As we drive into the French Quarter, the rain started to come down in buckets.  The streets began to flood as I was looking for a parking spot.  Rain in the French Quarter is something I LOVE.  It quiets and cleanses the streets.  It slows folks down even more.  After finding a spot close enough, we hop out of the car and immediately step in puddles over our ankles.  And the pelting rain is soaking our clothes.  We dash the block and into La Maison d’Absinthe.  Sun and I look at each other, each looking like we were fished out of the River, and laugh.  We look ridiculous.  And for what? Wine glasses.

Last time I was here, I’d spied these fleur de lis wine glasses that match the glassware we registered for when my husband and I married.  I bought the only two they then had and this was my return trip to get six more.  When the clerk gave me the total, it was too low.  I repeated the amount to her as a question.  She explained everything in the shop was TWENTY FIVE PERCENT OFF.  I swooned.

But for already having so many items from here, I’d have been in SERIOUS trouble.

Tara and Brian, this one’s for you two.

They had cool rock glasses similar to the wine glasses I was buying but with dragonflies on them.  Had they had them with the fleur de lis, they’d have been mine.

I kept scouring the store for anything that I may have overlooked in the past or that I now cannot live without.  Many items tempted me.  Mostly this one:

I don’t burn the sugar that goes into my absinthe.  I don’t always even include sugar.  But this cool match holder/striker, oh, how I coveted.  And now I am scratching my head as to WHY I passed it up.  Dammit.  Soon, it shall be mine. Maybe tomorrow? Ugh.

Once we had our glasses wrapped securely, the rain had stopped.  Of course.  We walked back to our car with the water glistening all over the Quarter.

I wish I could say our next stop, Kitchen Witch, was as equally decadent.  But, sadly, it was not.  I really, really want to love this store.  But their local collection is just so-so, and their customer service needs serious tweaking.  For example, if your website says you have a book in stock, and I cannot find it, and your clerk cannot find it, the proper clerk protocol is NOT to hand me a business card and tell me to call next week because you expect to order some soon.  And in the past, when I’ve called to check their inventory and they’ve had to call me back, THEY NEVER HAVE. Ever.  Yes, this has happened more than once.  In a world where we can find rare, out-of-print books online so readily, a brick-and-mortar store has one advantage: physical contact and thus the opportunity for top notch service.  Kitchen Witch is SO not that place.  They could be.  And I hope they want to be.  But will I be calling next week to see if the book I can order online came in? Sadly, no.  Not unless it coincides with my return visit to La Maison d’Absinthe; in that case, I MIGHT give them yet another chance.

FICTION:

1. “A Confederacy of Dunces” by John Kennedy Toole. This is the quintessential NOLA read. If you did not read, or were not assigned to read, this book in college, go buy it now. No, really, I’ll wait… Got it? Good. I picked this up just the other day to re-read (for about the third time). It just gets better each read. I am all of 10 pages in and have laughed aloud numerous times. Toole was masterful at describing New Orleans and its denizens.
2. “Lives of the Saints” by Nancy Lemann. This is a great little find. I read it years ago and still remember Lemann’s description of Claude, who broke the narrator’s heart “into a million pieces on the floor.” Lemann made me seek out several other “Voices of the South” authors. None disappointed.
3. “A Streetcar Named Desire. ” I know this is a play, but really, what list of NOLA works would be complete without Tennessee Williams’ classic? And there’s good reason this is a classic. It’s haunting and alive and lusty and depraved, just like NOLA.
4. “The Awakening” by Kate Chopin. This was written in 1899 and was scandalous. It deals with issues of race and sexuality and a woman finding herself and the tragedy that ensued. Because it was 1899. And Louisiana.
5. “Interview with a Vampire.”  Yes, Anne Rice.  But I did not read this because of Anne Rice or even because of vampires.  I read it because of Sting.  Back in the early ’90s, I was a devout fan of his, and his “Moon Over Bourbon Street” intrigued me.  Back when albums had liner notes, Sting explained that this song was inspired by Rice’s novel. I loved Rice’s descriptions of the City; I always connected more with Louis than Lestat.  And never liked the other books in this series as much as the first.
6. “The Moviegoer.”  I hadn’t read Walker Percy’s famous book by the time I was in law school.  But when my Mineral Rights professor used the story as his backdrop (oh, law school professors are an odd lot), it was a dare NOT to then read it.  And read it a did.  It is a short novel, but it was, for me, a slow read.  Not because it is boring but because it’s written as though reflecting our hot, simmering summers, where time moves more slowly.  How Percy was able to capture that tone is the genius of it.
7. “Louisiana Power and Light,” by John Dufresne.  This is set more in the swamps outside of New Orleans, but is close enough.  I enjoyed the journey Dufresne took me on here.  And I especially like how the main character finds himself in Monroe, Louisiana to begin with.
8. “The Sound of Building Coffins,” by Louis Maistros.  Ok, I am only a chapter into this one, so there’s your caveat.  But so far the writing is sharp and clear, and I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about it.  And my grandfather tells of how, as a carpenter, he’d do side jobs of building coffins.  The coffins would line his front porch and his dining room as the days passed while they were built.  So I am piqued as to what IS the sound of a coffin being built.
9. “Dinner at Antoine’s,” by Frances Parkinson Keyes.  A murder mystery set in New Orleans.  Dinner parties at Antoine’s.  Good stuff.
10. “The Grandissimes.”  George Washington Cable wrote many fine and notable works of fiction peopled with Creoles.  This is one of them.

