Had a story accepted by Bayou Magazine. So excited! I'll share more as the publication date approaches.
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I ran into a neighbor today on my walk to my work space. Her pit bull Pickles is a sweetheart and as I gave skritches, my neighbor exclaimed, You look great! Did you lose a lot of weight?
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I haven't, recently, but this has been my life forever.
In memories, I'm big. In person, I'm small.
This is probably the longest I've gone without a blog update. It's been a tough time. I'm here, for what it's worth. Trying to get back to me.
There's a recall effort underway for the Louisiana governor. https://www.fox8live.com/video/2026/05/11/supporters-gather-government-plaza-recall-petition-targets-gov-jeff-landry/
The bar seems high -- 800, 000 signatures? -- but enthusiasm is running high also, so -- who knows?
A dear friend, born and raised in New Orleans, remembers Jim Crow well. It wasn't that long ago. She remembers being put off the city bus to accommodate white passengers, the long walk from Canal Street in her best dress and gloves, all the way back Uptown.
Her first communion, when she, a thirsty six-year-old, drank from the Whites Only fountain because it had cold water. She watched her grandmother thrown to the ground and handcuffed for allowing it. Neither spoke of it for decades, trauma compounded upon trauma.
Three of the New Orleans Four are still alive! They ride in parades; Leona Tate started the TEP Center as a way to remember and continue the work.
We cannot, we will not, go back.
Anytime I’m at a loss for what to listen to, the “Insecure” soundtracks bring me joy. I’ve been trying to get into the Coachella 2026 artists but issnotworking. At all. For me.
There’s a national pirate gathering in New Orleans this weekend. I ran into a couple dressed in pirate finery early Thursday morning. Ahoy! I called cheerfully, and they looked confusedly back at me, eventually muttering, Ahoy. The pirates roaming the quarter yesterday were exponentially friendlier (and probably drunker), and as I was walking along Royal Street I overheard one interacting with a street band playing Radiohead’s “Creep.” A fine and funny way to pass a gloriously cool Friday evening.
Walking home Easter night, it had rained most of the day and yet three parades rolled, the Pigeon Steppers second lined and people in fancy hats and sherbet-colored pants roamed the streets. I heard at least three different bands playing in the cool mist including a DJ absorbed in an electronic soundtrack.
It was a vibe.
Let me come back to some joy.
It’s been a weekend of events. A new friend’s birthday lunch and pause for a bridal second line. A protest and march. Danny Barker Festival set up and an afternoon enjoying music and vegan food at the Congo Square Rhythm Festival. Sitting under a tent in the balmy afternoon, listening to two tired baby dolls recount their stage introductions of the high school bands as music filtered through the air, it was as pleasant a day as anyone could wish. On the way home, the Italian-American parade, with dance troupes and beauties on floats.
I will say the Hurricane Katrina, 20+ years later, is still a constant topic of conversation. A wound, not a scar. After talking about the mental health and economic issues left in the hurricane’s wake, new friend Andrea advised me to look at YouTube videos recorded by survivors.
I’m just getting started.
I remember going to a protest during the Iraq war and a speaker, an elder in a wheelchair, said, These are terrible times. And I was taken aback. I was mad about the war, feeling disenfranchised and frustrated, but overall my life wasn't affected that much.
Did I take the time to consider the bigger picture?
Not really.
During the 2020 protests I lived right in the middle of CHAZ, then CHOP, saw neighbors get beat up and MAGAs run around the local park with weapons. I realized far too late that my little cocoon of skin color and money and education needed to burst. I needed to educate myself. To listen and read and learn. To decolonize what I was reading, my movie and TV watching, to listen to friends and co-workers who have long experienced harassment, brutality, micro-aggressions.
As we get squeezed and the misogyny is normalized and enshrined in state and local and even federal laws, my instinct is as always to get the fuck out. Go live in a big blue city in a big blue or purple state, to surround myself with like-minded folks. To take advantage of the yes-I'll-say-it privilege I have to take my toys and go--home?
