in these dark times

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.  

a mardi gras day for the ages

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.

Laufey + Liu = :)

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.

so much to say and yet I'm silent

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.

the things that are happening here and everywhere

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. 

* 

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.  

*

There is other news.

My poem "Dadless" was nominated for a Pushcart. Thank you thank you Metaworker, for believing in me.

 

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. 

walking in my first mardi gras parade

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.

the things that are happening here

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.

*

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!

*

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.

*

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.

*

Many friends who speak English as a second language no longer feel safe speaking their first language in public, and this includes Europeans.