NON-FICTION:

1. “Gumbo Ya-Ya: A Collection of Louisiana Folk Tales.” This is a must-have reference for anyone serious about Louisiana culture–it explains Creoles and Cajun; it discusses an unsolved NOLA serial killer; it talks about the history of Rex and Zulu. Plus, it’s got cool hexes and charms you can use to cure what ails ya!
2. “Frenchmen, Desire, Good Children: And Other Streets of New Orleans.” Another oldie but goodie. This one gives the history behind the (often-changing) NOLA street names. Like Canal Street was supposed to be an actual canal. Or Berlin Street was changed to General Pershing during World War I because it was “too German.”
3. “The Lost German Slave Girl: The Extraordinary True Story of the Slave Sally Miller and Her Fight for Freedom in Old New Orleans,” by John Bailey This is truly an amazing read. From the historical aspect of the history of slavery in the South to the immigration of Germans to New Orleans. A true courtroom drama that would not be believed as fiction.
4. “Gawd, I love New Orleans,” by Frank Schneider. Gawd, I love this book.  This is Schneider’s recollections of his life in New Orleans.  They are thoughtful, funny, and feel oh, so familiar.
5. “The Joy of Yat Catholicism,” by Earl J. Higgins.  This one explains it all. So many out of the City do not get that Catholicism in New Orleans is more cultural than religious.  From St. Joseph’s altars to Jews eating seafood on Friday’s during Lent, this joy of a book puts it all in perspective.
6. “Gumbo Tales,” by Sara Roahen.  Roahen is a foodie.  And one of those folks that isn’t born and raised a New Orleanian but is hardwired as one nonetheless.  She seeks out every possible foodie excursion New Orleans has to offer, and that’s a lot, and describes her experiences.  This is a love letter to New Orleans.
7. “Letters from New Orleans,” by Rob Walker.  This is another non-native writing about this weird, wonderful city he stumbled upon and fell in love with.  His love was the music and people.  Much of this was written before Katrina and is all the more precious as it was published just after.
8. “House of Dance and Feathers.”  Ronald Lewis is the curator of the museum behind his house, The House of Dance and Feathers.  This is a book about the journey Lewis took to open the museum and then to rebuild it after Katrina.  The pictures alone are worth the price of this book.
9. “Rising Tide.”  John Barry’s novel about the intentional blowing up of the levees flooding the Lower Ninth Ward and St. Bernard in 1927 is chilling in its similarities to Katrina.  I read this before Katrina.  It is a fascinating read.  Even if Katrina had never happened.
10. “Inventing New Orleans.” A collection of Lafcadio Hearn’s writings while in New Orleans.  All I will add is “the more things change, the more things stay the same.”

Now, a little lagniappe.  My top ten favorite NOLA cookbooks:

1. “The New Orleans Cookbook,” by Rima and Richard Collin.  To many, including me, the go-to NOLA cookbook. My bible.
2. “Cooking Up a Storm.”  The Times Picayune’s collection of recipes lost and most requested post-Katrina.  This is already well worn.
3. “Famous New Orleans Drinks & How to Make ‘Em,” by Stanley Clisby Arthur.  Traditional and time-withstood.
4. Junior League of New Orleans’ “Jambalaya.”  Their recipe was the one I used to make my first gumbo. It was a success.
5. “Who’s Your Mama, Are You Catholic, and Can You Make a Roux?” Marcelle Bienvenu’s delightfully-titled cookbook is not for the meek.  But it is spot-on for the tough dishes.  For example, this is the only recipe you’ll ever need for Crawfish Bisque.
6. “From Woodstoves to Microwaves, Cooking with Entergy.”  These recipes were once given away on cards on the buses and streetcars.  They are all classic, and easy to prepare, NOLA eats.
7. “Crescent City Farmers Market Cookbook.”  For the cook who wants to use all those tasty yet strange-named veggies from the Farmers Market.
8. Susan Spicer’s “Crescent City Cooking.”  The only “famous chef” book on the list.  Because her recipes are not too intimidating for the home cook (meaning, me).
9. “La Cuisine Creole.”  The collection of recipes compiled by Lafcadio Hearn.  I have a thing for him. Deal with it.
10. “Picayune Creole Cookbook.”  I have a very old one from my grandmother.  It is still in print today.  Rock solid creole recipes and some background to explain how this style of cooking became so popular in New Orleans.

Now give us your lists!  Write a post on your blog and link it here for us to come visit you.  If no blog, leave your lists in the comment.

