Saturday, November 25, 2006

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-

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Sportsman's Paradise


The last fishing line had nothing but half eaten heads of bait fish on the remaining two hooks, and to make things worse this last trot line felt like a snag. As I started to pull in the line, I began to worry that I would be going back empty handed, when suddenly my 13-year-old, 115 pound frame was jerked toward the surface of the Mississippi River. My eyes widened, my heart started to race, and I began to fight back. After I had won most of the line, I could only see a white blur dancing beneath the surface of the cold, murky water. Then quickly, with a splash, my step-dad dipped in the net, scooped up the fish, and threw it in the bottom of the boat. Back home, we weighed it at 23 pounds, cleaned it, and then ate the blue catfish for at least two goods meals in the days after.
Now, 676 miles down the Mississippi, I find myself living in Sportsman’s Paradise: a place that’s peppered throughout the state with swamps, that produce hundred’s of trophy size fish, game birds, and alligators year after year. After living here for a couple of months, I realized I had still had not taken advantage of this luxury; so I decided that when my parents came to visit, I would try to get a glimpse of this wildlife paradise, and take a swamp tour.
On a warm, Saturday afternoon, my mom, step-dad, and I arrived at an old shack, which housed the headquarters for the Honey Island Swamp Tour, with an empty stomach. My step-dad and I decided to have a taste of the gator filled menu. We both agreed on the gator dog, but this wasn’t a good choice; I think the whole menu might have been the same way. After eating half of this tough-skinned gator dog we, boarded the boat and headed off, down the Pearl River.

Once on the river, we took detours off the main channel through little pockets of swamp land. Inside these finger-like extensions of the river, the first thing I noticed was a three foot ribbon of water-lines that stretched across all of the trees. What I noticed about the best way to live in the swamp is to build a corrugated metal shack on floating devices that moves up and down along with the water levels. Since this was a nature reserve where trees are not allowed to be cut down, most of the structures had been built around these densely growth of trees.
Suddenly, my attention was pulled away as the boat dipped forward and the wake behind the boat rushed back towards us, sending the boat rocking back and forth. At the same time, the tour guide stood up, raised his hand, and pointed out the first gator of the day. He described how to estimate the length and guessed it to be at least 12 feet long. After everyone got a picture of the animal, he started the engine and continued forward towards a denser part of the swamp. While snaking the boat through the Cypress trees and knees he continued to describe how one would go about fishing for alligators. “Now, the key to getting the biggest gators,” he explained, “is to hang the chicken higher up, about one and a half to two feet above the surface of the water. You see, the bigger the gator, the stronger it is, so the higher they can jump for the bait.” He continued to describe how the alligator will actually swallow the chicken whole; the hook would then set itself inside the stomach, and later kill the gator.
After that, we began gliding through an area of water blanketed with small green leaves that moved with every little ripple in the water. Because of these leaves, we ended up right next to two beady eyes popping out of the water. It was a gator that had been watching us approach him from some distance away. Once the tour guide spotted it, he playfully threw marshmallows at the motionless alligator. Most likely bored of marshmallows from previous tour guides doing the same thing, the alligator swam off after the third mallow hit him straight between the eyes. Once the excitement was over, the setting sun and chilly breeze recommended that we head home. While zipping up the Pearl River for the last time, I noticed a fishing camp on the bank with a fisherman unloading his catch of the day. In that moment, I was reminded of my sportsman’s paradise 676 miles up the Mississippi River.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

sweat.

(Poland Street Wharf, the hottest place I have been to in New Orleans.)
Sweat will remind me of New Orleans. Twenty years from now, I will step out of my
air-conditioned car and into the hot summer heat in a supermarket parking lot. Little beads of sweat will appear instantly on the end of my nose and in the small of my back as I lock my door. It will make dark spots under my arm pits and soak my socks. I will pause as I reach for a shopping cart in the cart caral and the overwhelming heat takes me back to the hottest experience in my entire life.
I have been to a genuine desert in the middle of Colorado at the base of the Rocky
Mountains. It was a small park, probably nine square miles, a deposit for sand that was funneled through a crack between two massive mountains.


