Obama-Biden sign at Vaughan's Lounge located in Bywater neighborhood - in the 2nd Congressional District

With less than a week before the election, the latest polls and projected electoral counts show that Democratic Presidential candidate Barack Obama is leading Republican John McCain. If Obama wins, many will claim he was able to transcend race and reach the hearts and minds of the American electorate.

However, in other parts of the country, especially New Orleans, race is still partially or fully the voting decision-maker.

“White people will never vote for a black person in Louisiana,” said William Everette, Political Science Lecturer at Xavier University of Louisiana, a Historically Black College & University (HBCU). “We talk about the same thing with the Obama election.”

As the first African American Democratic Party presidential nominee, Obama’s historical bid for the United States presidency has highlighted the nationwide issue of race and politics. As this election season has shown, there are still areas of the country where racial prejudice prevents people from voting for Obama. A September 2008 AP/Yahoo poll confirmed that race is an issue: “If there was no racial prejudice among voters, Sen. Barack Obama would retrieve about six percentage points more support.”

Nothing reveals the pitfalls of voting along racial lines more than the current New Orleans democratic contest for the 2nd Congressional district between incumbent William Jefferson and broadcast journalist-turned-politician Helena Moreno.

One of New Orleans’ most powerful politicians, Jefferson is Louisiana’s first black congressman since Reconstruction and a nine-term incumbent. He faces Moreno, a journalist, who moved to New Orleans to take a reporting job with TV station, WDSU-TV, eight years ago. She worked as an anchor and investigative news reporter until she resigned in March 2008 to run for Congress.

Although the race between Jefferson and Moreno is viewed as black versus white, many city residents don’t even know that Moreno isn’t white.
“Moreno is Hispanic,” said Darrin M. Hanson, who is a white Political Science professor at Xavier University of Louisiana. “A lot of the white people and black people who I talk to don’t realize that she is Hispanic.”

“She made the run-off because she was the only candidate close enough to white,” said Everette.

Political art featuring Obama at Xavier University of Louisiana

Jefferson and Moreno are campaigning to win a district that is approximately 62 percent black, and includes the majority of New Orleans. The area contains the 9th Ward, Gentilly and other low-lying areas, which were greatly damaged from Hurricane Katrina in 2005.

This district’s congressional leadership has been Democratic since Reconstruction. And the Voting Rights Act of 1965 turned this area into a “Majority-Minority” district to guard against racially-motivated gerrymandering, thereby ensuring minority voters the equal opportunity to elect congressional representatives.

With a predominantly black congressional district, many political insiders knew that Moreno would have an uphill battle due to race and other issues. And in order to win, Moreno would need a significant black “crossover” vote. Most New Orleanians assumed she would get the white vote.

“If [white people] get a chance to not vote for a black person, they don’t vote for them,” said William Everette, Political Science Lecturer at Xavier University of Louisiana.

Before the 2006 congressional election, Jefferson’s support diminished due to federal charges that he had $90,000 in alleged bribe money in his freezer. Although Jefferson still won the election, he was removed from his powerful House Ways and Means committee post. He was also indicted in 2007, and will go to trial in December on bribery, money laundering and other charges.

Yet despite Jefferson’s alleged corruption, he received 25 percent of the vote in the October election with Moreno garnering 20 percent. Although New Orleans residents may disagree as to the merits of re-electing Jefferson, most agree that the election was heavily decided based on race.

Hanson, who is a white Political Science professor at Xavier University of Louisiana, explains the run-off between Jefferson and Moreno.

“The problem with the previous election was that there was Jefferson and five young African-American males,” said Hanson. “They were all well-qualified. The five young male candidates cancelled each other, but together they had 55 percent of the vote. If the black vote had consolidated behind one person, Jefferson or Moreno would have been knocked off.”

On Nov. 4, New Orleans residents will vote for the next president and several state and national congressional seats, including the 2nd Congressional district. Most experts agree that both Jefferson and Moreno won the first election because the vote was splintered by race.
The Times-Picayune staff writer, Stephanie Grace said, “If voters often talk about choosing the lesser of two evils, this is one election where that saying really does fit the mood.”
Grace along with several others in New Orleans predicts Jefferson will win. The numbers and race are in his favor, as well as having Obama on the ticket.

“Jefferson is running the same day that Obama is running, said Hanson. “People are going to vote for history. They are expecting a 95 percent African American city-wide turnout.”

