Jazz, Blues, Slavery, Voodoo: Reading & Writing in New Orleans

Let This Become Memory

Fabian writes:

Let this become memory
The worst is yet to come
And all these points we've argued
We still agree on some
And when all faith is lost
Is it all right to laugh

When is Now and When is Later: My Thoughts on History Museums

Leah writes: I do not like history museums and here is why: I look at these things, these antique tea cups or this old coffee dispenser from the 1900's, and I know that some man made these things – used these things. This tea cup was in someone's cabinet, and every morning they would take it out, and pour themselves a cup of tea, and hold it in their hands. It seems so unfair that these possessions get to live on eternally, while the people who held them or used them are long gone and forgotten. There is something so unholy about museums. I wonder what they will put in history museums when I'm dead and gone.

Green Slate / Gray Slate

Leah writes:

I am green slate
You are gray slate and stone
People marvel at my beauty
they all want to take me home
Yet they walk on you unnoticed
cause you're boring and you're drab
They don't take you
They just break you
Aint it sad?

My Sister Leah the Voodoo Goddess

Beth writes: Before I even met you in person, I had already connected with you spiritually. I knew it was a sign for us to be roomies. You have made it such an honor to be in your presence. We both know when we have had enough of someone else’s drama. We both know when to give each other space. We both saw the inner light within.

Tipitina's Dance Party

Sooz writes: There is one lady in a sassy black flowy dress with black capri leggings underneath. Sizeable black earrings dangle from her ears and she flings them around with vigor as she dances. A black bow fastens a white plumey feather to her head and her breasts threaten to tumble out as she prances around the dance floor. On her feet she is wearing white gym socks that end midway up her calves and white high-top L.A. Gear-ish sneakers with red rectangular blinking bike lights fastened into the laces.

There are chairs along the edge of the dance floor - metal folding ones. And they all filled up with blue hairs at 5:30 when the place opened so there's nowhere to sit. It's a dance club, like the country bar Carol's in Chicago, only with Cajun folk music instead of country.

Excess

Theresa writes: I know it’s only been three days into the trip, but I’m still searching for my moment with New Orleans. You know the one: where you lock eyes across a crowded room and the pop you hear isn’t the burst of a champagne cork. It’s absolute and utter enchantment. I’m certain it’s only a matter of time before it happens. That being said, it ain’t gonna happen on Bourbon Street.

Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro

Beth writes: What do I say about a place that has “all that Jazz?" Snug Harbor on Frenchman Street was the place to be on Saturday, January 17, 2009. Drum master Herlin Riley and his band's tribute to Danny Parker was like praising a saint! Live on, Danny Parker!

Oysters Are a Stupid Food

Sooz writes: I got all nervous and creeped out for nothing. Patrick had to douse it with hot sauce and loosen it from its shell for me. Gigantic gelatinous booger. No really, it looks like something one might conjure up from one's throat after a night of too much smoking or during a severe cold. Patrick relocated it from shell to soda cracker for me and then I had to hold the concoction in my own hand for what seemed like an eternity. Not waiting for permission to go ahead and eat it from anyone but my own nerves. Not even my nerves so much, but I was struggling to find a little will power. Nothing about this mini jellyfish on a cracker wearing a little red beret of spiciness looked like something that I should put in my mouth.

To Rebuild or Reinvent

Patrick writes: In late September, 2005, the Hancock County (Mississippi) Board met for the first time since Hurricane Katrina. The press was barred from the meeting, and by that I mean that the board asked that I not come to the meeting because I was the only working journalist in that part of the state.

Forty miles west across Lake Borgne, there were thousands of journalists reporting from New Orleans. Forty miles east in Biloxi, there were not as many as in the Crescent City but certainly more than the one reporter (me) in Hancock County. It was kind of hard to argue about freedom of the press with the guy who had just gotten me in so I could take a shower in the high school.

There were other guests allowed to attend the meeting, though.

The City that Care and We Forgot

Elissa writes: I was running. Pushing myself, welcoming the sweat dripping down my forehead and sliding down my shoulders. Blasting my iPod, arms and legs swinging in sync to the heavy beat of Missy Elliot’s latest single. There were five televisions lifted up the ceilings for our entertainment. The first was Martha cutting up a new paper project with some nameless celebrity, two of the televisions had the same slow baseball game, one was an infomercial for Proactive skin care, and the last was CNN. This was how I heard there was a hurricane. But I will tell you right now, with great regret and humiliation, that I did not physically hear about it at all; I did not even take out the headphones from my ears. I did not even take out my headphones.