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.
