The weather could not have been better -- sunshine, cool river breezes (even gusty at times), reasonable temperatures (getting kind of cool in the shade).
The festival crowds were in a festival mood: enthusiastic and friendly, and decked out in bright, colorful, imaginative festival clothes! We saw some very cute and creative outfits, along with the bizarre and the hot season normal (hat, bandanna, T-shirt and shorts). I wonder what folks wear at festivals in other places? Couldn't be as inspired as our folks!
Both of Big Man's festival gigs went well. On Friday he was part of the Renard Poche Big Band on the Abita Stage, which had a gigantic appreciative crowd of dancing fans. Big Man played very well, despite the wind gusts trying to steal the music sheets off the music stands.
On Saturday Big Man performed with the affable John Lisi and his Delta Funk band to a smaller but just as energized crowd at the lil House of Blues stage on Decatur, in the deep shade of the old Customs House (now home to the Bug Museum).
While the French Quarter Fest crowds grow and grow, it still hasn't reached Jazz Fest levels and is still an enjoyable laid-back experience.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
First Weekend of Jazz Fest 2012
First of all, a shout-out to the Gods of Weather. Temperatures were slightly below normal, there were blessed clouds all three days (we want clouds, because they mitigate the sun beating down on us), and there was a brisk breeze, like natural air conditioning, felt especially in some of the tents.
Some of our favorite highlights:
Women's Day on Friday, April 27. We started in the Jazz Tent with our friend, the delightful Cindy Scott and segued into Leah Chase (yes, Ms. Leah of Dooky Chase Restaurant's daughter), who also had Cindy Scott come back up to duet with her. Cindy was fabulous, her scatting so smooth and natural, you'd think she spoke in scat! She called Shamarr Allen up at one point to guest with her and he knocked the crowd out, trading riffs with Cindy. And Leah's powerful voice and presence really puts a tune across power. Later that same day, we also caught Stephanie Jordan doing her tribute to Lena Horne with a big band -- and a guest song or two with her brother trumpeter Marlon Jordan. We also thrilled to the young and fearsomely talented Sasha Masakowski (who had both her dad and her brother on stage with her) at the Lagniappe Stage -- a small enough venue to be intimate, which we think Sasha needs to be appreciated. Her Brazilian bossa nova song really impressed us, since we often have trouble remembering English lyrics, let alone Portugese! We managed to squeeze into the back of the Gospel Tent for part of Irma Thomas's annual tribute to Mahalia Jackson and were blown away by a medley of "I Believe" and "How Great Thou Art." Big Man and I looked at each other, and we both had tears in our eyes! We also strolled down Memory Lane with the Dixie Cups, but we have to say that the Acura Stage is not the best place to enjoy them (but more on that later).
In addition to all the great women, we also caught part of James Andrews set in the Blues Tent. It was packed in there, and James was putting on a great show, very lively. (It's not his fault he's not the trumpet player his brother is, and it's almost not fair at all to compare them. If his last name wasn't Andrews, you'd be raving about him.) We also made to Congo Square for Kirk Joseph's Backyard Groove, and were surprised to find Big Man's colleague in Rénard Poché's band, Leslie Smith, onstage singing a double-entendre laced tune supposedly about food. So I guess that counts towards another great woman for the day. We relaxed in the shade and the breeze for the Swedish band, Butch Thompson, for their tribute to Jelly Roll Morton. Wow! Really brought back what a genius Jelly was, even if he did have to say so himself. By accident while catching some food, we saw a bit of the set of the totally crazy Slavic Soul Party! and they knocked us out. I don't even know how to describe them, but it was high energy and infectious in a really good way.
We ended the day with all the other aging Baby Boomers at the Beach Boys and sang along and tried not to think about how it was their *50th* Reunion. God, we're all old! was what we were thinking (and likely most of the crowd as well), but it was good stuff and we loved reliving it all. We walked back to the car singing "Be True to Your School."
Saturday, April 28. We started at Gentilly for part of Gal Holiday's set. That kind of old fashioned country-swing is not Big Man's cup of tea, but he indulged me. I thought she was great and her band was really tight. What they do may not be for everybody, but they sure are terrific at it. Then we hustled ourselves to the Economy Hall Tent for our dear friends the Paulin Brothers. When we arrived, the tent was rockin' -- almost everybody was on their feet, secondlining around the tent, waving handkerchieves and umbrellas (and I saw one of the First Church secondline umbrellas that I had decorated!). We joined in with feeling, and afterwards got sweaty hugs from Doc and his brothers as we congratulated them on a wonderful set.
After that, we went into the Grandstand for air conditioning, clean restrooms and the interview with Meschiya Lake (did you know that when she first came to town, she lived in Jelly Roll Morton's old house? or that her trumpeter is also a great keyboard player?). Then over to the Blues Tent for Luther Kent and his big band (we kept seeing Big Man's trumpet friend Barney, who apparently has like something like 20 Jazz Fest gigs). We managed to walk fast enough to catch part of Jon Cleary and the Absolute Monster Gentlemen on Acura doing their covers of Allen Toussaint tunes. (Now, there's my pick for the Jazz Fest best album!) Back across the whole racetrack to Gentilly for Amanda Shaw, who only gets cuter and more talented with every passing year. (Despite her theme song, for her, apparently pretty DOES last.) We heard part of Irvin Mayfield and NOJO's set in the Jazz tent only from the outside, because there was no way to get there, also caught part of Walter "Wolfman" Washington in the Blues Tent with several of Big Man's band mates up on stage.
Then it was over to the Lagniappe Stage for Meschiya Lake & her Little Big Horns, plus a pair of excellent swing dancers onstage with her, just like at her sets at the Spotted Cat. Just a marvelous set, and Meschiya really relaxed and happy-looking (sometimes at the Spotted Cat she hardly smiles). For some people I spoke to, this set was a real Jazz Fest moment. (A Jazz Fest moment is when something unexpected and totally wonderful, almost magical, happens. More on that later.)
We went back to Acura for Voices of the Wetlands and really enjoyed the unusual mash-up of styles and voices, what with Dr. John, Tab Benoit, Anders Osborne, Johnny V (Vidacovich), Jumpin' Johnny Sansone, Cyril Neville, and Big Chief Monk Boudreaux (in full suit). All this and concern for our wetlands too -- gotta love it.
Acura was becoming crowded after that with the folks who wanted to hear Tom Petty, but he wasn't on our list. We wanted to hear the tribute to the late great Wardell Querzergue in the Blues Tent, and my strategy was to get there early and get a great spot. So we went to the Blues Tent to hear the group before that, which was the Bobby Rush revue, and boy, did we get our socks knocked off! That's a real Jazz Fest moment, when you think you're just going to get food, or take a break from the sun in a tent, or line yourself up for an act coming on later, and instead, you are knocked for a loop by someone you never heard of!
