Will Saddam Hussein Abdl-Majid Al-Tikriti’s execution prove a measure of how successful our nation-building campaign in Iraq has been? His death may be martyrdom, the exacting of sweet revenge or just another show for the masses in which nothing is actually gained. If I know my dad and what he experienced at the hands of the Iraqis, he vacillates between the latter two.
“It is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers.” — James Thurber
There must be a certain malaise in the air. Alexis and I recently succumbed to its psychic virulence, and have been pondering the meaning of life, living in New Orleans and, most importantly, whether what we do, as artist, scientist or blogger, means anything in the end. Does our work make the world a better place? We are left staring at our bowl of gumbo in which floats chunks of things we have done that diminish by the minute, writer’s block, the painfully slow recovery of New Orleans and the need to break out, all spiced with the singular flavor of impotence.
Existential crises aside, Lex and I have steady jobs. Many we know, who returned to New Orleans soon after the Federal Flood and were simply happy to be home, aren’t as lucky. This time last year, a divey haunt turned into a palacial recreation room, every fleur-de-lis and manhole cover became a symbol of pride, each string of beads a pearl necklace fit for a queen, even our local paper became a celebrated slab from God. Money was spent in the hope of a better tomorrow … after Carnival 2006, after St. Patrick’s Day, after Jazzfest, after the summer, after the Katrina anniversary, after each football game, after Christmas. New Orleans will start to look up after after after after …
Days have turned into months and now a year, and these same people lament that they have lost so much money living here that they cannot leave. A close friend who works in the service industry says, “I would leave if I could, but I can’t so I stay. Besides, who else will have me? I don’t have the same connections, however dwindling, anywhere else.”
When a waiter, bartender, cleaning lady, shopkeeper or cab driver, how does one pay the ever-increasing rent, health insurance, cab fare and growing debt? It’s especially hard when you’ve lived in New Orleans for a good 20 or 30 years, or your whole life, and simply lack the physical, emotional, financial and psychological wherewithal to start over somewhere else. Then again, New Orleans is the land of misfit toys; it’s where many with large brains and brimming potential came to hide and sleep. Where else can they go?
This is what Lex and I try hard to combat as citizens of New Orleans. She and I adore the laissez-faire attitude, but also worship accomplishment. We help ourselves and the local population by being out and about in the parish’s music, food, people and air, writing and taking pictures of New Orleanians every day, every other week entertaining thoughts of where else in the world to live and trying to keep the aforementioned life quandary at bay. No, we are not Atlas and Bheema reincarnate to shoulder all of New Orleans’s, much less the world’s, burdens, nor do we pretend to be. As empathic beings, however, how can we not feel with the rest of our city and keep that enervation from permeating our own psyches? We can only do so much, and then some. As always, Craig Giesecke puts this best:
Ever since the population started returning and places started opening back up, just about everyone who’s been here and had an extra dollar to spend and brought friends/family to town has been working to spend it locally. That’s what it’s all about, right?
… The problem is we’ve passed the point of overload. There simply aren’t enough of us living here anymore to keep so many of the local icons up and running. The current population of Orleans Parish remains roughly half of what it was before the flood — and that means only so many people with only so much money buying only so many meals or making only so many other purchases in so many days. If we want a nice night out in the French Quarter and we go to Antoine’s — it means we’re not going to Galatoire’s. Or Tujague’s. Or Muriel’s. Next time we go out, we’ll hit one of the other places — but will all those other places still be around six months later when we can afford to go? Maybe. But the “maybe not” is now looming much larger than before.
New Orleans or not, 2006 going on 2007 or not, ultimately we are human beings on this planet. We put one foot in front of the other and do our best each day, even if the board game places us two steps back for each one forward and each of us is out $200 for simply being alive. As long as you keep doing, things will happen. “Everything comes to he who hustles while he waits.”
So, why am I still in New Orleans, with its sporadic mayor, police chief, progress and joie de vivre? For right now, it’s where I feel the most myself, the most American, the most meaningful. It’s where I see my aspects of this city, and ones I have yet to come across, to their rightful paths and let them fly from there. It’s where, to quote Mark, I have come home to try.
If we want a city that resembles the one of memory and desire, perhaps it is best if we are left to ourselves to build it. Give me enough people like Shearer, like the New Orleans bloggers listed at right and I believe we can do it: ourselves alone … Going it alone, with fair compensation from the government for the damage they caused, will be painful. Some will try and not make it, risk everything to return and rebuild or reopen, only to lose everything. If we must go it alone, this will certainly be a smaller city, and some will leave ruined and broken by the effort. Whether we are recalled as heroes or fools only history will tell, but I think I know the measure of those who have chosen to come home and try. There is no finer place to be an American today than in their company.
All I have to say about the passing of Gerald Ford is that I was born during his presidency. If that isn’t ignominious enough, I don’t know what is. What do I have to do to trade up to a Jefferson, FDR, Truman or Kennedy? Do any of you remember Ford’s quote that the Vietnam War “is finished as far as America is concerned?” He said that as part of a speech at the 1975 Tulane University graduation ceremony.
