Residents of New Orleans

New Orleans is a one of the oldest cities in America and has seen numerous flags occupy its territory. It is a city steeped in mystery and a place that has been unknown to me until recently. The New Orleans that I was familiar with was one that embodied phrases like “The Big Easy” and “Laissez les bons temp rouler (let the good time roll).” For me, it was a place where anything goes and the party never stops. Now after living here, those preconceptions have changed. Those phrases still exist and are apart of the city, but now after Hurricane Katrina I’ve found that community and the preservation of cultural heritage are new phrases I associate with New Orleans. After the storm, the importance of communication and the intensity at which they exhibit it is something that is at the heart of every New Orleanian.

My first experience with the residents of New Orleans was when I was invited to the first meeting of the UNOP. The UNOP is the Unified New Orleans Plan that is being organized and hosted by Concordia, which is a community based planning and design office that my friend Tony was working for over the summer. He called me on July 30th, the day of the meeting, and asked if I wanted to come by and witness “the first planning meeting of New Orleans.” I had just moved down here with three other students two weeks prior and was eager to see how the planning and rebuilding process was turning out.

My roommates and I headed to City Park where the meeting was taking place. It was clear and sunny Sunday afternoon and people were lining up outside the Botanical Garden entrance to register with the Concordia representatives. Since we were now official residents of New Orleans we decided to participate in what could soon be an historical afternoon. We waited in line and came to find our friend Tony working the registration table.

He commented on the unexpected large turnout and we each registered our address and marked our place on the district map, which was in district 3. When we entered into the Botanical Garden, we walked through a covered arch and then through a set of double doors into the main meeting hall where there were two rows of district booths flanking a central walkway where food was setup. The space was nice but extremely small for the amount of people that showed up to the meeting and since the planning was already such a sensitive topic the cramped room added to growing tensions.

When we waked into the main room, the meeting was just starting and people were told to report to their respective districts. The goal of the first meeting was to talk with district representatives and generate a series of questions that residents wanted the planning teams to consider on August 1st, which was the scheduled second meeting. We all felt a little out of place and thought our participation in the discussions should be kept to a minimum because we had only been residents of New Orleans for two weeks.

The meeting was very intense with confusion and frustration being felt by all the participants. I walked around and listened to the different groups discuss what they felt was important for the planning teams to know about their communities. Numerous topics were discussed ranging from social equity to cultural and architectural preservation. The theme I felt every group had in common was the idea of maintaining their neighborhood uniqueness and individuality.

The intensity in which the people fought was to preserve their unique neighborhood individuality. Every neighborhood seems to have a cultural identity unique to that particular area. All of them have their similarities, yet they have their differences too. It was interesting to experience first hand what residents at the UNOP meeting were so adamantly trying to defend and preserve.

Rebuilding with color

Driving into New Orleans for the first time was quite somber. I had been traveling along I-10 when it suddenly turned into a 12-mile long bridge over open water, Lake Ponchartrain. The thought of running off bridges into water has always scared me, so I tried closing my eyes. It was hard not to steal glances and stare out the window, however. I was completely surrounded by rocky waters, with no clear sight of land. Temporary bridge sections had been erected along the stretch of floating road, which made my stomach turn even more. How did people ever escape this water? How could something that can look and sound so peaceful be such a beast?
When we finally reached dry land, I opened my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, only to be taken aback by what I was now staring at: total devastation. New Orleans East was almost completely destroyed and it looked as if only ghosts lived there. I didn’t say a word—just took it all in as my parents and I continued to drive along the bumpy highway. I wondered what my new house would look like. I knew it was in good shape now, but what had it looked like right after the storm? I also knew that a big part of my new neighborhood had avoided flooding and it only suffered from wind and rain damage. But, what was it going to look like now? Would the bright, blue tarps acting like roofs be as abundant around my house as they were out here? This place was a mess—like a bomb had gone off; it was almost like pictures you see from war zones, but I was really witnessing it. Houses with missing walls (so you could see its’ insides that had been completely gutted out), entire roofs blown away, trees down, brick fences completely knocked over, and as expected, a trailer in many of the yards.


We got off the interstate and drove down Elysian Fields Road toward the river. Almost there. We were stopped by a light right in front of a hot pink building that was covered in big, yellow signs that read “24 hours” and “Free Drink with Every Po-Boy.” Wow. I don’t think that I had ever seen a hot pink building before in my life. It called to me.

