NOLA view - our yard

back yard view



Sometimes in looking back at a situation, the reality is more shocking than when it is staring you in the face. Looking through pictures of our yard and our neighborhood, I find that I am actually surprised by how it looks.

front yard view

from my window on the 23rd floor

Though I don't sit in my New Orleans office anymore, life continues to happen there. My previous co-worker now occupies the space that I used to fill. Together we would often look out the window and discuss various activities happening below. Most frequently, police movement would attract our attention. She e-mailed me today to tell me that many people gathered in my office to watch as two body bags were carried from one of the Iberville Project's apartment doors.

Though I'm not there, I see it, and I know the scene exactly. I know the faces of the young men who may have been in each of those bags. I saw them each day as I entered and departed. I know that summer is worse for those who have no school, no job, no hope, nothing to fill their time except their disputes with one another. Anger at their world and at their resulting unhappiness - dealt with using terminal violence.

changing gears

Lately, I've been attempting to change gears while biking. I have this Schwinn that I bought at the Bridge House in New Orleans for $20. I chose it because it sits more upright than my single-speed Specialized which was made for me by a buddy of mine. The roads suck in NOLA contributing to my achy neck and back while biking around. So, I switched my basket and my bell from the Specialized to the Schwinn and used it while tooling around the Crescent City. If nothing else, NOLA is flat, so though the Schwinn had many gear options, I kept it at #2 on the left side and #4 on the right side (roughly equivalent, I'm sure, to my single-speed).

Surprisingly enough, when compared to NOLA, Gainesville has varied elevation, so I've been practicing changing gears. So far, I can't figure it out. My chain has fallen off more than once, I pedal too fast sometimes and with too much resistance other times. I'm told that gears do lots of nice things for you, like making hills easier to scale and giving your knees a break. Also, if you have gears, I've heard that that your bike likes for you to change them.

My response to this gear changing hoop-la is that I don't need to do it. I've given it my best shot and I'm a confirmed single-speeder. My legs adjust to the needs of the road when I bike, just like they do when I walk or jog. No need to fix what isn't broken.

back in FLA

After a year and a few days in New Orleans, James and I have returned to our Florida life. We arrived to a musty, moldy home that required significant cleaning after no air conditioning or heat for one year (yes, we had a tenant - no, he didn't use either - an unfortunate miscommunication which we have accepted and are dealing with). The upside is that the house has never been so thoroughly cleaned and we uncovered many items that will soon be craiglisted. We've spent the past few days visiting wonderful friends in Suwannee and will return to Gainesville to decide what life holds for us next.

Many stories have yet to be told and many photos have gone unshared, so perhaps, the blog will not end right away. It may even take a new direction. For now, I'm enjoying the freedom my brain has from the constant stimulation of NOLA and James is relieved to be released from the endless temptation of the large, deep-fried shrimp/ fish po-boys.

power outage

Yesterday, winds picked up suddenly at dusk, the world became a dust bowl, and finally - 15 minutes of beautiful, much-needed rain. A little later, James and I took a walk. After two weeks of mid-90's, 82 was a welcome temperature and we wanted to enjoy it. About 6 blocks from home on our return, we saw some plants sitting at the curb waiting for trash day. Not able to leave them, I hoisted a large, neglected schefflera onto my hip and we began walking again. Just about that time, we saw a huge flash of light and then the street went dark. A transformer blew out and surged a couple of times in an attempt to regain power. As we made our way down the final blocks home, our neighbors began emerging from their homes, talking back and forth across the street, asking if anyone had called Entergy. Many didn't have phones and couldn't call, one woman, new to the neighborhood, had one of those minute phones, but she ran out of minutes earlier that day. The hairdresser had a phone but it wasn't working. Others had no phone at all. The buzz of conversation continued as we walked along. Even with the chatter in the street, we were amazed at how quiet the neighborhood seemed. No airconditioners buzzing, no radios, no sizzling electric lines. Someone said that it sounded like this after Katrina, but was darker, because this time, there were only a few blocks without power. We went inside, lit candles, and went about our business, our neighbors, however, stayed outside until another hour or so until the Entergy truck arrived and the power was restored.

'the smaller the group, the bigger the party'

At least 3 nights a week and always on Sunday evening, our corner neighbor, the hairdresser, plays this song. Sometimes she replays it multiple times in a row, sometimes she plays the entire mix cd, so that on any given week night, we might hear this tune 3-7 times. After having lived in the Irish Channel for one year, I estimate that we have heard this Mel Waiters song an absolute minimum of 468 times. I know its thumping base by heart. Interestingly, I still don't know the words.