And if the 2006 election proved anything, Jefferson can be re-elected with federal investigations and alleges charges of corruption hanging over him.
For radio host, CJ Morgan, of WBOK 1230 AM’s show “Talk Back, Talk Black,” the Jefferson race is “very much a reflection of the racial polarization of the city.” Whites vote predominantly for whites and blacks vote for blacks.
Xavier University of Louisiana student Jayson Williams, 23, explained Jefferson’s support from the black community.
“The reason why they are supporting Bill Jefferson is because he has seniority as a representative,” said Williams who is a Political Science major.  “He has served a lot of time and been on boards. And he’s given us streets, lights and money. He helps his district. That’s all that really matters to me.”

Yet despite Jefferson’s congressional track record and Katrina efforts, the alleged charges against him weigh heavily in some minds.
“Although there are people who want to elect Jefferson, I was kind of shocked because of what’s going on and what’s in the media,” said Alysha Smith, a senior Political Science major at Xavier University of Louisiana.

Dr. Lance Hill, the Executive Director of the Southern Institute for Education and Research at Tulane University, claims there are logical reasons why many African Americans in New Orleans support Jefferson.
“Bill Jefferson defended the black community, prevented it from being demolished, went to Congress, and used his power of the Black Caucus to get funding to rebuild the homes of black homeowners when the Republican establishment turned its back on New Orleans,” said Hill, who is white.

Considered an expert on race, prejudice and tolerance, Hill co-founded the Southern Institute for Education and Research at Tulane in 1993. The Institute uses the Holocaust and Civil Rights Movement case studies to teach students about prejudice. The organization boasts that it has “the most comprehensive tolerance education program” of its kind in the South and trained more than 3,600 teachers.

“It’s no question that even stripped of his committee assignments that he has been able to leverage more change and more benefits for Katrina victims, white and black alike, than probably any other member of Congress,” said Hill.

Early Voting Event attendees- photographer: Jeremy McLean

And although Katrina occurred more than three years ago, it has affected the politics of New Orleans. It brought New Orleans problems to the surface, said Mike Flores, President of GCR Consulting.

Even though Mayor Nagin claims that 75% of New Orleans has returned after Hurricane Katrina, many residents say the city is not the same.

After Katrina, the demographics of New Orleans have changed, said Bruce Nolan, reporter for The Times-Picayune.

“The underlying concerns and fears are still there, said Nolan. “Black folk are still utterly convinced, utterly persuaded that the powers-that-be used Katrina as an excuse to lock them out of town. I mean that’s embedded. And that legacy is carried forward into our politics of today, even though it’s less black than it was before.”

Several blacks viewed the post-Katrina rebuilding plans like “Bring New Orleans Back” and the Master Plan or “Green Space” plans as a way for a portion of the white constituency to prevent poor, low-income blacks from returning to New Orleans, said Hill.

These post-Katrina demographic changes have resulted in a majority white city council and school board in New Orleans, said Hanson who considers himself a part of the group of whites that arrived in New Orleans after the storm.

Thus, many blacks feel their generations of political leadership are being stripped away by the white minority. Jefferson is using this fear to his advantage in the race against Moreno, explained Hill.

Although the Green Space plan has been abandoned, Jefferson’s use of the term the “greening of New Orleans” has been a strong campaign message against Moreno.

According to Hill, Jefferson makes claims, in political ads on black radio and in appearances, that Moreno is supported by the people who tried to prevent blacks from coming home, and is trying to turn their community into “green space.”

The Jefferson v. Moreno race points out politically strategies based on racial identity and in some cases racial misgivings. It also shows the strategy of power retention according to race.

“We want to keep our person, by our person, I mean racial identifier, in office. Moreno is not us, we can’t lose our seat,” said Hanson who described the sentiment of African Americans voting for Jefferson.

Hill agreed that the black community doesn’t want to forego its political influence.

“Jefferson said, ‘Look if I get elected you have the same kind of power and influence in congress that you’ve had in all the years that I’ve served. If I’m convicted of a crime, there will be a new election. And you will get somebody that represents you,’” said Hill.

For many New Orleans voters, the 2nd Congressional district and presidential races may all come down to race and the re-opening of prejudicial wounds. And it remains to be seen if Barack Obama can transcend the issue of race nationally.

Yet, it appears that racial politics of 2008 may boil down to one simple statement. As Obama said in an interview in July 2008 with Brian Williams about being viewed as a political risk, and as CJ Morgan said about the politics of New Orleans: “The devil that you know is better than the devil that you don’t know.”