As a kid, I dreamed all year of our annual vacations, particularly about the flying part. Despite that my parents had taught me the world is an oblate spheroid, I liked to imagine various nations as two-dimensional planes that floated above and under one another, much like a 3D chess layout. The longer the plane was up in the air, the farther the plates from one another. No one has accused me of being unimaginative.
Now, flying is anathema to me. Recycled air, turbulence, heightened (often stupid) security, hauling luggage, delayed flights, no one to take care of my paperwork, carry me around and read me stories, you get the picture.
Unfortunately, a Packer fan who lives in New Orleans doesn’t get to stand in Lambeau Field and watch her team beat the Vikings 9-7 by not getting on a plane, or worse, a 20-hour car ride. Die, Vikings, die.
The light at the end of the airport tunnel, friends and D’s family showered me with Christmas gifts in the form of Packer paraphernalia. Let’s do a tally:
- A Packers nutcracker (Christmas nutcracker, that is)
- Green and yellow sweatshirt
- Packer voodoo doll (with tiny cheesehead)
- A thick, long-sleeved, dark-green GBP jersey
- A cheddar-yellow poncho with gigantic Packer G on front
- Sharon‘s limited-edition pink ABCD ball cap with Packer G
- Sharon’s limited-edition, all-stitched Reggie White jersey with NFL 75 patches and all lettering hand-sewn by the now-retired-from-the-Packers Mrs. Noel (D’s friend’s mom). All hail the Minister of Defense.
- a (token) Wisconsin Badgers hoodie
Now, I have everything but Packer sweatpants and winter coat. Hint, hint.
It feels almost sacrilegous to now own and wear Sharon’s most cherished football gear. The part of me that forgets she is physically no longer with us and talks about her using the present tense thinks, “Why do I have her stuff? Doesn’t she want it?” Then the knowledge sputters into my head that Sharon doesn’t need these things where she is, chatting with Curly Lambeau and Vince Lombardi over heavenly cheese curds and brandy old-fashioned sweets. We definitely can choose our friends. A peculiar world, isn’t it?
As my closet turns green and gold, I wish the Saints and their fans only the best. Finally, you know what it’s like to root for a winner. As for me, I get a team to heartily cheer on in January while preparing for Mardi Gras – what’s better than that? Besides, if the Packers don’t make it to the playoffs, better draft picks for us.
Also this: Bacon. It’s what’s for dinner. Go Bucky!
Early tomorrow morning, I leave for the Great Unwhite North, where I don the awaiting black snowsuit (consider it protection for my south-thinned blood) and head to the hallowed halls of football at Lambeau Field. It may just be Brett Favre’s last game in that stadium, in which case I will be present to bid my imaginary boyfriend a fond fare-thee-well.
Blogging is bound to be light when the non-existent DSL of northeastern Wisconsin, D’s family’s holiday food, Tom & Jerrys, good friends and old haunts are all a part of the same equation. This past year has been exciting and challenging, what with many of us returning home (yay!) to the ongoing and active love-hate relationship we enjoy with this city, and I’m glad to have travelled through it with many of you. If you are staying in town, please enjoy the great weather for me. Should your holidays take you elsewhere, be safe and take a lot of pictures. Like I do.
The Great Spirit Of O’Hare willing, I should be back here on the day after Christmas, to blog my little heart out about something or the other. Check back in, will you?
Until then, from the top of the Mississippi River to the bottom, Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah and A Cheerful Kwanzaa to all of you! Peace.
What is with the mass blogger (and extended family) exodus to India this holiday season? That’s nine people so far. Weird.
Speaking of things desi, ANNA recently emerged only marginally scathed from Mission: Lipstick. Her task was to test the new brown shade of NARS lipstick known simply as Hindu.
The high-end cosmetics company NARS has a new lipstick shade called Hindu…I wonder how a shade called Jew or Protestant would fare in the public eye? Is the idea that all Hindus have temptingly red lips? To be fair, there are also shades called Afghan Red and Gipsy. What do you think?
… I finally located a tester of it at Blue Mercury Apothecary (apothecary!) and made my way to my prey. Part of Nars’ Holiday ‘06 collection, “Hindu” had sold so well, it would take a month for me to procure one for the Mutiny. “Nars just didn’t make enough,” my source said, as they prepared the tester for germ-phobic me.
… When she was done with me, I was wearing a very brown lipstick with excellent texture, which reminded of a sheer version of Chanel’s “Very Vamp”. I expected redder tones, not the muted brown which I was studying.
Her final review of the product: “It’s way subtle. Not unpleasant, but not something I’d wear. It’s too quiet.”
ylrsings, an SM commenter, dashed off a note to NARS with the following thought in mind: “I didn’t see one lying around called Baptist.” The response?
We acknowledge receipt of your email concerning the NARS lipstick named “Hindu”. Please be assured that in no way is the use of the name intended to offend the Hindu religion, culture or people of India. We appreciate that you have shared your viewpoint with us and for taking the time to contact NARS.
