I start thinking about the concept of national service. So many other countries have mandatory military service, which I don’t think we need, but I wonder whether some sort of mandatory national service wouldn’t be a good idea for our country. Whether it’s military or educational or mentoring or park service, the list of needs we have is great and we certainly don’t lack for bored young people. I also worry that our culture is slowly becoming so fragmented that our national identity might get irretrievably diluted
along the way. National service would bring together young people from every region, every background, and give them useful, purposeful work. I recently heard an interview with Tom Brokaw, who was proposing something similar, the formation of six public-service academies. My idea is a little more far-reaching than that, because it would get everybody involved, but I’m glad to see that Tom Brokaw and I share more than just gorgeous speaking voices.
Meghan:
A few minutes later a very tall, handsome black man approaches and greets us with hugs, giving Michael the “guy hand shake,” and I can’t help but giggle because Michael clearly isn’t as used to giving other guys bro hugs as Glen is.
“Hi, Michael, Meghan?” he asks and we nod. “Good to meet you. I’m Glen. Whose friend are you exactly?”
“You know, my friend Liz’s friend Jonah,” I try to say casually.
“Don’t know a Jonah but it doesn’t matter,” he says, and I like him immediately, knowing that he’s the guy to show us a good time. The ferry makes its way to the part of New Orleans on the west bank of the Mississippi, and Glen takes us along a patchy road that ebbs in and out of cobblestones. He talks about the history of his neighborhood and the racial tension that I am disappointed to learn still exists. Apparently there are still black and white sections of the areas that have not exactly been gentrified.
“Is it getting better, yeah,” he says. “But do race issues still exist? Yeah, it’s New Orleans.”
I don’t know why this is surprising, but I think there is some kind of cultural myth that because we now have elected our first black president that somehow all race issues have dissipated. As we make our way deeper and deeper into Glen’s neighborhood, he suggests a quick stop at his girlfriend’s house. She is apparently a professional boxer in training for the Olympics. We walk up to a modest-sized white porch leading to the door and he casually asks if we smoke weed. This is a loaded question for me, because there is no right answer to this in the political world. I am a truthful person
and I hate liars, so saying no would be a lie. Saying yes in America basically makes me a scofflaw.
Let me put it right out there. Yes, I have smoked marijuana a few times in the past. The first time was on a trip to Amsterdam in college and I was surprised by how mild of an experience marijuana was (and in my experience still is). It is a plant that makes me mellow and giggly and, quite frankly, tired. Yet, depending on where you are in the United States, smoking is possession, and that is either a misdemeanor or a felony, depending on how much and whether it’s your first time. Split that hair however you want, it’s still a crime.
That being said, I believe that marijuana should be legalized in the United States. This is not a decision I have come to quickly or lightly. Over the course of the last four years, in discussions with friends pro and con, I believe the legal ramifications of possessing marijuana are egregious. For one reason, I think it is a substance that does no more damage than alcohol does, and second, if we legalized marijuana in this country and taxed the hell out of it, our economic problems would at least be temporarily helped a great deal. In fact, you could even use the revenue stream to pay for universal health care if you wanted.
Mostly though, I do not completely understand the allure and taboo associated with marijuana. The few times I have partaken in smoking pot it has been a mild experience. Yes, it is a substance that will alter your mind frame and judgment, but as someone who is high strung and has a natural tendency to get nauseated, I can see its appeal.
Michael:
We walk along the cobblestone streets of Old Algiers. Glen says he’s started something called the No Nigger Campaign, which is his effort to get people in the black community to stop using that word. I nod. He says it’s damaging to people’s self-esteem and that until black people start respecting themselves, nobody else is going to respect them either.
He shows us some neighborhood landmarks. “The Mardi Gras floats? This is where they build ’em.” He then points out the invisible line between the black section of the neighborhood and the white.
“Is it still pretty segregated?” I ask.
