The Last Sunday Morning in New Orleans

The morning of September 12 I woke up earlier than I had planned. Since our flight out of New Orleans wasn’t supposed to leave until one in the afternoon, I had envisioned sleeping in a little, and then taking my sweet time trying to find some extra space in the suitcase to fit all the little knick-knacks I bought the previous four days.

It wasn’t meant to be. I woke up bright and early at 6am, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t go back to sleep. Since my sister was still peacefully cuddled up in the arms of Morpheus, and I didn’t want to wake her up by turning on the TV, I decided to call it a night; I got dressed and went out.

The city was in a moment of transition. While some die-hard partiers were still lingering at the doors of bars, they were gradually being outnumbered by the growing crowd of daytime folks, busy getting their beloved city ready for another day.

I walked for miles. With coffee cup in hand, I walked down Esplanade Avenue, passed the flea market where a few vendors had already started setting out their goods, and spilled onto the boardwalk coasting the Mississippi river. I passed by a small group of homeless men just waking up to a new day, and smiled when I saw one of them shaving in front of a fountain, while he held a small mirror in front of his face. I walked a bit longer and then sat on a bench facing the river. As I got ready to take a sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup, I heard a moan. Thinking I had maybe just imagined it, I took another sip of coffee, only to hear moaning again a few seconds later. This time I turned around. Behind the bench, maybe ten feet away, was a small elderly man, crunched near a bush. His face was pale and his eyes were shut tight, and he looked like he could be anywhere between 50 and 100 years old – his skin was leathery, and his face was contorted in agony. I called out to him and asked if he was alright, but he didn’t even respond. I called him again, but even this time I got no reply. So, I walked up to him and kneeled beside him. Only then did he show any kind of awareness. I asked him if he was ill, and he shook his head. I waited a moment, and asked him again. He only looked up at me and said: “I am not sick, I am hungry.”

His words sealed on my heart as if someone had pressed them there with a hot iron. “You’re hungry?” I asked again, almost unable to accept that in a world where luxury is often ostentatious, a man can still go hungry. “When did you eat last?”

He replied that he had only eaten a bit of a sandwich he had found discarded the morning before. My heart sank even lower – with temperatures in the 90s, and enough humidity to boil a fly in mid-air, it was possible that the sandwich he had eaten was spoiled. I asked him if he wanted me to call an ambulance, and he shook his head, so I told him to wait a moment, and I rushed to a restaurant nearby to fetch a cup of hot tea and a couple of Danish pastries. I figured that he could drink the tea now and nibble on one of the pastries until his stomach was ready to accept food again. If he was right, and he was only hungry, the hot tea and a few bites were going to work some magic. The young girl attending the counter at the coffee shop seemed a bit surprised when I asked for hot tea instead than coffee, but she produced a steaming cup of it nonetheless. I ran back to the old man and sat with him for a while as he took eager sips of the hot beverage. And, as he had said, his cramps slowly relaxed and he felt better. I sat with him a bit longer, while he told me his story – he lost everything he owned when Katrina hit, and it wasn’t long until he also lost his job in constructions. He was never able to find his daughter and grandson, and it wasn’t long before a profound depression left him mentally crippled and unwilling to pull himself together. I looked into his eyes, and saw no hope there. I asked him why he didn’t try to get some sort of help, but all he could say was that it didn’t matter. After a while, I had to leave to go back to the hotel, but I first stopped by a local grocery store and got him a few non-perishable items he could keep in his backpack. I hugged him and said goodbye, but I thought of him for days.

His story led me to think of how easily we judge things from the outside. This man is, in the eyes of the world, a beggar, a reject the rest of society probably wishes could disappear, but in reality he is simply a man in pain. When he lost everything, he lost himself, and he could no longer find the will to fight. Sad as it is, a large majority of homeless individuals are mentally ill, and while it is possible for some to find a sense of direction if they truly are seeking one, for some the cloud of despair makes the path to recovery too dark and treacherous to walk. So they give up, and survive humbly at the outskirts of a world often too busy to notice their neighbors’ painful alienation.

Today, I feel fortunate that I awoke so early on that last Sunday morning in New Orleans, and as I write this I hope that at least for a moment, my homeless friend realized he is worthy to be loved.

Eye on New Orleans: Katrina's Other Orphans

As we continue our Hooked on the Book campaign, we would like to take the time to honor yet another category of Louisiana residents -- our four-legged friends. During Hurricane Katrina many animals were lost and separated from their families. Thanks to the effort of the Louisiana SPCA, many were able to be reunited with their original families, while others were placed in new loving homes.

As we approach the fifth anniversary of Katrina, I am proud to announce that $1 from the sale of each hard copy of Housekeeping for the Soul and The Book of Obeah, and ALL proceeds from e-book sales, will be donated to the Louisiana SPCA through Hooked on the Book, a Books for Good campaign.

