Learning what it means to miss New Orleans

I'm home. That's Maryland for any non-family or friend who happens to have stumbled across this blog. (Welcome, by the way, and please comment if you promise to play nice.) Maryland, I must say, is not New Orleans. Compounding this great misfortune is the fact that I'm finally getting all the only child moments I want, and have remembered why I always wanted siblings. Be careful what you wish for, no? And so, now that I must make my own dinners and cookies and pancakes, lets just say I've cut back on the carbs. There's no one to run down the hall and see, and as much as I love my mom I don't think she'd understand if I burst in her room after 10... Actually, I don't know how she'd feel about bursting... We're a peaceful household.

But luckily, I can see my Dukies (by definition) back at Duke. So I'm gchatting them, and saving all my mourning for Crescent City: the lack of shrimp and oyster po' boys in my life, and the crawfish etouffee I should have eaten more of. I miss the live music, and regret every night I stayed in (even though sleep and budgeting and being prepared for work seemed like good ideas at the time). I miss the new friends I made there, and the street car passengers, and the random palm trees in the middle of downtown. I even miss the weather, though I'm quite happy without the mosquitoes. I miss how adorable the musicians village is, and although I can't wax poetic about the stench of Bourbon, I do like knowing that it's there in its inferiority to Frenchman. I miss Superior Grill and Trolley Stop Cafe and a dozen other restaurants, and snowballs and getting hit on every day. I miss Magazine Street, and kitschy souvenir shops, and sitting at Audubon Riverview on a Sunday afternoon, and walking for five minutes and having sweat trickle (I liked to pretend I was getting excercise). And second only to the indomitable and loving spirit of the people, I miss how much possibility there is down there, and how everything has the potential to make a difference. I'm thinking it could be just as meaningful as my Peace Corps aspirations, only much less likely to give the parental units anxiety disorders.

So... yea. I don't just want to go back, I need to. I've contemplated "Walking to New Orleans" (a la Fats, see below) but I'll wait until I can afford less taxing transportation.



Oh, and I'm looking for a job. Maybe I can get one like that guy on Twitter who got fired?

(Resume and references available upon request)

What exactly have I been doing around here?

I have the day off today. We've managed to complete our projects, and the ever-so-kind ladies at Tipitina's decided to reward us with a very light week. Thanks much!

Pause.

I just realized I've never really explained my job to the blog-reading public.
I have been working at the Tipitina's Foundation, who's purpose is to preserve Louisiana's musical cultures through various means- we donate instruments to school kids, have music business co-ops that help local musician's get their music out there (making CD's, copyright assistance, simply checking email, etc.), sponsor workshops for school age musician's with professionals, and have internships for local college and high school students. During Katrina, the French Quarter club served as a shelter for a few residents of the city, and after the uptown club served as a center for musicians, and Tip's subsidized gigs and other much needed assistance.
Basically, as a group they rock at life in multiple ways. They also let me wear jeans to work. And the famous Tipitina's Club itself is a very good time too. Goodness all around.



My main attempt to contribute has been to flesh out on of the co-founders ideas- a summer camp for ages 4-6. We put together the lesson plans, and found instruments for them to make and books to read and dances to do and watched children's videos online and listened to really cute music. Tipitina's Tykes will hopefully go off without a hitch next week (impossible since it involves 4 year olds, I know) and Sushma and I can feel good about it having something to show for ourselves. I also did some research on grants for musicians and learned a lot about professional musicianship that will potentially be useful in the future.
Yay for my internship! And my day off to appreciate it!

Unpause.

I had started this post with the idea of making a list of things I've learned in NO. But, perhaps that would be a bit much. So, I'll leave it here, and do the nostalgic update later... After all, there are still a few days to learn something. This city is full of surprises.

Oh, and here's a fun clip of some of great acts at Tipitina's Uptown. I heart Big Sam.