“You know something? Unfortunately, New Orleans is. It’s real fucked up. My girlfriend’s white and what fucks it up is that people are people. They didn’t vote for Obama here,” he says, pointing to the neighborhood around us. “Only in New Orleans,” by which I guess he means the other side of the river.
We get to his girlfriend’s house, a cheerful little shotgun shack. The house is aligned along a narrow corridor. One room flows into the other: living room to what I guess would be the dining room to the kitchen. The reason it’s hard to tell whether or not it’s supposed to be a dining room is because there’s a punching bag hanging from the ceiling, along with a bunch of other training equipment. It turns out Glen’s girlfriend is a professional boxer named Tiffany Junot. Framed photos of Tiffany line the room. On the floor are a couple of belts, the kind boxers get when they win championships.
“She keeps her belts on the floor?” I ask.
“She doesn’t give a shit about those. She’s got a lot more. She could kick my ass.”
Stephie asks if she’s from New Orleans.
“Been in this house a hundred and ten years. Her great-great grandfather built it.”
We talk about music and Glen’s role as himself on the TV show
Treme.
It turns out Glen is an accomplished musician, a trombonist and vocalist who just scored his first major record deal. He’s just come off the road with his band a few days ago. He mentions that his cousin is Trombone Shorty, and I nod, impressed. When he goes to the bathroom, I ask Meghan who Trombone Shorty is. She says she doesn’t know.
It turns out we’re the idiots because when I dig around later, I realize Trombone Shorty is one of America’s greatest jazz musicians.
New Orleans jazz has a steep learning curve for those of us not cool enough to have cribbed before arrival.
Glen packs a small bowl with pot. I take a hit. Meghan takes some and then Stephie.
“You’re SO hard core, Michael,” Meghan says, trying not to cough.
“I
am
hard core,” I reply, happy to see her coming back out of her shy shell. She’s been a little moody since our pre-gator health care fight, and I’ve refused to coddle her out of her various snits. I wink at her, encouraging her fun side to come out and play.
Meghan:
Does it cross my mind that entering a stranger’s house and smoking marijuana might not be the smartest thing to do? Yes, of course it does, but I like Glen. In the forty-five minutes that I have known him he is making all of us laugh, showing us around his neighborhood, and opening us up to a side of New Orleans we would not have gotten to experience otherwise. He is also flirting with me and calls me a beautiful woman in front of Michael and Stephie. I like men who confidently flirt with women they have just met. Also, I do not want to seem like the Debbie Downer in this scenario. Michael immediately says yes to smoking a joint with Glen. I don’t know—buy the ticket, take the ride, right?
As we continue down the cobblestone streets, Glen passes a joint. The thought does occur to me that someone could see us and we could get arrested, though if we went to jail I’m pretty sure it’s Michael who would cry. Just the same, I’m not looking to find out.
I walk down the road, trying not to trip over my maxi-dress, and hold Glen’s arm for support. Up ahead of us a car honks at Michael, he jumps a little, and a woman yells out of the window, “Stop toking and get out of the road!” I laugh myself in half at the priceless look on Michael’s face, simultaneously freaked out and proud as a peacock.
Michael:
We’re all a little buzzed now as Glen tells us about the way Old Algiers was during Katrina.
“This neighborhood was under chaos because this is the neighborhood where the police committed all the murders,” he says. “They got thirteen police charged for murder. Every fucking case of police misconduct was proven.”
He tells us where we are standing was entirely underwater up to our waists. All of these proud old houses drowning under the muddy river waters. There are still water marks on some of the houses. You can see where the waters stopped rising, can see how somebody might have needed a boat to navigate, can see how people might have been forced to their roofs. It’s eerie, and yet this neighborhood survived better than others. At least here there are still people on porches. Glen calls to them when we pass. He seems to know them all and they know him.
We wander over to a concert right on the riverbank, on a big stage ringed by concession stands that sell food and alcohol. There’s an all-female brass band playing and I wonder for a moment about the difficulty of finding female tuba players. Glenn leads us through the patchy grass to the booths selling drink tickets. We buy some drinks for ourselves: water for Stephie, sweet tea for me, Bud Light for Meghan.
