Everything Old Is New Orleans
Well c’mon, everybody take a trip with me! Down the Mississippi, Down to New Orleans!
For those of you who have suffered anonymously on the streets of America, some of you for more years then you thought was possible in a supposed democracy, a brilliant, tragic, terrible light has shown. There is now an entire city (or should I say, was an entire city) that understands your plight due to personal experience. There is an entire nation that has witnessed the incompetence, the sloth, the self-absorbtion and the full-on corruption that is our U.S. government. They have seen what others throughout the world have known for many, many years. There is no mistaking it. There are not blinders big enough to hide our eyes from the truly classist system we wallow in, even if they were wrap-arounds. If you are rich or middle-class, and an emergency develops, you are protected and respected. If you are blue-collar, low-income, poor or homeless, you do not show up as any kind of blip on the radar screens of America. You better have your own back, because Lord knows, your leaders don’t.
The only true blessing that has been given us as homeless folks in the past few weeks is the certain knowledge that people everywhere have a genuine idea of the part our officials play in keeping the poor poor, the down-trodden down-trodden, and the wretched wretched. While bodies float downstream, the people that we are “supposed” to look up to attend plays, go to parties, relax on vacation. While true innocents die in hospital beds, on rooftops, in attics and outside of stadiums, in full view of the nation, folks with official titles keep needed supplies out of reach, jockey for bragging rights over who gets to “save the city,” and blame overworked locals for not calling them in sooner. Did any of these high-level mucky-mucks save any lives while on camera, or simply prolong the agony? Did any of these “leaders” roll up their sleeves and rescue one individual from a watery grave? One? No, that work’s too dirty for them. They were bred for better things. Their minds are too fine and too important to this great nation to allow their manicured nails to be soiled by the toxic waters of Orleans.
That’s why I’m walkin’ to New Orleans… I said I’m walkin’ to New Orleans…
The folks I related to the most were the ones who walked out of the city, by themselves, knowing that staying was worse than leaving, because they were leaving Hell on earth, and they knew it. They counted their blessings, thanked their makers, realized that they were alive to face another day, and that was enough. They got farther on foot then most folks did waiting for the cavalry to arrive. I related to the ones with can-do spirit, who quietly went about the business of going roof-to-roof in their little outboards, patiently talking people into their boats, and gently dropping them off somewhere near salvation, then heading back for another, for days and days. I related to the ones who did the leg work for those who couldn’t, getting food and supplies from the abandoned stores, as much as they could carry, and handing out bits here and there on their way back to what was left of their humble abodes. I related to the ones who did what they could, where they could, without even knowing what they were doing, or how they were going to do it, or what with. I related to the police, the firemen, the medics who helped and helped and helped even as they became homeless themselves.
The only ones I didn’t relate to were the suits on camera, giving orders that were not heard, pointing fingers before they were pointed back, primping and preening before the press. The press, in many cases, were not much better themselves, patting each other on the back for their “heroic” work, as if they had actually saved lives, instead of merely reporting the facts. Many times, in frustration, I would yell at the TV, and tell these self-satisfied fools, “Drop the camera and the microphone, roll up your sleeves, get your clothes wet and your bodies dirty, and save some lives on a physical level!” It was obvious that the help was needed. Really, really obvious. But, I forgot. Their lives were too precious to be sacrificed. Aren’t these the same ones who can’t wait to try on the fireman’s outfits or the battle fatigues as the cameras are rolling? Yeah, that’s real risk-taking there, pal. The Orleans equivalent was when they showed themselves, coats off, sleeves rolled up, helping to load one or two boxes on trucks for the folks back home. While the cameras were rolling, of course. Hell, I bet it wasn’t even live. I hope they didn’t strain their backs. Those diapers are heavy.