Especially during active hurricane season, donations are fundamental to upkeeping the service agencies like SPCA are able to provide, so I hope you will join me in this effort and you will help me spread the word by forwarding this information to your family and friends. For more information, please visit http://hookedonthebook.com/

And please, always remember our motto: 'If everyone gives a thread, a poor man will have a shirt.' In this case, we might not be able to weave a shirt for our animal friends, but we'll ensure that they will have a home away from home if they ever need one again.

Many blessings,

Sandra

"Wet Grave" by Barbara Hambly -- A Book Review

Not usually a fan of historical novels, I hesitated somewhat when I picked up a copy of Wet Grave by Barbara Hambly, but as fate would have it, I did buy the book, and I am ever so grateful I did. The story takes place in 1830s New Orleans, and highlights a time in history when justice was an elusive luxury, especially if one was a freed colored citizen.

Benjamin January, the well educated son of a placeé – a former slave kept as a mistress by the man who bought and freed her – who is now a surgeon and musician, is summoned by his sister when an old drunk prostitute is found slashed to death in her own home. When January arrives on the scene, he recognizes the dead woman as Hesione LeGros, a once beautiful society mistress he had the opportunity to befriend many years before. Nobody but January seems to care about the old woman’s death, and he is encouraged by many to abandon the case once it becomes apparent authorities are not willing to become involved.

January, however, is haunted by his own need to discover the truth and, supported by Rose Vitrac, the woman he loves, he embarks on a journey of no return, in which the hunter becomes the hunted, and some questions are best left unanswered.

When murder strikes closer to home and leaves January heart-broken and angry, he and Rose are on the run, colored fugitives seeking sanctuary in the unforgiving depths of stormy bayous. Will they discover who murdered Old Hessie, or will they also fall prey in a game of cat and mouse?

Barbara Hambly has masterfully created a story one can get lost into, with a plot as thick and edgy as the sultry heat swallowing the Deep South in mid-summer. The historical references are well developed and even sprinkled with delightful encounters; among those, the meeting of January with Marie Laveau, the notorious queen of voodoo, as he seeks guidance on his quest.

The novel is extremely descriptive, and rich details are freely dispensed to allow the reader the luxury of being transported through time and space. Wet Grave is a great read for anyone passionate of historical fiction, for mystery lovers and for those interested in southern fiction with an edge into reality.

Back to New Orleans -- Let the Magic Begin!

There are moments that remain so clear in one’s mind that it would be suitable to say they were forever captured in a mental photograph. For me, one of these moments took place a little over a year ago, when on a chilly April afternoon – a snapping breeze was blowing in, unforgivably and unseasonably, from the Mississippi river only a couple of blocks down – I stood at the corner of Dumaine and Royal in new Orleans, and vowed to be back the next year or even sooner.

Earlier that day my parents and I had gone on a tour of Honey Swamp and, tired after the trip, my mother and father had decided to stay back at the hotel while I went strolling around in the Quarter. Once I crossed Canal Street, it wasn’t long before I felt as if I had stepped through a magical portal: Happy people, their lightly powdered shirts a delightful reminder they had betrayed their New Year’s resolutions, and had been unable to resist the forbidden aroma of warm beignets and coffee, walked around in no hurry, while the sound of street performers increasingly swallowed the pockets of silence with each step I took toward Jackson Square. New Orleans is one of those cities – in fact, it is THE city -- one can’t fully understand until one has experienced its magic. Unlike most beautiful tourist venues, New Orleans lives and breathes, and hums a melody of its own creation, familiar enough to make everyone feel at home within its weathered alleys, and certainly unique enough to take one’s breath away. Shy of the Eiffel Tower, New Orleans is the younger sister of Paris.

Once I got a little deeper into the heart of the Quarter, I suddenly thought of something: New Orleans isn’t only famous for its beautiful wrought iron balconies, but also for its pulsating spiritual essence…so what if I asked a little help from the very same Saints I had grown to know and appreciate throughout my life? I stopped by a bar and bought a beer, then walked down to a tobacco shop and bought a cigar -- both items are customarily offered to Elegba, the opener of doors, who’s also known as Eleggua or even St. Michael and St. Anthony, but I won’t linger on this too long, since it is really not important in this story – then sat on a doorstep, lifted the bottle of beer a trifle, and lit the cigar. As I blew a puff of smoke toward the sky, I silently offered the cigar and the beer to Elegba, and mentally voiced my petition – within a year, I wanted to be back in the same spot, and be able to once again drink in the joyful energy of the place.

After I left New Orleans, the year blew by swifter than the breeze lifting from the river. Many things happened in the interim, including the release of my two books; and now, as I am taking one day at a time venturing into the bayous of the publishing world, my petition came to pass: On September 8, I will be boarding a plane heading to the city of my heart, as part of The Book of Obeah promotional tour.

So, thank you Elegba, for opening this amazing door…I will see you in New Orleans, the cigar is on me.

Let the Good Times Roll

As with Easter, the exact date of Mardi Gras changes every year. The celebration always falls on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, and Ash Wednesday always occurs exactly 40 days before Easter, not counting the Sundays between Ash Wednesday and Easter. In the Western hemisphere Easter always falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon in the Northern Hemisphere, following the vernal or spring equinox. Mardi Gras is part of the seasonal celebration called Carnival. The Carnival season begins on January 6th, known in the Christian world as Twelfth Night, or the Feast of the Epiphany, and it ends at midnight on Mardi Gras night, just in time for Ash Wednesday and the start of the forty-day season of Lent.