Most Jamaicans keep their homes pretty low-key. Huts made with wooden slats or metal sheets dot the landscape along the coast and for miles inland. Most of them are no more than one large room, so families congregate on the fields outside instead. Hustlers hoping to make their money from tourists spend the hot, lazy days on plastic chairs along the road, shouting occasionally at passers by to come and view their goods, buy a beer or share a joint.

Everything on the island is transitory, from the tourists to the real estate. Concrete makes no sense to the citizens of this Caribbean paradise, who know that it only takes one stormy summer to level everything back down to zero. Last year, Hurricane Dean pummeled the island with torrential rain and biting winds. On Thursday, Hurricane Gustav flooded the plains of low-lying areas, including the city of Portmore on the outskirts of Kingston.

According to the National Hurricane Center, Gustav swept along the east side of the Jamaica Thursday, hovering threateningly close to the capital city of Kingston, before creeping further toward the U.S. border. The winds are up to 70 mph, and as the hurricane heads North-East, New Orleanians are being told to evacuate. Meanwhile, Jamaica’s Northern region battles the tropical storm. Residents and tourists in high-risk areas were told Wednesday to evacuate, or hunker down and prepare for a big one. Three years to the day after Hurricane Katrina, the people of New Orleans are in panic-mode. But Jamaicans experience the same sense of déjà vu every summer.

In Negril, a tourist haven in West Jamaica famous for its seven-mile beach, Rick’s Café has been rebuilt twice since 1988. Despite towering high above the cliffs, the building was trashed by 25-foot waves during Hurricane Gilbert in September 1988. Rick’s was rebuilt, only to be obliterated on Sep. 11, 2004 by Hurricane Ivan. This time, the waves reached a staggering 80 feet as they crashed over the cliffs and treetops. What was left of Rick’s was strewn along the road. But perseverance has paid off. Negril’s tourists still flock to Rick’s to watch the cliff divers and the sunset while enjoying a goat curry and some creative rum cocktails. If Hurricane Gustav brings the house down for the third time, Rick’s will no doubt start picking up the bits and pieces as soon as the wind dies down.

This regular rotation is part of the Jamaican lifestyle. Being able to carry what you own and start afresh at the first drop of a rain cloud is a skill quickly acquired by residents of this tropical paradise on the hurricane strip. It’s not a fluke catastrophe – it’s geography.

West End Road runs along the shore and up to Rick’s, where a number of cliff-lining restaurants are situated as well as Negril’s quaint lighthouse, making it a famous route for tourist-hauling taxi drivers. At the beginning of August, the route toured a host of abandoned buildings and construction sites on the way. Some of the empty houses are the size of mansions, wood flayed off and decaying, windows gaping open like eye sockets.

According to a driver from Jamaica Tours Limited, foreign money has been buying up real estate on the island. Bill Cosby owns a multi-million mansion on the outskirts of Montego Bay. Considering that most two-bedroom houses cost approximately $20,000 here, a million goes a long, long way in creating the ultimate paradise home. According to The Jamaica Observer, even though real estate prices are relatively low, the industry is booming.

But to the Jamaicans, masterful, luxuriant architecture is ridiculously superfluous and sticks out like a fortress in the jungle. Construction workers wave lazily at passers by as they rebuild the vacation homes that will soon be taken once again by nature’s appetite. At dusk, they leave these castles on the sand and go home to their makeshift huts, watching the horizon for rainstorms.

NEW ORLEANS, 2055
(after Republicans sweep the 2008 elections)

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the official tour of historic New Orleans. This exact replica of an old-style trolley-car will begin its route through the famed, and infamous, French Quarter very soon. But first, some facts about this grand old Southern city. Can anyone tell me anything about the history of this city?”

“They held the Mardi Gras here.”

“Correct, and there is a still a Mardi Gras remembrance celebration right here on George W. Bush Boulevard— formerly called Bourbon Street— every year. Anything else.”

“Wasn’t there a controversy over renaming the street?”

“No controversy, really. Under President Jeb Bush, the State Church proclaimed in 2019 that street names celebrating decadence were not appropriate to one of our most historic places.”

“It was port where black slaves were sold to white people.”

“Now, young man, as you know, the 2028 Proclamation of Colorblindness signed by President Jenna Bush makes clear that slaves came in all colors, and that slavery means many things. A slave to the land is the same as a slave in chains. One more. Anything else?”

“The city was washed away in a flood early this century.”

