there are no answers

It all continues and nothing changes.The man continues to hover on the block. Thursday he lay in the restaurant doorway screaming as patrons stepped over him. I called, my property manager called, finally an officer came out, phoned me, said "Oh someone's flagging me down about him," and when I went back down later, he was gone, cited for trespassing.

Friday night I returned home with my bike and the man was screaming, pacing rapidly up and down the sidewalk.

It was a game of dodge-em to get myself safely inside.

My property manager A has been helpful and empathetic and doing her best but ultimately is powerless.

*

Officer Lewis came out today about 8.20am. I’d exited my building to see the man sitting wrapped in a blanket on the porch of the Airbnb next door. I called 311 and the officer was pretty snotty when she first arrived. Couldn’t find the police report, said he wasn’t breaking any laws, the homeowner would have to complain. Meanwhile he sat and stared sullenly across the street at me standing outside the cop car.

I went inside to get my hard copy of the report and when I came back, he was gone.

She looked it up, said it was entered as trespassing not indecent exposure. Then she said, "Oh he’s gone?" (quelle surprise)

I’m annoyed, tired of explaining over and over what’s happened. Tired of feeling like I’m the one to blame. Meanwhile church goers are arriving, setting up coffee and pastries outside, the work crew nearby (Spanish speakers all) looking uneasy.

My neighbor walked up, coffee in hand. Now the officer addressed him. (Yay sexism)

She said the man's name is Shawn, he’s well known for vandalism, exposing himself, screaming and harassing. The coffee shop around the corner has dealt with him, a bar had its window broken out. He was on the next street over for awhile. His sister lives in the neighborhood, feeds and houses him sometimes, but he cusses her out and leaves. He’s been hospitalized.

So again there are no good solutions. S. doesn’t want help and is crafty enough to elude the cops and any long lasting treatment or penalties. The officer said he’s been arrested before but then they get complaints about the police harassing homeless people.

I'm trying to live my values, of compassion and not harming anyone, but what do I do when I feel so unsafe?

I'm trying to be brave, and patient.

But this man S. refuses help. He harasses, assaults, and craftily runs away.

I want there to be a record

I don't want to end up stabbed, assaulted, dead.  

assault and the pervasive silence

I experienced assault this week.
Physically I'm OK, psychologically not so much.
The assaulter, let's call him Willy, is an unhoused person who hangs around my apartment building.
Beyond the houselessness--he sleeps and lolls in nearby a restaurant doorway--Willy is a screamer. For months he's roamed the neighborhood, yelling about killing people, slitting throats, murdering all the white people. The restaurant doesn't do anything, so sometimes their well-heeled patrons literally step over him to get inside.
Other times he'll be smiley, wishing you a nice day. It's a shit-eating grin that I don't trust for one second.

A few days ago he pulled down his crusty old sweatpants and displayed his admittedly sad and pathetic dick. Made eye contact with me as if to be sure I got a good long look. Shocked, I hurried away to run my errand.

My next instinct was anger. Fuck that guy. I wanted to beat the shit out of him with my baseball bat. I texted a neighbor. Then called my apartment's emergency line. Call the police, they said.

I hesitated. Willy is a black man in America. I know what happens. And I also know I want to feel safe going in and out of my home. Eventually I called the non-emergency police number. He needs mental health treatment, I said, but they only sent a cop, a couple hours later.

Officer L took my report, said the neighborhood softies obviously had made it too comfortable for Willy. I don't disagree but he was pretty callous. By this time one of the apartment managers was on site so I talked with her too.

Three days later, not much has changed. I exited my building this morning to see him waddling up my street, looking around and then going into the port potty by a building under construction. I made the calls, police, apartment, but what will change?

The other interesting part of this is the reactions. Some acquaintances laughed it off. You should point and chuckle. You should kick him in the throat. You should...

Others are properly shocked or angry or both.

One called me to listen and talk. Like many of my women friends, she has also experienced assault. 
Many of us have gone through much worse than this. A sad reality.

