DukeEngage | Duke Center for Civic Engagement

I work in downtown New Orleans, and take the streetcar to work from uptown every day. Several of the streetcar drivers know where my stop is at this point, since I'm riding almost daily and usually multiple times. (And I suppose that the Indian co-worker I'm with stands out around here...) There are also fellow commuters that I've gotten used to seeing: the woman who hates to share her seat, a man who lives near Loyola and wears a very familiar cologne, and others.

Then there are the regulars I wish I wouldn't see. Perhaps it's because I've never spent this much concentrated time in a city before, or maybe it's affects of Katrina, or the fact that New Orleans' socioeconomic groups are all mixed up... But it seems like I've never been confronted with so many homeless people. Walking to the elementary school where I tutor in Durham, I'd often see a few of the same men, but it was like two, and they just never seemed as bad off as people here. I know I'm speaking from middle class privilege, because to not have a home is ad off regardless, but there's a different level of poverty when sanity comes into question.

There's a homeless man I see most days who wears an orange wool hat and is bundled up in the New Orleans heat of June. He has plastic bags filling his motorized wheelchair and hanging over the side. And when he talks to us, its so hard to understand. And we've met others- a man who seemed to be high on something other than life, as he jazzercised his way down the street and on to the trolley, men by the street car stops and on sidewalks, women who wreak of liquor.

All this is in the middle of a thriving down town, and in contrast to the beautiful garden district where we're staying... It's a lot to reconcile. This city seems to expose the best and worst of America, all boiled down and intensified. The poverty, and the racial issues (another post entirely) are all right next to this amazing culture and incredible accomplishments and wealth. I'm still enamored with the city, but like any complicated loved one, the ugly parts have to be acknowledged along with the beauty.

I must say, NO's got extremes of both.

I'm supposed to be working, and am going to re-write an old post that was lost by the poorly formatted DukeEngage blog, so this will be short and sweet.

Time for another edition of Engagement by the Numbers:

1. Mosquito bites from Saturday night: 12.
2. Obscenities thought in effort not to scratch: 108.
3. Street cars run for since we've been here: 8.
4. 99 cent ATMs found: 3.
5. Places in NO that take only cash and make ATMs vital: 84.
6. Mornings my suitemates and I have overslept: 12.
7. Times we've told our DukeEngage Coordinator about: 2.
8. Number if "incident reports" filed for DukeEngage NOLA: 7.
9. Times we've gotten turned around and ended up in the 'hood: 6.
10. Sketchy old men who've catcalled us: 3-5 per day.
11. Locals who've asked my Indian fellow Engager where she's from: 1 per day.
12. Tree roaches I've run from: 6.
13. Guys who've given me their numbers (after asking for mine usually): 5.
14. Percentage of them that I've called: 0%.
15. Percentage of men who think it's okay to be a creeper on Bourbon: 87%.
16. Times I've sweated out my hair after attempting to curl it: daily.
17. Hilarious conversations overheard on the streetcar: 22.
18. Reasons to fall in love with the city: infinite.

(accuracy of statistics not verifiable)

More extensive reflections later.

I went out on a week night.  Ok, so that's not such a revelation.  I'm 21 in New Orleans for the summer after all.  But, just for the record, I've been quite well-behaved (read: no debaucherous, shameful nights).  Just putting that out there for any family/ potential employers that may read this later.  Anywho, confession over and on to the immersion and growth and reflecting and such. 

Let me just say that last night was pretty friggin awesome.  We went to Maple Leaf Bar, definitely a bit divey, but not too sketch, and saw Rebirth Brass Band.  Absolutely best thing I've heard since I've been down here.  Granted, I'd been primed to use superlatives about them because they'd been talked up by almost everyone who's opinion I trust down here.  But, unlike much in life, they're hype was worth believing.  Once I adjusted to the intense volume of everything- both the piercing quality of a powerful horn section and the number of people in a tiny place- there were nothing but good times and  grooves to be had.  I was thrilled to find that I didn't leave feeling as though I should probably be intoxicated to have as much fun as those around me, which is a common feeling (at least for me) after night life.