In the glossy informationpamphlet, the Park Service reminds visitors to wear thick-soled tennis shoes or hiking boots. No flip-flops or any other open-toed shoes, it warns, as direct contact with the scorchingsands could result in third degree burns. I went on a three hour hike over the sand duneswith no water and came out both sunburned and windburned. With my recent experiencewith heat in New Orleans, I now look back on that experience with pleasure. “There was such a nice breeze. Not like here,” I tell my parents over the phone wistfully.
I come home every day with evidence that all the sweat from my entire day is still
sitting on my skin in thick disgusting layers. If I really want to gross myself out, I can take my fingernails and drag them over my skin and be rewarded with sweat in a solid form. Often I will ride my bike for hours on end, exploring the city and its tiny cracks and crevices. I come back home and there are white salt stains on the shins of my pants, small deposits of salt embedded in fabric. I think they are disgusting. I remember my grandfather telling me that cows and deers are attracted to salt deposits and will lick them for nutrients. If that’s so, then they would probably love to lick my pants at the end of the day. There would no doubt be lots of delicious nutrients for them.
Sometimes my legs get so sweaty that I have to roll up my pants, take my thumb
and pointerfinger in the shape of a “C”, and squeegee the sweat off of my shins.

Then I flick it onto the hot blacktop. It evaporates in a matter of seconds. I have counted. Substantial drops of sweat will sit on the pavement, and BAM! three seconds later they totally vanish into the atmosphere.
New Orleans is definitely the hottest place I have ever been to. It is consistently hot. Now it is the very end of October, and while it might be freezing in Kentucky, I can still expect a sweaty back if I go biking with a backpack on. It is very hard for me to picture a New Orleans before air-conditioning was invented. There would probably be a lot of cranky, smelly people walking around. That is how I picture it.

There are two things I have noticed through intensive research and extensive
personal experience that may have helped people deal with the suffocating heat and humidity: one is the shade produced by large trees, and the second is the shotgun house.




The shotgun house type migrated to the Southern United States from Haiti and
Africa by way of the slave trade. To the Haitians, this tall, skinny, extended structure was the building type used for meeting halls (“togun”, meaning place of assembly, possibly being reprocessed into “shotgun”). New Orleans was the first place that this housing type waswidely used, first seen here definitively in 1832. It has nice cooling qualities. In my shotgun house on Poland Avenue, we can open all the windows and enjoy nice breezes as they carry the sounds of our neighbor Vanessa yelling at her four yelping chihuahuas over Celine Dion. On special occasions, we can hear the sound of Vanessa yelling at her mom. This is also usually accompanied by
Celine Dion. When all the windows are open, the house becomes a large shed roof with
no walls. I like this very much.


I also like the shade under trees too. It becomes a nice place to go to when
Vanessa’s whole family comes to visit.
Sometimes I like to sit at Markey Park, the park a block up from studio that we are
designing this semester. The shade is perfect there at certain times of the day, but you have to be careful where you step because lots of dogs like to use the park. The users of the
park have brought generic plastic chairs and left them under the trees. There is really no
other place to sit except for the ground.


I find these chairs to be very beautiful. They are white resin chairs under all the coats of paint people have applied. Over time these coats of paint have been chipped or worn off from sitting and constant use, which makes them more interesting. The people in the park can simply move them from sunlight to shade whenever they feel like it, as opposed to fixed benches, which cannot be moved and are not responsive to the lighting conditions in the park. Some people resent resin chairs. They find them tacky and tasteless. I always try to find the best in chairs. I like them all. The resin chairs have a noble lineage- Eero Saarinen dreamed of producing a chair that was a “structural total”. “I look forward to the day when the plastic industry has advanced to the point where the chair will be one material,” he once said. These chairs are Saarinen’s dream come true.
My favorite chair is a smaller resin chair that I sit in whenever I
get coffee and there is good weather.




Your first impression might be, “Wow, this is a really ugly chair,” and you would be right. It is a really ugly chair. Usually when I see chairs this ugly they are in the trash. It was originally made from a light cream resin, then it was painted
dark blue, and then a rust colored coat was crudely sprayed on at a later date. It is now possible to see all the way to the light cream coat through all the scratches. It is very comfortable, though. It cradles me with its cool plastic skin. The back gives slightly when I lean back. I like this chair. I can carry it around the park with me. I can sit in any combination of shade and sunlight I want so I don’t get too sweaty.
The weather is finally starting to cool off here. The temperature dips below sixty at night and never rises above eighty in the day. Regardless, I will always think of New Orleans whenever I break into a sweat .

-Caleb Sears

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Bourbon Street is a rumor.