It is Sunday evening yet again, and I am trying to be deep and insightful, or at least funny. But, I've been a bit tapped out since my treatise on race, or as Ryan put it "why Tim's a dirty racist". These were not my words, but I find Ryan so ridiculous sometimes, I wanted to immortalize him (if being put in my blog counts as being immortalized. Ha! Doubtful.) Anyway, nothing is coming. I don't want to write about the melancholy that's coming about leaving, or the madness that was this weekend, which pretty much leaves out everything on my mind.

Well, for memories sake, and to make my readers think I lead a fabulous life, here's a summary of the weekend: 2 jazz clubs in one night, a video involving me, a fork, and my esteemed DukeEngage colleagues, a reggae club and a trip to "Nigeria" and a day of shopping (of the window variety) and fine dining (of the within the budget variety). Oh, and beignets, breakfast for dinner and a wee bit of drama were thrown in there too. I don't want to dissect any of these experiences in detail. At least not right here, right now.

Alas, since I've started this post I suppose I should give you something worth checking out. So, here's a video of the song that's been stuck in my head for the past week or so. It's not very upbeat, (actually it's a bit needy), but I like it anyhow.


I like her voice, and her style, and think she has real talent. Go Jazmine.

So... yea. That's all for now folks, because I'm tired. Next episode will be some variation of "what I learned in New Orleans." That is, if I have any follow through with my intentions...

"I'm votin' for Obama 'cause homie is malleable"

For the past two days, I've come home from work covered in soot. I get stares walking down Canal and on the street car. One young man was undeterred by the "Whatever you're selling I'm not buying" expression on my face, and tried politely but persistently to get my phone number, but I think most people were a bit deterred by the Cinderalla-esque smudges on my face (and I mean pre-fairy godmother). But despite the dirt and dirty looks, I've been quite pleased with myself.
This week I've been on fire clean up. There was some sort of electrical explosion at the office for Tipitina's French Quarter (seemingly a computer monitor) and although the fire damage was minimal, the ash blew all through the office, and there was a some water damage too. All the knick knacks, pictures and documents that accumulate in an office over a decade or say had to be taken out, assessed for damages and cleaned up if salvageable.
It was pure chance that I ended up helping out. Someone was needed to wipe down the pictures on Tuesday, and my computer wasn't working, so I was the chosen one. Inwardly, I'll admit I grumbled a bit, once I was sitting downstairs with washrags and soap and water, I remembered how peaceful cleaning can be. So, when asked if I minded helping out again the next day, I was actually happy to volunteer. The rest was dusty, sweaty history.

Besides the break from being a desk jockey (I need to avoid a 9-5 at all costs when I grow up because by 2 pm I'm always itching to go move), I had lots of time to get to know Joseph, who works downstairs, and has been something of an enigma for the past few weeks. We bonded over hard labor, and I let him bond a little extra by lifting the heavy things. Meanwhile, he told me about his childhood in Miami, and his opinions on everything from not-so-legal substances and underage drinking to politics (the quote in the title is courtesy of him). He thinks I should come back and run for mayor of New Orleans one day. Or teach. I told him we'll see.

Meanwhile, hard labor? Not so hard. Or at least it's easier to stay awake.

Story Time

Ms. Frederica and I both missed the trolley today. I wasn't willing to run for it, and she's never had much luck with that- they leave her anyway, and while she's glad to have them back (it was bad after the storm) they're just one of the many things in the city that could use an improvement. The street lights by her house are out as well. And don't tell her to vote for people who will change that, because they're all corrupt and she refuses to waste her effort on a government that won't care anyway. Her husband is always shocked when she says things like that, but it's true.
She appreciated the National Guard after the storm though. She told me about about the time she missed curfew and made a sandwich with the National Guard supplies, and it was very sanitary and some of the best ham she'd ever tasted. Her husband couldn't believe she did that, but it's true.
She also told me about visiting her family for the month she was evacuated after Katrina. She and her husband left the day before their anniversary, and she stayed in the country, and played with her relatives' children, and missed home intensely. She never ate any more than the kids did, and helped them do all their chores even getting eggs from the chickens. She wouldn't milk cows though- she's a city girl and they "don't have no cows in the city." Her husband told her to rest herself, and couldn't believe she could ride bikes with the young'ns all day, but she did, it's true.
I also learned about her food preferences, and her philosophy in relation to her sugar diabetes along with her husband's reaction to it all. Seems like he spends a lot of time in disbelief.
Ms. Frederica talked me from Canal to Constantinople on the St. Charles street car route (no small feat I must say) and would have kept going had it not been her stop. I came home overwhelmed and overloaded, but amazed at her conversational skills, and somehow feeling privileged to have spoken with her (though granted, my speech was mostly just mmhmm and yes ma'am).

