Missing New Orleans on a Monday
My emotions are catching up to me. I have this deep feeling to come home to New Orleans, but I am asked about the possible of another hurricane, as if New Orleans is as disposable as a piece of toilet paper- so I counter, by asking them, “how about another earth quake in California” or “a tornado in Kansas, or another Hurricane Ike in Houston?” I don’t see anyone telling folks in California to leave because of “the big one” (earthquake) coming in the future, nor do they tell people in Houston, or the majority of the large American cities that are in the flood zones to leave. These same people complain about the government helping New Orleans (what a joke), as if we are some 3rd world nation inconveniently located in the middle of America. Do they complain when the oil fields in Louisiana sends their state oil in the winter?
If you are not from New Orleans, then I know you can’t possible comprehend the magnetic force that pulls us New Orleanians back. We are like no other people in the United States you have encountered. Our culture is different, even our people to some extent look and sound different. Our culture has touched many places. I have even seen Tabasco hot sauce in Chennai, India. Houston calls it’s self the bayou city – um I will leave that one alone. I see cajun restaurants all over this city. There is even a beignet restaurant. Where do you think Jazz came from, or even Gumbo and Praline? We certainly have our own issues, such as political corruption, crime, education and high poverty rates, never-the-less, there is no denying that New Orleans is an enigma.
I have this tremendous urge to be around people from New Orleans, share with them, tell them my story,hear their stories, tell them how much I miss New Orleans, how much I miss my neighbor, Mrs. Mc Conduit’s muddy Mississippi Community Coffee (just like the kind my mother used to make), how much I miss her oranges, and those Chinese Plums (Loquats or Askadinya) she used to raise in her yard. Those bags of grapefruits in their own season, her stories, her sassy advice, her good old southern cooking, her strength her pride. (she is now 80 years old)
I watched the film about the Faubourg Treme’. And I am glad I watched it alone before I invited others . It was very personal, and touching indeed. It was like having a conversation with an old timer in your neighbor who has been around for a long time. This film made me proud to be a part of the New Orleans African American legacy.
I spoke to a few of my neighbors on my last visit, like always. “Hey ya’ll,” (New Orleans dialect) they want us all to come back home. We can share together, build together and start a new reconstruction era, a new black renaissance , a cultural and intellectual awakening. All we have to do is look back at our history , it wouldn’t be the first time.
Something is happening right under our very feet. Others have another idea about New Orleans. The real estate developers are buying up New Orleans like crazy, while the residents struggle to find their way back home, or rebuild their homes even after 4 years. The poor were doomed from the start. The powers were salivating at the opportunity to finally tear down the St. Bernard Project. Even I had a different take on it at one time. I do realize a home is a home, no matter what part of the city a person comes from. What happened to the residents of St. Bernard Project was a crying shame.
This American nation has no idea what the country is loosing if they loose New Orleans to corporatism. Those big ideas are tearing neighborhoods a part, tearing away at the fabric of our culture, our identify. Once corporatism takes its ugly roots, our city will be another Starbuck cookie cutter city in the U.S.A . end of story. All we will have are salvaged photographs and jacked up videos we sent to that cousin in Chicago of the last Mardi Gras, or a second line on South Claiborne in the Treme’. Memories, that’s all, just memories.
I remember the days when my mom used to take me to Drydes St. where all of the Black businesses were located. There was a children’s clothing store called JoAnn’s. I am shocked that I actually remembered the name (with out even thinking). The lady that owned the place would always measure me with her eyes in some mystic way to determine my size. She didn’t get it right all of the time, but these old timers had an art for just looking at a person and knowing their size. The old timers at Krauss would get an old measuring tape, and at JoAnn’s the lady would come back with all sorts of clothes for me to try on. Maison Blanche wasn’t so old fashion in my day. I really didn’t like these shopping trips for clothes too much. Id’s rather be home playing with the kids on the streets in the 3rd ward- uptown near the Magnolia. ( if you are from this place I need no explanations), or around the corder at the snowball stand contributing to future cavities, and some rich kid’s education- because those darn showballs were sweeter than sugar cane in the French Market.
Back in the day a child was free, we didn’t worry about the things in today’s world. Even though times have changed in America, New Orleans was always a place that time forgot.
Those were the good old days.
Sincerely,
Just a redbone, uptown girl turned 7th ward girl.
Cara