I don’t know why, but it really bugged me to see all those Hollywood folks getting free publicity out of this thing. Anyone who was from there, or who had spent a great deal of time there, I understand, but some of the others, I don’t get it. To me, it felt like they were competing with the victims for attention (and still are), and competing with the real heroes for the title of hero, and losing the competition. It was almost as if they were jealous because they hadn’t experienced it themselves. It was one of those rides that money couldn’t buy, I guess, which is why they took up the rear of the procession for a change. I kept hearing this phrase in the newscasts and the fundraisers that the celebrities were bringing much needed attention to relief efforts. See, I thought that Katrina itself had already done that. But what do I know? I’m just a poor boy from West St. Paul, Minnesota, with callouses on my feet from doin’ my own share of walkin’, and callouses on my heart from doin’ my own share of sufferin’. That’s the difference between the rich and the poor. When the rich suffer, they shout it to the skies, go on all the talk shows, get a movie deal and write a book trumpeting their heroism. The poor? They quietly lick their wounds, and move on. Any way they can.
You know, if I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn that the only people that were truly heroes were the ones who were on camera. The reality of it (and didn’t this beat reality TV all to Hell?) was that the true heroes died saving lives. The true heroes were too busy saving lives to bother looking for a camera or a reporter to talk to, and when one came, they were too humble, too tired and too stunned to come up with a memorable quote for the folks back home. Little did they know that these “average” heroes had provided all the quotes necessary, through their actions.
Do you know what it means To miss New Orleans?
My heart goes out to this city and its poor. I recently had the good fortune to go to The Big Easy for my youngest brother’s wedding. He lived within walking distance of the French Quarter, but far enough away to live close to one of the levees. He shared a shotgun house with his fiancee and a black family. That family couldn’t have been more gracious to myself and my kin. We got home-cookin’, Orleans-style. We were put up in a house; no hotel for us. We were some of the few white folks in this part of town, but I felt no fear. If we meant no harm, we got no harm. The nights were muggy, but the beer was cold. We could walk down the streets with 40-ouncers in hand, and cops would just drive on by. Everyone in our neck of the woods wore brand-new white T-shirts. You would see big signs in the windows of the Mom-and-Pop stores: WHITE T-SHIRTS $5.00. It wasn’t just the fashion, or the style. It was the need. Folks there go through (or should I say, did go through) t-shirts as fast as you or I go through plastic utensils, because of the humidity. It was a measure of self-respect, making sure you didn’t go outside lookin’ all raggedy. I wonder what happened to that family next store to my brother. I hoped they survived. I hope everyone I met during that glorious time survived. My brother and his new wife are OK, and living with his in-laws in Chicago. They were lucky enough, or aware enough, to take the weather reports seriously, and they put her car on high ground, with a tank full of gas, just in case.
I think about what’s been lost to them, and to all of us as a culture. The sights, the sounds, the smells. It will never be quite the same. I just can’t imagine the Saints (who are homeless themselves) or the Mardi Gras anywhere else. I felt sad for Harry Connick Jr., the Marsalis Brothers, Fats Domino, Dr. John, Professor Longhair, the Neville Bothers, The Dirty Dozen Brass Band, and many, many more, whose names I don’t recall, but whose sounds I do. There was no posing with these cats. They loved the music. That’s all. They would go into the little honky-tonks in the Quarter and sometimes jam all night for free, with each other, just because it was fun. No big star turns. Show up unannounced. No big cover charge. No big ads. If you happened to be there, you were a lucky soul. I look forward to the day when they go back, and do it again. Until then, New Orleans is a ghost town. Of course, with ghosts like Louis Armstrong, that ain’t all bad, is it? Maybe even a blessing.
If you want to get a sense of New Orleans, have a house party, cook Cajun foods like gumbo and jambalaya, play Orleans jazz and zydeco and blues, do it on a muggy night, get a nice mix of happy folks, take it up from simmer to boil, and then just imagine every house on both sides of the street, for blocks, doing the same thing. Then you might feel a small part of it. What you won’t feel, though, is the sense of unconditional love, and the sense of the neverending party. Whenever you lovely bums and vagrants out there start feelin’ sorry for yourselves, take comfort in knowing that we have a whole lot of brothers and sisters out there, just as displaced as we are – in some cases more so – and they know what we’re goin’ through, because they’ve felt it themselves. All of it.
I’m walkin’, yes indeed, and I’m talkin’, ‘bout you and me, and I’m hopin’, that you’ll come back to me.
Randall