I’m from Louisiana but I don’t call it home.

These hills have won my heart, I’m a Tennessee boy.

I was called into New Orleans a few days after Hurricane Katrina, debriefing work for a corporation there. Upon arrival I was surrounded by military men from every division, men with eagles and gilded leaves on their collars, serious men who explained they would appreciate my assistance, if I would be so kind. What unfolded was bizarre and it was suggested not to tell those stories.

Katrina.

The people of New Orleans kept telling me “We knew this was coming.” Their eyes haunted.

“The hurricane?” I’d ask.

“Judgment,” they would say.

I got that sentiment over and over, from doctors and truck drivers and welfare recipients in the streets. “Things go on in this city…” the old black man with a glass eye warned. “Son, you don’t know and I pray you never know.”

Louisiana is three different countries they say.

The Mason-Dixon splits in Alexandria. Above is Redneck country. Largely conservative Baptist. Deer hunters and bass fishers and Friday night footballers.

What’s below is Cajun country. Good people, joie de vive. Work hard, play hard, drink lots of cold beer, eat fried oysters and shrimp, dance all night. Don’t miss Mass. Know your neighbors. Pass a good time.

I was raised in this region. Crooked politicians, mob men making the Sign of the Cross. Some of them kinfolk. Good people.

New Orleans is a whole other nation. Mulatto, mixed, redbones, voodoo and juju. The almost New Yawk accent and attitude.

“Believe none of what you hear, only half what you see.” One political relative told me. He’s in prison now. I think. Everything I was taught and saw showed me politics is a ruse, a show, a work.

“The people who run the show, you don’t know ‘em, don’t see ‘em.” My parrain told me. He waved his hand, shook the ice down in his glass. “Republican, Democrat – no such thing babe. Same guys behind the scenes run the show. People, though, they gotta feel like they gotta say, you got to give them the illusion of control. But you can’t trust ‘em wit a vote, no. S’what happen when you reward the ignorant to breed.”

Parrian never drove a car. He had a driver and ran his business out of a bar on Decatur. A numbers man I think. Don’t know.

My uncle’s the fire chief of the French Quarter fire station. As a kid we’d climb to the third floor to slide down the pole. From up there you could see into the burlesque show next door. Good times. I drank beer on Bourbon before I was old enough to drive. During Mardi Gras one year New Orleans police lifted me so I could kiss the Creole girl on the float. Her eyes were black, skin dark and flecked with freckles. She had a gap between her front teeth, her tongue slipped into my mouth. The crowd cheered. I was twelve.

I’m a Tennessee boy now and somehow the evacuees from Gustav have ended up here, over ten hours away, in the gym of a church, looking tired but overall content, sitting on cots reading magazines and Gideon Bibles, lined up on the patios outside.

I’m just here to listen, to help, to fetch water, be somebody from home.

The Red Cross lady asks me to find a girl, talk to her. “She’s almost ten months pregnant. Nineteen years old.”

I find her out back in the heat, looking a bit like the girl on the float from all those years ago. (except for the big baby belly)

She’s sitting in a straight back chair fanning off flies, talking about walking up to the Subway at the convenience store on the corner.

“You’re ten months pregnant,” I say, like she needs reminding.

“I feels good. Gone had dat baby tomorrow. I want me one of dem cold cut combos. Y’know?”

I shake my head. Tough people. There are about a hundred mingling around, children playing, men smoking cigarettes and telling stories in the field, women laughing.

“Ya’ll seem to be doing all right,” I remark.

“Mista, you gots to remember, our people, we don’ give a f*ck. We up here in Tennessee, sittin’ on the porch, playin’ dominoes, kids runnin’ in da yard. They feed us; we got air condition, nice place to sleep. That’s what we be doin’ at home, betta than some of dese folk got back home. God, he gone take care.” She gives me a look and a smile and points to the circle of men. “Ooh, wish I could had me one a dem cigarettes tho’”

Her skin is dark like caramel, freckles all across her nose, tattoo of a K on her the underside of her wrist. “You can have a cold cut combo,” I tell her.

“Sho’ nuff,” She says with a big exhale and a gold-capped grin. “And some chips. Damn I been feenin’ fo’ some barbeque Lays.”

“Sha, let’s go.” I tell her.

Tags: Creole, Gustav, Hurrricane, Katrina, Louisiana, New Orleans, Southern politics, Tennessee

This entry was posted on Thursday, September 4th, 2008 at 11:55 am and is filed under Childhood, Current Affairs, Debauchery, Nature, News, Politics. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.