The celebration of Mardi Gras came to North America from Paris, where it had been celebrated since the Middle Ages, when French explorer Iberville and his men arrived in New Orleans in 1699. Many see a relationship to the ancient tribal rituals of fertility that welcomed the arrival of spring. A possible ancestor of the celebration was the Lupercalia, a festivity held in mid-February in Rome. The early Church fathers, realizing that it was impossible to divorce their new converts from their pagan customs, decided instead to direct them into Christian channels. Thus Carnival was created as a period of merriment that would serve as a prelude to the penitential season of Lent.

In the late 1700s pre-Lenten balls and fêtes were held in New Orleans. Under French rule masked balls flourished, but were later banned by the Spanish governors. The prohibition continued when New Orleans became an American city in 1803, but by 1823, the Creole populace prevailed upon the American governor, and balls were again permitted. Four years later street masking was legalized. World War I canceled Carnival in 1918-1919, but Mardi Gras survived this struggle, along with the Prohibition of the Twenties and the Great Depression of the Thirties. In the Forties a new spirit of Mardi Gras was ushered in, pausing only for the United States' involvement overseas. Before World War II canceled four Carnivals, the first women's parade graced the streets of New Orleans with the Krewe of Venus' inaugural pageant in 1941. New Orleans' favorite son, Louis Armstrong, returned home to ride as King of the Zulu parade in 1949. Carnival's growth continued throughout the Seventies, and increasingly attracted tourism to the area.

In Europe –Particularly in Italy and France - celebrations similar to Mardi Gras are known as “Carnival”, a winter festival celebrated with parades, masquerade balls, entertainment, music, and parties. Children throw confetti at each other; mischief and pranks are also quite common. Despite its roots in pagan festivals and traditions, Carnival was adapted to fit into the Catholic rituals. Although carnival is actually one date, in Venice and some other places in Italy the carnival celebrations and parties may begin a couple weeks before.

The 2010 date for carnival is February 16 but celebrations in Venice and many parts of Italy will run from February 6 (or even in late January) through February 16, 2010.

Information included in this post was found at: http://goitaly.about.com/od/festivalsandevents/a/carnevale.htm, http://www.neworleansonline.com/neworleans/mardigras/mardigrashistory/mghistory.html, http://louisiana-travel.suite101.com/article.cfm/when_is_mardi_gras

The Day Hurricane Katrina Opened the Door

August 29th 2005 is a day few will ever forget.
On that day, Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans, creating mass destruction and widespread deaths. It was months before some of the bodies were found, and many families were relocated to other parts of the country without the opportunity to keep in contact with family members bused elsewhere.
Three years after that fateful day, some residents are still in dire need of help; yet, aside from groups of volunteers who have stepped in to bring some relief, and residents who have taken matters into their own hands, government aid has mostly focused on selected areas. In a video released on YouTube, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFUrCIm5LFc, former president Carter has exposed some of the areas of the Ninth Ward that have received little help, and has denounced our government for its lack of commitment to the people of New Orleans.
To make things worse, FEMA was recently under investigation for having withheld supplies that were donated in the aftermath of Katrina, while people were still in need.
Lack of response from our government, and the widespread blame game, have left people scratching their heads for answers.
Most of the people left without help were minorities and were some of the poorest. They were blamed for not having left the area during the mandatory evacuation, although some lacked the resources to make the move, or were unable to leave because of factors out of their control. Government agencies blamed one another; the Federal Government blamed the State for not taking prompt action; the State blamed the Federal Government for their lack of quick response. Everybody blamed the next person, yet, few were willing to accept individual responsibility. Although Katrina was, and still is, viewed as one of the worst events to ever hit New Orleans, it did indeed open a door of awareness. The socio-economic and racial implications unveiled hit the rest of our country with the cold slap of shame. Katrina exposed all that. We spend millions of dollars promoting events that will bridge our social and racial divides, yet in the face of a calamity, those bridges crumble as fast as the levees of New Orleans. Wounds must come to the light and cleansed, before they can heal. Katrina didn’t heal our separateness, but it certainly drew the map to show us the flaws we must all work on as a nation and as a people.
Coincidentally, the anniversary of this sad event is falling on the same week the Democratic Convention is taking place in Colorado.
Barack Obama appears to have a much wider vision; his message of unity and his peaceful policies have set him aside from the many politicians who seem more interested in promoting corporations, rather than caring for the genuine interest of our country. We pride ourselves with being the leading nation around the world, and fight other countries if they fall short on our scale of peace and justice. Yet, we are not able to achieve peace, unity and justice among our own people. In our country, the poorest minorities are still cut out of our aid budgets, and women can still die unattended in the waiting rooms of hospitals. These flaws considered, we have little room to flash our way of living as an example for others to follow.
Thanks, Katrina, for opening the door.