Quickie

I'm supposed to be working, and am going to re-write an old post that was lost by the poorly formatted DukeEngage blog, so this will be short and sweet.

Time for another edition of Engagement by the Numbers:

1. Mosquito bites from Saturday night: 12.
2. Obscenities thought in effort not to scratch: 108.
   
3. Street cars run for since we've been here: 8.
4. 99 cent ATMs found: 3.
5. Places in NO that take only cash and make ATMs vital: 84.
6. Mornings my suitemates and I have overslept: 12.
7. Times we've told our DukeEngage Coordinator about: 2.
8. Number if "incident reports" filed for DukeEngage NOLA: 7.
9. Times we've gotten turned around and ended up in the 'hood: 6.
10. Sketchy old men who've catcalled us: 3-5 per day.
11. Locals who've asked my Indian fellow Engager where she's from: 1 per day.
12. Tree roaches I've run from: 6.
13. Guys who've given me their numbers (after asking for mine usually): 5.
14. Percentage of them that I've called: 0%.
15. Percentage of men who think it's okay to be a creeper on Bourbon: 87%.
    
16. Times I've sweated out my hair after attempting to curl it: daily.
17. Hilarious conversations overheard on the streetcar: 22.
    
18. Reasons to fall in love with the city: infinite.
    

(accuracy of statistics not verifiable)

More extensive reflections later.

If You Don't [Mess] With Me...

I went out on a week night. Ok, so that's not such a revelation. I'm 21 in New Orleans for the summer after all. But, just for the record, I've been quite well-behaved (read: no debaucherous, shameful nights). Just putting that out there for any family/ potential employers that may read this later. Anywho, confession over and on to the immersion and growth and reflecting and such.

Let me just say that last night was pretty friggin awesome. We went to Maple Leaf Bar, definitely a bit divey, but not too sketch, and saw Rebirth Brass Band. Absolutely best thing I've heard since I've been down here. Granted, I'd been primed to use superlatives about them because they'd been talked up by almost everyone who's opinion I trust down here. But, unlike much in life, they're hype was worth believing. Once I adjusted to the intense volume of everything- both the piercing quality of a powerful horn section and the number of people in a tiny place- there were nothing but good times and grooves to be had. I was thrilled to find that I didn't leave feeling as though I should probably be intoxicated to have as much fun as those around me, which is a common feeling (at least for me) after night life.

But, not everyone agreed with me on the need to stay sober (or even lucid) on a Tuesday night. And the other patrons definitely added to the experience, each in their own special way: The man in his forties who decided to appear at my shoulder several times and pantomime taking a picture of me. The old man with dacquiri stained lips that popped out of the darkness in the hall to the bathroom like a haunted house actor. The OG in the straw hat that may have been the coolest person in the room. And, a special shoutout to the couple who provided the evening's teachable moment.

These two were both heavily under the influence, which explains most of their behavior, such as the man running into the same chair twice on their way out. Knowing this, I really wanted to make allowances for the fact that their judgement was impaired. So I made no comment when they decided to salsa in what had formerly been my personal space. And I simply nudged the man forward gently when his elbows began to fly into me and his sweat covered back got a bit too close to my face. And I tried hard not to judge the way he was holding a woman apparently young enough to be his daughter. (I'll admit, that last one was mostly unsuccessful).

But, when they started searching feverishly for lighters, my patience wore thin. I don't like smoke, actually I hate it. And yes, I am aware that bars are smoky, but the open patio at the back had kept this one breezy thus far. Besides, even in a bar I never expect to have someone's smokey cigarette held directly in my face. After fanning a couple of puffs, and coughing up a lung, I was more than done with these two. When a friend contemplated flicking the woman's cigarette away, I for once had no desire to calm her anger. The man of the pair had barely avoided a fight earlier, and now I understood why.

And then, just when things might have gotten unattractive (not quite ugly; we're too classy for that) the band unknowingly intervened. They started singing the lyrics to what had been instrumental so far. "If you don't [bleep] with me, then I won't [bleep] with you." Listening to their advocacy for a live and let live lifestyle, I was reminded just how ridiculous antagonizing two drunk people would be, even if they were incrediblly obnoxious. Sure, they were slowly killing me with second-hand smoke. Yes, the woman's hair got stuck in my lip gloss every time the man spun her. But hey, it was New Orleans.

My friend must have had the same realization, because as the next puff of smoke wafted into our nostrils, we both decided to make dance moves out of fanning it away. The air cleared, we laughed hysterically, and decided that salsa may not be such a terrible idea. It wasn't.

