The Happiness Trifecta

The last month I have experienced: 1. reunion with my son lost to adoption 40 years ago. 2. a showing of my art at a new gallery which is a satellite of the Prospect 1 Biennial and 3. the results of the presidential election. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I feel hope for the first time since September 11th changed everything.

Slow Moving Lightnin'

Lightnin’ is gone. He’s been away for a couple of days now. Not at all like him. He arrived at my house in the days after Katrina; a little wild kitten who wouldn’t let anyone come too close. He was mostly black with a white chest, paws and whiskers and amazing yellow eyes. He moved with the grace of an athletic dancer. Slowly he warmed to Barry. Mostly because Barry was generous with the stiff bristled cat brush. And Lightnin’ LOVED that brush. In time relationship grew from allowing us to brush him, to petting him and even picking him up to play. He would sleep at the foot of the bed. And when he wanted to go outside he stood at the back door patiently waiting until one of us would say, “Do you want to go out?” He always responded by slowly raising his paw and stroking the door a few times. Once, when he was occupied with a bowl of cat food in the kitchen, he heard his cat-buddy, Wiz, at the door trying to get the shutters opened. He paused in his meal, walked over to the door, opened the shutters for Wiz and went back to his meal. He is a special cat. So where ever he is, I hope he comes home. And if he is gone forever, I hope he has a friend with a generous cat brush.

Soul Asylum

"Be sure to set the alarm for 8 a.m. so we aren't late for mass tomorrow." Now THAT is something I never ever thought I would be saying to Barry. Under any circumstances. But this wasn't just any mass at any church. It was the Amistad Mass at St. Augustine in the Treme. With a performance by the Blind Boys of Alabama. With a choir, a full rhythm section and the Treme Brass Band. Followed by a second line from the church to Congo Square to kick off the Congo Square Rhythms Festival.

We arrived at the jammed church 5 minutes before the start of services and miraculously found seats in the closest pew. Now, I was raised Catholic and attended mass pretty regularly at the African-American church, St. Rose de Lima, in Bay St. Louis. Although my family was officially a member of the Our Lady of the Gulf (the big church on the beach), my mother loved St. Rose because of the music and the atmosphere of pure joy.

Mama was something of a party girl. She died almost thirty years ago, but sometimes I think she is very close by. And that was the case on Sunday. The church was jumpin’. The music so thrilling that it brought tears to my eyes and goose bumps to my limbs. I was just thinking how much Mama would have enjoyed all of this when about halfway between my seat and the altar a hand shot up waving and moving to the music. And that hand looked so much like my mother’s hand I was totally taken aback. Anyone who knew her would tell you that throwing her hand up and getting carried away by the spirit was exactly what she would do. I felt her presence acutely each time that hand appeared to make a wide arching movement as if blessing everyone at the church. And found myself once again praying to Mama…since I’m not entirely sure that God is watching over me…but I’m absolutely certain that Mama is.

My Neighbor

When I got home from work yesterday, Consuela was sweeping the sidewalk. And not, as Robert Rauschenberg says, with an “ignorant” broom either. Her broom has the knowledge of many, many layers of grime from the sidewalks on our block. I didn’t think too much of it. After all, Consuela tends to sweep our side of the block’s dead leaves, cigarette butts and general grit into neat piles at least once a week. She also pulls the weeds and tufts of grass that make their way through the bricks. Last night she was gathering the debris and packing it into the several pot holes that pepper the pavement of our block. A nice gesture from someone who doesn’t own a car. She walks everywhere.

Consuela has some adopted family members in Baton Rouge who check on her every once in awhile and call us if they don’t hear from her for an extended period of time. They needn’t worry. Consuela is made of stronger stuff than most. She stayed through Hurricane Katrina and swept the sidewalks in the days following. The National Guard would stop by to bring MRE’s to the “little lady who sweeps”.

Consuela has lived in her modest home for a long time. She was born in Honduras or some other Latin American country. Her English is spotty. She is up in age. Yesterday her companion, a blind dog the color of old dishwater, disappeared. To be honest, I don’t miss the dog. It barked a lot and tended to use the area directly in front of my door as a doggy port-o-let. Still, I feel bad for Consuela. She didn’t seem visibly at least distraught about the dog. Instead, she decided to clean up the sidewalk.

We went out to dinner at around 7:00. And when we returned around 9:00 we could just see Consuela down at the other end of the block still sweeping. Sweeping and gathering her small piles of dirt and weeds to press firmly into the nearby potholes. I thought of her this morning on my way to work. We could learn a lot from Consuela about contributing something to New Orleans. In any small way that we can.