Bobby Rush is like 79 years old -- but you'd never know it. His set was action packed, with costume changes, lots of dancing (Big Man was really envying those moves on that old guy), two extremely hot young back-up singer/dancers (who changed costumes even more times than Bobby and who had outrageous sexy figures), a tight, well-rehearsed band, and a routine that goes back to the heyday of the old black nightclubs like the Dew Drop Inn. This was a complete show -- music, dancing, enjoyable stage patter, good-hearted raunchy talk, good rocking blues singing, and terrific music. Big Man and I kept exchanging looks. Why had we never heard of this guy? He was absolutely wonderful, we'd hardly ever been so entertained, titillated, and amused. And if we hadn't had to be there for the Wardell tribute, we'd've missed it. Unbelievable.
Well, when they finally got Bobby Rush off the stage and out of the tent (he was starved apparently for audience contact, and spent a good 15 minutes, shaking hands and giving hugs all around the tent, to the chagrin of the Jazz Fest security people), they set up for the tribute. Doc Paulin, looking much more relaxed in shorts and a golf shirt was back on hand to contribute trombone to his old boss, and the stage filled with veterans of the various bands and studio ensembles Wardell had put together over the years. And then it was a joyous romp through Wardell's hits, with most of the audience singing every single lyric along with the vocalists. "Groove Me," "Trick Bag," "Barefootin'," "Big Chief" -- they ran through them all, with Wardell's son conducting. Then they brought out the Dixie Cups, who emotionally thanked Wardell for being their mentor and giving them their first big break. They went into "Chapel of Love" and a couple of others and of course ended with "Iko Iko"-- the crowd on its feet screaming and singing, and the Cups throwing personalized Dixie Cups Mardi Gras cups (I got one!!) and personalized napkins for secondlining. We realized in this setting that the Acura Stage is completely wrong for the Dixie Cups -- they need to be in the Blues Tent where they can interact with people and see us and us interact with them. They are lost up on Acura, they can't do anything with the crowd, it's all too far away. (Big Man has played Acura and says the giant crowd doesn't even make you nervous, because they're so far removed from the performers, they may as well not be there.) Jazz Fest bigwigs, take note.
It was wonderful to remember all that we have Wardell to thank for, all those songs, as a friend of mine said as we walked out of the tent when it was over, "the sound track of our childhood." Yes yes. Thank you so much, Wardell. You will live forever.
Sunday, April 29. Well, there was a decision to make about this day. You could either decide to completely ignore the fact that Bruce Springsteen was gonna close the Fest with an unprecedented 2 1/2 hour set, or you could resign yourself to what hearing The Boss would entail. We chose the latter course, although it must be admitted that this was somewhat against Big Man's judgment. We arrived in time for Trombone Shorty's set (he of the youngest subject of a Jazz Fest official poster ever) and it was great, but your pleasure in it was mitigated by the fact you couldn't extend your arms or legs in any direction and had about 3 feet as your personal space. Apparently the die-hard Bruce Springsteen fans lined up at the Jazz Fest gates *before 10 am* to snag spots and then never moved all day.
The press of the crowd got a little tighter for Dr. John's set (loved it) and by the time Bruce took the stage at about 4:35 pm or so, your personal space had shrunk to about 2.5 feet. But The Boss put on a show that was emotional, spiritual, sexy, funny, and totally rockin'. He had Dr. John come back up for one number -- clash of worlds! -- but otherwise was on stage or on the specially built runway out into the crowd for the whole time. We boogied, we laughed, we cried, we held each other, we swayed and waved our arms. It was amazing. It was worth every single bit of hassle and discomfort and reduced square footage to be there for that whole set. It was once in a lifetime -- especially for us, as Big Man says he's NEVER doing that again.
And so ended our first weekend of Jazz Fest 2012.
Some of our favorite highlights:
Women's Day on Friday, April 27. We started in the Jazz Tent with our friend, the delightful Cindy Scott and segued into Leah Chase (yes, Ms. Leah of Dooky Chase Restaurant's daughter), who also had Cindy Scott come back up to duet with her. Cindy was fabulous, her scatting so smooth and natural, you'd think she spoke in scat! She called Shamarr Allen up at one point to guest with her and he knocked the crowd out, trading riffs with Cindy. And Leah's powerful voice and presence really puts a tune across power. Later that same day, we also caught Stephanie Jordan doing her tribute to Lena Horne with a big band -- and a guest song or two with her brother trumpeter Marlon Jordan. We also thrilled to the young and fearsomely talented Sasha Masakowski (who had both her dad and her brother on stage with her) at the Lagniappe Stage -- a small enough venue to be intimate, which we think Sasha needs to be appreciated. Her Brazilian bossa nova song really impressed us, since we often have trouble remembering English lyrics, let alone Portugese! We managed to squeeze into the back of the Gospel Tent for part of Irma Thomas's annual tribute to Mahalia Jackson and were blown away by a medley of "I Believe" and "How Great Thou Art." Big Man and I looked at each other, and we both had tears in our eyes! We also strolled down Memory Lane with the Dixie Cups, but we have to say that the Acura Stage is not the best place to enjoy them (but more on that later).
In addition to all the great women, we also caught part of James Andrews set in the Blues Tent. It was packed in there, and James was putting on a great show, very lively. (It's not his fault he's not the trumpet player his brother is, and it's almost not fair at all to compare them. If his last name wasn't Andrews, you'd be raving about him.) We also made to Congo Square for Kirk Joseph's Backyard Groove, and were surprised to find Big Man's colleague in Rénard Poché's band, Leslie Smith, onstage singing a double-entendre laced tune supposedly about food. So I guess that counts towards another great woman for the day. We relaxed in the shade and the breeze for the Swedish band, Butch Thompson, for their tribute to Jelly Roll Morton. Wow! Really brought back what a genius Jelly was, even if he did have to say so himself. By accident while catching some food, we saw a bit of the set of the totally crazy Slavic Soul Party! and they knocked us out. I don't even know how to describe them, but it was high energy and infectious in a really good way.
We ended the day with all the other aging Baby Boomers at the Beach Boys and sang along and tried not to think about how it was their *50th* Reunion. God, we're all old! was what we were thinking (and likely most of the crowd as well), but it was good stuff and we loved reliving it all. We walked back to the car singing "Be True to Your School."
