logical or sensible place, the Oyster Festival would have been canceled. But not here. The show must go on, and if we are to lose our precious and delicious oysters, then at least we'll go out swinging, with a big bang of a celebration. So the festival went on as scheduled. That's the kind of people we are. Hit us with a hurricane and a federal levee failure, and we will still hold our Mardi Gras and the critics be damned. Pour poison into our Gulf and threaten our oysterbeds for the next generation, we will throw an Oyster Festival to end all oyster festivals. Depressed and low down as I have been over this thing, I knew we had to go.
The ways to cook and eat oysters were uncountable, but I will list a few of the highlights that appealed to Big Man and me: oyster and shrimp (also endangered by the spill) eggrolls, oysters en brochette, oyster and spinach salad, oyster and eggplant casserole, fried oyster po boys, raw oysters (of course!), chargrilled oysters, buffalo oysters with bleu cheese sauce, oyster dressing (just like yo' Mama used to make), oysters with pepper jelly sauce, oyster gumbo, oyster soup, oyster sauce over crawfish cakes -- you get the picture, I'm sure. And I have to give a shout-out to the incredible Red Velvet Torte for dessert -- a large square of red velvet cake completely dipped in hard dark chocolate and then topped with fresh whipped cream. OMG f'sure.
There was a contest for the fastest oyster shucker, and another contest for the person who could eat the most raw oysters in the shortest period of time. (I've been known to eat *quite a lot* of raw oysters at one, er, standing, but I would hate to shovel them down fast. I like to savor my oysters, and enjoy a little sauce with 'em. I believe the winner vacuumed up something like 8 dozen in 5 minutes or some other ridiculous figure. Better him than me.
There were bands playing, of course -- what's a New Orleans festival of anything without music?? And the heat was mitigated by drizzles and gentle rains, hardly needing an umbrella to fend off, but really making it pleasant on that blacktop. (The festival ground was a parking lot so it could have been brutal.)
There was an Oyster Heritage Tent set up, where local craftsmen were making lovely artistic oyster knives, in case you shuck at home, and showed beautiful variations of ceramic oyster plates. Save the Gulf had a display, as did several other organizations, and there was a scroll to sign and send greetings to Louisiana's oystermen and their families. P & J, in business since 1875, had a display as well. Big Man and I signed the scroll ("We love y'all and would do anything we can to help.")
There were also posters of the event (what's a New Orleans festival without an artist-designed limited edition poster?), which had a large fleur de lis (of course) fashioned out of raw oysters (naturally) labeled hopefully as The First Annual New Orleans Oyster Festival. May that be so, may that truly be so!
Perhaps in some more logical or sensible place, the Oyster Festival would have been canceled. But not here. The show must go on, and if we are to lose our precious and delicious oysters, then at least we'll go out swinging, with a big bang of a celebration. So the festival went on as scheduled. That's the kind of people we are. Hit us with a hurricane and a federal levee failure, and we will still hold our Mardi Gras and the critics be damned. Pour poison into our Gulf and threaten our oysterbeds for the next generation, we will throw an Oyster Festival to end all oyster festivals. Depressed and low down as I have been over this thing, I knew we had to go.
The ways to cook and eat oysters were uncountable, but I will list a few of the highlights that appealed to Big Man and me: oyster and shrimp (also endangered by the spill) eggrolls, oysters en brochette, oyster and spinach salad, oyster and eggplant casserole, fried oyster po boys, raw oysters (of course!), chargrilled oysters, buffalo oysters with bleu cheese sauce, oyster dressing (just like yo' Mama used to make), oysters with pepper jelly sauce, oyster gumbo, oyster soup, oyster sauce over crawfish cakes -- you get the picture, I'm sure. And I have to give a shout-out to the incredible Red Velvet Torte for dessert -- a large square of red velvet cake completely dipped in hard dark chocolate and then topped with fresh whipped cream. OMG f'sure.
There was a contest for the fastest oyster shucker, and another contest for the person who could eat the most raw oysters in the shortest period of time. (I've been known to eat *quite a lot* of raw oysters at one, er, standing, but I would hate to shovel them down fast. I like to savor my oysters, and enjoy a little sauce with 'em. I believe the winner vacuumed up something like 8 dozen in 5 minutes or some other ridiculous figure. Better him than me.