It took Mr. Lewis about ten minutes to walk the 50 yards, what with his ruined knees. I inquired after his knees, having known of the trouble they give him. “Acupuncture,” he said, “I don’t want surgery—folks tell me often they hurt just as bad after surgery, so that’s not for me. I’m gonna try Alternative Medicine.”  Mr. Lewis shuffled to his chair, slowly bent down to sit, got situated, then took up reign as the Curator of the House of Dance and Feathers.

He asked where we were from.  I explained that my husband and I were from New Orleans, and that Tara was in from Florida.  He seemed more pleased with locals coming, white locals especially.  He asked how we’d learned of the museum.  I explained I’d known of it from visiting the Backstreet Cultural Museum (“Oh, Sylvester’s place,” he’d responded, “he’s a good friend of mine.”) and that I had read Dan Baum’s “Nine Lives” and so knew that end of things as well.  Then I couldn’t hold back.  I told him it was an honor to meet him; that I commended his sense of commitment to his neighborhood and the culture it generated; that I applauded his perseverance to preserve that culture and make it available to a larger audience.  He politely thanked me, as if I’d complimented his choice in a hat.  I STILL do not think Mr. Lewis thinks of himself as a catalyst; as a hero; as an icon.  And that modesty makes him all the more the hero and all the more likable.

He began by telling us he’d worked over 30 years with NOPSI maintaining the St. Charles Avenue streetcar tracks—that’s what ruined his knees. That for decades, he’d been actively involved with the Mardi Gras Indians and the various Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs—his club is the Big 9.

The museum, he’d explained, was a way to preserve the culture and beauty that is associated with those organizations.  “And that’s my love story, ” Mr. Lewis stated, “I don’t have much more to say than that.”  He welcomed us to take pictures, and I asked if I could take one of him.  He obliged me.

Then he started fresh on a new topic.  His being asked to be the 2008 King of Krewe du Vieux, and his wife, Minnie, the Queen.  “When I was young,” he’d said, “I thought all white people were rich.  Mardi Gras to me was going down and catching as many beads as I could to then sell them for lunch money. I’d watch the floats stop in front of the Bienville Club on Canal Street—all the white people on the floats dressed so fine.”

“Then in 2oo8 Krewe du Vieux asked me to be King. I was King of the French Quarter. ME,” he stated, still humbled by the honor these 2+ years later.  The krewe even put his likeness on their cups that year.  He reached for a cellophane bag that contained maybe 20 of the golden cups left.  He snaked one out and gave it to me, telling me he didn’t give those to everyone.  It was my turn to be humbled.

Then he settled down as though he had no more to say.  He looked around his museum and started anew.  He discussed that he is a member of the Krewe du Jieux—”a member,” he repeated for emphasis.  The museum had hosted several Seder meals over the years for Lewis’ Jewish friends.  He talked about American Indians, and how their story intertwines with the Mardi Gras Indians; about how he met a Choctaw Indian in a shelter post-Katrina and a member of the Houma Nation at Jazz Fest, and how they each discussed how much they had in common.

Drum donated by a member of the Houma Nation

And like so many Lewis meets that have an impact on his culture, that Houma Nation Indian began giving items to the museum to expand its cultural horizons.  The latest item he’s donated is this skull cane:

He talked about the Acadian people cast out of Canada that settled in Louisiana.  He’s got donated items from Acadians that likewise fit with the theme of the museum: pamphlets on Acadian home remedies to ailments.  He talked about his continued relationship with Dan Baum; the section of the museum dedicated to Hurricane Katrina; his lack of interest in being in Spike Lee’s Katrina documentary (“Friends tell me I should be in it.  I tell them Mr. Lee is getting paid to do that for HBO.  He isn’t doing it for me.  He didn’t help me rebuild.  He would just want my story.”) Interspersed in each of these topics, he returned to his real love: the bead- and feather-work of the Mardi Gras Indians.

Mr. Lewis is humble, but he is human.  And it is this final piece, an intricately beaded Indian Chief head, that brings out Mr. Lewis’ pride.  The pitch of his voice changes ever so slightly; the light in his eyes brightens just a tad.  He simply cannot resist drawing your attention to the piece and then explaining it:  It was a patch beaded by Mr. Lewis for an outfit his son wore one year for Mardi Gras.

On the one hand, it represents six months of work done for love of the craft and love of one’s child.  But to Mr. Lewis, and to folks like me that appreciate this craft, it represents so much more.

This beadwork is also the artwork used on the cover of Mr. Lewis’ book, “The House of Dance & Feathers: A Museum by Ronald W. Lewis.”  You can buy it from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.  But, as Mr. Lewis aptly points out, if you by it from the museum, he signs your book for free, as he did mine:

As we were leaving, I asked Mr. Lewis to indulge me one last thing: to allow me to kiss his cheek.  Of course, he obliged.

Thank you, Mr. Lewis, for showing us your museum, for opening your heart to me, for opening the minds of blacks and whites to see that there is no racial divide in loving art.  And thank you, Tara, for indulging me on taking you on this tour with me.  It is something I will never, ever forget.