Saturday, April 28. We started at Gentilly for part of Gal Holiday's set. That kind of old fashioned country-swing is not Big Man's cup of tea, but he indulged me. I thought she was great and her band was really tight. What they do may not be for everybody, but they sure are terrific at it. Then we hustled ourselves to the Economy Hall Tent for our dear friends the Paulin Brothers. When we arrived, the tent was rockin' -- almost everybody was on their feet, secondlining around the tent, waving handkerchieves and umbrellas (and I saw one of the First Church secondline umbrellas that I had decorated!). We joined in with feeling, and afterwards got sweaty hugs from Doc and his brothers as we congratulated them on a wonderful set.
After that, we went into the Grandstand for air conditioning, clean restrooms and the interview with Meschiya Lake (did you know that when she first came to town, she lived in Jelly Roll Morton's old house? or that her trumpeter is also a great keyboard player?). Then over to the Blues Tent for Luther Kent and his big band (we kept seeing Big Man's trumpet friend Barney, who apparently has like something like 20 Jazz Fest gigs). We managed to walk fast enough to catch part of Jon Cleary and the Absolute Monster Gentlemen on Acura doing their covers of Allen Toussaint tunes. (Now, there's my pick for the Jazz Fest best album!) Back across the whole racetrack to Gentilly for Amanda Shaw, who only gets cuter and more talented with every passing year. (Despite her theme song, for her, apparently pretty DOES last.) We heard part of Irvin Mayfield and NOJO's set in the Jazz tent only from the outside, because there was no way to get there, also caught part of Walter "Wolfman" Washington in the Blues Tent with several of Big Man's band mates up on stage.
Then it was over to the Lagniappe Stage for Meschiya Lake & her Little Big Horns, plus a pair of excellent swing dancers onstage with her, just like at her sets at the Spotted Cat. Just a marvelous set, and Meschiya really relaxed and happy-looking (sometimes at the Spotted Cat she hardly smiles). For some people I spoke to, this set was a real Jazz Fest moment. (A Jazz Fest moment is when something unexpected and totally wonderful, almost magical, happens. More on that later.)
We went back to Acura for Voices of the Wetlands and really enjoyed the unusual mash-up of styles and voices, what with Dr. John, Tab Benoit, Anders Osborne, Johnny V (Vidacovich), Jumpin' Johnny Sansone, Cyril Neville, and Big Chief Monk Boudreaux (in full suit). All this and concern for our wetlands too -- gotta love it.
Acura was becoming crowded after that with the folks who wanted to hear Tom Petty, but he wasn't on our list. We wanted to hear the tribute to the late great Wardell Querzergue in the Blues Tent, and my strategy was to get there early and get a great spot. So we went to the Blues Tent to hear the group before that, which was the Bobby Rush revue, and boy, did we get our socks knocked off! That's a real Jazz Fest moment, when you think you're just going to get food, or take a break from the sun in a tent, or line yourself up for an act coming on later, and instead, you are knocked for a loop by someone you never heard of!
Bobby Rush is like 79 years old -- but you'd never know it. His set was action packed, with costume changes, lots of dancing (Big Man was really envying those moves on that old guy), two extremely hot young back-up singer/dancers (who changed costumes even more times than Bobby and who had outrageous sexy figures), a tight, well-rehearsed band, and a routine that goes back to the heyday of the old black nightclubs like the Dew Drop Inn. This was a complete show -- music, dancing, enjoyable stage patter, good-hearted raunchy talk, good rocking blues singing, and terrific music. Big Man and I kept exchanging looks. Why had we never heard of this guy? He was absolutely wonderful, we'd hardly ever been so entertained, titillated, and amused. And if we hadn't had to be there for the Wardell tribute, we'd've missed it. Unbelievable.
Well, when they finally got Bobby Rush off the stage and out of the tent (he was starved apparently for audience contact, and spent a good 15 minutes, shaking hands and giving hugs all around the tent, to the chagrin of the Jazz Fest security people), they set up for the tribute. Doc Paulin, looking much more relaxed in shorts and a golf shirt was back on hand to contribute trombone to his old boss, and the stage filled with veterans of the various bands and studio ensembles Wardell had put together over the years. And then it was a joyous romp through Wardell's hits, with most of the audience singing every single lyric along with the vocalists. "Groove Me," "Trick Bag," "Barefootin'," "Big Chief" -- they ran through them all, with Wardell's son conducting. Then they brought out the Dixie Cups, who emotionally thanked Wardell for being their mentor and giving them their first big break. They went into "Chapel of Love" and a couple of others and of course ended with "Iko Iko"-- the crowd on its feet screaming and singing, and the Cups throwing personalized Dixie Cups Mardi Gras cups (I got one!!) and personalized napkins for secondlining. We realized in this setting that the Acura Stage is completely wrong for the Dixie Cups -- they need to be in the Blues Tent where they can interact with people and see us and us interact with them. They are lost up on Acura, they can't do anything with the crowd, it's all too far away. (Big Man has played Acura and says the giant crowd doesn't even make you nervous, because they're so far removed from the performers, they may as well not be there.) Jazz Fest bigwigs, take note.
It was wonderful to remember all that we have Wardell to thank for, all those songs, as a friend of mine said as we walked out of the tent when it was over, "the sound track of our childhood." Yes yes. Thank you so much, Wardell. You will live forever.
Sunday, April 29. Well, there was a decision to make about this day. You could either decide to completely ignore the fact that Bruce Springsteen was gonna close the Fest with an unprecedented 2 1/2 hour set, or you could resign yourself to what hearing The Boss would entail. We chose the latter course, although it must be admitted that this was somewhat against Big Man's judgment. We arrived in time for Trombone Shorty's set (he of the youngest subject of a Jazz Fest official poster ever) and it was great, but your pleasure in it was mitigated by the fact you couldn't extend your arms or legs in any direction and had about 3 feet as your personal space. Apparently the die-hard Bruce Springsteen fans lined up at the Jazz Fest gates *before 10 am* to snag spots and then never moved all day.
The press of the crowd got a little tighter for Dr. John's set (loved it) and by the time Bruce took the stage at about 4:35 pm or so, your personal space had shrunk to about 2.5 feet. But The Boss put on a show that was emotional, spiritual, sexy, funny, and totally rockin'. He had Dr. John come back up for one number -- clash of worlds! -- but otherwise was on stage or on the specially built runway out into the crowd for the whole time. We boogied, we laughed, we cried, we held each other, we swayed and waved our arms. It was amazing. It was worth every single bit of hassle and discomfort and reduced square footage to be there for that whole set. It was once in a lifetime -- especially for us, as Big Man says he's NEVER doing that again.