But, not everyone agreed with me on the need to stay sober (or even lucid) on a Tuesday night.  And the other patrons definitely added to the experience, each in their own special way: The man in his forties who decided to appear at my shoulder several times and pantomime taking a picture of me.  The old man with dacquiri stained lips that popped out of the darkness in the hall to the bathroom like a haunted house actor.  The OG in the straw hat that may have been the coolest person in the room.  And, a special shoutout to the couple who provided the evening's teachable moment.

These  two were both heavily under the influence, which explains most of their behavior, such as the man running into the same chair twice on their way out.  Knowing this, I really wanted to make allowances for the fact that their judgement was impaired.  So I made no comment when they decided to salsa in what had formerly been my personal space.  And I simply nudged the man forward gently when his elbows began to fly into me and his sweat covered back got a bit too close to my face.  And I tried hard not to judge the way he was holding a woman apparently young enough to be his daughter.  (I'll admit, that last one was mostly unsuccessful).  

But, when they started searching feverishly for lighters, my patience wore thin.  I don't like smoke, actually I hate it.  And yes, I am aware that bars are smoky, but the open patio at the back had kept this one breezy thus far.  Besides, even in a bar I never expect to have someone's smokey cigarette held directly in my face.  After fanning a couple of puffs, and coughing up a lung, I was more than done with these two.  When a friend contemplated flicking the woman's cigarette away, I for once had no desire to calm her anger.  The man of the pair had barely avoided a fight earlier, and now I understood why.

And then, just when things might have gotten unattractive (not quite ugly;  we're too classy for that) the band unknowingly intervened.  They started singing the lyrics to what had been instrumental so far.  "If you don't [bleep] with me, then I won't [bleep] with you."  Listening to their advocacy for a live and let live lifestyle, I was reminded just how ridiculous antagonizing two drunk people would be, even if they were incrediblly obnoxious.  Sure, they were slowly killing me with second-hand smoke.  Yes, the woman's hair got stuck in my lip gloss every time the man spun her.  But hey, it was New Orleans.

My friend must have had the same realization, because as the next puff of smoke wafted into our nostrils, we both decided to make dance moves out of fanning away.  The air cleared, we laughed hysterically, and decided that salsa may not be such a terrible idea.  It wasn't.

Nonviolence prompted by profanity.  Only in New Orleans.  Well played Rebirth, well played. 

I keep meaning to write this blog before Sunday.  I have big plans to become an honest to goodness blogger, and analyze the world deeply and share my profundity, while being intensely witty.  I am filled with the best of intentions, but execution is shaky at best.

Engagement by the numbers:

• Gallons of sweat dripped- 28
• Mosquito bites- 1
• Catcalls received- 17.2
• Surprise adventures (aka times lost)- 5.85
• Times recognized as an out of towner- twice a day
• Crawfish eaten "properly"- .75 lbs give or take... mostly take

I saw a little girl on the trolley the other day that made me smile.  She was the most precious thing I'd seen all day, though that isn't saying much.  I'd trekked to the outskirts of the city, out of our lush Garden District all the way to the end of the world, or at least the end of the city, and still had not found my office.  I was hot, sweaty and frustrated, with every intention of putting on my ipod and zoning out for the commute back to Loyola.

But, something about this little girl brought me back to why I was here.  I think it was her hair.  Parted razor sharp down the middle with two bush balls on either side of her head, it reminded me of myself at her age.  But, this is definitely romanticizing myself at 5...  My hair would have been more likely to resemble Don King's by this late in the day. There was as much cheese on her fingers and mouth as on the Doritos she was eating.  Her mom followed her down the aisle and allowed the little girl to choose the seat right in front of me.  They seemed completely engrossed in each other, and Javenique (assuming hers was the name tattoed on the back of her mom's neck) and her mother felt like they could have been my mother and I, transposed to another life.  The mother-daughter moment felt so familiar, despite the surreal palm trees and street cars. 

Much of New Orleans feels like this to me- as though I've been here before.  I'm well aware that I stick out, since I'm almost daily asked where I'm from, and I sweat far too profusely to be a local.  But, I love it here like I'm among cousins:  the accents, the music, the seafood, even the air thick enough to slice with a knife.  Old men here (at least the ones not too overly affectionate) remind me of my grandfather, and the accent is beautiful.  I feel peaceful and comfortable here somehow, even when we're lost, or the street cars blow allergens into my eyes.  I only hope by the end of this I've found something to give back to this city that I can tell is going to give me so much.

Oh yea, and it's hot.