Nonviolence prompted by profanity. Only in New Orleans. Well played Rebirth, well played.

Good Intentions

I keep meaning to write this blog before Sunday. I have big plans to become an honest to goodness blogger, and analyze the world deeply and share my profundity, while being intensely witty. I am filled with the best of intentions, but execution is shaky at best.

Somehow though, I feel like this pattern puts me in line with the rest of the city. There's so much here that was begun with the best of intentions and ended up awry. Obviously, I could talk about Hurricane Katrina: toxic FEMA trailers, Mayor Nagin's unfortunate "chocolate city" comment, sensational media coverage and the list goes on. There are even the less publicized failures in post-K New Orleans, or at least ones that somehow didn't make it onto my radar, like the tent city under the overpass near Carrolton where people work daily and live in squalor. Or the recovery school district that has no budget for music programs (as far as I've learned on my job) or anything else (from what some of my colleagues have learned on their jobs), while down the road charter schools are taking trips to France. I really do believe (partly out necessity) that there were good intentions behind all of the things that led to the current issues. But clearly there are issues with execution.

But when I say my own patterns meet the goal of immersion for DukeEngage NOLA, I'm not just talking about Crescent City as a whole. I think it makes me a definite member of our group of 18 as well. We all came down here with big hopes and dreams I'm sure: to impact New Orleans, learn as much as possible about this amazing city, and to learn something about a few of our fellow Dukies. Once again though, that execution is rough. The first goal remains to be seen, and I feel like the second one will be a given, since we're mostly subscribers to Duke's unofficial "work
hard play hard" motto. But I'm not convinced about that last one. To me, it seems like there are already some obvious divides, and it's a bit worrisome.

Of course, this is only the second week, so perhaps I'm a bit premature. Still, it feels a little like RealWorld Duke style with everyone playing into some prescribed role, and divisions along fairly predictable lines that were brought with us from school. Some of it is just what happens when "18 strangers are picked to live in a house..." We're bound to find favorites and get on each other's nerves. We talk too much and too little, go to bed too early or party too loudly, are too free or close-minded. We view everything racially or completely ignore overtones, and leave each other out and are too concerned with what other people think. We blog about things we should walk down the hall to say.

But, on the off chance that my fellow DukeEngagers are reading this, I hope they take this as my attempt to do better. I think there's still plenty of time to "lean into discomfort"- 7 weeks to be exact. And yes, they say the road to some very unpleasant places is paved with good intentions, but I prefer to be more optimistic. I'm an Obama supporter, so I say "Yes we can!"

Home Is Where the Heat Is

Engagement by the numbers:

• Gallons of sweat dripped- 28
• Mosquito bites- 1
• Catcalls received- 17.2
• Surprise adventures (aka times lost)- 5.85
• Times recognized as an out of towner- twice a day
• Crawfish eaten "properly"- .75 lbs give or take... mostly take

I saw a little girl on the trolley the other day that made me smile. She was the most precious thing I'd seen all day, though that isn't saying much. I'd trekked to the outskirts of the city, out of our lush Garden District all the way to the end of the world, or at least the end of the city, and still had not found my office. I was hot, sweaty and frustrated, with every intention of putting on my ipod and zoning out for the commute back to Loyola.

But, something about this little girl brought me back to why I was here. I think it was her hair. Parted razor sharp down the middle with two bush balls on either side of her head, it reminded me of myself at her age. But, this is definitely romanticizing myself at 5... My hair would have been more likely to resemble Don King's by this late in the day. There was as much cheese on her fingers and mouth as on the Doritos she was eating. Her mom followed her down the aisle and allowed the little girl to choose the seat right in front of me. They seemed completely engrossed in each other, and Javenique (assuming hers was the name tattoed on the back of her mom's neck) and her mother felt like they could have been my mother and I, transposed to another life. The mother-daughter moment felt so familiar, despite the surreal palm trees and street cars.

Much of New Orleans feels like this to me- as though I've been here before. I'm well aware that I stick out, since I'm almost daily asked where I'm from, and I sweat far too profusely to be a local. But, I love it here like I'm among cousins: the accents, the music, the seafood, even the air thick enough to slice with a knife. Old men here (at least the ones not too overly affectionate) remind me of my grandfather, and the accent is beautiful. I feel peaceful and comfortable here somehow, even when we're lost, or the street cars blow allergens into my eyes. I only hope by the end of this I've found something to give back to this city that I can tell is going to give me so much.

Oh yea, and it's hot.