And so ended our first weekend of Jazz Fest 2012.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Easter 2012
READING BEFORE SERMON, EASTER SUNDAY 2012
taken from an essay by the late Rev. Suzanne Meyer, from when she was serving First UU Church, New Orleans
This Easter I encourage you to practice resurrection. Note, I did not say, “believe in resurrection,” I said practice it! For the poet Wendell Berry, practicing resurrection doesn't refer to a metaphysical act or a theological proposition. For Berry, the art and science of resurrection is found in those countless disciplined acts of resistance to all of the forces in modern life that dehumanize, oppress, and reduce precious individuals to robots. Don’t let your mind be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer -- wage a guerilla campaign on behalf of love, justice, and joy. Practice resurrection!
In the springtime, in the greening time, as life is renewed, we must renew our opposition to all the forces that crush the spirit, erode the soul, stifle freedom. We must place our hope in the things that endure. For this is eternal life. Berry says: “Invest in the millennium -- plant sequoias.” In what he calls his “Manifesto,” Berry encourages us to
Practicing resurrection means expanding the sense of self outward from the rather arbitrary borders of our own skins, becoming so large and expansive that death no longer has any dominion. Buddhist Joanna Macy writes: “The way we define and delimit the self is arbitrary.”
Berry shares Macy’s expanded sense of the self. His theology is juicy, erotic, rebellious, some would say mad. He is a heretic because he refuses to believe that resurrection was a one time only, one-person only event. We are the living dead buried under all of the flotsam and jetsam of modern living, seduced by the false promises of secular materialism. We are cut off from the earth, the soil, the humus, the natural cycles of life and death. Life is an innately spiritual experience; and we have lost touch with that. Much of Western religion has been necrophilic -- death loving, world renouncing. But we have it within ourselves to rise, to become biophilic -- life loving, world embracing. Resist! Refuse! Recycle! Resurrection happens! So practice resurrection. So ends the reading.
“Coming Back from the Dead” A Homily for Easter
by the Rev. Melanie Morel-Ensminger
First Unitarian Universalist Church of New Orleans
Sunday, April 8, 2012
There is a rather famous Easter story that is supposed to have occurred in a New England Universalist church some 60-odd years ago. One Easter Sunday, the choir was processing down the center aisle, singing an old Universalist hymn entitled, “Up From the Grave He Rose.” There was a hot air register in the middle of the aisle and the last soprano got her high heel caught in the grating. She kept on singing, stepped out of her shoe, and kept on walking. The man behind her, thinking he was doing her a favor, picked up the shoe -- and the whole grate came with it.
Nobody missed a beat. The man walked on with the shoe and the grate in his hand, and, still in tune and still in step, the man right behind him fell into the open register and dropped from sight. As the choir sang the final “Allelulia! He arose!” the congregation was startled -- to say the least -- when a shout came from the hole in the floor: “You'd better all be out of the way, because I'm coming up!”
I’m told that the man emerged from the netherworld of the crawl space, as the choir burst into the second Easter hymn, and the whole congregation cheered. Resurrection took place in a Universalist church that Easter, and everyone shared in it.
One of the biggest differences between Unitarian Universalists and our sisters and brothers of more traditional faiths, as Suzanne Meyer points out, is that most of them believe that resurrection was a one-time-only event for one-person-only, with the rest of us promised resurrection only after we die and only if we're good enough, while we religious liberals realize how often such events as rebirth and resurrection occur in each and every one of our lives. We all share in them.
The story of Jesus is not the earliest one we have of a godlike figure dying and rising again. It seems that humans have always needed to be reminded of the possibility and hope of renewal and that is why Easter-type stories of rebirth and resurrection are part of human religious history. (Interestingly, the majority of these early figures are female.) The first deity to die, enter the underworld, and return to the living was the Sumerian goddess Inanna, who was seeking answers and more power. The second was likely the Egyptian goddess Isis, who was seeking her lost love, Osiris. The ancient Greeks had Persephone, who either went willingly or was kidnapped, depending on which version of the myth you choose to go by. Our own name for this holiday, Easter, comes from the name of the Indo-European dawn goddess of the east whose special celebrations always took place at the vernal equinox. In different regions, she was known as Eostre, Astarte, Ashera, Aurora. (Another item of interest is the fact that many scholars believe the Jewish heroine-queen Esther whose holiday, Purim, is also celebrated at the spring equinox, is a manifestation of the Canaanite version of this same goddess.)
The rituals of the springtime dawn goddess varied with the culture and region, but usually included baskets of flowers and spring greenery, a dawn service, and baby animals such as lambs, goats, rabbits. Eggs, symbols of the goddess's sacred womb of rebirth and of the fertility of the spring season, were also part of the holiday in many places. Children were honored as embodiments of new life. (Stop me if any of this sounds familiar.)
Whether ancient peoples believed in the stories told about their various goddesses literally or metaphorically we will never really know, and it doesn't matter. We religious liberals in the 21st century are free to view them as useful and beautiful symbols, without fretting over historic or scientific accuracy, which is not the point anyway. Rebirth and resurrection are necessary to being human; they are needs from deep within us. We especially seem to feel it at this time of year.
Spring itself feels like a rebirth and resurrection of our earth, the Japanese magnolias and redbuds and forsythias and all the soft new green, lifting our spirits with their beauty and their scent (even when they also irritate our sinuses).
In Rev. Suzanne’s essay, poet Wendell Berry reminds us that the forces of the tomb are always out there, ready to lay to rest all the mystery and juice and beauty of life in exchange for the mess of pottage that is secular materialism. Believing in rebirth and resurrection means placing our hopes in what endures: love, compassion, the things of the earth, the natural cycles of loss and return.
My colleague Maureen Killoran of our church in Asheville, North Carolina, writes that
For us as religious liberals, coming back from the dead does not occur when an angel, or some other supernatural being, appears after 3 days or 3 weeks or 3 years to roll away the stones upon our hearts. We come back from the dead when courage and hope reach through our despair and pain; we come back from the dead when we engage the world not as a threat, not as a monster, not even as a necessary evil, but as a delightful challenge. We come back from the dead when we are realistic about what we can accomplish and yet let our sense of mirth and play help us to determine where to draw the line.
On this beautiful Easter day, I invite you to take a moment to reflect on the times in your life when you have been in the dark of the tomb of the soul. It may have been a disappointment so great that you tried to insulate yourself from the world. Or it may have been a loss of someone or something so beloved that you felt abandoned and alone. Whatever it was, each one of us has felt it -- that feeling of fear, dark and cold, like being shut away in a tomb.
From there, I ask you to remember what it was that brought you "back from the dead" -- the person or community that supported, comforted, and encouraged you, who made you feel alive once more. Something or someone came to us when we were locked in a cave in our souls and rolled away the stone, revealing a deeper dimension of hope and connection. This Easter, I encourage you to practice rebirth and resurrection by recalling to mind your own times of hopeful renewal.