“Correct. And the Father of New Orleans saved the citizens from great hardships during the flood. You’ll see a grand statue of Father George W. Bush on the tour, which stands as an eternal testament to his great leadership during that crisis.”

“Didn’t a lot of black people once live in this city?”

“We don’t separate people by color anymore. It is, in fact, against the law.”

“Right, but wasn’t there a major upheaval after the flood that led to the precursors of the Proclamation of Colorblindness?”

“(Sigh) It is well-documented historical fact that in the mid-late 20th century, the communists instigated what was Orwellianly called the ‘Civil Rights Movement’ to drive a wedge between different types of citizens by convincing some of the most gullible that they had been treated unfairly. We all know that America is founded on “justice for all,” so unfair treatment of any group is impossible. Impossible. After Great Leader Ronald Reagan defeated the communists, it was only a matter of time before the last vestiges of the unequal rights cabal was also defeated. But they had one last ‘hurrah’ after the great Hurricane Katrina, culminating in an attempt to inject the toxic topic of race, which we have now transcended, into the 2008 presidential election by nominating a self-described “black man” for president! Imagine! For crushing that cabal, the people showed their appreciation by making the Republicans the Official Party of the United States… Now, let’s begin the tour…”

“I’m sorry, I have one more question.”

“I’m afraid we have a schedule to keep. The French Quarter is one of the oldest parts of this city, and the one area that was completely recreated after the great flood. Look. On the right you’ll see the old-fashioned minstrel character that has brought joy and laughter to millions since the founding of our country… Look. The minstrel has his hand to his ear. What’s he trying to tell us? Wait. Listen. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of music they called jazz. Though rarely heard today, it’s one of the musical forms, along with blues, that has faded from American life.”

“But didn’t that happen after they consolidated the media into one single company?”

“Sir, please don’t interrupt. As we turn the corner, we’ll see a recreation of some of the areas that were not rebuilt after the floods. On the right, you’ll see one of the charming, long, narrow ‘shotgun houses.’ It was jokingly said that the name occurred because you could shoot a gun through the front door and hit everyone in the house. Ha ha ha. However, the residents loved the old world charm of the dwellings and foolishly chose to rent them instead of owning their own homes on higher ground. Thus, many were flooded out and lost everything.”

“Weren’t they poor?”

“Sir, as it says as the mother of the Bush Dynasty has said, ‘poverty is a lifestyle choice.’”

“Weren’t most of them black?”

“SECURITY!”

——
Leonce Gaiter’s work on social and cultural issues has appeared in numerous publications, from the Los Angeles Times to the New York Times magazine. His noir novel Bourbon Street was published by Carroll & Graf.

New Orleans Flickr: Toshio

NEW ORLEANS—— Lundi Gras— the Fat Monday before Fat Tuesday— dawns dry and perfectly blue, though dampened by official predictions of storms and fluctuating temperatures on the Big Day. I stop being a working stiff for the moment, however brief that was to be, and spend my time indoors, ignoring work and the cats, working on my costume. I consult by phone with other members of my marching krewe, the infamous Society of Sainte Anne. Who are surprised to find that I am still alive. There is a uniform exchange at the beginning of each conversation.

“Where ya been, boy?”

“Working at the University, editing a film at my studio in the Marigny.”

“Good man. But the hell with TV an’ school, ya know. It’s Carnival.”

Then, without any corrective explanation, we discuss Carnival. Nothing else is really important, not this close to The Day.

Everyone is prepared for the worst. Rain and wind on Fat Tuesday spells doom for feathers and bare skin, two essential ingredients of any true aficionado’s Carnival uniform. It is worrisome, but early Mardi Gras morning I stumble from a bed full of meteorologically‑based bad dreams around midnight to look skyward off my bedroom balcony. Nothing but a few clouds. I go back to bed a happy man and sleep soundly until 5:30am, when I rise to begin preparations for my day.

Start the coffee first. Then while it is brewing, I mix the pitcher of bloody marys, lacing it liberally with fresh ground horseradish purchased just the night before. Turn the tube to local weather. Remain calm. Wait for the local radar. Just dotty storms on the map, through to Texas. At least until noon. We may be home free. I finally get up the nerve to look outside, and there are those blue skies peering through a veil of light fast-moving clouds.

The good weather feels like a sure sign of redemption, like all our sins have been forgiven. Procuring a good day for Carnival takes major communal prayer. So many people in the city work through most of the season, making their livings as mask or costume makers, float artists, ball tableau decorators, performers. The only day they reserve for themselves is Mardi Gras itself, and that 24‑hour period is sacrosanct.