Often there are loud conversations that take place over the music. Large, styrofoam Daiquiri 'to go' cups are generally present. Sometimes a grill is wheeled to the curb and some food is prepared. On occasion, a dance party ensues. Once, bag-head participated in a dance off with the hairdresser and the pink-shirt crack addict - somehow pink-shirt acquired an American flag and incorporated that into the dance routine. You never can tell what will happen in our neck of the hood.

It's all about the food

One of the many reasons that I love New Orleans is because the people who live here love to eat. And they eat well. Thanksgiving isn't Thanksgiving unless gumbo, mirlitons, and bourbon are present. Spring isn't spring without crawfish boils and Abita Beer. Every season has its food and every food has its cocktail. The city celebrates its love for food with fabulous restaurants, food festivals, museums devoted to food and drink, and many, many books on the subject.
One Book One New Orleans promotes literacy by selecting a city wide read each fall. This year they are also promoting this love affair with food in their book selection, Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table, by Sara Roahen.
Another recent release of interest to me is New Orleans Cuisine: Fourteen Signature Dishes and Their Histories (University Press of Mississippi, 2009).

too hot for po-boys

Can it be possible that it is actually so hot that even a po-boy from the Family Grocery at Louisiana and Daneel isn't tempting? Mid-90's every single day with no hope for rain. Nature boy James refuses to go outside during the daylight hours. This morning I left the house at 7:00am in a feeble attempt to beat the sun. I arrived at work by 7:30am, drenched in sweat and went straight for the water cooler. Aaahh summer in the hot, humid south.

The upside is that I love the genteel hats, delicate sundresses and the increased presence of linen. There is something divine about a place where, when others are wilting, a New Orleanian dresses up, smiles, drops a few more ice cubes in their cocktail, and sees the heat as a perfect excuse to sit on the front porch chatting the day away.

comments made in passing

People talk to me. Pretty much any time I am alone in public. Let me modify slightly. Men talk to me when I walk or bike by - sometimes kids do too, but definitely the men do. It has happened for as long as I can remember. My assumption was that this happens to everyone. James is skeptical when I share my encounters, because neither men nor women talk to him in this way, so sometimes, he follows at a distance to see if hears anything. Usually, he doesn't.

"I sure do like looking at your legs." "MMMmmmm... I bet you taste better than this pizza." "Hola, mama, mi amor. Beseme porfavor." "Oh, I see you walkin by and not lookin at me." My question is, What exactly is being accomplished? I can't consider what is being said a compliment and it isn't going to lead to any sort of further positive interaction. So, what's the point?

For the past few weeks, as I walk to the corner of Canal and St. Charles to wait for the street car, comments have been increasing in their aggressiveness and graphic nature. A few days ago, I saw a man grab a woman's rear end and squeeze hard as she passed by. She just kept walking without missing a step. Shocked and concerned, I turned and chose a different route to the car - no one is grabbing my ass without consent.

The increased talking in my direction troubles me. Can't women walk down the street without being verbally assaulted? Don't we have the right to go to and from wherever freely? Today, after two weeks of riding the car, I took my bike to work. Simply to avoid the comments. Kind of sucks if you ask me.

counting down

8 more days at Tulane. 12 more days in New Orleans. Can't believe we're really leaving....

riding the cah

I've been commuting by street-car, aka 'riding the cah', this week. It's slow. An hour to get home yesterday during rush hour and and an hour to get in today simply because it didn't show up for 25 minutes (they are supposed to run every 10 minutes during busy times). My best time for house door to office door has been 40 minutes - I have a 3/4 mile walk from each stop. I only live 3 miles from my office, so I could do the entire walk in 45 minutes to an hour depending on pace.

Why ride the cah? Because it is New Orleans and I get to feel the cool breeze and get some good people watching in. Yesterday, about half-way through my journey, a man wearing bottle glasses and overalls began tapping his foot, then patting his knee, then humming, before long he was singing "Wade in the Water," and suddenly he was up and dancing back and forth down the aisle of the car, kicking, twisting and waving his arms. The driver/ captain started yelling at him to 'Get off the cah!' - so, at the next stop, dancing man shimmied his way up the aisle, down the steps, and out into the grass. There he planted himself, singing about the water and looking off in the direction of his next ride...

deep breathing and focus

When anxious about life, I find comfort in wisdom passed on from others. Today, for multiple reasons, I am anxious about life.

