New Orleans ranks as one my favorite cities in the US. I visited for a Mardi Gras in 1992, had a few Abita beers–and somehow ended up in some converted church deep in the 9th Ward dancing over a fire pit while an African shaman wearing a voodoo animal mask whipped me and the rest of the crowd into an orgiastic frenzy.
It was weird and primitive and wonderful, and after I woke up on the floor of the church the next morning, face black with ash and with the sweet scent of magnolia blossoms in my nostrils, I was hooked. I loved the lushness of the overgrown gardens and the frayed beauty of the decaying old mansions–the overall roughness and sweetness of the place. I ended up living there for 7 years and marrying a local.
Since Katrina, I have been hesitant to return, mostly because I fear–probably unreasonably–that the city I remember won’t be there anymore, or that what remains of it will be tainted by the darkness and destruction that has plagued the city since the storm. I have kept up with what has been happening in the Crescent City primarily through the excellent website optical channelNolafugees.com, where articles and stories by local writers bring the struggles of post-Katrina New Orleans to life. The Nolafugees crowd has also produced a few impressive books about the city, the most recent of which is Soul Is Bulletproof (available here on Amazon.)
Recently, a friend of mine, мебелиChris Klever, ventured back to rediscover New Orleans, and wrote an excellent piece on it for Nolafugees. It presents a balanced but not bitter view of what he found–a city that has been transformed and shattered in some ways, but which is resilient and reviving in others. Here is Klever’s report from the Big Easy:
“Odi et Amo: A Pilgrim’s Progress
International Correspondent Chris Klever, on his recent pilgrimage to Reconstruction NOLA.
“I can’t think of a better place to live if you don’t value your life.”
–a New Orleans friend.
New Orleans and its environs have always held a special place in my heart. Its unique character has fascinated me ever since I attended my first Mardi Gras back in 1995: the quaint Creole cottages, the mysterious Flambeaux carrying their torches in certain parades, the redolence of humidity and decaying magnolia pods, the cargo freighters gliding down the river carrying their wares to all corners of the world, the bricks of the projects. And of course the ever-present sense of danger lurking just beneath the surface, ready to seize the unwary and punish them for their indiscretions.
I’d answered its Siren’s song again and again, but was reluctant to return after Katrina, fearful that my beloved city was beyond repair. Finally, after 4 years, I decided to return and see for myself how different things really were. Mama’s Tasty food is gone, but Casamento’s remains, even if its hours are rather sporadic. Yes, many things are different, but many things remain as I remember them.
Take the French Quarter, for example: after a wonderful lunch of Muffelletas and Pimm’s cups at Napoleon House, I remarked to one of my friends that I would like to visit the St. Louis #1 Cemetery and Our Lady of Guadalupe church. He advised against this; maybe we could drive there in a car, but a short walk there was simply out of the question. I was incredulous; I’d walked there several times on previous visits without incident. So why should this trip be any different?
My friend explained that times were different post-Katrina: crime was out of control and we could easily become the victims of a random act of violence. But the next day, against my better judgment and without an armed escort, I crossed Rampart to Our Lady of Guadalupe church. I paid my respects to St. Jude at his shrine and thought surely these claims that New Orleans was any more dangerous than it had been in the past were highly exaggerated. Then, I crossed Basin to St. Louis #1, where I had been countless times.
I spent about ten minutes enjoying the solitude of this City of the Dead; then I heard the distinct “pop”, “pop”, “pop” of gunfire. It came from the nearby Iberville projects. “Uh, oh time to leave,” I thought. The next day I told my friend about the shots fired and he confirmed that there had been gunplay in the Iberville the previous day.
I decided that continuing my pilgrimages on foot may not be the best idea. My friends agreed and offered to drive.
St. Roch Shrine, like St. Louis #1 and Our Lady of Guadalupe, has always been for me a place of quiet contemplation, a holy shrine where I could thank God for my good health and fortunate life. Knowing that Katrina had flooded the cemetery and chapel with 6 feet of water, I was eager to see the chapel restored to its former self. I say self because the chapel has a unique personality thanks to the pilgrims who have prayed to St. Roch for a cure to a particular ailment, been miraculously healed and then left behind remnants of their past afflictions. Leg braces, crutches, canes, plaster casts, and various medical devices are assembled haphazardly in a small sanctuary to the right of the chapel altar. Each offering to St. Roch is a token of appreciation bestowed to honor the healing power of the saint, giving hope to all who suffer.
Like St. Louis #1, St. Roch is in a less-than-recovered section of the city, and our drive to the shrine was most inauspicious. The St. Roch Market, where I’d often completed my pilgrimages with a 1/2 and 1/2 Po-boy, was in shambles. Its boarded-up front still caved-in after 3 years, I wondered if this historic treasure would ever be restored. Knowing the history of damaged and neglected buildings in New Orleans, I was dubious.
We pulled up to the St. Roch graveyard. The wrought-iron gates were open, the mausoleums lining the way to the open door of the chapel. An uneasy silence enveloped the entire cemetery. I heard no neighbors, no traffic, no caretaker, nothing. Inside the chapel, I was relieved to find that the water damage had been repaired and the walls had a fresh coat of paint. Yet it looked neglected, open to the elements; cockroaches and leaves littered the floor. There were no votive candles to light. Otherwise, it was the same as I had remembered. But it wasn’t the same. Instead of saying a prayer of thanks to my good fortune, I said a prayer of “please God let me make it out of here alive”.
***
A few days later we took a drive down St. Bernard Highway. During the month of November, 2004, I had the pleasure of working on Charlie Melancon’s Congressional campaign in St. Bernard parish. I canvassed the neighborhoods of Mereaux and Violet and helped organize volunteers. I recall meeting friendly people, eating tasty shrimp, and enjoying the strange, subtle beauty of the bayou.
When I returned to St. Bernard after 4 years, I was hardly prepared for what I saw: where there were once houses there are now vacant lots; where there were once thriving neighborhoods there are now verdant, fields of green, interspersed with settlers. We drove on toward Braithwaite and the ferry at East Pointe a la Hache. The quiet and the overhanging, shady oaks along St. Bernard Highway reassured me.
I have one word to describe the medieval fiefdom of Plaquemines parish: gone.
I know I’m not the first, nor will I be the last to be entranced by the many charms of New Orleans. I’m doubtful of a promising future for New Orleans, but there is always hope things can change, that New Orleans can rise like the Phoenix from its own wet ashes. I truly admire my friends who have stayed to rebuild. I know that when they say how much they hate it, they love it equally, Odi et Amo:
Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
Catullus LXXV
I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask.
I do not know, but I sense that it is happening and I am tortured.
This is the paradox that we call New Orleans.”
