believe in yourself like someone who loves you

 

New Orleans' own Maurice Carlos Ruffin: believe in yourself like someone who loves you.

volunteer lyfe #2

One of the joys of volunteering is, it’s never the same experience twice.

I arrived early for my final festival shift, hustling to get out of the rain before the sandy track turned muddy. My driver wore a fresh white track suit, sparkly sunglasses, chic boots and a crisp hat. She had drinks and snacks close at hand (my misophonia brain quailed) and as we joined the queue, proceeded to give me a PhD-level class in people management.

Direct report #1 was me. When I said hi to an acquaintance and offered to stow their bag, she scolded me (never touch their things). After I took pity on a rain-drenched trio and asked if they were headed to a stage, she scolded me again (that’s not our job).

We chauffeured little kids and brass bands, tipsy hangers-on, a handsome bass player late for the stage and a host of beautifully-costumed singers and performers. I saw her deftly manage thirsty men, bossy folks, and head off inappropriateness with a comment or a smile. In between we developed a running commentary on life, men, travel, jobs and the festival. By the end of my shift, she was gently ribbing me, grabbing my elbow. Don’t leave me, both of us cracking up.

In the end, we said affectionate goodbyes, and as I signed out, the supervisor handed me extra snacks, dished about online shopping and their Barbie obsession, even gave me a hug. And I made peace with a frenemy from the spring.

It’s interesting how you go somewhere for one thing (volunteering! free music!) and end up with new and mended relationships, a cool t-shirt, and hope for next year.

Mother’s Day is a toughie.

 

Mom has been gone for twenty years and I still feel her absence so deeply, still think of her almost every day, trying to remember her voice, seeing her in my reflection in the mirror more and more, the lines parenthesizing my lips and my turkey wattle neck, the need to stuff my cankles into ankle socks with sneakers and confide in grocery store clerks.

It’s complicated though because she wasn’t very kind to me for the first quarter century of my life. She was a fundamentalist pastor’s wife and godliness and obedience were of utmost importance in our household. Her hand and her touch brought pain much more often than tenderness. Then a fluke brain aneurysm wiped away her meanness and cleared her memory banks. We were gifted a little over a decade with a mother whose emotions ran close to the surface, who cried easily and laughed and smiled a lot and forgot she’d ever been cruel.

I wish sometimes we’d had more time with the good Mom, had longer to laugh and cry together and settle into a relationship that felt easier and more normal.

But we didn’t.

Life is cruel too, and I laugh and cry now with my sisters, or sometimes just alone.

volunteer lyfe

festing

It’s Festing Weekend #1 and I spent Friday and Saturday volunteering. I love the behind-the-scenes experience, plus you get a free ticket.

Win/win, I say, until I arrive on time for my 10.30am shift Friday and realize there are waaay more volunteers than shuttles.

We the unchosen sit under a canopy out of the already-blazing sun and wait, the supervisor signing time cards and murmuring into her walkie-talkie. Then she pulls up a van: get in, guys, I’m going to have to reassign you.

I’ve been to this show before, at a previous fest where I signed up as a floater and the only jobs left were picking up trash (optimistically monikered The Green Team) or taking surveys (asking drunk geezers their ages and annual income). I said a hard no to both and ended up running orders at the merch tent, sweating through my volunteer t-shirt trying to find double-XL’s in the teal, no the teal, not the green, the TEAL.

Back to Friday. We were given hi-visibility vests and earplugs and sent off to usher. Another woman and I agreed to partner up at the Blues tent, to give each other breaks and look out for weirdos. It was a long four hours on our feet, asking lingerers to stay out of the fire zone. As the day got hotter and festers got drunker, they got nastier, and by the end of our shift we basically picked up our shit and fled.

I did hear some amazing music though, including D.K. Harrell who I hope to hear again.