"Life's challenges are not supposed to paralyze you, they're supposed to help you discover who you are." -Bernice Johnson Reagon

"I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it." - Rosalia de Castro

"Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over." - F. Scott Fitzgerald

So, I read what those before me have written, and I know that their words are true to my life as well. As I breathe in and out while contemplating our present, which is quickly becoming our history, James and I grab onto one another and plunge our best selves forward.

22 days and counting - before 'Operation Po-boy' comes to a close and we return to FLA to regroup and plan the next

Does he have some color?

A few minutes after the preacher departed this morning, I gathered my things and headed off to work. I made it only to the corner before I was stopped in a mini traffic jam caused by a school bus blocking the rode. In the two seconds that I paused, a short man crossed the street in front of me and walked immediately to my window. "Do you know what is going on?" He asked through my window. I thought he was asking me why there was a back-up. I said that I didn't know. He motioned for me to roll my window down. Not really trusting him, I rolled it down about an inch and quickly looked for a way that I could drive out quickly if needed. "Do you know what is going on?" He asked again. "No." He smiled. "Do you have some time? I think I like you and I want your number." "Thank you, but I am with someone." "Does he have some color?" Before I could reply, he asked again, "Does he have some color?" I smiled and said,"He's kind of pink." With that the man threw his head back laughing and walked on.

preacher on a bicycle

James and I were sitting on the front porch enjoying the cool temps and coffee when a man on a kicked back bicycle scooted up using his feet to pull him rather than the pedals. He stopped in front of our stoop and told us that his butt was tired from riding and asked if we were having a nice morning. We said that we were. He proceeded to tell us that he knew our neighbor and then laying his bike on its side stepped off and walked over to lean on the fence. He began, 'I can see through the muddy waters of a person into the clarity that lies beyond.' We just looked on. Before long he was pacing back and forth in front of our gate, preaching. Throwing his hands in the air. 'I am annointed so I do not get disappointed.' Then in James Brown fashion 'huuh!','mmmm', 'God is good to me.' 'You know he is.' Suddenly he stopped, smiled at us with a mouth not quite full of crooked teeth and said, 'Did I do good?' We nodded and smiled. He replied,'I said, did I do good?' James said 'Yes, you did good.' 'That's right!' The man said. Then picking up his bike, he swung his leg over and rested on the seat and looked back at me.'Am I good looking?' he asked. 'Yes, you are a handsome man.' I replied, 'That is nice to hear. And you are a pretty lady. You see, I recognize the beauty that God has placed on this earth. And you, man, you are (buff or gruff or something like it).' James just laughed and said thanks. With that, the man rode off in the direction from which he had come 10 minutes earlier.

bag-head

Bag-head lives in various houses and street corners in our neighborhood. Though we've asked numerous neighbors, none seem to know her name and everyone tries to stand clear when she walks by. So, to us, she is bag-head. We've often seen her wearing white plastic grocery bags tied strategically on either side of her head creating a hat/ windsock as she walks along. She wanders up and down our street at various times of day and night talking, sometimes jibberish, sometimes sentences. 'did-IT' is a common phrase for her, said quickly and in repetition. We can also always decipher the words 'white people,' in her sentences if we are in close proximity.

James and I have taken particular interest in her. We've watched her since we've moved in and have found that she generally doesn't want to engage with anyone directly, but she also doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't move away from us if she is walking and we cross paths, but she doesn't often make eye contact either. It is on a rare occasion that we interact with her directly and I'm always amazed at how clear her eyes are and how focused she seems.

Early in our lives here, James was standing at the front window one morning, no shirt on, cup of coffee in hand, looking out at the world. Bag-head wandered by never looking directly at him as she passed the window, she said loudly, 'Naked white man looking at me,' and continued on her journey.

She has a name and a history, but I wonder if anyone knows it. I wonder if we'll have the opportunity to learn more about her. I hope so.

'any gunfire you hear is most likely not the real thing'

This was the statement made to ease increasing neighborhood tension caused by the sounds of constant gunfire on Esplanade and Claiborne yesterday. The reason for the gunfire? Apparently, Sylvester Stallone is currently making a movie, The Expendables, in NOLA. Full-day staged shootouts are set to occur through the weekend. The filming was primarily taking place in an Elmwood film studio on the outskirts of NOLA, but I guess, they needed some street footage and came into the city.

