BACK HOME IN NEW ORLEANS

October 11, 2005

This last weekend we went to New Orleans. For the first time in six weeks. It was like a dream. Helicopters everywhere. Police from all fifty states. We had entered into the war zone. This last weekend, a sixty year old black man was beaten by four white cops on Bourbon Street. The man was a retired school teacher. The smell of rotting meat from refrigerators put out by the side of the road permeated the air.

I was so happy to be home.
I felt free.
I did not feel like I was in a prison.


The shop windows were closed on Royal Street. We walked passed a shoe store owned by Wally, my old boss. He is the costume designer at Rick’s Caberet. The window was busted. New shoes, high heels mostly- pink, green, black- lay on the floor or in their boxes. Shiney, leathery. Plastic clothes hangers on the floor along with moldy carpet, old tissues. A flood. A looting. A craziness preserved for a whole month. The military paces the town, like little boys playing with plastic guns, living out childhood fantasies. Nobody has touched the shoes in the open shop window since the day the looting took place, I would imagine. Wally’s boyfriend use to complain because Wally was never at home. He worked 16 hours a day, building his French Quarter empire- six stores, two restaurants, costume design at Rick’s, doing hair for famous people all over town. Where is he now? I don’t know.

There are so many, so many images in my mind, so many images of the last three days. We went home. It was different yet it was the same. I write them randomly here because they make no sense. They have no order.

We rode down Banks Street. I didn’t know where we were. I didn’t recognize it. The city was underwater, under a cloud of contamination. Cars had thick layers of scum to the top of the windows. An old guy stood in rubber boots on his front porch. A pile of junk was between him and the gritty street- all one color, a moldy dark grey. Chairs, books, tables, lamp shades. He stood shirtless talking to two other guys.

‘The worst one was the flood of 1917. That was before my time,” said the guy standing next to the cab.

“Are you sure that was before your time, Ron?” The old guy with the rubber boots asked. Chuckle, chuckle. Grin, grin.

How do I know that this town will survive? Because its a town of wise asses. This is a town of survivors. As long as we can make a joke out of it, we are going to be okay.

On Saturday night, we lay in our bed in our apartment, which is messy from frantic packing over one month ago. Other than that, and tree limbs in the patio, maggots in the refrigerator, no hot water- everything is okay at our place. We lay looking at the ceiling, hearing helicopters in the skies above the city. Our mouths hang open like baby birds waiting to be fed. We find it hard to believe that we are here, in this apartment, in this bed, under these sheets. Listening to the fountain in the pond outside, when the quiet of a deserted city settles in between the beatings of the chopper wings.

My God, it is good to be home.

GIRL GATHERING

October 4, 2005

Something wonderful and touching happened last night, while Jeremy was gone to LaPlace to drop off T. and D. Last night I had a healthy chat session with the women members of our host family. It brought back memories of many similar nights in New Orleans, or even more so- memories of a time long ago with my own family in Southern California, those evenings when all the aunts, my grandmother and my mom (with a much younger me listening in) would sit around the kitchen table at my Grandmother's house talking about the opposite sex, giving unheeded advice, comparing accessories, doing nails, gossiping about the state of the world of women.

This time around, I was home with the family, no Jeremy to be a buffer between myself and the outside world. After a dinner of fried chicken,tater tots and cole slaw (very southern, very tasty and very very bad for my health), all the "girls" gathered at Ms. M's mom's house, which just so happens to be across a neatly-manicured lawn on the other side of the property. Our host family lives on an old-fashioned homestead. They use to be dairy farmers, but as the dairy business in Acadiana died off and farmers retired, the pasture lands were leased to agribusinessmen for sugarcane production. There are five homes (three houses and two mobiles) on the property, which butts up agains 47 acres of green- a sea of swaying sugarcane waiting to be harvested.

It was a beautiful night as Ms. M, her daughter of 13 and me walked over to "Nanny's" house. An unidentified planet shone bright and low in the sky, the grass was warm and dry and, miracle of all miracledidn't didn't receive a smosquitogquito bite on the two minute walk to the house. When we got there, she made coffee and everyone dived into the topic of the day- the Hurricanes and the situation of the million plus evacuees. I have become increasingly surprised at Mrs. M's liberal point of view, especially coming from a country woman in a part of America that is known for it's conservativism. Mrs. M cusses out the President more than I do.

"Damn that Bush," she said, viewing another article outlining the President's recent visit to the region. "I'm surprised to see him taking time from his vacation to view what the hell is going on down here."