One friend didn't respond at all. Like it never happened. Which feels kind of like the cops and my apartment managers. Waiting for it or me to go away, to be quiet, to stop complaining. I'm not sure how much energy I have for this fight.

don't F with psych 210

 

clips of the nazi at University of Washington

horses uncover a spy and other lols

 heh

 

**

 

 **

complete (COMPLETE I say) failures in the kitchen 

our hearts are with beautiful Chicago

 

                                                                Chicago, September 2025

the day my wallet made it home before I did

The other day I went out to run a quick errand before work.
A pleasant morning, got my errand done, left the store and saw the bus I hoped to catch approaching the corner 1/2 block away.
Never run for the bus, a friend always told me, but I ran, caught it and paid my $1.25 fare. As I sank into a seat, enjoying the air-conditioned blast, I looked down and saw my bag gaping open.
Minus my cute pink wallet.

***

Break for panic, a quick search of my shopping bag, cursing, jumping off the bus, running full out 2 blocks back to where I boarded.

***

Now I remembered hearing a horn honk as I ran for the bus. Did someone see my wallet fall out?
I retraced my steps once, twice, went into each neighboring business, asked at a taco truck, a tire shop, a gas station.
A panhandler on the corner said he hadn't seen anything. You just paid for a whole lot of day drinking.
Where's my karma, I despaired. I've returned countless IDs and whole wallets over the years.
Then my phone rang. My front door, someone trying to get in my building.
As I pushed Decline, it hit me: maybe someone saw the fortunately correct address on my license and was bringing me my wallet!

***

Break for panicked waiting, please call back please call back.

***
Another call. My front door again.
Hello, I have your wallet?
Yes!
However, I was a long bus ride from home and even a fast Lyft would take 15 minutes.
The call kept dropping. I yelled out my cell phone #.
The good samaritan called me. Brittany, she said. A 504 number. She agreed she'd leave the wallet in a planter.
I'm so grateful, I'd like to pay for your gas or something, I said, and the call ended abruptly.
I got in the Lyft, tried calling her back. Again and again. The call didn't even ring. She blocked me!?

***

Break for panicked riding, calling my bank, calling the good samaritan, and my partner, who was now inside the building and saw no wallet.

***

At my building, leapt from the Lyft and ransacked the planters.
There it was, my wallet in the dirt, ID and credit card and debit card all still there.
And zero cash.
All gone, including a quarter for the bus. 

***

The adrenaline rush left me exhausted. 
I was mad, at myself for being careless. 
At Brittany for cleaning me out.
I asked a kind neighbor to do a reverse look-up on the number and she found a little information, but in the end what did it matter who Brittany was or wasn't?
In a world full of me-firsts a stranger drove across town to return the important things, the stuff that's hard to replace.

*

Good people exist, I guess. But as always, it's complicated.

K20: day 2 at Louis Armstrong Park

My second day helping out at the K20 event was busier. Back at the info tent, the rain had stopped and the crowds began to flow into the park. A different krewe of volunteers so I made my introductions again. (I flubbed names and still feel like an idiot.)

One talkative lady wore Tulane socks, Ms Roseanne, a history professor. We talked about the need for more research and work in environmentalism. I’m a transplant, she said, but she’s been here 30 years. (My 3 were waved off. Unremarkable.)

I handed out meal tickets with Roger, a calm soft-spoken young man, who along with the professor, talked of having older parents and how that informs your outlook on life.

We gave away t-shirts including to a group of 4 aunties who’d asked for them the day before.

And when the t-shirts and meal tickets ran out, we handed out bandannas. Ayu bakery cookies. Water bottles.

Some folks, including an older white man, came again and again, staying to chat. They didn’t want to be alone, I think. Some charged phones.

I saw Megan, director of OBONO, her children performing with Congo Kids. They’d been at the levee Friday too. I’m glad I’ve been so busy, she confided. No time to break down.

Timothy came by, the lovely soul from Friday. He’d taken a 4-hour nap, exhausted from Friday. He’d been at the mayor’s event at Gallier Hall, had met General Honore. When I asked how it was, he said, I listened to what he had to say. When you’re in the presence of so much wisdom, that is what you do.