But more than that, what amazed me is that Ms. Frederica is not at all unusual. She is one of many incredibly friendly souls in an incredibly friendly city. New Orleanians seem ready to share their life stories with you at a moment's notice, and all I've ever had to do was smile sincerely and nod at the right times.
I've never felt unwelcome here, even when our rainbow coalition of DukeEngagers took a trip to a part of Washington Avenue where such diversity is uncommon. As we ate our first po' boys on the sidewalk next to a dumpster, we got a few incredulous looks (especially since 11 of us piled out of the mini van) but only one question: were we college students? Our affirmatives were enough explanation for them, and from then on, I've felt welcome, even wanted here.
So, I'm glad I hid my exhaustion and heard Ms. Frederica's. I suppose the least I can do when I've been riding the welcome wagon is listen to one of the conductor's (extensive) stories.

Even still, I need a nap.

Kanye Mosquitos: Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

This is not going to be a very substantial post, I'm warning you now:

I just want to announce to the world, that New Orleans mosquitoes are no joke. In fact, they're very unfunny. They're aggressive and mean and, on top of it all, sneaky. After a single Saturday evening at an outdoor jam session I had twelve, (I counted) bites covering my legs, ankles, feet and arms. Granted, we were dancing on the grass and may have been disturbing their habitat. But they can fly, and could have moved. Twelve bites on one host just seems a bit vindictive to me.

There is also a great deal of standing water in the Upper Ninth Ward, where we were, and they could have bred elsewhere. We, however, could not really have visited many other places in the area, which isn't much a tourist spot. So, they clearly weren't paying fair.

They also weren't playing fair last night, when they ate me alive during our vampire and ghost tour, which ended up being more informative about slaves in early New Orleans than any ghosts. Apparently, slave quarters are now outfitted with slate counter tops and floors, and are well insulated so that one's music can be turned as loud as the mood calls for. And, while I'm absorbing this information from our very blond, very middle aged and southern tour guide, the little buggers managed get me five times.

In short, the mosquitoes are not nice. And, since the current refrain in my head is "itch itch, don't scratch", I chose to ignore all other experiences for this post. Please reference other blogs for more details on the wine bar and how I felt about the "ghost" tour.

"Let's just move here and work in a snowball shop..."

A friend and I were sitting around last night (or this morning, depending on how you look at it) discussing how time was flying by. I can't really say that this experience has gone by fast, because it feels like we've been here forever, but at the same time, it seems to suddenly be ending. So, we'd been having a day of premature nostalgia, over snowballs.

Pause for an explanation of the glory that is a snowball: imagine childhood, dipped in sunshine and sprinkled with deliciousness, and you've got an idea. More specifically though, they're something like a snowcone, but with smoother ice, and Ms. Norma, the owner of Queen of the Ball, will stuff hers with ice cream. She's ridiculous flavors, like wedding cake and Georgia peach, and the shop's decor only adds to the charm. I'm sad we never got around to trying one of these before today, but I'm sure my waistline thanks me. I'll have to go back and visit Ms. Norma again though.

Queen of the Ball Snowball Stand

I've digressed completely off topic. Originally I was going to write about how much I'm going to miss this place, and Candace and my plans to move here and skip the whole college degree thing. But, there are dozens of reasons that won't work, and premature nostalgia is a bit sappier than I'm into at the moment. So, for now, I'll just focus on finding another day to get a snowball...