Rebirth and resurrection -- they're not unique, legendary, supernatural events, but the stuff of life, your life and mine. And there may be no better time to contemplate all that renews and returns than glorious Springtime. May this Eastertide find us heartened and challenged by our own times of rebirth and resurrection in the midst of the darkness of our times: deception, meaningless, materialism, despair. May we daily find the miracles of hope we need to truly live, instead of merely surviving. So might this be! AMEN –ASHE – SHALOM – SALAAM – NAMASTE – BLESSED BE.
taken from an essay by the late Rev. Suzanne Meyer, from when she was serving First UU Church, New Orleans
Lover of the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
This Easter I encourage you to practice resurrection. Note, I did not say, “believe in resurrection,” I said practice it! For the poet Wendell Berry, practicing resurrection doesn't refer to a metaphysical act or a theological proposition. For Berry, the art and science of resurrection is found in those countless disciplined acts of resistance to all of the forces in modern life that dehumanize, oppress, and reduce precious individuals to robots. Don’t let your mind be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer -- wage a guerilla campaign on behalf of love, justice, and joy. Practice resurrection!
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit, they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
In the springtime, in the greening time, as life is renewed, we must renew our opposition to all the forces that crush the spirit, erode the soul, stifle freedom. We must place our hope in the things that endure. For this is eternal life. Berry says: “Invest in the millennium -- plant sequoias.” In what he calls his “Manifesto,” Berry encourages us to
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Practicing resurrection means expanding the sense of self outward from the rather arbitrary borders of our own skins, becoming so large and expansive that death no longer has any dominion. Buddhist Joanna Macy writes: “The way we define and delimit the self is arbitrary.”
Berry shares Macy’s expanded sense of the self. His theology is juicy, erotic, rebellious, some would say mad. He is a heretic because he refuses to believe that resurrection was a one time only, one-person only event. We are the living dead buried under all of the flotsam and jetsam of modern living, seduced by the false promises of secular materialism. We are cut off from the earth, the soil, the humus, the natural cycles of life and death. Life is an innately spiritual experience; and we have lost touch with that. Much of Western religion has been necrophilic -- death loving, world renouncing. But we have it within ourselves to rise, to become biophilic -- life loving, world embracing. Resist! Refuse! Recycle! Resurrection happens! So practice resurrection. So ends the reading.
“Coming Back from the Dead” A Homily for Easter
by the Rev. Melanie Morel-Ensminger
First Unitarian Universalist Church of New Orleans
Sunday, April 8, 2012
There is a rather famous Easter story that is supposed to have occurred in a New England Universalist church some 60-odd years ago. One Easter Sunday, the choir was processing down the center aisle, singing an old Universalist hymn entitled, “Up From the Grave He Rose.” There was a hot air register in the middle of the aisle and the last soprano got her high heel caught in the grating. She kept on singing, stepped out of her shoe, and kept on walking. The man behind her, thinking he was doing her a favor, picked up the shoe -- and the whole grate came with it.
Nobody missed a beat. The man walked on with the shoe and the grate in his hand, and, still in tune and still in step, the man right behind him fell into the open register and dropped from sight. As the choir sang the final “Allelulia! He arose!” the congregation was startled -- to say the least -- when a shout came from the hole in the floor: “You'd better all be out of the way, because I'm coming up!”
I’m told that the man emerged from the netherworld of the crawl space, as the choir burst into the second Easter hymn, and the whole congregation cheered. Resurrection took place in a Universalist church that Easter, and everyone shared in it.
One of the biggest differences between Unitarian Universalists and our sisters and brothers of more traditional faiths, as Suzanne Meyer points out, is that most of them believe that resurrection was a one-time-only event for one-person-only, with the rest of us promised resurrection only after we die and only if we're good enough, while we religious liberals realize how often such events as rebirth and resurrection occur in each and every one of our lives. We all share in them.
The story of Jesus is not the earliest one we have of a godlike figure dying and rising again. It seems that humans have always needed to be reminded of the possibility and hope of renewal and that is why Easter-type stories of rebirth and resurrection are part of human religious history. (Interestingly, the majority of these early figures are female.) The first deity to die, enter the underworld, and return to the living was the Sumerian goddess Inanna, who was seeking answers and more power. The second was likely the Egyptian goddess Isis, who was seeking her lost love, Osiris. The ancient Greeks had Persephone, who either went willingly or was kidnapped, depending on which version of the myth you choose to go by. Our own name for this holiday, Easter, comes from the name of the Indo-European dawn goddess of the east whose special celebrations always took place at the vernal equinox. In different regions, she was known as Eostre, Astarte, Ashera, Aurora. (Another item of interest is the fact that many scholars believe the Jewish heroine-queen Esther whose holiday, Purim, is also celebrated at the spring equinox, is a manifestation of the Canaanite version of this same goddess.)
The rituals of the springtime dawn goddess varied with the culture and region, but usually included baskets of flowers and spring greenery, a dawn service, and baby animals such as lambs, goats, rabbits. Eggs, symbols of the goddess's sacred womb of rebirth and of the fertility of the spring season, were also part of the holiday in many places. Children were honored as embodiments of new life. (Stop me if any of this sounds familiar.)
Whether ancient peoples believed in the stories told about their various goddesses literally or metaphorically we will never really know, and it doesn't matter. We religious liberals in the 21st century are free to view them as useful and beautiful symbols, without fretting over historic or scientific accuracy, which is not the point anyway. Rebirth and resurrection are necessary to being human; they are needs from deep within us. We especially seem to feel it at this time of year.
Spring itself feels like a rebirth and resurrection of our earth, the Japanese magnolias and redbuds and forsythias and all the soft new green, lifting our spirits with their beauty and their scent (even when they also irritate our sinuses).
•There's the rebirth and resurrection of finding a religious home where you can be yourself, with all your doubts and questions and life experiences, after you had given up hope that there could be a church for you.
•There's the rebirth and resurrection of finding love when you feel you didn't “earn” it or that you don't “deserve” it. (It's lucky for all of us that love isn’t apportioned that way, because so few of us would get any.)
•There's the rebirth and resurrection of rising again after dealing with addictions and substance abuse, and discovering you can go, one day at a time, into a life of sobriety.
•There’s the rebirth and resurrection of finding a way to keep on keeping on after a tragedy or disaster. (Now, there’s a resurrection First Churchers and other New Orleanians know about first-hand!)
•There's the rebirth and resurrection of finding friends when you need them the most, when an illness or a death or a catastrophe has put you in the tomb-like darkness of despair and alienation. All of these rebirths and resurrections can be celebrated as signs that renewal is always possible, even in a world like ours, dominated by death and tragedy and cynicism and pain.