Then she went on to read out loud a lengthy article about the housing shortage in the area (which is extensive to say the least), what FEMA is going to do about it (more rental checks for apartments that don't exist, more promises of trailers and trailer evacuees house evacuess- oh joy- more bs about how the Red Cross is the champion of the day). We sat listening and shaking our heads- Grandma, the daughter and I- until there was a rattle at the door. It was Mrs. M's sister-in-law, R.. She came in carrying a shimmering, sequenced dress in one arm and a load of shirts and ties in another. R. has a habit of beginning a conversation in the middle of it, as if it is assumed one has already heard the first part of whatever she is talking about, even if the discussion up to that point point had all been in her head.

"I don't know. Do ya'all all hear me? I give up. I just can't decide." With that she threw the load of clothes on top of the newspaper that was sprawled over the dining room table. I quickly moved my coffee to avoid a spill.

She continued, "I told that son of mine that I would pick up his date's prom dress for him- and I did. Then I said that I would get the shirt and the tie, which I did. How was I to know that there was going to be a two for one sale? Now I have a brown shirt and a grey shirt, and three ties to choose from and his homecoming dance is this Friday. Why the hell does he always wait until the last minute? And with me ready to pop and all. Did you know that the night of this here dance is the night before my due date? And he asked me if I would drive them. Now what if I go into labor in the parking lot of Ceaumo High School? That would just be somethin.' I give up, do you hear me? I give up."

R. also has a habit of repeating key phrases over and over when she speaks. I think that she knows that her voice is louder than the engine on a tractor-mower and she takes great pride in using it, even if it is in redundance.

"Well, lets take a look at 'em then," Mrs. M said while her mother said nothing, just pushed up her glasses with her index finger, the beginnings of a wry smile forming at the corners of her mouth. The daughter peered across the table in great interest, images of her own prom swimming before her eyes.

The dress was a size 6 or so, slim and maroon, with brass-colored sequence in a star-blast pattern down the front. The neck came up high and was bunched with a gold chocker, leaving the shoulders and back exposed. Next to the dress, R. layed out the two shirts with corresponding ties- brown with a brown, grey and black checkered tie, grey with a diamond-shaped maroon, black and silver tie. She put her hands on her hips in another fit of exasperation.

"I like the brown. I really do," Mrs. M said.

"I don't know, boo," Mrs. M senior said, "That grey might look nice. And the maroon matches the dress."

"But mom, it's gonna be nighttime," Mrs. M said. "They're not even going to be able to see the tie."

"When I go to my eight grade dance this year, I'm just gonna wear my little black dress I wore when we went on that cruise," Mrs. M's daughter said. "Remember mom, that one with the cross-straps on the back? I’m going to that dance even if I don’t have a crummy date."

Mrs. M chocked on a sip of her coffee. "Date?" The word came out more as a squeak than a statement. "Who said anything about a date? I thought you were going to go with your friends?"

"I am, mom. Nobody's gonna want to ask me out, anyhow. So it doesn't much matter."

"Now that is not true, sugar," said R. "I bet there will be a million of them askin’ you. It's always the ones that are shy around you really have to watch out for."

"Sister in law, will you please shut your mouth!" Normally mild-mannered Mrs. M was in a panic. "Nobody has said nothing about my daughter dating as of yet, and I am not ready to start now. I intent to keep it that way until she is at least out of college!"

"It's all right, my baby." Grandma said to her grand daughter, we had a pained look on her face. "You go out and have a good time. But just remember- don't be easy, okay? Boys don't stay too lone with girls who are easy."

ADVENTURES FOR EVCUAEES - COMPLIMENTS OF THE RED CROSS

Sunday, October 02, 2005


I really wanted to write about something trivial and stupid today- like how the portly Dachshund who lives on our host family’s land waddles to the outside refrigerator and lays on his back whenever someone passes by or about how their son, who is 12, knocks on the door to our roomof the room at the same time as he pushes it open. We are staying in his sister’s room and he is use to coming in and playing video games at all hours. I would have liked to wax philososphical about the cane fields, the Cajun meals, the bizzare custom of mowing a lawn the size of the White House with a lawn-mower the size of a 6-cylinder truck. These are the tiny details of life that we notice when the world around us is calm, when we have the quiet and the tranquility to listen and observe.