Monday, September 12, 2005, Little Rock, Arkansas.

As I drove to the airport to pick up CS, I was barely able to keep the tears back.  I should have been ecstatic to be seeing him after a two week break, but, I realized, a lot of my emotions had been at bay with CS not around.  Now that the one person to whom my emotions could not be concealed was returning, my emotional dam was breaking. I think he assumed my stand-offish welcome indicated that I wasn’t as happy as him to be together again.  In truth, my heart was breaking anew and if I spoke of it in detail, the tears would come.

We returned to the hotel in relative silence.  I retreated into a hot bath; CS joined me.  I lay my back on CS’s chest; he snaked his arms and legs around me and buffered me from the outside world.  And in that steamy, watery cocoon, with the overhead heater whirring us into further isolation, the angst released from me.  I wept and grieved. I wailed and convulsed.  I dissolved into the bath water and became the whirring of the heater.

*     *     *     *

One hundred and fifty years ago, ancestors on both sides of my family traveled from Europe to America with little more than the clothes on their backs and hope in their hearts.  They traveled rough seas in steerage compartments of overflowing vessels.  They landed in New Orleans and put down roots.

I never knew WHY my ancestors chose New Orleans over, say, New York or Galveston.  But I do know they never looked back.  This became their new home.  They got jobs, bought real estate, paid taxes, married, lived, and died.

Five years ago, I returned to New Orleans alone.  My husband was working long hours in Little Rock and I felt I could be of better use back home.  There was no discussion of NOT returning: our home did not flood; our jobs remained in place; our mortgage was still due.

That Thanksgiving, we traveled to Taos, NM.  We were still bruised from Katrina but brave enough to venture out.  A clerk in a store inquired where we were from.  “New Orleans?” he snarled with a sneer, “I don’t know why they are bothering to rebuild. It’s not worth my tax dollars.”

I was stunned.  Or rather, stung. I quietly placed the necklace I was about to purchase down and walked out of the store.  Other customers apologized for the clerk and hugged us.

Now, when I get that question, “Why did you return?” I find it in poor taste.  It’s akin to “Why do you (not) believe in God?”  Sure, it may be a question you are curious about, but it’s certainly a tad rude.  The question itself condemns–suggesting that the thing done is unreasonable, miscalculated, and, downright wrong.  I no longer struggle to defend my decision; my city.  I no longer rally to win over people to love New Orleans, see her even, as I do.

How many years can a mountain exist before it’s washed to the sea?  ~ Bob Dylan (1963)

Wherever one lives, there are issues of weather.  Tornadoes, earthquakes, floods, volcanoes.  And hurricanes.  I’ve lived my entire life with hurricanes.  I even admit to liking them.  There’s something spectacular about Nature making the crazy world we live in STOP and take heed.  The water; the whirring of the wind.

We humans like to pretend Earth is something we possess.  I mean, we buy and own real estate as though that entitles us to possess that very earth forever.  But it is just pretend.  The Earth, New Orleans, doesn’t have the same footprint it had one hundred and fifty years ago.  In Louisiana law schools, they teach about alluvion land — how levees naturally enlarge and reduce; how borders and edges get claimed by the wetlands or are expanded by deposit of lands brought in from the rivers.

We Louisianians have always appreciated the ephemeral quality of the land and the water.  Maybe it’s the high humidity we have.  Maybe our lungs, upon close inspection, are more similar to gills. We are hardwired differently.  And you don’t have to be born and raised here to have this hard-wiring.  Countless people I know came to New Orleans as though she called to them in their sleep.

Why come back?  Why risk a life lived in a city doomed to be reclaimed by the sea?

In November of 2005, CS and I discussed leaving New Orleans.  Although where else in this country we’d live, we had no idea.  We’ve traveled to many U.S. cities. None are home.  But we resolidified ourselves to this city.  We choose to walk in her steamy wet summer days, risk seasons of hurricanes, endure mosquitoes biting on ankles, and houses built on shifting sands.

Why?  Because we can.  Because we know that one day every city will be washed to the sea.  And that our city’s time of offering us her gems is limited.  There would be no peace in wasting that limited time away from her and her gifts.

In those early dark, dank days, Tide recognized what I realized that night in the tub: Cleaning cleanses. Tide Detergent pulled into New Orleans when others feared to come near. They drove their Loads of Hope van housing 32 energy-efficient washers and dryers capable of completing 300 loads of laundry a day, and began the task that says Monday in New Orleans as loud as Red Beans and Rice: washing laundry. For free. For those who had no electricity or facilities to clean for themselves. And in that act of community, healing began.