In Rev. Suzanne’s essay, poet Wendell Berry reminds us that the forces of the tomb are always out there, ready to lay to rest all the mystery and juice and beauty of life in exchange for the mess of pottage that is secular materialism. Believing in rebirth and resurrection means placing our hopes in what endures: love, compassion, the things of the earth, the natural cycles of loss and return.
My colleague Maureen Killoran of our church in Asheville, North Carolina, writes that
[r]esurrection literally means "to rise again," to rise up from the ashes of destruction and, like the phoenix, set forth anew upon the path of life. Each of us, by virtue of being alive, has fallen. Resurrection means to come back from those deaths both large and small, our times of imprisonment in the tomb of the soul. Resurrection means to triumph over opposition, and each of us has, at one time or another, faced [our] fear and moved beyond.
For us as religious liberals, coming back from the dead does not occur when an angel, or some other supernatural being, appears after 3 days or 3 weeks or 3 years to roll away the stones upon our hearts. We come back from the dead when courage and hope reach through our despair and pain; we come back from the dead when we engage the world not as a threat, not as a monster, not even as a necessary evil, but as a delightful challenge. We come back from the dead when we are realistic about what we can accomplish and yet let our sense of mirth and play help us to determine where to draw the line.
On this beautiful Easter day, I invite you to take a moment to reflect on the times in your life when you have been in the dark of the tomb of the soul. It may have been a disappointment so great that you tried to insulate yourself from the world. Or it may have been a loss of someone or something so beloved that you felt abandoned and alone. Whatever it was, each one of us has felt it -- that feeling of fear, dark and cold, like being shut away in a tomb.
From there, I ask you to remember what it was that brought you "back from the dead" -- the person or community that supported, comforted, and encouraged you, who made you feel alive once more. Something or someone came to us when we were locked in a cave in our souls and rolled away the stone, revealing a deeper dimension of hope and connection. This Easter, I encourage you to practice rebirth and resurrection by recalling to mind your own times of hopeful renewal.
Rebirth and resurrection -- they're not unique, legendary, supernatural events, but the stuff of life, your life and mine. And there may be no better time to contemplate all that renews and returns than glorious Springtime. May this Eastertide find us heartened and challenged by our own times of rebirth and resurrection in the midst of the darkness of our times: deception, meaningless, materialism, despair. May we daily find the miracles of hope we need to truly live, instead of merely surviving. So might this be! AMEN –ASHE – SHALOM – SALAAM – NAMASTE – BLESSED BE.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The Saints
I hardly know what to write about the Saints right now. The recent revelations about defense coordinator Gregg Williams setting up a bounty program, not just for Saints defense players to hard hit opposition players, but actually with bonuses to *hurt* them and them carted off the field. Something like 27 players were involved and of course Sean Payton had to have known and just turned a blind eye to it. What with the rumors swirling around town about Payton's possibly having had a child with a Saintsations cheerleader (thus prompting Mrs. Payton to decamp back to Houston, in a pricey neighborhood), it's almost enough, just about enough, to make one lose faith in the Coach's probity.
As a pastor, of course I deplore this whole thing. Good hard legal hits are one thing, but I cannot condone hurting other players *on purpose.* That players who were already being paid more than the average -- or even the above-average -- worker needed added incentives to do what was, after all, only their job (the legal part anyway) is especially disheartening. That Jonathan Vilma, the "quarterback" of the defense, was deeply involved is just about heart-breaking, we had such respect and affection for him.
I also cannot agree with those near-rabid Saints fans who claim that "everyone does it" or that it's why we watch football and thus it's all "no big deal." I for one was not watching and cheering for and crying for the Saints because I thought they were just like all the other teams, doing whatever it is all the other teams do. We were supposed to be special, different, *above* all that. If that is innocent to the point of naîve, then I am guilty.
As a Saints fan, my other problem is that this ridiculous, sad, disgusting affair didn't even get us in the Superbowl. It's not like I *want* the Saints to cheat or act like thugs in order to win, but there is something in me that says, dang, we went through all that and they STILL didn't win.
To put the big ol' cherry on top of the sundae, now the Saints front office -- Mickey Loomis and the Bensons -- can't close the deal with Drew Brees. They had to slap a franchise tag on him, for heaven's sake, since they couldn't close the deal with e long-term contract. The local media say he's mad, and who can blame him? His team, that he has performed so wonderfully for, is just about falling apart around his ears, and they were so short-sighted and stupid, they couldn't even see that they needed to change the agenda and make the news stories be about Drew and his big long-term contract, and NOT about the bounty for injury stories. But they had to go and mess that up too. If we lose Drew, you'll know who to blame.
The coming season does not look good. The league wants to make an example of some team to show that the NFL is serious about protecting the health and safety of players, and they're none too happy about all the "I support the Coach and the GM completely" statements coming from Tom Benson. They are very likely going to slap the Saints with all kinds of penalties, suspending Loomis and probably Payton too, big whopping fines, and snatching draft choices.
It's an ugly story, an ugly scene, all the way around. No heroes to cheer for.
I kind of feel the way I used to when I was younger when I was betrayed by a boyfriend, and I'm not looking forward to next season.
As a pastor, of course I deplore this whole thing. Good hard legal hits are one thing, but I cannot condone hurting other players *on purpose.* That players who were already being paid more than the average -- or even the above-average -- worker needed added incentives to do what was, after all, only their job (the legal part anyway) is especially disheartening. That Jonathan Vilma, the "quarterback" of the defense, was deeply involved is just about heart-breaking, we had such respect and affection for him.
I also cannot agree with those near-rabid Saints fans who claim that "everyone does it" or that it's why we watch football and thus it's all "no big deal." I for one was not watching and cheering for and crying for the Saints because I thought they were just like all the other teams, doing whatever it is all the other teams do. We were supposed to be special, different, *above* all that. If that is innocent to the point of naîve, then I am guilty.
As a Saints fan, my other problem is that this ridiculous, sad, disgusting affair didn't even get us in the Superbowl. It's not like I *want* the Saints to cheat or act like thugs in order to win, but there is something in me that says, dang, we went through all that and they STILL didn't win.
To put the big ol' cherry on top of the sundae, now the Saints front office -- Mickey Loomis and the Bensons -- can't close the deal with Drew Brees. They had to slap a franchise tag on him, for heaven's sake, since they couldn't close the deal with e long-term contract. The local media say he's mad, and who can blame him? His team, that he has performed so wonderfully for, is just about falling apart around his ears, and they were so short-sighted and stupid, they couldn't even see that they needed to change the agenda and make the news stories be about Drew and his big long-term contract, and NOT about the bounty for injury stories. But they had to go and mess that up too. If we lose Drew, you'll know who to blame.