In a town where gunfire is a reality and post-traumatic stress disorder (ptsd) is a common ailment, it might have been nice to warn already anxious residents prior to playing a noisy game of cops and robbers.


Way to go, Sly.

From my window

Today, from my window, I see a lot less activity than normal in the projects. The Times-Picayune tells me that people are applying for Section 8 housing vouchers to get out.

There was another murder on Friday at 4:30pm - a 16-year old boy. Residents of the Iberville projects are upset and trying to move out. The fourth murder in their housing development since January 1st and one of at least 10 shootings this year.

How does this make me feel? sad and tired. Completely, absolutely, overwhelmingly - sad and tired.
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Teenager killed in Iberville complex shooting
Saturday, May 23, 2009 By Leslie Williams

A teenager was shot dead Friday about 4:30 p.m. in the Iberville public housing complex, said New Orleans police, who investigated two shootings within about an hour of each other.(Full story)
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No official plan' yet, but change rumbles through Iberville housing complex by Katy Reckdahl, The Times-Picayune
Monday May 25, 2009


Housing Authority of New Orleans officials say Mayor Ray Nagin spoke prematurely when he announced last week a new "mixed-income development" at Iberville. But while no plans have crossed the drawing board, City Hall, HANO and public housing tenant leaders agree that the aging complex across from the French Quarter will be redeveloped soon.

There is "no official plan," said mayoral policy director Maggie Merrill. But Nagin saw his State of the City address as "a chance to make an announcement to people, especially those at the Iberville, that we're ready to move forward and make changes," she said. Read more..

Hey, that's my shirt!

A few weeks ago, James and I played hooky for a day. Sort of. We didn't go to our places of employment. Instead we cleaned our closets of clothes, office supplies, and toiletries we didn't need, and went on a field trip to three of NOLA's homeless shelters. The New Orleans Mission, a shelter for men, Lindy's Place, a shelter for women over the age of 21, and Liberty House, for women ages 15-24 who are homeless and pregnant.

Each day since, as we drive past the NOLA Mission on our way home, James has been searching anxiously for his clothing to appear on one of the men hanging out around the building or under the I10 on-ramp. I wasn't betting that he'd see anyone - and then, last week, we were headed through the stoplight when James squealed out in excitement "Hey, that's my shirt!" I was a little shocked and surprised and not quite sure what he was talking about. I also wasn't sure if he was trying to tell the guy it was his shirt and he wanted it back or if he was just sharing the news with me.



As we circled the block, heading toward the on-ramp, the guy crossed the parking lot walking in our direction. I grabbed our camera as we slowly drove by, James stuck his head out of the window and said, "Nice shirt, man." The man smiled, said "thank you," and stopped walking to admire his shirt for for a bit while also rocking back and forth. At the stop light, James snapped this photo in the truck's review mirror as evidence. "It looks good on him." He said with a satisfied tone as we drove away,"It never quite suited me, but on him - it's perfect."

jazz fest memories

Thanks to Kathy for providing us with our only photos during Jazz Fest! James has a few photos of performances, but no documentation of our existence at the fest. I'll share the other photos soon.

Mr. McDonald

Mr. McDonald is counting down. 8 school days remaining. Not a lot of hope for reaching the kids academically in the last 8 days of parties and field trips and 8th grade graduation and general summer fever. Essentially, he has completed his mission. It is nice to see him smiling again and looking at the world with hopeful eyes.

In these last weeks, he has begun to give treats to his students. Coming from a man who has been taking candy, gum, pencils, wrappers, rubber-bands, etc. from the kids all year and offering nothing in exchange, the gift of a cookie or a pickle is worth more than gold.

He was surprised yesterday, when upon handing out the last of the pickles, one of his students begged to drink the juice from the pickle jar. Mr. McDonald was pretty grossed out by this, but allowed the student a little if he poured it into a cup. The student happily got two cups and poured some for himself and some for another student. They then gulped it down with great satisfaction.

While on our walk last night, James asked with an almost worried tone in his voice if I thought the pickle juice would make the kids sick. I keep smiling whenever I think about his question. Partially because he's finally learning what it is like to be a kid growing up in the south and partially because he has learned what it means to be teacher of children.