Since Katrina, Tide has not been short on disasters, natural or man-made, to keep its Loads of Hope crews busy.  Hurricanes; wildfires; floods.  The disaster may be what’s marked in the books as historical, but it’s the survival of the people, the dusting one’s self off–cleaning and cleansing–and moving forward that is truly remarkable.  Hope remains in the Gulf coast.  As does Faith.  Faith Hill.  In recognition of the Fifth Anniversary of Katrina, Faith Hill has partnered with Tide Loads of Hope to give a free concert for the city tomorrow, August 24, at the Mahalia Jackson Theater for the Performing Arts. The Dirty Dozen Brass Band is the opening act.  Because even years later, we still need cleansing and healing.

This post was commissioned by Story Bleed as part of their *Hope Remains* carnival, sponsored by Tide Loads of Hope.

New Orleanians are notoriously late showing up, if they show up at all, because by and large they don’t keep calendars.  Calendars are tools for managing the future, and in New Orleans the future does not exist. . . .

As for money, New Orleanians like it well enough, but not so they’d bend their lives out of shape to get some.  They have more time than money, and that’s how they like it.  Ambition isn’t a virtue in the lowlands between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River. . . . To the extent American’s strive to make their tomorrows brighter than today, New Orleanians really want nothing more than for everything to stay the same.

~ Nine Lives: Death and Life in New Orleans, Dan Baum

In a new ranking by Businessweek.com based on data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), Louisiana claims the top spot as the country’s laziest state. To be clear, by “lazy” we do not mean lacking work ethic or engagement. Rather, it is a measure of leisure time spent doing sedentary activities compared with activities that require more physical effort, such as exercising and even working.

~ Businessweek.com

When I read Dan Baum’s introduction to Nine Lives, a portion of which is quoted above, I was both offended and complimented.  We don’t keep calendars?  News to me.  Everyone I know has one (or more) and uses it.  But I think he’s right that we don’t chase the dollar the way others in America do and that we cherish our time more than other Americans.

Then I read the BusinessWeek article and had the same reaction:  We are honest, hard workers but enjoy our relaxation.

But seems I am in the minority.  Most NOLA folks (at least on twitter) take great offense to the BusinessWeek piece.  While at the same time, they applaud Baum’s description.  I still take issue with both.

Here’s why.

We here in Louisiana, not just New Orleans, ARE hard workers.  I myself have worked into the wee hours of the morning, and countless weekends, as a student and as a lawyer.  I missed Jazz Fest for the first 30-some odd years of my life because it fell during exams and I was devoted to studying.

In the work force, I have NEVER had issues with NOLA folks not, well, working.  At least not any more so than folks in other states (with the exception of the week during last year’s Super Bowl).  We take our work very personally.  We may not WANT to move up the corporate ladder, say, from administrative assistant to president of the company, but don’t let that suggest that we don’t take great pride in our work.

The BusinessWeek article admits it does not mean our work ethic is poor.  So this bit of defensiveness about our work is against Baum’s perception of us.  “Notoriously late, if they show up at all.”  WHAT?  My best friend in high school had perfect attendance for her entire academic career–and that means neither absent nor late ONCE in 12 years of schooling.  And that’s not atypical.  Many of us, me included, had years of perfect attendance.  I don’t know where Baum’s characters worked, but every job I’ve had, many of them hourly paying, would routinely fire people for incessant tardiness or absenteeism.

Now, let’s shift to the bigger issue of RELAXATION.  BusinessWeek ranks us at the bottom of the “Active” category.  I have to question this.  Really, what I question are the questions they asked in the study.  For example, did they ask:  How many miles do you walk per week? OR How many parades do you march in each year?

See, we here in Louisiana, we relax in ways that are simply foreign to our brethren in the rest of this great country.  Mardi Gras is the best example.  You in, say, Nebraska assume Mardi Gras is a day, or maybe a week long.  But in fact, its preparation takes all year.  Some parades require their riders to build their own floats.  So, each weekend for many months, the riders go down to a warehouse where the bones of the float are and literally BUILD the float.  They design, cut wood, mix plaster of Paris, sculpt, shape, paint, and otherwise make their float.  Were those folks asked about these long, numerous weekends?  Are the non-riders asked about the time they spend building, painting their child’s ladders?  Or the countless creations we’ve made to have the ice chest on wheels while at the same time being able to be stood upon when the parade rolls by?

But it goes beyond Mardi Gras.  Let’s take the next most epitomized Louisiana past-time, the seafood boil.  Those silly reporters.  They check this off as Four Hours of Sitting, Eating and Drinking.  But do they take into consideration the HOURS, nay, DAYS of preparation that goes into a boil?  We are proud to traipse all over the State to track down one key ingredient.  Or travel to EVERY grocery story and go up and down (on foot, mind you) every aisle for the precise seasonings.  We gather the borrowed boiling pots and burners; we cut countless veggies; we lug copious levels of ice to ice chests to cool beers.  Were THESE activities asked of in this study?

Louisianians treat food as a contact sport.  We celebrate it and worship it; we use it to worship; we use it through worship.  And consequently we spend a lot of time in the kitchen, whether indoors or out, preparing food in celebration.  Celebration of a hard week in the office; celebration of Bonnie not becoming a hurricane and worsening the oil spill disaster; celebration of the baptism of a baby.  And each of these requires countless hours of standing, walking, moving.