The coming season does not look good. The league wants to make an example of some team to show that the NFL is serious about protecting the health and safety of players, and they're none too happy about all the "I support the Coach and the GM completely" statements coming from Tom Benson. They are very likely going to slap the Saints with all kinds of penalties, suspending Loomis and probably Payton too, big whopping fines, and snatching draft choices.
It's an ugly story, an ugly scene, all the way around. No heroes to cheer for.
I kind of feel the way I used to when I was younger when I was betrayed by a boyfriend, and I'm not looking forward to next season.
Springtime Makes Me Happy
Since the end of February, it's been spring in belle NOLA. As March has come in, spring has just gotten stronger and stronger. The weather is mild, tending toward the warm side, with some March breezes to blow things around. It's gotten so hot that a couple of times, Big Man and I have had to turn on the air conditioning just to be comfortable.
The old oak trees are touched with feathery pale green, the Japanese magnolias are past blooming and coming out with full leaf. The red buds and forsythia are glowing, each in their own spectrum. Flowers of all kinds are showing their colors -- tropical hibiscus, gorgeous snap dragons, azaleas in every shade and hue, tulips and daffodils bobbing their heads. petunias, phlox, flowers I don't even know the names of. From the most formal expensive gardens on St. Charles Avenue and Prytania Street to unexpected empty lots turned gardens in Central City, to window boxes at apartment complexes, to lovingly cared-for gardens in Lakeview, flowers are in riotous bloom, and when I drive by, no matter how I'm feeling, I smile.
Springtime makes me happy, and I love springtime best when it arrives in late February and early March.
The old oak trees are touched with feathery pale green, the Japanese magnolias are past blooming and coming out with full leaf. The red buds and forsythia are glowing, each in their own spectrum. Flowers of all kinds are showing their colors -- tropical hibiscus, gorgeous snap dragons, azaleas in every shade and hue, tulips and daffodils bobbing their heads. petunias, phlox, flowers I don't even know the names of. From the most formal expensive gardens on St. Charles Avenue and Prytania Street to unexpected empty lots turned gardens in Central City, to window boxes at apartment complexes, to lovingly cared-for gardens in Lakeview, flowers are in riotous bloom, and when I drive by, no matter how I'm feeling, I smile.
Springtime makes me happy, and I love springtime best when it arrives in late February and early March.
Another Wonderful Carnival
I didn't write any detailed descriptions of parades and events this past Carnival season -- mostly because I just didn't want to, didn't want to take time off from parades and parties and costume-making to write. I also didn't want to clean house, cook, wash dishes, clean out the cat litter, do laundry, pay bills, balance bank statements, work on IRS, or anything else. Just couldn't make myself do anything but enjoy Carnival -- and enjoy it I did!
Now I really understand why Al "Carnival Time" Johnson sings, "Throw my baby out the window, let the joint burn down -- all because it's Carnival time!"
Maybe I'll do better next Mardi Gras, but I doubt it.
Now I really understand why Al "Carnival Time" Johnson sings, "Throw my baby out the window, let the joint burn down -- all because it's Carnival time!"
Maybe I'll do better next Mardi Gras, but I doubt it.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tour of Truth with the Congreso de Jornaleros
On Tuesday, October 18, Rev. Jim VanderWeele and I joined a group of activists and religious leaders for a "Tour of Truth" led by the organizers and members of the local Congreso de Jornaleros (Congress of Day Laborers). The plan was to visit several sites in and around New Orleans where agents of Immigration & Customs Enforcement (ICE) had arrested and abused the Latino day laborers who were brought to New Orleans in 2005 to work on post-Katrina reconstruction and rebuilding.
The first stop was, ironically, the corner of Martin Luther King Street and South Claiborne Avenue, at a gas station which is a well-known local corner where workers gather for hire as casual labor (and where once, a Latino worker assisted me in getting the stuck gas cap off my van so I could fill it up). The workers who had been there told us, through a translator, of the daily hassles and threats they had endured, and of workers suddenly "disappearing" after being picked up by ICE. We sang a hymn and continued to the next stop.
Across the street from the Lowe's Home Supply Store on Elysian Fields Avenue, we heard the story of six workers picked up on a Friday by a contractor, who asked if they would be available to work over the weekend. All six eagerly agreed. One young man related, through the interpreter, how excited he had been to get a weekend job; he anticipated being able to buy groceries for his family and pay his rent on the following Monday. But the "contractor" proved to be an ICE agent in disguise. When the workers tried to run away, they were beaten. (Running away is apparently considered by ICE to be "resistance" and thus use of physical force is justified.) Again, an African-American neighborhood activist led us in singing a traditional hymn, one often used in the civil rights movement, and we left for the next location.
On a quiet street in Mid-City, we stood in front of the house that had been home to Delmy, her husband, and their newborn son. Holding the baby, now a squirmy toddler, and wiping away tears, Delmy shared the story of the night that she and her husband had an argument and when he left the house to cool off, she locked him out. When he found he couldn't get back in, and not knowing what else to do, he called the police. When the police arrived, they broke down the door, and dragged Delmy out of bed. They handcuffed her in her nightclothes, separated her from her by-now screaming baby, and arrested her for "domestic violence." Because of the Orleans Parish Sheriff's habit of allowing ICE into the jail to look over prisoners, Delmy ended up in an ICE hold, and was kept incarcerated for *three months*, away from her baby (an American citizen), and her husband, who kept calling the jail saying he wanted all charges dropped. All of us hearing the story were close to tears.
While our little group listened, several neighbor women came out of their houses, and moved closer to see who we were and what we were doing there. When they recognized Delmy with her baby son, they greeted her warmly. They knew Delmy from her time there in their neighborhood; one of them said, "We knew her when she was pregnant, and once that baby was born, she was with him all the time." One of the women had witnessed the arrest and had tried to intervene, asking over and over, "What did she do?" and informing the officers that there was a new baby in the house. The woman was threatened by officers with arrest if she kept asking questions. The two women kept saying to Delmy, "We're so glad to see you, and back with your baby!" When they were informed that Delmy was under a deportation order that would separate her from little Josué, they were outraged. "It's so wrong!" they said, "It's a shame they can do you like that." Once more, we joined hands in a circle and sang a hymn, some of us with tears streaming.