How does one describe Bourbon Street? Since I live in New Orleans, my friends are curious to know what its like on this famous avenue. New Orleans is renowned everywhere for its rich culture, music, architecture, and cuisine, and Bourbon Street is a category in itself. It has evolved into a social and cultural icon that New Orleans has invested upon. The city even relied on Bourbon Street after the storm to bring back the tourists. But what makes Bourbon Street like no other place? I began to wonder why so many people were fascinated with a place they had only heard stories about and very few witnessed. In a way, Bourbon Street is a rumor. Rumors are stories that spread like wildfire, they are believed and passed whether they are true or not, and its truth is only revealed upon firsthand experience. Before now, I heard the stories and had built it up in my mind as this crazy place that acts like its Mardi Gras every night. So naturally, I had to visit. To discover my own interpretation and also to find out the truth behind its iconographical status, I had to visit the place myself.
I started my journey on a cool, crisp Saturday afternoon. Deliberately avoiding the narrow, tourist drawn streets of the French Quarter, which are especially packed on Saturdays, I decided to park my car in a parking lot about three blocks away from Bourbon Street, on North Peters Street and walk around. As I made my trek up Toulouse, I passed the intersections of Chartres and Royal, filled with groups of impressionable tourists carrying maps and shopping bags.
As I finally reached my destination, I realized the nearly empty street was almost silent, with the exception of the sound of a lone saxophone coming from an even emptier bar. I noticed many trash cans that were overflowing with the contents of the night before. As I passed a few bars, I couldn’t tell if some of the them were closed just during the day or have remained that way since Hurricane Katrina. So in a way as Bourbon Street is recovering, so are the people that partake in the late night festivities on the avenue.
I soon became thirsty and was in search of a quick refreshment. With so many choices, how does one decide? It was just my luck, as a daiquiri bar on the corner of Bourbon and Conti caught my eye. It was called “The Jester” and like many of the bars and clubs along Bourbon Street, it was very open and inviting. There were three people seated at the bar and a very colorful, yet knowledgeable bartender.
“What can I get ya, Babe?” he asked.
Hmm. There were twelve flavors to choose from and each one sounded very delicious. I asked the bartender, Eddie, he would later tell me, what his favorite was. He suggested their specialty named for the bar, the Jester and I trusted his choice. He served me the green concoction and my mouth felt a surge of lemon lime goodness. Since he wasn’t busy with the other customers, Eddie and I began to make small talk with Eddie. I told him I was from Kentucky and new to the area. Eddie said he had lived in New Orleans for the past seventeen years, including the two months he spent outside the city during the aftermath of Katrina. He returned because he missed the sound of the city that would echo in his home in the French Quarter.
He seemed rather informed about the area so I asked him my burning question. When and how did Bourbon Street become so popular? Eddie believes the nostalgia of Bourbon Street began when its former district of Storyville was forced to close in 1917, due to the United States Navy refusing to have its base so close to legalized brothels. Storyville culturally constructed the image of New Orleans as a good time town and today, Bourbon Street conveys that image with its bars and gentleman clubs. Its first night club opened in 1925 as well as the opening of its first burlesque clubs for soldiers when World War II began. When the war ended, tourism increased as well as the need for more restaurants and hotels, and other means of entertainment. Over time, businesses began to focus on more evening associated entertainment. “But why Bourbon Street,” I asked. It is simply because it’s positioned on a major thoroughfare in the district. Interested in witnessing the nightlife firsthand, I said goodbye to Eddie. But before I left, he added that its popularity may also stem from allowing American tourists to experience something that isn’t available in other parts of the United States. I thanked him, grabbed my “go-cup” and went on my way anticipating the experiences that would await me later in the evening.
When I returned that night, I again passed groups of tourists now carrying drinks and many strands of colorful plastic beads. The once nearly empty street was now flooded with revelers taking in the wild nightlife that Bourbon Street has to offer. I walked by five star hotels that were within walking distance to gentleman clubs. Even on street corners there were moments of disparity where a scantily clad cross dresser was sharing a street corner with a highly successful business man. Bourbon Street has the ability to bring together different people and places to coincide.
There are music clubs that line Bourbon Street as well. The closest association to where jazz was developed in New Orleans, I was told, is at Preservation Hall. Wanting to take in the scene of traditional jazz amidst an array of karaoke bars and dance clubs, a worker informed me that they were closing. The only way I could come in was to get a drink. I was upset by this news and settled for dancing to a melody-challenged singer crooning on a karaoke stage across the street at the Cat’s Meow. Before too long, the dance floor became extremely crowded. A late-night misty rain had fallen, which forced some to take shelter inside, while others remained dancing in the streets.
Eventually, just like the rain, my night on Bourbon Street had come to an end, although it became clear to me that the party would still live on even without my presence. The neon signs that lit up the dark cloudy night would still burn just as brightly as they would during the day. Musicians would hang up their microphones and close up their pianos just to perform again the next night. Dedicated revelers would resist signs of weariness before they ultimately gave up to its clutch.
I returned home still as unclear as to the true meaning of Bourbon Street as when I had left. I interpreted Bourbon Street as ambiguous. It can’t be defined. It’s an experience. It must be felt. Don’t believe the rumors and don’t believe what I’ve told you. Come see it for yourself.

-Lindsey Fister-