The light changed and we found our way onto St. Claude Avenue toward Independence Street. Some of the buildings we passed were completely empty, ready to be bull-dozed over, while others were freshly painted with bright colors, colors most people would never imagine putting on the outside of a house. I smiled. I like bright colors and it made me feel that all was not lost. I think the houses were smiling, too, thankful to have survived and once again be a home for spirited people.


The more I’ve explored my neighborhood since then, the more houses I have passed by that are wrapped in vibrant, flamboyant color combinations. This neighborhood is called Bywater—one that is full of diversity and character, in both houses and people. Everyday, I see a house and think, “oh, I love that color! That’s what I would use on my home!” I wish I had my own home to paint. Right now, my dream house would have been repainted about 25 times. When I was a little girl I always wanted to paint my bedroom walls and ceiling so many different colors that would all fade into each other. It was never allowed and I was stuck with boring, white walls.
I often wonder why some people choose to paint their houses in plain, dull colors, while their neighbor might produce such wonderful eye candy. Back in Lexington, there is a small row of houses on Oldham Avenue that breaks out of the plain-house rhythm. Every strip of trim is a different color and I love walking down that street to see them.

The influx of Mediterranean and Caribbean cultures is what influences the people to paint houses multiple colors. Creoles have been painting their houses like this since the turn of the 20th century, the Victorian Period here in New Orleans. During the 1950’s, however, most residents began painting their homes white with green shutters, because of the low-cost. Then, in the 1970’s, a new group of people moved into the neighborhood that were artists and part of the H.I.P.P.I.E. culture, and made the houses sparkle again with different colors. The area has taken on a bohemian attitude and attracts people who like to remodel houses. Since Bywater was listed on the National Historic Preservation list in 1993, the neighborhood has celebrated their local architecture by painting more and more of them in bright colors.
Since Katrina, however, many of these colorful homes have been left with physical reminders of what went wrong here. X’s and water lines form a layer on almost every building and home in the city. Bywater was barely touched by the flood, but as you drive through the rest of the city you can see the water lines gradually rise and fall, letting you know the depth of the flood. How people have responded to them makes me sit and ponder. I’ve noticed that some have completely put new layers of fresh paint to begin again, celebrating their survival and showing the world that everything is okay. Some people have only covered up the X itself with paint, letting you see that it is still there, only now disguised. The rest have left their houses as is, as if to let everyone know, everyday that this city is not okay and must not be forgotten.


New Orleanians are working hard all day, everyday, trying to bring back what they once had; but they also celebrate the memory of their city and their survival and show that the true New Orleans is not lost. The physical appearance of the city was damaged, but its heart and playfulness is alive and well, more apparent day by day, through singing and dancing and lots of color.






-k. McOwen

The Search for Ignatius

When I put down A Confederacy of Dunces, I breathed a sigh of relief. Had 394 pages of my life been wasted on as trivial a matter as the life of the obnoxiously-eccentric Ignatius J. Reilly, or was this something that would be set aside mentally, as so many things are, until one day I would stumble upon why it really mattered? Days after finishing the book, I was struck with two urges; the first to completely rid myself of such a loathsome character, the second to try and truly understand the reasons why Ignatius had become such a seemingly-important figurehead of the New-Orleanian lifestyle.

My "quest" to find Ignatius began quite unintentionally. Frequent solitary trips through the French Quarter would lead me to various characters, identities that would capture my imagination for a split second whether by means of a simple verbal exchange, a hanging glance, or some sort of intriguing attire. Whatever it was, often times this brief interaction would lead my thoughts back to this literary character, and my curiosity of whether or not he truly existed.



At times, I found myself running through the Quarter trying to spot the elusive Ignatius. The man strumming his guitar and singing at the gates of Jackson Square, after it had been locked for the night, was a likely candidate, with his friendly smile yet seemingly contentious air towards whatever tourist or local he decided to despise. Legs crossed seated in a small chair, he would strum his guitar, eyes sometimes locking with mine and at other times so distant that I felt as if my presence was an interruption. These times that he played for his own enjoyment rather than that of the passersby, as if realizing the charitable people had turned in for the night.



And then there was the dancer, wild stringy red hair, black jeans, and the checked flannel shirt that pulled his attire together. He appeared at a local music festival as if a beacon for those happy to be alive; shuffling feet, shaking hips, all without breaking his intent gaze upon whatever soulful performance was going on. Inhibitions removed, these moments reminded me of Ignatius...a man gluttonous only through the description of others, proudly flaunting his strange outfits and unnatural movements.





