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I’m back in New Orleans: birthplace of jazz, city of debauchery, and bastion of socio-economic turmoil. I must say that it feels good to be back. Glad to have you back and reading too.
Well, there’s a good chance that you, as a spectator, fall into one of two camps: you’re either intrigued enough to form an opinion and foster continued interest in whatever the hell is happening with our rebuilding process or, you’re wondering when the “next big thing” is going to happen so that you can hear something new on CNN (read: MTV news). You’re both in luck – on one hand, your mild intrigue leaves you numerous options to get involved and on the other hand, your general disinterest leaves you with numerous PIC pages of “topical” humor about the very latest in collegiate trends like “ball scratching,” “getting drunk,” and the ever popular “tips on (getting laid/getting rid of someone after getting laid/laying turf in an indoor stadium).” Without further adieu, let the ranting begin.
“Origins”
Returning to the city of one’s birth after a devastating catastrophe of governmental and social communication can really work up an appetite. (Oh, and it can also induce minor hysteria about what condition your shit happens to be in.) Barring the hunger and the dubious status of everything in my apartment, the simple aesthetics of the city itself can be overwhelming. Sure there are demolished homes, water-logged school buildings, debris-crowded roadways and parking lots – but why did God have to smite the Blockbuster? Why, Cruel Being of Omnipotence, would you demolish the only decent minimum wage job nearby? Sure McDonald’s has 30,000 shifts available with a weekly bonus large enough to fund Medicare – but I’d have to work with food and people. Let’s face it – you work with one or the other, unless you want to hate both for the rest of your life. Unemployment aside, I’m home and not homeless. Somewhere, in the vastness of the cosmos, the only guy who though it was smarter and more secure to be a renter is pissing his pants from the irony.
Meanwhile, floods of people are returning to the city for purposes more assorted than the colors in a pack of Skittles. Sure, some are here to help to whatever extent doesn’t financially, professionally, or academically cripple them. Others are conning and exploiting the public like a Milli Vanilli single featuring Ashlee Simpson. Let me make this statement now so I can reference comments later: not everyone returning to the city is here out of goodwill to their fellow man and not everyone who hasn’t returned yet has simply abandoned the city. It isn’t as if former residences are suspects fleeing a crime scene – hell, the real suspects are tax-funded and get helicopter support. Whatever the reason for return or continued distance, thousands upon thousands of people have history with this city. In some cases, their very origin is tied to the essence of the French Quarter itself. The culture, the acceptance, the arts – something about the city seeps into your very soul and remains right at home.
There’s a ton of things to get adjusted to here. Imagine being surrounded by reforming academic excellence while partying every night with friends who’ve become long-lost relatives via facebook, and you have Tulane. Imagine being surrounded by the cracked remnants of the birthplace of Jazz while grabbing a beignet and hearing a local reminiscing about the dive bar that used to feature the sounds of Fats Domino, and you have New Orleans. Imagine a country where tragedy strikes and the balance of activism and apathy levels off just enough for some truly great people to take initiative and make a difference, and you have the United States. Imagine those great people cannot be counted on one hand, and we have each other.