Driving Hope

Being a child from a family history of car dealers, I grew up with a passion for driving. Maybe it was the power I craved of gripping the large leather wheel and the ability to maneuver such a massive vehicle anyway I wished. As soon as my legs were long enough to reach the pedals, my father and mother felt no apprehension in allowing me to test-drive whatever car we had for the week. I undeniably, as everyone does, made my share of errors along the way. My first reckless mistake behind the wheel was backing into our steel swing-set quickly realizing the need for more brake and caution and less acceleration. Another vital lesson learned was to smoothly rotate the wheel around curves rather than jerking the car nervously. I quickly understood to relax, breath, remain confident and let the yellow and white lines, the symbols of the road, guide my path.
Many people I know don’t enjoy driving, especially alone. They find it long, boring, and lonely. I am quite the opposite. Driving is the best, especially when alone. I turn the music of my choice up as loud as I want, listen to a song as many times as I desire, and sing along with horrific, yet joyful melody. But also on my journeys of driving, I discover moments; moments my professors have described so well as “ah-hah” moments. These are the moments where time seems to pause and I am warmed with a greater appreciation and understanding of the world in which I exist. They are physical symbols in my life, visual events etched in my memory that inspire a trust in what lies ahead. Driving seems to enhance these moments. It allows the witnessing of the sun in the spring resting behind navy hills sprinkled with pastel purple bushes and colors of the new season. Another experience, struggling through a thunderstorm on a barren highway and the promising sun finally pierce the grey clouds with comfort and relief. It’s as if the moment was intended just for me and one I know I can’t describe; an experience that warms deep in my stomach and excites my existence. It is blissful to drive and see the shadows change with the passing landscape and the numerous events that unveil with my acknowledgement.
While living in New Orleans the past few months, driving is an experience in itself. Beginning in the historic residential Garden District and crossing Canal Street with its trolley rails into the French Quarter is a drive I look forward to each day. With my warm, steaming coffee mug in hand, I drive cautiously on Decatur avoiding the scatter of tourists randomly crossing the street at any moment. As I drive deeper into the Quarter, I approach the heart of New Orleans, and recognize to my left an iconic symbol of both New Orleans and the Quarter: Jackson Square and its backdrop, Saint Louis Cathedral. The cathedral is the oldest Catholic Church in America, and its physical symbol, the cross, pokes at the blue sky from behind a green canvas of trees and an iron fence speckled daily with various paintings. My first visit to the cathedral was on the afternoon before, after my early morning drive from Ft. Hood, Texas where I said goodbye to my fiancé before his departure for war. While in the famous cathedral, I was awed at the amount of people touring with guides through the sanctuary, I went to the sanctuary to find peace and comfort from my worries, but I didn’t stay long. I felt as if I was also on public display with the church.
While waiting at the stoplight, I gazed at the tourists who strolled along the colorful exhibits of local paintings by the artists that sat quietly in the shade near their work. A particular pattern caught my eye of what seemed to be a voodoo-inspired, or as its properly pronounced “hoodoo”-inspired painting that contained vivid human figures and distorted physical symbols I had seen before in New Orleans, the capital of Voodoo. I was struck by the proximity of these two beliefs: Catholicism and Voodoo.
As I was gazing at the elements of both religions, my thoughts shifted by a billboard on a local transit bus resuming speed and trailing dark grey fog with each gear shift as it pulled from the bus stop. The billboard on this bus, similar to the one I saw earlier on the side of a trolley, displayed in bold letters, “City of Hope” New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Hope. Hope, it’s definitions differ. Is hope the same for all in the city of New Orleans? The dictionary describes it as “to wish for something with expectation of its fulfillment; to have confidence; to trust; to expect and desire.” Catholicism, which obviously plays a vital role in the history of this city, says that “hope is the desire of something together with the expectation of obtaining it; a movement of the appetite towards a future good, which though hard to attain is possible of attainment.” This is a faith that is directed towards the soul of the human and the intimate trust in the Almighty…in God.
Voodoo, originating from the Fon word Voudon means “the power; that who is invisible; the creator of all things.” This belief is a combination of African tribal religious beliefs and elements of Roman Catholicism. In the 18th and 19th centuries, New Orleans was the number one port of entry for slaves, who were forced to discontinue their religious beliefs and accept a new one. Severine Singh of New Orleans Voodoo Crossroads stated, “Yet in the terrible conditions of their enslavement, the African’s only hope lay in their very faith. Amidst broken tribes and families, they found unity and solace in God and ancient rituals.” By creating Voodoo, these slaves embedded their original beliefs within the Catholic tradition, so their original beliefs could not be taken away, much like the dreams of the individual mind. The most famous physical icon of Voodoo is Marie Laveau, a 19th century New Orleanian who proclaimed herself the Pope of Voodoo and who was also recorded as a “devout catholic, going to mass each day.” She was even given permission by the church to perform rituals behind St. Louis Cathedral.
Just like voodoo offered hope for the slaves by preserving meaning to those who had lost so much, and Catholicism offers comfort to many, I wonder what else might offer the hope for this city. Are there other sources, signs and symbols of hope within New Orleans that continue to drive people forward with their lives, especially with the recent devastation of Hurricane Katrina? So many people lost so much, including members of their family and community, friends, and/or their homes. Is the present symbol of hope in this city spray painted on the sides of their homes? The symbol “X” tagged by search and rescue groups in the days after Hurricane Katrina still relics on many buildings. Is this residue of “X” a physical reminder of hard times overcome? Is this a modern symbol of encouragement for this City of Hope? I wonder if Catholicism and Voodoo played a role in providing hope for New Orleanians. Most people who live elsewhere assume New Orleans is a deserted ghost-town of sewage, trash, and sadness…but it’s not that at all. Well, there is a little trash. The New Orleanians I’ve met are strong-willed individuals with the expectation of a bright day...hanging on to any and all signs of a hope. I can only imagine the bittersweet homecoming to New Orleans. A drive many New Orleanians made; they returned to their homes, picked up what remained and, now, seem to really appreciate life and all that it offers.
As I return to my reality, the light turned green and I proceeded behind the yellow and white bus matching the yellow and white lines of the road. My thoughts flashed to yesterday morning: 6:00 a.m. Driving; down a black reflective road in which yellow and white lines were all that guided me. On this morning drive, the reflection of my headlights on the wet surface reminded me of what I was doing, driving…away…from him…How could this be? All of a sudden, driving seemed like torture.
Now, only days later (days that felt like hours), the familiar painted lines on the blacktop seemed to be on a revolving belt, driving me on a surreal band of darkness. I realized again, I was driving alone. Warm burning tears tore my cheeks as they fell. I breathed…jerky breaths. I felt as though the sky and world around me consumed the automobile in which I sat, mocking my sorrows. A ball of sadness and self-pity lodged deep within my throat. I took another breath. The road filled with a fog, tears drowned my vision, then plunged down my face. A large salty drop hinged at my chin. I wiped it. Above the road, I notice the beginning of a bright datum of the horizon. Warmth and hope. The warm smile of the sun peeked through the dark curtain of night like a child waking from its slumber. A smile…the sun. A promise. A new day. A moment no picture can capture; no words can adequately describe. It was a moment of comfort; sensual and deep. A pocket in my soul and a part of my being that can’t be forgotten. I felt hope. Hope to drive on.
Where to? New Orleans. Camp Street, my apartment. Piety and Chartres, my school. Although I didn’t want to drive further, the light led me. Brighter. Lighter. I put my hand on the wheel, tightened my grip in its proper position and took a breath. I drove… to the City of Hope, I drove.

-Ashlea D. Beardsley-