Thunderstorms, Crawfish, Civil Rights, and Jazz

Sunday, August 11, 2011

As I write this reflection in my underwear and big t-shirt, I look like I just took a shower.  But I didn’t.  I just walked home in a thunderstorm.

This morning Christina and I woke up at 10:00 in our apartment in the Garden District.  In the middle of getting ready we stopped to grab long island iced tea and a mudslide from the nearest mom & pop shop that sells liquor, and went back home to enjoy our drinks while finishing our make-up.

Once we were dressed, and a little tipsy, we were ready to head out.  It was sunny still, and hotter than yesterday. It is so hot that Christina’s teal nail polish is melting off.

We took the St. Charles Street Car to Canal St. and walked to Cafe Du Monde in the French District.  There we ate beignets buried under a mountain of powdered sugar and shared a cafe a lait.

Then it was time for what we came to New Orleans for – jazz!  We attended the Louis Armstrong Satchmo SummerFest jazz festival and listened to brass bands and a rendition of “What a Wonderful World.”

The Festival was held at the U.S. mint, a historical landmark that also houses the Lousiana Civil Rights Museum.  What an amazing exhibit!  I could feel the emotions in the room as black, white, and 2 Filipina visitors stood together to revisit the history of race, racism, and white privilege in this country. Christina and I had a passionate discussion with Darren and another man (I’m sorry I can’t remember your name) who had a raspy voice like Louis Armstrong.  Louis was upset because we were standing next to a display that showed bundles of cash stacked up to represent the net worth of households of different races.  White and Asian net worth was stacked high.  Black, Latino, & “Other” was not even a 10th as high.  He was mad because of how people of color suffer in poverty, and because he believed the stereotype of the “Asian Model Minority.”  I explained that the model minority was a myth, that there are poor Asian immigrant and refugee communities who have been forced to leave home and come to this country because of war and lack of economic opportunities.  He was appreciative, and told us that Christina and I were the first Asian Americans he’s ever had a conversation with.  We decided together that misconceptions like the model minority myth keeps people of color divided and pitted against each other. Louis and Darren are native to New Orleans, and from the 9th ward, the district hardest hit and slowest to recover since Hurricane Katrina.  He told us how sad it still is, even two years after Katrina.  We also talked about Japanese internment and reparations, and he showed us his anguish about slavery: “We’re still paying for that.  No one ever gave us reparation.”

Christina and I hugged and parted with Darren & Louis, and stepped out of the museum back into the festival.  The ground was wet, the sun had left and rain had come while we were away!  We listened to a brass band play and sing “Who Dat Called the Cops?”  We bought ourselves a couple beers, mine was Abita Purple Haze, and then it started to rain again!  So we gave each other a twirl around and danced in the rain, beers in hand.

We listened to a whole set by the New Birth Brass Band before grabbing lunch from one of the festival vendors.  We bought crawfish etouffee from a man who thought we were so beautiful “it hurt [him] to take our cash.”  Too bad it didn’t hurt him enough to earn us a free meal.  We ate under the cover of a big oak tree and had a conversation with a flapper woman dressed in purple feathers who had just danced in the Zulu parade.

By this time the rain had turned into a full blown thunder storm, and so it was time to head back home to get ready for dinner.  We walked, laughing, through the rain.  We splashed through the French Quarter to the street car and made our way home.

So here I am, listening to Etta James and waiting for my hair to dry.  It’s almost time for dinner – we’re having boudin sausage, deep-fried alligator, and wood-fired oysters!  After dinner comes more jazz at the Spotted Cat.  There is more jazz in this city than I can soak up in a lifetime.  Guess I’m coming back next year!