A vision in crisp white, Miss Brenda (I think, I know her from museum shows) walked through, having also just left the mayor’s event. She talked about caring for 300 S&WB workers through the storm and aftermath.

Then a distraught woman: she’d set her phone down on the sanitation station and when she emerged from the port-a-potty, it was gone. We called, texted, walked around: no phone. :(

A man asked for a meal ticket and when Roger explained we were out, to try again tomorrow, the man said angrily, sounds just like Katrina. You brought me right back to Katrina, y’all. He stomped off. Roger said it didn’t bother him but I think it did. People can be so nasty about free things.

As the afternoon wound down, I ate curried vegetables and rice, watched Big Chief Brian & Nouveau Bounce and his performers (shake that booty like a tambourine) on Congo Square, listened to Roger’s raptures about Disney World, the amenities as you wait in line, his joy in the experience.

*

We missed Al Gore, my neighbor texted me. Apparently he’d been at the levee and other events. I’d wanted to go over to where the crowds were Friday but she wanted to go. Also, we had our experiences. We held space for the day.

We didn’t miss anything, I don’t think.

K20: a transplant’s experience

I wasn’t in New Orleans for Katrina. On August 29, 2005 I was sitting on my couch watching the news of the storm, first in disbelief, and as the days passed, in horror and anger.

I hated how New Orleaneans, the citizens of America’s national treasure, were stripped of their dignity. Treated like enemies, threats, burdens, when all most were trying to do was not drown.

I saw how ordinary people cared for each other, the Cajun Navy and random folks with boats went out every day to rescue their neighbors. (And I saw how the State, including the federal government, demonized and harmed them.)

*

I live here now. The scars are evident. The Katrina crosses still visible on some houses. The stories, the pain barely concealed.

Many friends said they wouldn’t observe the 20th anniversary, were trying not to think about it, didn’t know. I hoped to support where I could, to make space for grief however it surfaced.

*

My neighbor picked me up around noon to go to the Industrial Canal, where the levy near Jourdan St breached 20 years ago, allowing 15 or 18 feet of water to roar through a residential neighborhood. The wall has been repaired and B Mike Odum’s Eternal Seeds have added colorful, poignant murals. There were speakers, some dancing, some singing, many somber faces.

She wanted to head out so we drove around the Lower 9, looking at the shameful Brad Pitt Make it Right houses, already fallen into disrepair, and then other well kept structures, and the many, many empty lots, some with skeletons of foundations, many overgrown with trees and brush.

After a stop at gorgeous organic market and a detour around the departing second line, I went to Armstrong Park and worked the info tent for the K20 city project. It rained most of the afternoon, and attendance was light.

I met Jeremy Oatis, the suit maker behind Resist and Remembrance: Display of Masking Indian Suits (Original Wild Tchoupitoulas).

A distraught man who talked about being flooded out of his house on Tennessee Street near the levee, voice breaking as he recalled not being able to save his godson and another child from the water. I can’t forgive myself, he said in despair. One of the volunteers, Ellyn, comforted him until he was able to go get some food. I needed to talk to y’all, he said.

The twenty-something son of another volunteer Willa sat with us, eating greens and talking softly and sweetly about growing up in Georgia, moving to New Orleans at age 8, then evacuating during the storm. We aimed for Houston but we only made it to Baton Rouge, he said. They were so kind, low key giving me clothes and food when I needed anything.

The healing dancers came by the tent. A flock of City Year teens in their red shirts, begging for a t-shirt or a bandanna. Tourists. Strays from Southern Decadence.

There was food truck drama when they stopped taking meal tickets. Then the bathrooms shut down. Volunteers stopped by to chat, kids playing with bubbles or jumping around. Willa’s granddaughter shares my name so I admired pictures of a sassy 8 year old.

I went to watch Gladney play his last few songs, he’s a Grammy-winning performer who was friends with Timothy and brought joy to Congo Square (I’d seen him perform at Jazz Fest!). I said goodbye to Timothy and left around six p.m., tired and contemplative.

the new me is the old me

As confused as ever and still finding joy.