There were bands playing, of course -- what's a New Orleans festival of anything without music?? And the heat was mitigated by drizzles and gentle rains, hardly needing an umbrella to fend off, but really making it pleasant on that blacktop. (The festival ground was a parking lot so it could have been brutal.)
There was an Oyster Heritage Tent set up, where local craftsmen were making lovely artistic oyster knives, in case you shuck at home, and showed beautiful variations of ceramic oyster plates. Save the Gulf had a display, as did several other organizations, and there was a scroll to sign and send greetings to Louisiana's oystermen and their families. P & J, in business since 1875, had a display as well. Big Man and I signed the scroll ("We love y'all and would do anything we can to help.")
There were also posters of the event (what's a New Orleans festival without an artist-designed limited edition poster?), which had a large fleur de lis (of course) fashioned out of raw oysters (naturally) labeled hopefully as The First Annual New Orleans Oyster Festival. May that be so, may that truly be so!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Memorial Day on Grand Isle
To regular readers of this blog, wherever you are --
I apologize for not posting lately. I have felt overwhelmed by all the emotions associated with the oil spill, and how many times can you write that you are sad, mad, scared, and helpless? And I have thought that posting about anything fun, like concerts or festivals, would seem like I was trivializing -- or, worse, forgetting about it. Believe me, whatever we are doing, however much fun we are having, the oil spill is never far from our thoughts and pervades our sleep.
But what can you do? After you get your hair salon and pet place to donate their cuttings to Matter of Trust, after you call/write your elected officials, there's really very little you can do. You can volunteer to help with clean up, but if you're not trained in animal/wild life rescue, they politely tell you you're not needed. And if you just want to do unskilled tar ball pick up or other such grunt work, you have to be very careful that you're not stealing what would have been paid day-labor for all the folks thrown out of work by the spill. So what's left?
Well, protest, for one thing. The first public Oil Spill Protest (the first of likely many to come, unless some unforeseen success takes place) was held in the pouring rain on Sunday, May 30, at 1 pm. (At least it wasn't hot.) There were lots and lots of signs, not all of them obscene (but some sure were!), with various ways of parsing the BP acronym (like "Bad People" and "Big Polluters" and even "Bitch Please!").
There were also lots of speakers, representatives of local organizations like Levees.org and Save the Wetlands and many others, and professors at Tulane and UNO and LSU, and leaders of the shrimpers and oystermen organizations -- when these latter speakers said their piece and mourned what was being lost, and how unlikely it was now that they'd be able to pass along their way of life to their children and grandchildren, they cried and so did much of the crowd. Even Dr. John, who's been a member of the Voices of the Wetlands group, spoke, in his inimitable style, angry, as he said, "That the criminals have been put in chawge of the crime scene!" He decried the blowout preventer (which term he couldn't recall and he said in frustration "that damn thing that shoulda stopped it but didn't "woik"), and demanded to know why there hadn't been a back-up plan.
It being New Orleans, the protest had a small pick-up brass band that punctuated what speakers said, played between speakers, and blatted out raspberries whenever BP's name was mentioned.
After all that, there didn't seem to be much else to do, but Big Man and I decided to spend Memorial Day driving to Grand Isle, where we could see first-hand what was happening, and where we could spend a few bucks eating lunch.
We felt so bad for them -- Memorial Day Weekend was supposed to be the big Grand Isle Speckled Trout Rodeo, and now no one was allowed to fish for speck off the island. Most people who had bought tickets in advance did not ask for a refund, and since the band had already been booked and paid, the party, such as it was, went on Saturday night.
The drive took us 2 1/2 hours, through Cajun Country that Big Man had never seen before and where I had not been in many years. Everywhere was evidence of the spill's widening ripples of influence -- boats docked that should have been out in the Gulf; protest signs in yards ("Mr. Obama, where are you?" said one); signs advertising "Disaster Work Catering Services" (at least somebody will be making money); closed roadside seafood markets, their signs listing everything they would have been carrying draped with sheets or tablecloths to cover them.