So just because we don’t walk on treadmills to nowhere does NOT make us lazy; it makes us Louisianians.  Maybe BusinessWeek needs to, em, work a little harder on its questionnaire.

*Sigh*

Maybe it is still too soon for me to return to Katrina memories—those feelings of utter hopelessness and gut-wrenching devastation.  The knowledge of the fallibility of every level of our American government.  The early days, before the people of New Orleans returned home and began to put the pieces back together.

Nine Lives came highly recommended to me by several sources.  And I devour New Orleans’ books, so even though the topic was Katrina-related, I decided to jump in.  Two of the nine lives touched me immensely and were enough to make reading the book worthwhile.  Those two were Ronald Lewis and Wilbert Rawlins, Jr.  These two men each deserve entire books written about them.  My comments below about Nine Lives do NOT reflect my feelings of these two mostly unsung heroes.

Nine Lives and, to a smaller extent, Treme, have had me, for the first time in my life, questioning my love and devotion to New Orleans.  I’ve always loved and defended my City.  But the portrayals by Nine Lives and Treme suggest New Orleanians are lazy, racist, and expectant of our government to bail us out of our troubles.

Treme does a better job of explaining that New Orleanians are not lazy; rather, we don’t chase the Almighty Dollar the way others in this country do.  We aren’t as focused about minivans, climbing the corporate ladder, or keeping up appearances as much as we are focused about our strong ties to family, meals (as a celebration, not sustenance), and tradition (and often, these three are bound together).  Treme also attempts to portray the soul that is New Orleans and that is in each of her residents.

With Nine Lives, not one of the nine was relatable to my life or so many middle class whites, which, in turn, suggests there is NO middle class in NOLA—just uber rich whites and poor blacks.  And that just is not true, at least that is not MY New Orleans.  I grew up in New Orleans East.  There were whites, blacks, Asians, Spanish, you name it.  They were my classmates, my co-workers, my friends.  We played and spent nights at each others’ homes, we celebrated birthdays together, and never once thought about race.  It bothers me that such complete integration was ignored by Baum.  But he’s not from NOLA, so I suppose it’s acceptable that he missed that entire cross-section.

My life is not really represented in Treme either.  But at least the folks in Treme clearly represent people I know, things I myself have done.  They portray real NOLA characters.

But does either really reflect the *real* New Orleans?  And is that a reflection that is even possible?  Is there only ONE New Orleans?

All the political scandals and back-room deals; all the promotions because of the proper uptown name and/or membership in the exclusive carnival clubs; all the crimes the police and/or the news have overlooked because of overly-friendly biased relationships—it’s all a part of the City’s history.  But no part of my personal history.  It makes me angry that in having defended my City, I have defended these transgressors.  Yet the transgressions continue.  And I am still defending my City.  And now I am wondering if I am being too naive.  That maybe New Orleans, though most unique, isn’t worth the trouble.

As I wrote that last sentence, what always gets me about New Orleans got me again: its people.  The Ronald Lewises and Wil Rawlinses that we have.  And a list of other people that live here that just wouldn’t fit as comfortably in another city, like myself.  The way a jazz funeral would be a strange occurrence anywhere else.

So, no, I WON’T bow down, come to think of it.  I see fine cracks that I maybe never saw before.  Ugly cracks, actually, that I’d rather just ignore.  But I won’t turn my back on New Orleans now.  Nor will I remain passive in the transgressions I learn of being committed.  Because we deserve better than that for which we have settled for way too long.  And, at least for me, it’s just not okay for our broken systems to openly remain so.

In the end, I had to blend colors, change columns, lengthen windows, add shutters to the door, change the top entirely, and add boards to walls–all things the class was not doing for their orange house.  So I was kinda going off another painting in the room.  About midway, I came close to tossing in the towel as it was looking awful.  But I stuck to it.  And got this:

I have to admit I am kinda in love with it.  It is not true to the house, however, in that it’s missing a transom and does NOT have its address written on the glass of the door.  But look at my way cool “New Orleans-green” shutters!!

Yesterday, James Carville wrote an opinion in the Times Picayune.  And there has been much discussion of so many of the English pensioners whose retirements are now tanking because of BP and how callous we here in the Gulf are to those Brits.  And there’s all sorts of discussions about the six month moratorium to deep well drilling. I am also in the middle of reading Nine Lives: Mystery, Magic, Death and Life in New Orleans.

And today, five years post-Katrina, after a lifetime of having the worst schools, streets, government, [insert anything of governmental value here], I feel something I have never felt before.  I am disappointed in my fellow Louisianians.  Yes, things are that bad.

So let’s go item by item.

1. Carville goes through a lot of effort to explain how Louisianians are NOT whiners; we are hard workers.  But that is hard to reconcile when every soundbite we get out of every citizen and local politician is bitching and moaning.  Pointing fingers.  I GET the frustration that is felt because BP is lying and the federal government is tied up in red tape.  But how is this NEW?  Did we in Louisiana learn NOTHING from Katrina but how sticky that federal red tape is? Do we really, REALLY, expect snap decisions, flowing money and quick action from our federal government?  Are we still that naive and hopeful?