It's been a lot of change lately. I moved from an apartment I loved to one I flat out hate. Had health scares. Relationship frustrations. Felt alone and uncared for. My friends and my sisters have listened, reached out, tried to help.
Where is the line between existential despair and privileged frustration? I don't know. I'm trying to feed my soul with music and nature and beauty and connection, to do what I can and rest when I can. And know when I can't carry the burden any longer.
During my first extended stay in New Orleans, I read an article about then-mayor Cantrell noting that she was not born-and-raised. I think she'd lived in the area for 18 years and was still looked at as an outsider.
That should tell you something about how insular the communities are.
Despite my growing affinity for grits or how many boil-water advisories I've endured, I know I'll always be considered a Northerner, an outsider.
So it was an honor to be asked to support the N'Awlins Dawlins baby dolls on Mardi Gras Day this year. They were to strut from the newly-refurbished Dew Drop Inn around 11am and so the call went out: arrive by 9am. I put on my sequin jacket and comfortable shoes and headed out early to catch the beginning of the Zulu parade on Jackson Street.
Then I walked along Lasalle, among the growing clusters of full-on BBQ set ups, canopies with smokers and grills, music blaring, sleepy-eyed kids in their striped Mardi Gras finery. The baby doll queen hollered at me from a porch, where she was helping pour drinks. And so the day began.
We focused on setup first, pans of dirty rice and fried chicken on Sternos, then inflating blue and silver balloons to festoon the MG Indian headquarters. Then we hurried to the Dew Drop, where the ladies were getting dressed in their pale blue and silver finery. I helped out with safety pins and bobby pins, hunting down lip gloss and fussing over bows. The grand marshal's custom-made cape needed a bigger pin. And the mimosa glasses always needed refilling.
Eventually everyone was ready and headed out to the stage for photos. The brass band began to play and I stationed myself outside the door, waving at doorman Ace, to video the strut. The baby dolls were so joyous and beautiful, with a little doll baby and her brother joining in the with their own finery and smiles. I followed along, taking photos, holding purses and water bottles and enjoying the gorgeous carnival day.
I'm no winter Olympics fan but watching Alyssa Liu skate felt different. Joyous. Airy. Like an artistic performance. The Laufey soundtrack was icing on the cake.
What a conundrum for a writer.
So much to say and yet I can't get any words out.
I'm overwhelmed.
Tired.
My inner critic shuts me down, the nasty little voice that says You don't deserve help, the one that hisses Suck it up sister.
I long to be comforted, to be told it'll all be okay, and I want to believe, I truly do. It's just getting harder and harder to lie to myself.
Gosh it's confusing times.
The courage of my fellow citizens in the face of state violence is humbling and inspiring. At a recent protest I joined other marchers, chanting and holding signs, and felt a frisson of fear when the black SUVs began circling, smoked-out windows rolling down to reveal a camera filming. And we were on a relatively calm street in a small city. We're not being tear-gassed or pepper-sprayed or kettled, herded into vehicles and snatched away from our homes and friends.
The way people are taking care of each other. Buying groceries. Watching school bus stops. Filming. At great risk to their own safety. This is the America I want to live in. Because the one I foolishly thought I lived in didn't ever really exist I don't think, except for the privileged few.
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When I traveled more, in Asia and east Africa, the conversation with teachers and waiters and the taxi driver mad I'm going shopping on Sunday morning instead of to church--talk invariably turned to religion. I believe in people, I always said. It's still true.
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There is other news.
My poem "Dadless" was nominated for a Pushcart. Thank you thank you Metaworker, for believing in me.
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And I served as a parade escort for the glorious nerd-loving chaos that is Chewbacchus. An unbelievably rainy afternoon gave way to a foggy evening, perfect for the contraptions and krewes to celebrate rebellion and carnival.
Three years into this adventure, I walked in my first Mardi Gras parade. I signed up as a volunteer foot soldier in the Joan of Arc parade. This parade kicks off carnival season, aka Twelfth Night, aka the first day of king cake, and is a beautiful, moody walking parade through the historic French Quarter.