*

Saturday I got my ass out the door bright and early, hopped over a stopped freight train (don’t ask), walked and biked my way up to arrive 30 minutes early, to find some of the older volunteers already there. What the what? Anyway, I signed in, shot the shit about thrift stores and shady drivers (the narcoleptic from last year is history) and got assigned a beautifully air-conditioned van and chatty driver.

For four hours I rode shotgun, helping performers and family and friends in and out of the van, Tetris-ing instruments and bags. I learned about my driver’s life, raising kids, running an apparel company and coaching sports. Their daughter does track and long jump and when I asked about the strength and skills needed to do the latter, they said simply, You can’t be afraid to fly.

We picked up black masking Indians and their gorgeous feathered, beaded suits, one in yellow all talkative and sweaty at the end of his performance; girls in leotards and buns, heading to perform at the childrens’ stage. Their grandma took my seat so I huddled in the back and listened to fifteen-year-olds bicker genially about phone cases and bad hair. There was the non-performer family looking for a ride (we forgot something at the tent), a good-natured bluesman who said It’s alright bebe when we missed his stop, the brass band late for their gig, hurriedly shoving a tuba and drum in the back and sitting on laps to make it in time, and a panicked drummer cramming his entire kit into the van, including an industrial fan, a rolled-up carpet, and a very precious and bored girlfriend.

I heard gossip about feuding parking attendants, a masking Indian fistfight, and the parsimonious festival, which fed the drivers ham sandwiches last year but this year sprung for preloaded Visa cards.

One of our last riders had helped out at the folk tent all day, played a show, then hopped in the van to get back to his bike to work a shift at a famed restaurant in the Quarter. Then he’d drive home to Lafayette late in the evening to get to his real job back home.

*

I ended my evening saying hello to friends, watching Victor Campbell and Big Freedia. My driver’s words stuck with me though, as we discussed the city and its problems and its joys, festing being a big one. You can’t be afraid to fly.

what I found on the street this week

found

Are we having a bad week out there?

The folks at my local grocery were downright ugly yesterday.

*

And walking around town the past 2 days, I’ve picked up:

--a high school student ID and lanyard

--2 college student IDs

--a credit card

--a health benefits card

The high school ID had an address on it so I scooped everything into an envelope and put it in the mail. The rest of the cards each bear different names and aren’t local so I’ll reach out to the college ID’s. My employer charges $50 to replace our ID cards, and I know that gut-punch feeling of oh shit.

*

Hang in there folks. And hang onto your plastic.

we're family now

Last week I attended a 90-minute writing workshop with a best-selling local author.
And it's not just that Maurice Carlos Ruffin has sold books. His short story collection, The Ones Who Don't Say They Love You, is both a valentine to and keen-eyed critique of the city of New Orleans.

So, to experience an hour and a half in conversation with MCR was a gift I don't take lightly. At the end, after we'd listened and asked questions and read aloud snippets, he closed by saying, We're family now. You can call on me to have coffee and talk or ask a question anytime.

I couldn't help but contrast this generosity of spirit with the way it went in the PNW. I'm far too shy to ask the famous for help, but a good friend did once on my behalf and I was swiftly swatted down, sternly reminded of my place.

And so. I feel revived and encouraged.

once it’s out, you’re done for

Good LORD it has been a week.

As a writer I know I need to find the words, but I’m struggling.

*

So much is going on and yes I’m going to vague-blog for now, sorry, but it’s everything, writing and work and family and misophonia and life and

*

I feel exhausted from the inside out, charred like a stump that got hit by lightning and smoldered for awhile.

Energized, raw, with a slight danger of collapse.

*

Misophonia outwits my most valiant attempts at being among friends in a public space. I snapped at beloveds the other night at an outdoor show. I knew I was going to, knew it would spoil the evening, heard the words exit my lips & saw their faces register my irritation & desperately tried to reel it all back in but I could not, in the same way you can’t re-roll a sleeping bag back into its little nylon case or put toothpaste back in the tube. It was in there, compressed and tidy and coiled to escape.

*

Once it’s out, you’re done for.