What I want to see from my local politicians, instead of pissing about how inept the feds are, IS ACTION.  You want berms? Go dredge them.  The feds own the land and won’t allow it? Let them stop you.  You want the finances assured from BP? Send them a bill.  Because if BP won’t commit to paying it and in the end does not pay it, who in Louisiana would not pay a $1 tax to pay for the berms?  STOP ASKING PERMISSION AND TAKE ACTION.  And our citizens?  Join forces to support our local government to take that action.  Not seeing enough cleanup by BP? GO CLEANUP YOURSELF.  Get teams of our citizens out there doing it BECAUSE IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO.  But, NOOOO. Our folks say, “BP wants to clean it up and do it wrong? Eff em. Let them do it.” WHAT? We’d rather sit back and say I-told-you-so than take action to keep that oil off our wetlands and marshes.  We’d rather be run around by the feds, playing by their rules, than bring it to a halt with action.

Victims? Maybe not.  But majorly laid back. To a fault. Coincidentally, this was a theme of last night’s Treme (one character even mentions our “defective work ethic.”).

2. British Pensioners.  Everyone I talk to says EFF THOSE BRITS. Live by BP, die with BP.  Nice empathy, folks.  These seniors are in plans; they selected a fund.  That fund selects particular stocks, and in many cases selected BP.  The individuals did not themselves select BP as an investment vehicle.  For all I know, MY 401(k) has BP stock and I too may be having a reduced portfolio value as a result of the spill.  I am not saying these folks deserve to be ranked higher on the victim list than, say, the pelicans or our fishermen.  But have we gotten so detached from things, gotten so selfish, that we cannot see these pensioners, these elderly folks, as yet another innocent victim of BP?  Can we not see that they will suffer, ARE SUFFERING, by the loss of value in their retirement accounts?  When seniors take hits in their retirement accounts, they are SCREWED far worse than the likes of me now.  If I have BP in my 401(k), I have at least another decade to let that stock rebound.  Or for other stocks to make up the loss.  But with seniors, many are already receiving distributions out of those plans now.  They cannot sit on it for ten years til things rebound. They are dealing with a real loss.  And it is shameful that Americans are being harsh to them.

3. The moratorium. I’ve already written about my thoughts on this topic, but arguments to lift it are gaining momentum.  What Louisianians are saying, what I have heard local politicians explain to the media, is that Louisiana’s economy has for so very long been tied to seafood and oil (some fishermen are even offshore oil workers) that without those 33 wells being released to drill NOW, our economy will tank.  And although we realize the moratorium is to address safety, we are so desperate that in order to feed our families, we need to drill those potentially unsafe wells.  Because, the argument continues, if we stop, Big Oil will move its rigs out of Louisiana and <GASP> we will then certainly be doomed.

First of all, why is BP NOT responsible for this moratorium? Can’t the oilmen file a claim with BP for lost wages?  BP takes the position that the moratorium is NOT their doing, that such claims are “indirect” and they will not honor them.  Yeah, well, that isn’t good enough, BP.  You broke it, you bought it.  We’ll see you in court.  What, you can’t wait years to see justice done so as to feed your family today? Then, for five months, maybe you need to consider filing for unemployment benefits.  This argument for drilling is insane.  America is addicted to oil. We ADMIT that.  We MUST shift to other power sources.  We KNOW that.  Louisiana oilmen, you are NOT entitled to a job, even if it’s the only one you know.  We simply CANNOT stay on Big Oil’s teat so that you can stay unchanged in your career.  Maybe you could take this as a wake-up call to brush up your resume.  Just as we had to adjust to the death of other industries in the course of economic evolution.  This is akin to us having the ability to shut down crack cocaine but keeping it in circulation because the drug dealers (Big Oil) and rehab centers would suffer economic loss if we did so.  It’s time we face the music.  Step One: Admit you have a problem.

Second, we are, AGAIN, talking about THIRTY-THREE WELLS.  Yes, I get that this will impact support service companies too.  It’s a lot of jobs.  I. GET. IT.  But it’s SIX MONTHS, of which ONE has already passed.  And finally, someone please explain to me how Big Oil taking its rigs to other countries for those remaining five months will be the death knoll of oil drilling in Louisiana.  Won’t that untapped Louisiana oil these companies left be, yanno, SITTING THERE WAITING to be tapped anew in five months?

My problem is the perception we are giving the rest of the country.  Here we are, a community of hard workers (per Carville) sitting idle for six months with no idea how to get food on our tables.  We are sitting around waiting for BP to clean-up and waiting for the feds to knock BP’s skulls to get the spill capped and the waters cleaned.  We want BP to pay us to make us whole.  While at the same time we judge those British pensioners as cocky for having the audacity to complain about their financial loss being tied to BP.