One unhapppy marshland resident went even further, and posed a mannequin dressed in a hazmat suit holding an oil-smeared plastic fish in an outstretched hand near the side of historic Louisiana Highway 1. Next to the adult mannequin was a small child mannequin in a small matching hazmat outfit, cupping its head in its two hands, as if sobbing. The figures had a big sign, "God Help Us." It was heart breaking.
There were media truck aplenty parked at the Grand Isle Marina, just as you cross over the bridge to the island, and we saw a lot of Army and Coast Guard vehicles as well. As we watched, two schoolbusses pulled up into the public beach area parking lot and unloaded scores of workers dressed in Tyvek suits. As we crossed over the dune to view the beach, we saw that a giant fat orange double-boom lay the length of the beach, and was backed-up by a small sand berm on the seaward side. (The bay side of the island is protected by booms marked "US Navy" floating in the water a few yards offshore.) Supervised by Coast Guard personnel, day laborers were scooping up tar balls on the beach and stuffing them into plastic sacks, and we could see workers on the Grand Isle Gulf beach as far as we could see in either direction.
We drove to one recommended Grand Isle restaurant, but it was closed -- although I had phoned there on Friday and been told it would be open. We ended up eating at the Starfish Restaurant, on the main road, and we asked to be served on the outside picnic table. There we enjoyed seafood gumbo, mini crabcakes, and platters of fried shrimp and oysters with onion rings (me) and a seafood platter with shrimp, oysters, catfish, and stuff crab with French fries (Big Man). (If you are gonna help an area by eating in one of their restaurants, then don't go there on a diet, for pete's sake, eat hearty!) The food was very good, and the servers thanked us for coming.
As we sat under the overhang and enjoyed both the food and the Gulf breeze, we watched as an enormous number of waste disposal trucks and military vehicles went by on the main road. Some young men in Army uniforms drove up in a military-camo jeep, and we were able to thank them in general for their service and in particular for being on Grand Isle right now helping with the spill.
Despite the pounding heat (it had rained earlier but the sun came out with a vengeance afterwards), we spent some time on the Grand Isle beach and we noted that the sand, while not sparkling white as in Alabama and Florida, was perfectly clean, and the beach was wide and empty. (The beach is closed to swimming -- obviously -- but the beach is OPEN for sun bathing and picnicking and whatever.) And there was no smell whatsoever of tar or gas or petroleum. None.
Driving off the island to go home, we noticed dozens and dozens of "for rent" signs on the raised beach cottages. I'm sure you could get quite a bargain renting a room or a cabin or a house for some time this summer on Grand Isle, and you would be doing the people of that beleagured island a big favor.
I apologize for not posting lately. I have felt overwhelmed by all the emotions associated with the oil spill, and how many times can you write that you are sad, mad, scared, and helpless? And I have thought that posting about anything fun, like concerts or festivals, would seem like I was trivializing -- or, worse, forgetting about it. Believe me, whatever we are doing, however much fun we are having, the oil spill is never far from our thoughts and pervades our sleep.
But what can you do? After you get your hair salon and pet place to donate their cuttings to Matter of Trust, after you call/write your elected officials, there's really very little you can do. You can volunteer to help with clean up, but if you're not trained in animal/wild life rescue, they politely tell you you're not needed. And if you just want to do unskilled tar ball pick up or other such grunt work, you have to be very careful that you're not stealing what would have been paid day-labor for all the folks thrown out of work by the spill. So what's left?
Well, protest, for one thing. The first public Oil Spill Protest (the first of likely many to come, unless some unforeseen success takes place) was held in the pouring rain on Sunday, May 30, at 1 pm. (At least it wasn't hot.) There were lots and lots of signs, not all of them obscene (but some sure were!), with various ways of parsing the BP acronym (like "Bad People" and "Big Polluters" and even "Bitch Please!").