“What do you want, Glen?” she asks.
“Something hard,” says Glen.
He seems to know everybody here. Every few feet he introduces us to another friend: musicians, locals like him, people from his block, business people. Lots of handshakes. We meet the leader of the next band about to go on. We walk up the banks of the levee and meet more people up there. Glen wipes his face with a white handkerchief while we walk, sipping a vodka cranberry, shaking hands. He introduces us to Dr. William Jones, recently relocated from Phoenix, proud possessor of a PhD in musical education. He’s around sixty, African American, and talks like a civic booster.
“There’s nothing like this New Orleans culture,” he says. “The politics out here is great, and now it’s up to all of us to bring our wonderful city back.”
This surprises me because he is the only person I have ever heard who describes New Orleans politics as “great.” More commonly used words are “corrupt,” “racist,” and “incompetent.” When I come back a little later, Meghan is talking with Dr. Jones.
“I found a Republican for you,” she says, pointing at him.
I laugh. A black Republican.
“I know it’s not fashionable to be a black Republican,” he says, glossing over my skepticism. “But I’m a proud black Republican.” He says his wife gives him a hard time about it, and Stephie asks him why he’s a Republican. He mentions something about Lincoln freeing the slaves, but then says, “But let’s be real: if you want to get ahead, you roll with the big dogs. The Republican Party is the big dogs.”
“I hear ya,” says Stephie, which I think is her attempt at “being real,” per Dr. Jones’s advice.
Meghan:
Front and center is a series of jazz musicians wearing traditional Mardi Gras Indian costumes. Glen explains to me that during the Civil War, when American Indians helped shield runaway slaves, the two oppressed peoples developed a bond that eventually found colorful outlet in the Mardi Gras tribes. Every year the tribes compete to have the most intricate and beautiful costumes, some weighing as much as 150 pounds and costing thousands of dollars. They are breathtaking. The men wear giant feathered headdresses, derived from the ceremonial attire of many Native American tribes.
I am somewhat ashamed to admit to Glen that after my times visiting New Orleans, I had never seen a traditional Mardi Gras Indian nor was I aware of the tribes that still exist in New Orleans. Glenn tells me all about how music runs in his family, being a trombone player, and working on the HBO show
Treme
.
Along about this time, we meet Dr. William Jones, who says to me, “We almost made it to the White House.” I smile—I’ve been recognized for all the right reasons, and my prayers for a fellow
Republican are answered—he’s also from Arizona, which makes me triply happy.
However, the look on Glen’s face completely changes, as if the music playing between us stops and there’s only one chair. He looks at Dr. Jones and says, “Are you kidding me? How can you be a Republican? What black man is a Republican?”
I pull Michael into the mix, hopeful that this man can help him see my points of view, and Dr. Jones does a wonderful job of laying out the principals of smaller government and fiscal conservatism. As excited as I am about my ally, it is clear that Glen and Michael are both stuck on the completely unimportant fact that a black man could be supportive of the Republican Party. Putting it mildly, the situation is a little depressing. I don’t know Glen well enough to chastise him, nor do I want to make Dr. Jones any more uncomfortable than he already is. I want to roll my eyes at Michael and yell at him,
That’s right, they exist—minorities who are Republicans! Don’t believe everything Keith Olbermann tells you!!
Instead I take the high road, hiking up my damn maxi-dress and taking Glen to get a piece of fried catfish.
Michael:
Glen returns a few minutes later and explains new New Orleans politics to me.
“After the storm, the majority of the people that came back were white. This is how we know it’s true. For the first time in forty years, we have a white mayor. Everything’s been black in this city for at least forty-five years. Mayor, police chief.” He goes on a rant about the former mayor, Ray Nagin, who grew up in Treme, the same neighborhood as Glen, the same neighborhood we’re going to later tonight. “He won’t even walk in that neighborhood right now. He’s that uppity.” Yes, Glen uses the U-word.