We Are Not OK

The Old Milne Home for Boys

Franklin Avenue, New Orleans

Twenty-two months Post-Katrina

I am not ok. The most visible of my symptoms is that I'm getting entirely resentful of the essential ignorance of the tourists (and, as a corollary, the people that they report back to in Real America) about the state of New Orleans. Since I live in the French Quarter, I am face to face with tourists all the time. Used to be, I had no trouble with that. These days, however, in passing tourist conversation, I cannot detect that anyone is even the slightest bit upset by the condition of the city... Near as I can tell, not only are they not bothered by it, they don't seem to even notice. They're getting their gumbo and their Huge Ass Beers and that makes New Orleans OK, right?

Nope.

I would encourage them to drive in Violet, count the houses off slabs that still straddle roadways; to drive in Chalmette, and count the number of strip malls that still sit empty, wind whistling through blown out storefronts; to drive through Lakeview and count the number of orange X marks left on the houses; to drive through mid-city, and count the brand new piles of debris that people are just now pulling out of their long-destroyed homes; to simply absorb the emptiness, still the most prevalent aspect of our city... Do this and take that image back to Suburbia, USA.

This is a problem, this misperception of our recovery, and it has the potential to cripple any remaining efforts. I just don't know where to even begin to address it. I want... no... need to yell from the blue-tarped rooftops...

We are not ok!

Suiting Up

I never played football as a kid. I never played in high school. I went to maybe five or ten games total in college. In short, by American standards, I have a pretty poor football history.

So, how do you explain to your friends and family, who know perfectly well that you hated football as a kid, that you'll be out of touch because it's Game Day?

How do you explain that you won't make a prediction about the outcome because you really, truly, seriously don't want to jinx it?

How do you explain that, yes, this game is more important than anything else that you can think of right now, because to rob this City of its newfound unity and joy would be as big a tragedy as the hurricane that almost killed her for real?

In my twelve years as an Orleanian, I became a Saints fan, not because I had a great love for the sport, but, because I had a great love of New Orleans. and New Orleans is never better than when she has just won a football game. And I have had my heart nearly broken because the owner has quote seriously thought about taking the team to San Antonio or Los Angeles. (Come on, Los Angeles Saints? Please.) But you always knew this might happen, because, let's face it, the team was never really any good.

But, this year is different. The team is really, truly good. Today, the New Orleans Saints are competing for the first time to be NFC Champions, and for the Super Bowl berth that comes with that title. And the response from the city is far beyond anything I could have suspected. People who don't know each other shake hands and hug on the street. People who do know each other simply got closer. People who've fallen out of touch find themselves in long conversations again. All because of the Team and of the Game.

And, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure that the team could have done as well or gone as far without the absolutely loyal fans that go to Every Single Game Without Fail, upon whose sheer willpower the saints have limped along these 40 years. They call us the Twelfth Man because of the unbearable noise we make in the Dome that invariably provides some advantage to our Saints.

But I really believe we're more than that. That when we show the team how much we support them... hell, how much we need them... that it helps to drive them forward. And that, when we get together and really really try, sometimes we carry a game out of sheer will. And it'seasy to feel that because we're part of the team, we deserve to share in the sweetness of the victories and must share the pain of defeats as much as anyone on the roster.

I sat last week in the Superdome, for the Saints' first return to the playoffs since 2000, and the first Divisional Round game in history. I sat in seats so high I needed a sherpa to get me back to the beer stand, and so expensive that I'm not entirely sure that the hotdogs I ate that day aren't the last food I'll be able to afford until next payday. But it was the greatest single event I have ever been a part of. It was a win that I am positive I played a part in, even in Section 615.

And now I walk among these same New Orleanians, my teammates, every one charged as they never have been before, and I feel am part of... no, that I belong to... something huge. Something the city needs right now. It seems frivolous and counterproductive to spend so much energy on a game, but I know better. It has made this city one in a way that government and disaster cannot.

I go to my closet and pull out my number twelve jersey. I hold it in my hands I think about where the team has been, and how far it has come. And, I think about how hard today is going to be. I put it on not because I want to show support the team, but because I am part of the team.

