Confessions of a Fiesty White Chick

Three years ago, on August 29, the most beautiful baby girl was born and began my reign as Zia, the crazy aunt.  Two years ago, on August 29, my fiance' (now husband) and I closed on our first house right in the middle of Metairie.  This is where I always dreamed life would take me.  A year ago, on August 29, my fiance' and I watched CNN from Atlanta as our first house suffered the wrath of Katrina.  Yesterday, on August 29, I thought I woud be inundated with emotion and overwhelmed by the loss of my dreams to grow old and raise babies in Metairie.  Surprisingly, I felt nothing.  It seems as though after a year, I have finally come to terms with the fact that sometimes life kicks our ass for no apparent reason.  Don't get me wrong; I can be as philosophical as the next guy and say all the phrases that help us survive in this spinning chaos we call life: "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger," " Tragedies like these bring out and build character," "Dark endings create bright beginnings."  Although these are motivators, sometimes, trudging through the muck--even if it is building character-- simply sucks. 

 

I believe I am somewhat numb to the anniversary of Katrina for many reasons.  First, my life, although off the original course, is better than I ever could have dreamed it would be.  I live in a beautiful new house with an amazing new husband and the sneakiest little dog on Earth.  Directly behind our subdivision reside the Bellanger, Hirschfeld, McQuiddy clans; thus, I am never more than seven seconds from my three gorgeous nieces or a family member.  A year later, life is good.  I am also numb to the anniversary because I lived it; I don't need to remember it.  There isn't a day that goes by that I don't remember that I lost everything.  Try looking for old pictures for your wedding video only to realize that the bitch took them.  Finally, with the media and government of the 21st century, there is only one way to feel and that is numb.  There is so little I can do with the disgust I feel at the fact that the American government would prefer to save (or fight) every other country in the world than pull my city out of ruins.  There is only so much anger I can feel when New Orleans was barely a blip on the radar for the past nine months, and two days ago the entire media frenzy showed up on our front door again to cash in on the anniversary ratings.  And there are only so many tears I can cry for the man I passed last week who was trying to scrub the infamous orange spray paint off his brick and start life over without that visual reminder of his loss.   My heart is with my city, not the anniversary of the storm that ravaged it. 

 

The beauty of New Orleans will prevail because of her spirit and her people.  Most people that grow up in New Orleans stay forever; those that leave soon return or feel the pull on their heartstrings for eternity.  Simply put: she is home.

 

She Is Home

 

In a crowded, smoky bar

She sings to me.

Of jazz and rhythm and soul and

Zydeco.

The horn echoes behind her

It’s the blues tonight

Not the brighter, weaker shades

Just deep, heart-wrenchin’, soul searchin’

Blues.

It’s a night like no other

A night of pain and loss,

The steel guitar whines of her people’s turmoil

Harmonizing with the sirens speeding by.

She bellows, in her song,

And weeps

Another loss.

 

She’s no melting pot

Or salad bowl

She’s a thick, simmering roux

Precisely seasoned

With heritage, culture, and

Enlightenment.

Honor for the old,

Respect for the new

Wisdom, grace, and

Beauty boil over and

Satiate all who take from her

She feeds me.

 

In the buzzing coffee houses of Magazine

She welcomes me.

Lured by the rich aroma

And mesmerized with the friendly chatter

Natural conversation pours forth with

Steamy café au lait.

Community is more than a coffee

To her

It is a way of life

She’s never met a stranger.

 

With undeniable pride,

She boasts of her children.

And their exodus to find their own.

Sprawling outward

Content being the

            Prosperous suburbanite

            Emerging bourgeoisie

            Languid bayou seeker

            Distinguished aristocrat

            Uninhibited bohemian

Diverse in their search

Similar in their success

Of happiness.

 

On every corner, in every cathedral

She teaches me.

In design, form, color, and God

The holy trinity

Form, function, and fenestration

Freedom to waltz onto a patio

With no trace of a door.

Every building a story,

Every witness a believer.

Creole shotgun cottages

Stately Corinthian columns

Wrought iron galleries

Reverence in the presence of greatness

Saturated in history.

 

In the gardens surrounded by oaks

She whispers to me.

Soothing the worries

The moist breeze plays with my hair

Blanketing me with warmth

Serenity and peace abound

The river, constant in its motion,

Flows past.

 

Under the draping moss and dimming sky

She romances me.

The simple ambiance entices and delights

A heartbeat, rhythm,

Pulses through the eves

As the streetcar gently rumbles

Into the Tabasco sunset.

Jen Marsell

 

 

     In approximately 34 minutes my phone will ring just like it does every year.  My mom will sing me "Happy Birthday" and then dash in to the story that begins, "29 years ago today, I was holding my brand new baby girl..."  And so begins the official rituals of my favorite day.  I say the official rituals because I wasn't actually born until 8:14 am, so everything before this is just lagniappe.  For instance, the routine midnight singing by my husband, the earlier-than-the-sun-wakes-up phone call from my dad, the race to be the first to tell me happy birthday by my best friend and my sisters--> these are the whipped chocolate icing on the perfect day. 

     Call me Alanis; I am thinking about writing a new verse, and this verse may actually contain irony.  Last week I decided to break out of my "I can't believe people spend $4 on coffee when the circle K coffee is only $1.09 and there are 50 flavors of cream and Oreo cappuccino for free" soap box and try the new praline flavored ice coffee at a local coffee shop. I have very little interest in coffee unless it is infused with some type of decadent flavor, ice, and lots of milk (i.e. mint chocolate chip, bananas foster, pecan praline, white chocolate mousse, etc.), but I digress. 

     Upon entering the establishment, I am pleasantly surprised to be the only one in line and head directly to the counter.  I begin examining the wall-mounted menu that is obviously written in some coffee language that we novices can't understand, when I notice a hand-made sign posted on the counter.  It reads, "Please end all cell phone calls before ordering AND remember to be courteous."  Okay, I admit the constant use of cell phones in public places is quite annoying these days, and maybe many people on earth need to be reminded to be courteous, but the sign somewhat insulted me.  I am ALWAYS courteous; however, this is not the point.  The point is that although I was the only person in line, I had to wait to be served.  "Why?" you ask.  Duh... because the girl working behind the counter was on her cell phone, of course.  So patiently, or should I say courteously, I waited until she said, "No, I love you more" for the fortieth time and hung up.  I instinctively began to chuckle at which time she looked up and questioned, "What?"  Now, I am not one for normally calling people out, but this was unavoidable.  I turned the sign to face her and asked her if she found it somewhat ironic.  "Ironic??" blank stare. 

     "Yeah, you know, what you get is opposite of what you expect.  Ironic.  You on your cell phone when the sign tells me not to be on mine; therefore, I expect the rules would apply to all of us on both sides of the counter." 

     "I guess that's ironic.  So what do you want?" 

     Courteous?  I guess that word would be over her head also.  Oh well, at least the coffee was good.