Our final stop was in front of set of cheap apartments in Kenner. A group of workers repeated the same story: after having worked for a local house-leveling firm for two weeks, a group of nearly 40 workers were notified by telephone that they were to be paid at 7:30 am the next morning, and given a location to come to. When the workers arrived, they were immediately surrounded by ICE agents wielding clubs and handcuffs. Anyone who attempted to get away was beaten; one worker ended up in a local hospital for stitches -- and ironically, due to being at the emergency room, was the only worker not held in custody by ICE that day. None of the workers was paid for work they had done -- close to one hundred thousand dollars in total. I thought to myself, That's a good way for a business to save money! We did not feel much like singing, and the tour ended.
On the following Thursday, October 20, a similar group met outside an office building on Poydras Street near the New Orleans Superdome where ICE has its local offices. We had posters representing four members of Congreso who had been abruptly deported the night before, even though they could show legal documents proving that they were subpoenaed witnesses in court cases over wage theft. We laid the posters on the public sidewalk -- after the group was roughly moved away from the front of the building by a security guard -- and laid both symbolic toy handcuffs and bouquets of roses on the posters. We chanted, "We are human beings!" in Spanish. The building's guard called the police and an officer stood by, watching. He made no move to shove the group along, stop the protest, or arrest anyone. A little Latina girl brought him one of the roses bouquet, and, unsure what to do, he laid it gently on top one of the posters on the sidewalk depicting a deported worker. (He told me later, "I love my country and I love the constitution, and people have a right to peacefully protest. I'll always defend that." I thanked him.)
Doesn't seem equally suspicious that not only workers who need to be paid are deported, but also those standing up for their civil rights? I love my country too, and in general I respect its laws. But when my country acts unjustly and unreasonably, I am moved to witness and to protest. It is wrong to deny the right to remain to the Latino workers who have given so much to New Orleans' post-Katrina recovery. It is wrong to separate families, mothers and fathers from little children, intimate partners from each other. It is wrong to pretend to hire honest workers, only to cheat them of the wages they've earned, and then, worse, to deport them away from their families.
People of faith are called to stand up and be counted when wrongs are being done, and Rev. JIm and I were glad to stand with the Congreso.
The first stop was, ironically, the corner of Martin Luther King Street and South Claiborne Avenue, at a gas station which is a well-known local corner where workers gather for hire as casual labor (and where once, a Latino worker assisted me in getting the stuck gas cap off my van so I could fill it up). The workers who had been there told us, through a translator, of the daily hassles and threats they had endured, and of workers suddenly "disappearing" after being picked up by ICE. We sang a hymn and continued to the next stop.
Across the street from the Lowe's Home Supply Store on Elysian Fields Avenue, we heard the story of six workers picked up on a Friday by a contractor, who asked if they would be available to work over the weekend. All six eagerly agreed. One young man related, through the interpreter, how excited he had been to get a weekend job; he anticipated being able to buy groceries for his family and pay his rent on the following Monday. But the "contractor" proved to be an ICE agent in disguise. When the workers tried to run away, they were beaten. (Running away is apparently considered by ICE to be "resistance" and thus use of physical force is justified.) Again, an African-American neighborhood activist led us in singing a traditional hymn, one often used in the civil rights movement, and we left for the next location.
On a quiet street in Mid-City, we stood in front of the house that had been home to Delmy, her husband, and their newborn son. Holding the baby, now a squirmy toddler, and wiping away tears, Delmy shared the story of the night that she and her husband had an argument and when he left the house to cool off, she locked him out. When he found he couldn't get back in, and not knowing what else to do, he called the police. When the police arrived, they broke down the door, and dragged Delmy out of bed. They handcuffed her in her nightclothes, separated her from her by-now screaming baby, and arrested her for "domestic violence." Because of the Orleans Parish Sheriff's habit of allowing ICE into the jail to look over prisoners, Delmy ended up in an ICE hold, and was kept incarcerated for *three months*, away from her baby (an American citizen), and her husband, who kept calling the jail saying he wanted all charges dropped. All of us hearing the story were close to tears.
While our little group listened, several neighbor women came out of their houses, and moved closer to see who we were and what we were doing there. When they recognized Delmy with her baby son, they greeted her warmly. They knew Delmy from her time there in their neighborhood; one of them said, "We knew her when she was pregnant, and once that baby was born, she was with him all the time." One of the women had witnessed the arrest and had tried to intervene, asking over and over, "What did she do?" and informing the officers that there was a new baby in the house. The woman was threatened by officers with arrest if she kept asking questions. The two women kept saying to Delmy, "We're so glad to see you, and back with your baby!" When they were informed that Delmy was under a deportation order that would separate her from little Josué, they were outraged. "It's so wrong!" they said, "It's a shame they can do you like that." Once more, we joined hands in a circle and sang a hymn, some of us with tears streaming.
Our final stop was in front of set of cheap apartments in Kenner. A group of workers repeated the same story: after having worked for a local house-leveling firm for two weeks, a group of nearly 40 workers were notified by telephone that they were to be paid at 7:30 am the next morning, and given a location to come to. When the workers arrived, they were immediately surrounded by ICE agents wielding clubs and handcuffs. Anyone who attempted to get away was beaten; one worker ended up in a local hospital for stitches -- and ironically, due to being at the emergency room, was the only worker not held in custody by ICE that day. None of the workers was paid for work they had done -- close to one hundred thousand dollars in total. I thought to myself, That's a good way for a business to save money! We did not feel much like singing, and the tour ended.
On the following Thursday, October 20, a similar group met outside an office building on Poydras Street near the New Orleans Superdome where ICE has its local offices. We had posters representing four members of Congreso who had been abruptly deported the night before, even though they could show legal documents proving that they were subpoenaed witnesses in court cases over wage theft. We laid the posters on the public sidewalk -- after the group was roughly moved away from the front of the building by a security guard -- and laid both symbolic toy handcuffs and bouquets of roses on the posters. We chanted, "We are human beings!" in Spanish. The building's guard called the police and an officer stood by, watching. He made no move to shove the group along, stop the protest, or arrest anyone. A little Latina girl brought him one of the roses bouquet, and, unsure what to do, he laid it gently on top one of the posters on the sidewalk depicting a deported worker. (He told me later, "I love my country and I love the constitution, and people have a right to peacefully protest. I'll always defend that." I thanked him.)
Doesn't seem equally suspicious that not only workers who need to be paid are deported, but also those standing up for their civil rights? I love my country too, and in general I respect its laws. But when my country acts unjustly and unreasonably, I am moved to witness and to protest. It is wrong to deny the right to remain to the Latino workers who have given so much to New Orleans' post-Katrina recovery. It is wrong to separate families, mothers and fathers from little children, intimate partners from each other. It is wrong to pretend to hire honest workers, only to cheat them of the wages they've earned, and then, worse, to deport them away from their families.
People of faith are called to stand up and be counted when wrongs are being done, and Rev. JIm and I were glad to stand with the Congreso.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)