Next there was the old man resting on a bench under the flagpoles of the French Market, gazing intently at what I perceived to be nothing. So I sat and watched him sit. And all he did was sit. He clung to a black leather satchel, enough to warrant its importance yet loosely enough to show his leisurely approach. His disheveled appearance and rigid stance - fist cocked against what appeared a full belly - seemed fitting of my perception of Ignatius. It was a portrayal of forcible readiness mixed with a somewhat content knowledge of his existence. At that moment I could envision Ignatius ditching his hot dog route after indulging quite heavily for the day, instead deciding to spend the afternoon under his favorite tree and admire all the ridiculous tourists and undeniably-hideous workers.


It was at this point that I realized that these observations were no longer happenstance, but instead were meaningful and real. So, rather than put them aside and wait for the next encounter with an Ignatius-like character, I decided to go find him. Naturally, the first stop on my journey was the infamous hot dog company, employer of our now-beloved character. Though named Paradise Vendors in the novel, New Orleans has long been served by a company under a different name; Lucky Dogs. This profitable company began shortly after World War II, when brothers Stephen and Erasmus Loyacano began marketing their invention of a cart that could "steam cook 100 dogs, buns, and chili..." as well as "store everything for 300 more". Though their business was short-lived, it was purchased many years after its demise by Doug Talbot and Peter Briant in 1970. After implementing a series of new health regulations within their vending appliances (i.e. the sneeze guard and hand washing system), Lucky Dogs and everything they stood for were put back on the market. Since, they have thrived, or, as Ignatius would put it, "Fortuna" had "smiled down" upon this poor-mans business.


"Paradise Vendors, Incorporated, was housed in what had formerly been an automobile repair shop, the dark ground floor of an otherwise unoccupied commercial building on Poydras Street. The garage doors were usually open, giving the passerby an acrid nostrilful of boiling hot dogs and mustard...The powerful stench of Paradise Vendors, Incorporated, sometimes led the overwhelmed and perplexed stroller to glance through the open door into the darkness of the garage."(152) Ironically, as I should have assumed, Lucky Dogs was located a mere 3 blocks away, at 517 Gravier St. Because the hours of operation stretched until 3:30AM, I began my exploration in the wee hours of the morning. What I found was precisely what I had envisioned: a rundown, seemingly-abandoned building basked in the green glow of the street lamps. Though there was no visible sign defining its current use, a thread of light crept from under the front door of the otherwise-dark building and from somewhere inside mens' voices erupted in coarse intervals. I hesitated until a man approached from the bar across the street; I dared ask if this was, indeed, the Lucky facility. He grinned and replied with a nod, stating that he, in fact, had been an employee of the very business almost 15 years prior. When asked about its history, he told me that it had been open almost 40 years yet had never had a single marking to advertise its presence on the block. He continued to say that their luscious dogs were no longer cooked at the place - all Lucky Dogs did was distribute the fine goods to the public by use of the Loyacano-brothers design. Affirming he knew nothing more of their mode of operation, this slight Ignatius withdrew into the shadows, and I retreated back into mine.


At this point, there was one spot left to visit, a place that, over the summer, had often become a detour during my various bike rides between Calhoun and Canal: the Prytania Theatre. The building itself dates back to the early 1900s and is the last single-screen theatre in Louisiana. At first, I had been drawn to it purely out of curiosity, but now I envisioned Ignatius creeping inside to escape the rigors of work, his loving mother, or simply the day itself, in order to catch a movie he would soon belittle.


During this visit, however, it wasn't the red brick finish, the domed entry, or any other elements of its storybook majesty that struck me. Rather, it was the sign placed in front of the business which read, "Prytania Theatre: STILL OPEN". Those words struck a chord, at once compounding the vast number of intangible ideas I had been trying to grasp. Maybe looking for Ignatius was merely an excuse for understanding a much larger idea: the stubborn resilience of a culture creating an unwillingness to give up in the face of tragedy and destruction. Due to the events little more than a year ago, thousands of people's lives were completely disrupted and they had been forced to start anew. The message on the sign seemed the slogan of all those who had stuck it out and refused to give up; we're still here.

As I walked back to my car, I wondered if Ignatius J. Reilly really ever mattered.



-TonySaba Shiber