Trading shade with a fashion director, and laughing at her meme-able expression.
Discovering new opportunities at a neighborhood salvage yard. (Old stuff! New stuff! Free stuff!)
Writing and talking about writing at a comfortable cafe with writer pals, frozen fruit drinks and a persistent, elderly cat.
Nervously anticipating a friend's second line.
Phone calls with family and a friend, laughing and listening and commiserating and catching up.

As always though, the darkness hovers. It's a constant companion.

when I'm feeling low these icons comfort me

 

 

 

why can’t I stop, or the eternal writing of this memoir

When we all went home in 2020, I started working on a memoir.

To get started, I dug through old journals and realized I’d documented much of my teen years, in great detail. The confusion of puberty, my longings for the future, worries about God and page after page of swooning over hot guys I no longer remember.

Five years and a full-on draft and a dozen rejections later, I’m embarking on a huge edit.

It’s necessary I think but I also think I’m somehow reluctant to be done.

To leave this space.

There’s something about staying in here in this time when my sisters and I were teenagers. When we were close, when all we had was each other. We went really hard things together. Poverty, deprivation and abuse and hilarity, a father’s rages and a mother’s near-fatal illness. It’s like I think I can change the outcome somehow if I stay.

I know I can’t. That would be silly. Unrealistic.

But if I stay, if I continue to be patient, I can figure some things out, maybe.

Maybe.

to from

From a recent trip.

>>to Seattle

 

>>from Seattle

 

don't ever change

Visiting a place where I lived for thirty years feels strange, now.

Coming from the humid Gulf South, Seattle seems so clean, bursting with greenery and efficiency.

Gas is five dollars a gallon.

You don’t have to talk to anyone to do most things like order coffee or buy a $7.99 dress at the thrift store. Even so I talk to clerks and security guards and homeless people and feel gaudy and garrulous and slow.

Don’t ever change, a co-worker crows. You’ve always been just yourself.

You’re such an eccentric, a Southern friend comments, looking at my caftan-y dress and sneakers.

*

My sisters planned a week’s worth of events but I only made it to one-point-five-ish.

After rising at four a.m., flying for 4.5 hours, jumping a dead car battery and sitting in hot traffic for hours, we sat on a porch politely catching up and swatting flies off chunks of juicy watermelon.

We had an enjoyable but subdued Fourth, playing bocce with a restless eight year old, eating veggie dogs and s’mores, and lighting $150 worth of fireworks amid Gen Z diffidence (“that one was mid”).

Then a chaotic brunch, glorious hours on a houseboat and wistful goodbyes.

*

Relief and regret.

How I mostly feel these days.

this is courage

Not hyper macho body armored muscle queens laden with weapons.

But.

People. Americans of all sorts. Showing up all day for the mundane and the glorious. 

First, at a non-regulation polling site at 8.30am on a Saturday, to find like minded neighbors already in line. A grumpy blond woman in her jammies. A harried couple with their child, half-costumed for the No Kings march. Millenials en route to brunch. All of us trying to weigh in despite little information and limited ballots.

Then thousands gathering in oppressive Louisianan heat, humidity and a blistering sun, from elderly veterans to pre-gaming gays and parents with sweaty kids, holding handmade signs, some in costume, exercising the right to free speech and having a say.

And later, Pride, onlookers and dancers and performers damp from the passing thunderstorms, decked out in glitter and rainbows to celebrate our beloved gay friends and families. A visitor from Arizona excitedly scooping up beads to take home to her kids. A white-haired woman in a leotard, lip-syncing to George Michael's "Freedom", her krewe dancing in the street around her. Glitter gays diffidently texting from their float. It's chaos and joy and I love it.

 

* 

To those who criticize, I wonder about motivations. It's personal for me. I show up because I want to (have you BEEN to a protest or a parade?! the joy and solidarity and camaraderie are <<chef's kiss>>). I show up to be counted. To feel less alone. For those who can't because of work or mobility or exhaustion or fear. I'm not brave. Just determined.