It's game day, and everybody knows you can't play if you don't suit up.

Welcome to Shangri-La

I keep hearing the same question... "So, is New Orleans getting better?" I know the answer, but it's hard to describe. If, like me, you live and love here, you know things are getting better... Slowly, like a child grows.

But, it's still plain to me that nobody outside has any idea how bad it still is here in my personal Shangri-La.

What do you think?

What's in a Name?

"I am from New Orleans."

I've been in New Orleans for about eleven years now, and I always thought that as I stayed in New Orleans longer, I would feel better about saying I was from here. But, it never really happened that way.

This is one of the facets of life in New Orleans that is both endearing and annoying as all hell. The culture of New Orleans is so self-centric and self-aware that there is a birthright in the phrase "I'm from New Orleans," and those born here protect the right to say that phrase with a suprising ferocity. I'm sure a lot of Orleanians are not aware they are doing this, and even fewer are aware that it is anything like combative.

The first thing an Orleanian does when you tell him or her you're from the city is to ask polite but very telling questions like "Where'd ya go to school?" If you're not aware, the proper answer is not where you attended college, but rather what high school you attended. More often than not, it's expected your answer will begin with "Saint," or "Our Lady," Though there are more schools called by just a regular name in the burbs (even though they are spoken often with a silent "Archbishop").

Now, if you answer something they don't know, or just plain wrong, then it's assumed that you're really from elsewhere and that you don't know what it means to be a real New Orleanian. And it doesn't mean that they will be less friendly to you, just that you'll get a polite reminder that you are not from here and you can never be, and your conversation will carry on. The first time this happens to you, it can be a little disconcerting, and even a little hurtful. OK, not just the first time. If you're like me... every time.

So, eleven years after the first time I mistakenly informed someone I was from New Orleans, y friends say I have developed an Orleanian personality so true that it surprises people when I tell them I was born elsewhere. But, it doesn't surprise them enough to keep them from reminding me, "oh, I thought you was from here, baby." I'm not from here. I just live here. End of story.

Or, so it would seem. Enter Katrina.

My friends lost everything. Some of them lost everything in the sense that I talked about before... nothing but pilings or a slab. I saved everything... just in time to be forced to leave my home. My job is 1200 miles away. My remaining friends are scattered to the winds. My city looks like a bomb went off everywhere. Some of my favorite music, food, and places are never going to be seen again in the city. Businesses are leaving in droves. People are leaving faster.

And yet, I return to New Orleans. I return out of a sheer love for the city. Of the hundreds of things in my life that I could have or should have committed to, this city is the one that remains true. The life that people lead here is right for me. The people that live here are the people for me. The music that lives here is the music I love. The food here is my food. I have made an effort to immerse myself in her, and to know the city. My heart lives here. Belongs here.

That's something a lot of "real" New Orleanians can't say.

I was standing at Johnny White's on Mardi Gras day. (I know. It's redundant. Move on.) I was talking to a fellow who works at Ingalls Shipyards in Mississippi. We're talking because we work for the same Large Defense Contractor. He's from New Orleans. He's half drunk and asks me where I'm from. Oh, hell.

I say, "right here."

And it starts. "Really? Where'dja gotah school, pahdnuh?" So I tell him that I didn't go to school here, and when he presses further, I tell him that I came here eleven years ago.

"Aw hell, man, I thought you said you was from here! I'm talkin' generations, man!"

So I thought about it for a minute, and I told him he was full of shit.

"I am awful tired of that shit, man! Just 'cause you had the good fortune to have been born here doesn't make you any more from here than me!" I went on, making sure he understood that I was the one that kept his home in New Orleans. I am the one bringing his job back to the city. No matter how crappy life has gotten in the City on a day to day basis, I am coming back for good. I, and thousands more like me, are going to bring the city back to life.

I told him that gives me the right to say it. He didn't say much after that.

But, in retrospect, I think I was wrong. That simply makes it true.

I am from New Orleans.