We Call This Home By Debbie Lindsey It all began in 1989, to be precise it was a lovely Saturday at 12:25 in the afternoon of April 1st. Yes, that’s right, April Fool’s Day. But there was nothing foolish about moving to New Orleans. My birth city was never fully my home. Sure, I was born in Mobile and lived there for thirty-four years and certainly have no regrets for the friends, stellar friends that have remained true and dear to me; or for the various neighborhoods, jobs and experiences that shaped me in that town—but I never truly identified with Mobile. And on some level I suspect my parents may have felt the same. They introduced me to New Orleans from the time I was quite young with day trips to this exotic and strange town. And I am forever grateful. So you could say this is my annual Happy Anniversary card to New Orleans and me. I also want this missive to act as a Thank You to all the newbies, transplants, New New Orleanians. On this page, not too long ago I did a mea culpa for briefly feeling usurped by new residents, especially the younger of our neighbors who moved here in recent years. I suspect I was feeling insecure about my age and their youth—intimidated, if you will, by their youth which I no longer embody. It was hypocritical of me to diminish their value to our city—I was (in my opinion) an asset to this community when I first moved here and it took me a minute to remind myself that our young citizens deserve the same credit (perhaps even more) and praise for all that they contribute to our community. My earlier apology for doubting the wealth of enthusiasm new folks bring to us was short; now I wish to thank you for moving here. To those here on vacation and considering a move here I can’t stress enough the need to know what you are getting into if you plan to relocate to New Orleans. She ain’t easy, she is a hard place to live more times than not. I feel this city has gotten tougher to navigate, literally and figuratively, and the cost of living has soared. I was recently laughing with a neighbor about the war zone look of our neighborhood (note: one of the better and more popular niches) due to the inept and shamefully dysfunctional street/infrastructure demolition and my neighbor firmly told me this is not funny, we should not accept it, and that when rents were affordable you could overlook stuff—but not now. He was so right. Of course, he and I both agreed that our spirit of wry humor is what gets this city through much. But our sense of humor must go hand in hand with a commitment to hold the powers-that-be accountable. If you choose this place to be your home, do so with eyes wide open and an expansive heart, a heart willing to love her through thick and thin, good and bad. You have to love New Orleans so much or you will go running back to that ordinary town you came from. For me to remain in love with her and not feel like a victim in an abusive relationship I think of New Orleans as that grand old house, an architectural beauty, filled with history, culture, and a soul that, through no fault of her own, is subject to the indifferences of a slum lord. While I commend many of our leaders and daily I sing the praises of our local journalists that hold feet-to-fire, I feel for the most part that corruption and ineptness have exploited my New Orleans and her people. It seems that too many of our services and contracts are out-sourced (lacking local over-sight, control) and a malaise of “fuck-it” dominates. So, what is my advice? Participate! Vote, Volunteer, and take it personal. I realize now (with apologizes in hand) that my momentary forgot-what-it’s-like–to-be-young was what gave me my unsubstantiated pause when so many young folks flocked here after Katrina. However, I did have a legitimate concern about gentrification. Yet I am delighted to have had the pleasure of meeting and being befriended by new residents that are standing up to gentrification and actually helping to infuse our culture and funk with vitality and creativity. They are like a fresh coat of paint. This past Mardi Gras was a definite reminder of the wealth of artistry and verve that the new foot parades, second lines and carnival groups have offered. Fortunately the Bubba/beer/bare your breast for beads type tourists are seldom among the new recruits our city attracts for the difficult job of living here and carrying on the task of funkin’ it up (far from fuckin’ it up). Yet, there are those not interested in contributing to the funk—the opportunists who, be them new or native, who are more interested in buying and flipping her homes and land; the corporate entities (sure, some are good and responsible) that suck the soul out of that once holistic wholesome food store or generational family owned restaurant. But if we, newly minted locals and born-at-Charity folks pool our creative resources we can protect New Orleans. It has been a privilege to call this place home. And I do not take lightly the responsibilities that go along with ownership. Ownership needn’t involve your name on a title deed or possession of stock shares—it is a state of mind, an attitude. I tell brand new inhabitants: You are now a New Orleanian, a local, regardless of how new you are or even if you’re a short-term Tulane student—own it, be a part of it. This is your home now and hopefully she will work her magic on you and you’ll choose to never leave. Regardless, feel a proprietary purpose here; we need you fully engaged. New Orleans needs your love.