And the cherry on this shit sundae is the tone of Nine Lives.  I haven’t finished this novel yet.  And I have been told by so many people that I simply HAD to read it.  I am not sure WHY yet.  About one-third into it and I wonder why the hell I live here.  It depicts the blacks as all living in the Ninth Ward and the whites as uber-rich and untouchable.   It seems to suggest we revel in being lazy, of having no ambition, of valuing our Carnival-related genealogy and private clubs more than our own self-preservation.  This is NOT my New Orleans; it never was.

And now I feel we’ve allowed ourselves to become victims of our own creation.  Prepare little for the future.  After all, didn’t Katrina teach us we could lose everything in the course of a storm?  We have such LOW expectations now.  Even of ourselves.  We may not be whiners, but we sure are coming off as NEEDING NEEDING NEEDING.

It’s time we brushed ourselves off, stopped listening to every NO we’ve been getting from BP and the feds.  It’s time we wrestled control of our lives out of the hands of folks that don’t care about us and put it back into our own hands.

WE can do it.  Louisiana WILL survive.  We ARE hard workers.  And maybe a bit too trusting.  But it never fails that when ALL ELSE FAILS for Louisianians, we pull through for ourselves.  And it’s time we start thinking as survivors.  And stop coming off as victims.

When I was given the medical diagnosis that getting pregnant and maintaining a pregnancy was not likely, I was in immediate denial. This was the Twenty-First Century, for goodness sake: laser beams and wireless EVERYTHING. Surely medicine had advanced enough to pinpoint my problem, to fix it already.

The BP oilspill has my mind thinking the same way. SURELY there’s technology, computers, robots, laser beams, good ole smarts to FIX THIS LEAK ALREADY. And as the days have moved to weeks with the prognosis now AT BEST being fixed in August, that slow agony of acceptance seeps into our conscience.

The latest from BP is an admittance that there is damage to the oil well BELOW the sea floor. Lord knows how long they have known of this. Because we are confident they are not telling us anywhere near the truth of the situation. But I digress.

Damage below the sea floor. Even I have trouble thinking of some sci fi solution to going UNDERGROUND a mile UNDERWATER to fix a broken oil well.

And the ramifications of that! As if we simple non-science minds could truly contemplate the ramifications! But the general ramifications is that such damage may result in NO SEALING of the leak. That the gushing will continue. Continue until that reservoir of oil is depleted. Which could, by accounts, take decades.

Decades of spewing oil in the Gulf of Mexico. Rendering all life in the Gulf doomed. All wetlands obliterated. All beaches sullied and soiled. All Louisiana seafood just a memory–along with its industries, festivals and boils. Gah.

In the end, my diagnosis was wrong. I was given that advice by an arrogant doctor who didn’t know how to read the results of the tests he’d ordered for me. When I finally got to a REAL fertility doctor, I was pregnant within five months. My current hope is that BP is my old doc: arrogant and stupid, by also wrong. It’s time to get a new team overseeing this spill to give it to us straight.

Because sterilization of the Gulf? It will NEVER be an option.

I’d go hungry, I’d go black and blue
I’d go crawling down the avenue
There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do
To make you feel my love

~Bob Dylan, “Make You Feel My Love”

Tonight, a group of us from the local Twitter scene met up.  It was lovely.  Fellow tweeters are non-judgmental when you peek at your phone at the table.  They are ok when you ask, “So, tell me again, how is it we are going to be all right?”

They tell me everything is gonna be all right
But I don’t know what “all right” even means

~Bob Dylan, “Trying to Get to Heaven”

After the tweetup, I hopped in my car, turned on Bob Dylan’s “Time Out of Mind” album and got lost in the lyrics.  The slow music, the gritty vocals, it echoed my mood of these past many weeks.  Things are moving swiftly around me, and all I can do is slowly turn my head to attempt to capture it all: the BP oil spill; Sun’s third birthday; my return to working full-time.  It’s all swooshes.

I’m walking through the summer nights
Jukebox playing low
Yesterday everything was going too fast
Today, it’s moving too slow

~Bob Dylan, “Standing in the Doorway”

When I drink, I can relax my eyes in a way I otherwise cannot.  My eyes, and the muscles surrounding them, simply and completely can let go.  My eyelids droop, my pupils enlarge, my vision blurs.  Lights get soft and hazy; sharp edges soften.  My being becomes one with the music.  I feel my heartbeat slowing down, giving more with each beat to be of significance, giving itself up to beat to the rhythm of the melody.

I know it looks like I’m moving, but I’m standing still
Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb
I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don’t even hear a murmur of a prayer
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

~Bob Dylan, “Not Dark Yet”

The BP oil spill is forcing us to reconcile life with a Gulf Coast that will be dead for some years. It is a pill that will not go down easily, or dryly. But carry on we shall. Persevere we must. And all the while, we shall fight to protect what is ours—what is sacred to the Gulf—to preserve what customs we can, to salvage that which is salvageable.

Even if it means that sometimes our eyes need to lose focus so that our lives do not.