I guess Episcopalian or Latter Day Saint is not as exotic as Hindu, but as another commenter said, “I am so over this exoticism nonsense.” Hindu implying brown, Shanghai implying red, etc. Honestly, I simply don’t care that this lipstick is called Hindu or that Lost Coast Brewery named one of their beers Ganesh. As I’ve said time and again, my concern lies instead with westerners going for the half-assed, urban-chic value of eastern iconography and Indians/Hindus latching onto the symbolism like there’s no tomorrow, when neither group wants to realize and protect the beautiful reality behind the icon.
In closing, if you’re going to borrow the terminology, can you not use it improperly? It makes me cringe. Case in point: this bottle of Bath & Body Works Sandalwood Rose body wash that stares at me from my shower caddy each day.
Say it with me, kids: Hindi is the language, Hindu is a follower of Hinduism.
The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and all time. – George Bernard Shaw
Siddhartha of Sepia Mutiny has penned another great piece, this time about the importance of “little” people in achieving the tipping point, whether by accident or conscious action. He uses the choices of Person Of The Year by Salon.com and TIME (more specifically, S. R. Sidarth a.k.a. George Allen’s Macaca) to illustrate this point, while I find his essay quite weighty and applicable in the context of us, the New Orleans bloggers.
It’s interesting to compare the interpretations that each of these outlets apply to Original Macaca. Salon, the established survivor of first-generation Web journalism, sees in [Sidarth] less the agent of a brave new world of representation than an embodiment of an America undergoing demographic and attitudinal change. Time, a behemoth of a pre-Internet era when The Press told The Public what to know and believe, now celebrates Sidarth as one of a non-organized army of little people upending the plans and certitudes of the great.
Both treatments have in common, however, that ultimately they are not about Sidarth – not the “real” Sidarth, biologically and spiritually unique, but what he seems through various filters. It was the year of You perceived and revealed, by your own doing and by that of others. That trend will continue, as attested by the fact that you read this blog, perhaps comment, perhaps have established an identity here and elsewhere on the Web.
[emphasis mine]
2006 really was the year that many New Orleanians became the newest identities in the growing digital democracy. This is not just from a Blogger, WordPress, TypePad, Flickr, LJ, MySpace, YouTube and Facebook perspective; they are mere tools and can limit us if viewed as the end. What I refer to is the emergence of a populace with the communication tools and skills to document, debate, analyze, broadcast and work towards something momentous, inflamed and of great impact – the recovery of an American city and its people from an all-but-complete program of federal abandonment and self-inflicted apathy.
My favorite example of the new digital New Orleans is Karen Gadbois, the one-woman administrator of Northwest Carrollton and various other projects. Not a computer or web geek, Karen has waded through cancer, a flooded home, unemployment and a continuing host of problems to make things happen in this city. Be it Walgreens, the City Council, UNOP, historic preservation or what-comes-next, she is a large reason Orleans Parish has any real say in its own redevelopment. People like Karen are technology in action, not fancy websites, taggers, communications setups and jargon-ridden forms and press releases. In other words, Karen is Web 2.0, not that other tinsel.
2007 cannot be the year we fade into obscurity, not with the strength in numbers and capability we’ve built since those horrible days in 2005. Many of us are tired of the fight and like Wang XiaoFeng, another one of TIME’s Yous Of The Year, don’t “have some big, catchall solution” and, like in China, “there’s nothing that can be done about a lot of things” here in southern Louisiana. Some things can happen, however, and one of them is sustained active citizen participation. If one Karen can do so much, think of the achievements of five, ten, twenty such people … and then multiply that by a hundred. This is why I call for the tide to rise again, but this time with less talk and more action. While many of us are involved in much around the city, together we can lobby and achieve more in the way of the positive.
Consider Edgar Allen;
He cannot write or read;
But he can tell you everything
The various nations need.
And there is Benny Blevitch,
Who goes into a trance
And tells you what his vision is
On money and finance
And yet of all the people
Nobody says, “I heard . . .”
For every one is talking,
And no one hears a word.
This morning, Blair sent me the above poem by Franklin P. Adams with these words attached, “That was in the Thirties. The web has not improved anything.” Initially annoyed by my friend’s take on the web – so much has been achieved because of this technology, and the occasional rant into the ether is quite therapeutic, even if no one is listening – I simmered down when I considered that everyone, especially a New Orleanian, loves to opine, but we have to go farther than doing it with the help of a new toy. Even I love the sound of my own keyboard staccato, but it’s useless in the face of not having achieved more and more everyday. It’s not the sound of survivor’s guilt when I say that my words are nothing in the face of this ongoing tragedy. For, as Fu Yu Ling once said, “If what you did yesterday still seems big today, then your goals for tomorrow aren’t big enough.”
With a new year comes a new round-numbered resolve. With it, let’s go forth and teach New Orleans (and ourselves) how to fish.
The following ISECOM piece is the funniest thing I’ve read in a while. Even though it’s mostly about hardware and networking, I feel the pain (after having dealt with various sys admins and developers, and being a debugger, over the past few days).
2 and 4 are my favorites. Hahahahaaa!