Cycles, Cynicism and Change in New Orleans

Tales From The Quarter
By
Debbie Lindsey
Cycles, Cynicism and Change

Today is August 17th 2006. I have to remind myself of this. And tomorrow I will have to remind myself that it is August 18th 2006. Days run all over each other like new fabric on old-yellowed whites during mishandled laundry. All my new days just seem to fade backwards. One step forward and five steps back – stumbling back at that. The only comfort is in the uncomforting knowledge that we are all in this together. God help us.
Back in September 2005 we, boyfriend and I and our herd of critters, made the conscience decision to return to New Orleans. San Francisco was turning quickly into home but everyday we felt more and more like we were leaving our dying mamma, New Orleans. So we knew we had to return for the healing or pay our respects and bury her. Now, some days it seems like mamma is on crack. Point is: I have lost my place in this story of ours that changes with each chapter.
Just like the laundry that takes on unwanted tints or shrinks, my story, our city’s story is ever changing. Soaking, agitating, spinning…out of control. Some days are good. But then you find one more rip in the fabric of our lives. It can be something as seemingly unimportant as the hotel next door being put up for sale. Except, that it’s my special place.
When boyfriend and I were living (exiled) in San Francisco the one place I missed, more than my apartment, missed passionately was the hotel’s bar. Why? Because, I think, when we finally got the hell out of here six days after the city turned into a toilet who’s dry rim was a war zone plagued by smoke and explosions I guess I kinda figured I’d never see my apartment of thirteen years again.
And at the moment we drove our quasi-stolen car filled to the brim with our animals out, passing body bags and fires, it seemed our French Quarter would not survive. All I wanted was for us to get out alive. I said my good-byes to everything I owned and loved. But I must have forgotten to say goodbye to the living-room-like bar that had been a constant respite through the years; because from across the country I would remember every detail of that room yet forget what my apartment looked like. Go figure.
California here we come! We had wanted to relocate there for some time but being forced out of town was not the closure we needed. We just never could wrap our heads around the beautiful bay city. Not when everyday you watched from afar your home, New Orleans, drowning. Just overhearing folks having normal conversations was maddening for the mere normalcy of them. Didn’t they know how god damn minor everything else was! Or so it seemed to me. I think I knew, we knew, that life somewhere other than New Orleans would seem so ridiculously trivial. When the music’s over turn out the lights…turn out the lights.
So, as the soak cycle ended and the days gave way to drip dry we realized it was no good. We could not live in the real world just yet. Another day, another world, but for then our hearts were in New Orleans, hell our lungs were there and just breathing in the cool, clean air of San Francisco was labored. It was time for the unrelenting humidity (mold, filth and stench) of home.
Back home we were in clothesline mode – no spin cycle was available to wring out the flood damage, nothing so quick. In fact a year later it truly feels like we have been hung out to dry. But back then in October ’05 we were so full of piss and vinegar, optimism and the old ‘we’re/all in this together/welcome home/welcome back/how’d ya make out?/yes we are so blessed/it’s all just stuff/we’re lucky to be alive/we will come back better even if smaller’…and it now feels like bullshit. Is it? NO WAY. But there were those early days of our return that I miss so dearly, like riding my bike down Dauphine Street and saying hello to everyone and loving every single person I saw. It was a miracle and we all felt the euphoria of having survived and being part of the greatest come back in our country’s recent history.
Now I ride down Dauphine and see too many hookers and pimps; dealers and buyers. I see a black line from our parish to Jefferson parish and it is unrelenting. Should the line be washed away? No. Should there be something else to stare at like homes and businesses and schools filled with folks whose hearts are healing? Yes.
They say the anniversary will bring back memories, I guess they are right. I am as weepy as I was in San Francisco so long, long ago last year when separated from my New Orleans and my favorite little haunt, the sweet bar next door where the hotel would turn a blind eye and let our dogs join us for cocktails and good cheer. There are two anniversaries – one of a drowning and one of an October that promised so much and has been drowning in apathy, bureaucracy, not enough spin. It is time for the spin cycle and then hopefully some starching and pressing and then maybe we can, I can, neatly fold and put away the memories. And wear them only on anniversaries…not everyday. Till then I plan to make the most of my little haven around the corner and hope it will not be thrown out with the bath water.