Regulars

I work in downtown New Orleans, and take the streetcar to work from uptown every day. Several of the streetcar drivers know where my stop is at this point, since I'm riding almost daily and usually multiple times. (And I suppose that the Indian co-worker I'm with stands out around here...) There are also fellow commuters that I've gotten used to seeing: the woman who hates to share her seat, a man who lives near Loyola and wears a very familiar cologne, and others.

Then there are the regulars I wish I wouldn't see. Perhaps it's because I've never spent this much concentrated time in a city before, or maybe it's affects of Katrina, or the fact that New Orleans' socioeconomic groups are all mixed up... But it seems like I've never been confronted with so many homeless people. Walking to the elementary school where I tutor in Durham, I'd often see a few of the same men. However, those two or three just never seemed as bad off as people here. I know I'm speaking from middle class privilege, because to not have a home is bad off regardless, but there's a different level of poverty when sanity comes into question.

There's a homeless man I see most days who wears an orange wool hat and is bundled up in the New Orleans heat of June. He has plastic bags filling his motorized wheelchair and hanging over the side. And when he talks to us, its so hard to understand. And we've met others- a man who seemed to be high on something other than life, as he jazzercised his way down the street and on to the trolley, men by the street car stops and on sidewalks, women who wreak of liquor.

All this is in the middle of a thriving down town, and in contrast to the beautiful garden district where we're staying... It's a lot to reconcile. This city seems to expose the best and worst of America, all boiled down and intensified. The poverty, and the racial issues (another post entirely) are all right next to this amazing culture and incredible accomplishments and wealth. I'm still enamored with the city, but like any complicated loved one, the ugly parts have to be acknowledged along with the beauty.

I must say, NO's got extremes of both.

A Reminder Not to Judge Books (Or Wine Bars Apparently) by Covers

Saturday night we went to a wine bar called "Bacchanal". I'd met someone in the band the night before and been invited, and in the interest of safety, community building and good taste decided to invite the rest of the group to come with. A few agreed, adventures ensued, as they usually seem to around here.
Since some of us were making it the beginning of our night and others were making it a midway point, we decided to go in a couple of groups. The group I was in had no car, and decided to look up directions and find a friend to drop us off. According to Google maps, the place was in an area we'd never been before, and our driver expressed a bit of shock that we were headed toward the ninth ward, but what's Duke Engage without a bit of engagement right? So, we put on grown up clothes wrote down directions and piled in the car.
Per usual, Lil Wayne was blasting in the car (not a fan of that Mrs. Officer song by the way... What is Bobby Valentino thinking???) and, sitting in the back seat, I was too caught up in the madness of the lyrics to notice our driver's growing concern. I did notice, however, that we were not in the garden district anymore, and the further we drove, the less familiar and tree lined things looked. We finally pulled up to a run down building with the right address, but a completely different feel than what had been on the website. It took some convincing of the group mom, but we ventured on, past the faded brick and a few hipsters (or maybe hippies? the terms blend for me).
What we found inside was definitely worth the journey and the mosquito bites that would come. Chuck Perkins, a poet I now heart, emceed and the Voices of the Big Easy were playing. We got our first exposure to Mardi Gras Indians and I for one will be looking forward to their CD (yes, I may actually pay for music... Gotta support the locals.) We met the New Orleans fire chief, and various movers and shakers, and got a shout out from Chuck, and even did a little open mic improvisation. Good times all around.
What impressed me most was how open everyone was to us. Part of that may have been due to the hospitality of the musician that invited us in introducing us to so many people. But, I was really impressed that, although this was clearly a local place, no one seemed to resent our appearance, as touristy over eager college student as we were. That's quickly become one of my favorite things about the city- everyone is ready to be your friend.
So, lesson of the weekend- always open the book, even if it looks a little beat up.

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.