Fog and Clarity in NOLA
I arrived to NOLA, that’s Nawlins, New Orleans, the
thriving, or rather struggling, hub of the Deep South.
Recent movies come to mind: The Mist, The Fog, Les Miserables. The first is a horror film about this powerful fog that
captures lives and eliminates them for just breathing in a bit of the moist
air. The latter, an obvious
success in current. box offices.
This is the film I saw just before I left for the Pilgrimage with some
roommates. This is the musical I
studied as a freshman in high school, “singing the songs of angry men” in
Choral Club. This is the country I
have always dreamt of going to visit, really “On My Own.”
I walked with hesitation, looking for the old bricks beneath
my feet and the oil streetlamps breaking through the dense fog about ten
strides ahead. I walked across
Decatur Ave, past Café du Monde, toward the sidewalk along the
Mississippi. I climbed the stairs,
crossed the trolley tracks, and saw a frosty, moist gray. Something I knew was right there, so
big and grand, I could not see.
But my friends told me it was, and I believed in the beauty I was
missing through the fog.
Cue dinner with friends: two small tapas of jumbalaya and
red beans and rice. Signal
beignets, powdered sugar, and the checkered white and green tile floors of the
café. Zig zag through the streets,
head down Bourbon Street past the all the culture that truly is Bourbon Street.
 |
| Beignets at Cafe du Monde |
Waking up the next morning—bus tour of the
city.
Colors and creativity.
Creole, the new people of the area. Creole, the many definitions and understandings our guide
explained as we bumped along through the rugged streets of their
neighborhoods. Their belief? Why paint a house white when you could
paint it beautiful colors?
The 9th Ward, heavily hit and beaten by Katrina,
was an entirely different image.
Our weather forecast was 100% chance of rain, and man, did it rain. The rainwater poured off the tangled, elevated
freeways. It dripped from the
emergency exit in the roof of our bus, onto the girl sitting right next to
me. Avoiding each drop, she inched
closer into my seat and my space, forcing me closer to the window to look what
was on the other side of the foggy bus window.
This massive area was crowded, drab, and the complete
opposite of manicured. Now,
besides Selma, Alabama, I don’t think I’ve experienced poverty in such a
way. NOLA 9th Ward is a
different story. There were no
yards, which is the case in about any city. All that is fine and good, but these shotgun houses, faded
from vibrant paint, with railings on some stoops rusted 5 feet high, with black
evaluation marks on the front door, demonstrated a new perspective of life.
Thank God for hope and for change. We visited the Ellis Marsalis Center for Music right in the
middle of this community. This
neighborhood consists of all new homes, built by volunteers, funded by
celebrities and donors, and re-birthed with a purpose of support and prosperity. At the middle was this beautiful, blue
educational center, allowing about 50 students per semester to come and study
music.
These students only have to pay $30 for a semester’s worth
of lessons here. That’s equivalent
to a cheap music practice book.
This fee includes lessons, instruction, instrument, classes, etc. The rest comes from donations, and as
one of the center’s administrators recognized, the power of giving is
real. Most donors will never even
see the change and impact that they’ve been a part of at that center. Coming from a family with my mom as an
elementary teacher, sister as a K-2 music teacher, and a dad who could listen
to jazz albums and records all day long, this stop was a beautiful, pleasant
surprise. These educators are
qualified, passionate, focused on health, wellness, innovation, success, and
equality. If this sparks of any
interest to you, please, please, please check out their website to leave your
own impact.
http://ellismarsaliscenter.org
The rest of the afternoon included soggy feet, art
galleries, cafés, markets, rain, my Canon, and sharing travel stories with my
former Journalism professor, her daughter, and a classmate studying English
from Mexico. The evening included
dinner at an oyster bar (definitely not eating oysters, but other Cajun
delicacies) and a night on Frenchmen Street listening to some hearty, swinging
jazz in a lounge.
The best part of my day was simply the fact that nothing
really went as expected.
This trip, I did not come with my best friend, a roommate, a teammate,
or a boyfriend. I have come
instead with a few things: an
addiction to travel, a passion for learning, an open mind, and goals of
intentionality in growth, progress, and reflection. I have been able to bond more with my acquaintances. This has come from divine
conversations, eye contact, an inclined ear, and willingness to stray from any
agendas. I had plans yesterday to
go to the WWII museum with some friends.
Instead, miscommunication led me to a different group, with whom I
enjoyed a lovely afternoon of strolling around, gawking at art, and casual
conversation. These plans changed
my dinner plans, and I ended up eating late with an inspiring underclassmen,
processing through his identity and planning out his future, heavily involved
in our college and surrounding community.
I am learning more and more that no matter where I go, there
will be people. Those people are
different. Those people are
beautiful. The ones before will
always be important, and when the time comes to reconnect, it may happen, and
it will be extraordinary.
But the unknown, the fog will not scare me. I know that the big Mississippi is
before me. I am having one hell of
a time trying to see it. I
certainly can’t see the other side, as I can’t even see the beginning of the
bank right at my feet. But I know
it’s just ahead. I know that it’s
beautiful. It started at something
so small, miles and miles North, back home. In NOLA, it’s something a little different.
Come May 18th, when I graduate, you better believe it’s going to
be different. But there is
promise. There are people to meet,
work to do, friends to make, and change to be done. There is change to be done, and I’m going to be a part of
it.
That was 24 hours in NOLA.
Karen Hansen
Senior at UW-Eau Claire
No comments:
Post a Comment