The Saints Are Coming

If anyone had told me two years ago that I’d be in such a state over football at ANY time in my life, I would have laughed in their face. After all, football was for those big Bubbas I grew up with in Mississippi. I’m more cerebral than that. Not anymore. Apparently the new “normal” here in New Orleans has included for me, at least, a shift to maniacal Saints fan mode. “Fan” just seems too tame a word to describe the thrill I get at each win. The tears just watching the game in my living room. The high I get seeing the 6 Elvises or Moses or even the “F*&@k Da Eagles” girl splash across the screen of my new HD T.V. Just when I think I’ve had all I can stand of this place. When I think that the real New Orleans is gone forever. The murder rate, the stupidity of our so-called leaders, I watch a Saints game and my heart almost bursts with joy at the team, the fans, the general wonderfulness of this place and its people. Never in my life would I have believed that I would actually know the names of most of the Saints players, let alone keep track of every play, every penalty. I even own Saints clothing to wear to work on the Fridays before football games. I have Saints earrings for God’s sake! I ordered a black and gold sparkly turtle neck! It feels like so much more than just a football game. The Saints ARE this city. They represents our indomitable spirit. Our joy at life. Our sense of humor. And if they kick some ass at the same time…well, so be it.

And the killing continues

We are all --- every one of us --- the victims of violent crime.
Historically, the face of the perpetrator of violence and injustice has been a white face for the African American community. The effects of slavery --- the sense of helplessness at the hands of a race that held god-like power over another --- are still felt today in the form of fear and mistrust. Fear of the criminal-justice system that too often fails everyone involved. Mistrust of any white person who may hold a position of authority.

However, many in the white community are feeling a similar sense of helplessness at the hand of their perpetrators who are statistically at least African American. Even those whites that, in their heart of hearts, embrace the visions of Dr. Martin Luther King and John and Bobby Kennedy (not to mention Christ himself) are in fear of being vulnerable to an unknown black person. We become hyper-vigilant. Clutch our belongings closely and hurry by.

This sense of fear and mistrust plays out throughout our city. And the end result is a huge roiling anger that has been building for generations. But I believe our anger is misplaced. We all have friends (and many of us have family) of a different race than our own.

We must resist the urge to shout “racism” at the first slight and instead realize that the focus of our anger should be the criminals of all races and levels of society who are destroying our city and our way of life. We must do everything we can to reclaim our birthright from these thugs who are stealing our possessions, our culture and our very lives!

ALL of the citizens of New Orleans are collectively sick of those who would take from us what we have worked our whole lives to preserve. We must join together in a common goal of erasing crime from our community. Only then, can we really erase racism.

I'm making my list. Checkin' it twice...

Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas is a decent grocery store. I know this isn’t a typical request, but the Robert’s on the corner of Elysian Fields is still a dark and desolate place – the roof is caved in and it’s not looking like there will be any activity there for the foreseeable future.

Even prior to the storm, the place was kind of outdated. But really I could find everything I needed there and the sideshow was spectacular. It was a store predominately patronized by African Americans and some of the more uh “unique” characters in town…being between the French Quarter and Bywater and all. And for some weird reason (a cosmic joke on the part of the grocery chain gods?) they only played cheesy white people music like “Horse With No Name” and “She’s Havin’ My Baby”, which struck me as extremely odd. I mean the store Uptown in the yuppie ‘hood plays Al Greene and Marvin Gay. Go figure.

Once at Robert’s I was behind Charmaine Neville in the check out line. Another time Kermit Ruffins. And now it sits. A cavernous shell. Open to the elements and decaying more every day. And there isn’t a grocery store for miles … unless you count the Mardi Gras market which until the storm sold only carnival beads. Post Katrina, it was turned into a very limited neighborhood grocery. One that provides neither air conditioning nor beer (!) so you can see we have a crying need for a real grocery store close by.

Please Santa, could you just persuade the Historic District Landmarks Commission that the fact that this particular Robert’s began its life as the first Schwegmann’s super market doesn’t necessarily qualify it as having “historical” significance??…Well, I would really appreciate that. I know that this is purely selfish on my part, but the drive uptown to Winn-Dixie to make groceries is a HUGE pain in the ass.

I'm not talkin' a gourmet market with organic tofu and free range chickens or anything. An ordinary Save A Center would really do the trick. And just to show you I can share the love...if you could throw in a pothole repair crew we would ALL be grateful.

Your friend,
Mary