My partner and I were assigned flame costumes—arm and leg wraps decorated in sequined orange and yellow. We carried the banner “Burned,” part of the parade’s narrative (“Called,” “Judged,” “Legacy”) about Jeanne d’Arc’s brief and courageous life.
After a quick stop at the Jazz Museum to admire everyone's costumes, we arrived to line up about 6pm for a 7.30pm start. Bagpipers were playing in the parking lot. It was a warm evening, in the 70’s and humid, but folks were dressed festively and milling around, good-naturedly guiding everyone to their costumes and gear. We said hello to King Greg (all hail), killing time in between two cars with his phone, then a friend held the banner saying, “I am not afraid.” After checking in, finding another friend, and getting our wristbands, we gathered our gear and lined up.
There is a lot of waiting, and standing around. This is parades.
It was a chance to chat, look around at the costumes and listen to bands practicing, to meet new friends and enjoy a balmy, beautiful evening, the CCC bridge lit up in Mardi Gras green, purple and yellow.
Eventually it was 7.30 and we rolled, the director Antoinette walking the lineup to make adjustments (we were somehow missing a tunic but oh well).
The Jazz Museum folks looked great in their blue cloaks, accompanying King Greg.
When you’re in a parade you don’t get to watch it; but it was awe inspiring to walk the city streets, each sidewalk lined with eager viewers. We were not the main attraction so it was fun to watch the excitement over the gorgeous costumes and clever signs and images; one of the drumming judges ahead of us, a tall, dour-looking man in a white wig and black robe, periodically pointed a bony finger at a woman in the crowd and cried loudly, “She’s a witch!” or “Blasphemer,” super dramatically, and mostly folks laughed and went along with the bit. He always handed them a throw, and then stalked along looking for his next victim.
We got photographed, good-naturedly yelled at (“Burn the witch!” “Noooo!”), twerked and stunted on. I met Michelle, a bartender in the Quarter, who carried the banner behind us; and Kate, a red-haired Heretic.
At the end we un-costumed and headed to the museum for the Hot 8 Brass band, a Hi-Do king cake, and another 90 minutes of good times.
Walking near the French Quarter last week, I took notice of an idling sedan with smoked out windows and blue flashing lights. Be brave, I told myself, and kept walking toward it. After I passed, trying in vain to peer inside, a trio of construction workers followed me. Is it ice, one asked? Naw, the other said. That car's out of Baton Rouge. It's here all the time.
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A restaurant in the quarter keeps its doors locked now. Next to the doorbell, a sign: We're here, we'll be with you shortly!
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A friend's job saw many staff suddenly stay home due to the random sweeps. The friend has been working to cover shifts, and the supervisor is making sure those at home have food and money.
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At the gym, a guy mentions he's a contractor and has put up "Private Property" signs all around the work site. I park my truck out front, and if anyone comes by I tell them they all have papers, and to keep it pushing.
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Many friends who speak English as a second language no longer feel safe speaking their first language in public, and this includes Europeans.
Working a gala last night, among the daily horrors.
I was tasked with finding out where the second line would start.
Unsuccessful despite polling all the organizers, I returned to the models' dressing room and reported No one knows. A tall guy cackled. That's New Orleans right there. We operate on vibes, not efficiency.
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| N'awlins D'awlins baby dolls |
It hasn't all been yelling and police visits, I promise.
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On Sunday I was walking home from dropping off my bike (flat rear tire). Stepping into the street to avoid some scaffolding propping up a listing house, I saw a woman also in the street holding a bakery box, some bread, and the leash to a panting little bulldog. Go ahead, she said, he's not moving.
We chatted, and I learned Wendell the dog had grown tired in the muggy heat and refused to walk the remaining four blocks home. He just lay in the cool dirt, panting. I offered to carry the bakery box because the woman said she was just the dog walker and couldn't carry both Wendell and her chocolate-peanut butter cake.
So Siobhan, Wendell and I proceeded down a few sunny blocks to his house. He dog-smiled at me over her shoulder, happy to have a ride. We made a pit stop at the church to see if he'd walk but all he would do was roll around, delirious, in the grass.