I was going to write about these things, but then we decided to go to the Red Cross. Now all I can see when I close my eyes is the line outside of the Belmont Hotel in Baton Rouge. We saw it before we even got off Airline Hwy. A thin, slinking serpent, a tee-shirted, baby-strollered wave of humanity that stretched from the entrance of the hotel, along the side parking lot and down two blocks passed an over-grown and mosquito-infested vacant lot. At that point, it turned the corner and continued forabout a half of a mile to the west. As we pulled off to the side of the road, more people were joining the line, setting up folding chairs and umbrellas, arranging bags of peanut butter sandwiches, calming already-grumpy children. What waited for them was a perpetual wall of people and an entire day standing in approximately the same spot, staring at the backs of the same, sweaty heads. National guard members were scattered here and there, wielding machine guns and trying to look tough in front of the swelling crowd. Some will probably wait all day in the Red Cross line. As night falls, yhey will be told to come back again. Some will not leave. They will camp out right there like they did the night before. All this- for a $300 individaul relief check, or $1500 per 5-member household.

Jeremy and I, along with T. and D., went to Baton Rouge to check out random rumors that folks were getting $1500 each there. Jeremy and I met T. and D. at the American Legions Shelter in Kaplan exactly one month ago. Since that time, Jeremy and I have been to two host families, gotten jobs, scoped out houses for possible purchase. T. and D. are still at the shelter, waiting on their FEMA check, no housing prospects in sight. T. says that the folks who run the shelter are keeping their check from them. D. says its true- they are doing it so that they have no choice but to stay at the shelter. If they leave, then the shelter will close down. It was never suppose to be just a processing center for FEMA and now the Red Cross. It was suppose to be a shelter in which to feed and house people in need. T. and D. are, on most nights, the only ones there. They say that the folks who run the shelter are keeping them there for this reason but also- who is going to clean the toilets, take out the trash, help with the mopping if T. and D. leave? Yesterday, a shelter volunteer with a thick Cajun accent and a pink I (Heart) NY tee shirt attempted to bark an order at T. - but she had had enough.

“Where’s the bucket?” she demanded, one hand on her swollen hip.

“I think there’s one over there,” T. said with a hiss and exaggeratedly nonchalant brush of her hand. T. can give a mean stare when she wants to. Such a stare she gave to the unsuspecting little volunteer, who got the hint and retreated into the icy-cold A/C of the Legion building (minus the bucket). Sometimes, T.’s energy can hit a person square between the eyes and leave them blind. After a month of prejudice, menial work, waiting, and just general racist bullshit by the shelter staff (all of whom are white. T. and D. are black), T.’s stares have become downright deadly.

Because of all this, and also because a major Red Cross aid center doesn’t even EXIST in Lafayette (you heard that right folks- despite the 40,000 plus evacuees that are in the city as we speak), we decided to head to Baton Rouge. Jeremy and I haven’t registered yet (never having gotten out of busy-signal mode on the 800 number), and the extra money would allow T. and D. enough cash to leave KKKaplan behind them forever.

“Here is the address,” the spunky Red Cross volunteer said as we stood in the shade outside the shelter. She handed us a little scrap of paper. “The one at the Belmont Hotel is just opening up. That is your best bet. It probably won’t be that crowded right now since not that many people know about it.”

Sounded good to us- at least at the time.

As the menacing line came into view, D. made the decision for himself. “ If we wait in this line, we are going to have to breakfast, lunch, and dinner there and then breakfast, lunch and dinner again in the same damn place. No, thank you, sir.”

It was only 8:30 in the morning so we decided to buy a map and head on over to suggested Red Cross distribution spot number two. This one was actually in Denham Springs, tucked away in a park in the middle of a sprawling, tree-lined suburb. The environment was decidedly greener, the population in the line decidedly more fair of skin. And the gates along the outside of the park had been locked since 6:30 a.m. Supposedly this Center was only for residents of Livingston and Assumption parishes. Yet by 2:30 that morning, folks from as far away as Lake Charles and New Orleans had caused a traffic jam for two miles in every direction. By dawn, someone had broken the lock on the main gate at the park. People- from St. Charles, from New Orleans, from Abbeville, from Baton Rouge, from all over- had poured in to the facility, eager to secure their place in line. In the darkness of early morning, the police came, threatened arrest, and locked the gates. By the time we arrived, battered but not yet defeated, only a few folks milled around or sat in folding chairs near the gates, hoping that they would miraculously open and more people would be let back in. A sheriff came around on a shiny motorcycle and said not to count on it.

“Look folks, they might not even open the gates tomorrow. If you ask me, those people that are running things over there don’t know what the hell they are doing.”

Now you tell us, mister.