There were also lots of speakers, representatives of local organizations like Levees.org and Save the Wetlands and many others, and professors at Tulane and UNO and LSU, and leaders of the shrimpers and oystermen organizations -- when these latter speakers said their piece and mourned what was being lost, and how unlikely it was now that they'd be able to pass along their way of life to their children and grandchildren, they cried and so did much of the crowd. Even Dr. John, who's been a member of the Voices of the Wetlands group, spoke, in his inimitable style, angry, as he said, "That the criminals have been put in chawge of the crime scene!" He decried the blowout preventer (which term he couldn't recall and he said in frustration "that damn thing that shoulda stopped it but didn't "woik"), and demanded to know why there hadn't been a back-up plan.
It being New Orleans, the protest had a small pick-up brass band that punctuated what speakers said, played between speakers, and blatted out raspberries whenever BP's name was mentioned.
After all that, there didn't seem to be much else to do, but Big Man and I decided to spend Memorial Day driving to Grand Isle, where we could see first-hand what was happening, and where we could spend a few bucks eating lunch.
We felt so bad for them -- Memorial Day Weekend was supposed to be the big Grand Isle Speckled Trout Rodeo, and now no one was allowed to fish for speck off the island. Most people who had bought tickets in advance did not ask for a refund, and since the band had already been booked and paid, the party, such as it was, went on Saturday night.
The drive took us 2 1/2 hours, through Cajun Country that Big Man had never seen before and where I had not been in many years. Everywhere was evidence of the spill's widening ripples of influence -- boats docked that should have been out in the Gulf; protest signs in yards ("Mr. Obama, where are you?" said one); signs advertising "Disaster Work Catering Services" (at least somebody will be making money); closed roadside seafood markets, their signs listing everything they would have been carrying draped with sheets or tablecloths to cover them.
One unhapppy marshland resident went even further, and posed a mannequin dressed in a hazmat suit holding an oil-smeared plastic fish in an outstretched hand near the side of historic Louisiana Highway 1. Next to the adult mannequin was a small child mannequin in a small matching hazmat outfit, cupping its head in its two hands, as if sobbing. The figures had a big sign, "God Help Us." It was heart breaking.
There were media truck aplenty parked at the Grand Isle Marina, just as you cross over the bridge to the island, and we saw a lot of Army and Coast Guard vehicles as well. As we watched, two schoolbusses pulled up into the public beach area parking lot and unloaded scores of workers dressed in Tyvek suits. As we crossed over the dune to view the beach, we saw that a giant fat orange double-boom lay the length of the beach, and was backed-up by a small sand berm on the seaward side. (The bay side of the island is protected by booms marked "US Navy" floating in the water a few yards offshore.) Supervised by Coast Guard personnel, day laborers were scooping up tar balls on the beach and stuffing them into plastic sacks, and we could see workers on the Grand Isle Gulf beach as far as we could see in either direction.
We drove to one recommended Grand Isle restaurant, but it was closed -- although I had phoned there on Friday and been told it would be open. We ended up eating at the Starfish Restaurant, on the main road, and we asked to be served on the outside picnic table. There we enjoyed seafood gumbo, mini crabcakes, and platters of fried shrimp and oysters with onion rings (me) and a seafood platter with shrimp, oysters, catfish, and stuff crab with French fries (Big Man). (If you are gonna help an area by eating in one of their restaurants, then don't go there on a diet, for pete's sake, eat hearty!) The food was very good, and the servers thanked us for coming.
As we sat under the overhang and enjoyed both the food and the Gulf breeze, we watched as an enormous number of waste disposal trucks and military vehicles went by on the main road. Some young men in Army uniforms drove up in a military-camo jeep, and we were able to thank them in general for their service and in particular for being on Grand Isle right now helping with the spill.
Despite the pounding heat (it had rained earlier but the sun came out with a vengeance afterwards), we spent some time on the Grand Isle beach and we noted that the sand, while not sparkling white as in Alabama and Florida, was perfectly clean, and the beach was wide and empty. (The beach is closed to swimming -- obviously -- but the beach is OPEN for sun bathing and picnicking and whatever.) And there was no smell whatsoever of tar or gas or petroleum. None.
Driving off the island to go home, we noticed dozens and dozens of "for rent" signs on the raised beach cottages. I'm sure you could get quite a bargain renting a room or a cabin or a house for some time this summer on Grand Isle, and you would be doing the people of that beleagured island a big favor.
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