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Near the library yesterday I was in the crosswalk with two other pedestrians when a Jeep roared up around a corner, tipping on its wheels. A brief moment of panic and the driver fortunately stood on the brakes. We had some pedestrian solidarity, shaking our heads at her recklessness. Another woman stepped onto the sidewalk from the opposite direction. Did y'all see that wreck? she said, breathless. We thought she meant the Jeep but there was another crash directly across the street, and if she hadn't hesitated she would have been hit. Be safe, we said to each other, and went our separate ways.
I went to the post office, where the key in my PO box, meant to open a package locker, instead twisted uselessly. I tried all the techniques, but no. So I got in line, between two women waiting at the counter, and a very young man absorbed in his phone. Minutes passed. Eight. Ten. A guy got in line behind me. I asked him to hold my place and I went back to try the key again. Nope. I came back. Is anyone working here, he said, and I said I'd briefly seen a clerk when I came in but not since.
He'd gotten a notification from Amazon, he said, that his package had a failed attempted delivery at 1pm. But it was only 11 a.m. We traded looks. It was a re-order of a previous package that had had many "in progress" statuses but then never materialized. It's a whole Italian ham, he said, stretching out his arms. A whole pig's leg. I gave up, to go retrieve my rental bike, wondering if he ever would get his ham.
Today I walked home from the post office, after successfully retrieving my package (the postal clerk scowled suspiciously when I told her the key did NOT work, but she eventually went and got my delivery). A big dog barked behind a metal screen door as I passed. An older woman approached in the street. Did that dog bark at you? I nodded. She was scared of it, she said. It barked a lot.
Do you want me to walk with you? She nodded again. So I walked back up the street with her. The house door was mostly closed now. The dog didn't bark. She said she'd been bitten as a six-year-old.
You're traumatized, I said and she said yes. Then she climbed onto her porch and went inside her house.
Things got worse, then got oddly quiet.
The afternoon of my previous post, my property manager told me S had gone into the restaurant and threatened some patrons. He was clearly on edge, maybe more so after repeated cop visits? Was I making things worse by calling them out?
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Then on Monday, my partner and I were leaving quite early in the morning for an urgent care appointment. He's out there, B said when he came in, and so we went out the back door of my building.
Unfortunately, S came around the back also, already yelling at 7.30am.
I was done. Beyond done. So tired of hearing his voice, the yelling, the slurs, the anger. It was a bad moment as we fumbled out the gate, surprised, confused, and I snapped, exasperated, Will you just shut the fuck up.
It was like dropping a lit match on a gas can. S erupted, shouting You shut the fuck up I'm going to kill you I'm going to...
My partner got in the mix, yelling at him to shut up, to stop showing his penis, etc etc.
They lunged at each other.
Go on, call the cops, S screamed, so I did, trying to explain the situation and restrain B and get away from S. Neighbors came out on their porches. A passing dog walker advised me to just leave the guy alone, he's nuts (Thanks white dude.) S retreated, then approached again, holding his dirty blanket, angry and screaming, B screaming. We somehow retreated down the street to try and get to the doctor's visit, upset and scared.
The old people neighbors had yelled You sound like a big baby and B couldn't decide if they meant him or S.
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I came home later, cautious, pepper spray in hand. No S.
The following day, same cautious approach, no S. A neighbor told me the cops came eventually on Monday morning but S had calmed down by then, so they didn't take him in. No word from the homeless advocates I was emailing with. S was just -- gone.
I've seen the woman I think is S's sister around the neighborhood, at a po-boy place and a local bar. I haven't had the courage to approach her.
I've looked at some apartments, including one really cool one across town, but my property manager won't release me early from my lease, unless I move into another one of their buildings (jerks).
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At a gay bar the next neighborhood over, I asked our favorite bartender who also lives near me, a gentle, soft-spoken soul, if he knew the guy. Oh yeah, W said. He comes in for water sometimes. One time I was out for a walk in the neighborhood and went past him twice and he yelled Hey f***t, get a girlfriend.
And you still give him water, my friend marveled.
Well, yeah, W said, sheepish.
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.
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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.
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.