The concept, design, and fabrication of a local’s Carnival costume is usually a matter for discussion as far back as the fall’s (now late) Decadence Ball, though needless to say, I have been out of the loop. But advance planning is important, especially when one belongs to a marching krewe, where all the members must make an original costume each year. No one is allowed to march in the parade undisguised, (though nudity is encouraged) and originality is the most prized trait of any masque. The practice is in no way elitist, only requiring a commitment to the principals of good‑natured debauch. Of fun. The spending of an inordinate amount of money is considered insulting to the open‑hearted nature of the event, and in fact much of the challenge is to spend as little as possible while obtaining the largest possible effect.

Damn good thing for me this year. What with my months of house repair I am too broke to afford purchasing any major new materials. So, a few weeks back, I recycled black feathers (chicken, cocque, pheasant, and ostrich) from three old costumes, took welding wire, a few dozen plastic skeletons, two bags of plastic dog poop and a bag of plastic flies (courtesy of my brother Bob, who is also a Carnival addict), and packing box cardboard. Then, duct tape in hand, I began making a base layer. The skeletons in rows became scales of sorts sprouting in waves from the outfit’s head. The feathers disguised the cardboard and became a shiny outer skin. Things took form, a theme emerged, and I had a costume.

I am to be “Dr. Detritus, Governmental Excrementalist.” Plastic dog poop and all. The Doc’s cards are to be headlined with his governmental motto: “I know some shit.”

***
And then it is sunrise on Carnival morning, and everyone in the neighborhood is already awake as if they are to open Santa’s presents. Instead, they are happily masking.

It is the beginning of a truly magical day. The warm‑up party, the Sainte Anne parade itself with brass bands in tow, the Brazilian drum krewes, the hundreds of naked bodies— it is all perfect.

Inspired, I think, by my stripper friend GiO’s costume of a few years earlier, dozens of comely women, and men, show up wearing high heels, or Converse All-Stars, and a coat of paint. Elderly as I may be, I find the chroma-coated forms particularly dazzling, and contemplate cold showers before finishing the parade route.

But after a mid‑afternoon bowl of venison gumbo back at home, I re-costume and return to the streets. I have in mind to visit a number of friends who are conducting tourist‑viewing parties from their upper‑floor balconies, and am also looking forward to showing off the costume in new venues. I carry some further necessary liquid fortification with me in a large plastic cup, imprinted with the commemorative insignia of the Krewe du Vieux, another early (three weeks prior to The Day) marching club with which I am affiliated.

My first destination, the five hundred block of St Louis street, requires that I pass through Jackson Square, usually the habitat of jugglers and fire‑eaters, face painters and palm readers, portrait artists and tuba players.

But I’d forgotten. All Hell has broken loose. This day the Square is again crowded with Christians.

***
It seems that in the last ten years, a Baptist seminary in Dallas has taken on Mardi Gras in New Orleans as its primary missionary foray for the entire year. I suppose they intend to grab the sinners where they congregate. So, two busloads of misinformed, disoriented, self‑righteous, and overwhelmingly obnoxious zealots show up each year the Saturday before Carnival. They rally on the outskirts of the Quarter, driving each other into religious frenzies, then march into the Vieux Carré dragging huge wooden crosses. The contemporary Burden of the Cross is facilitated by the addition of mechanical rollers to the artifacts’ bottom legs.

The preachers carry multiple megaphones and pockets full of rechargeable batteries and miniature Bibles. They have over the last half decade become the biggest litterers of Carnival, dropping thousands of leaflets on every street. Through the weekend they walk residential neighborhoods at all hours, chanting and preaching: “Fornicators! Drunkards! Sodomites! You’re all going to burn in hell for what you do this day!” Subtlety is not their strong card. I imagine that there is nothing quite as pleasant as having your child awakened at 7am by the loud prospect of eternal damnation. With a Texas accent.

This year on Sunday they stand in front of the centuries-old St. Louis Cathedral with megaphones blaring during services, carrying a ten-foot-high banner that says “Catholics are doomed to Hell.” Mass goes on as planned, and no one was sent to the nether regions. Others of their sort carry equally tall banners with lists of groups of people the carrier is sure will be doomed. One I see condemns “sports nuts” to hell. No Catholics and no sports nuts? I think Heaven will surely be devoid of any New Orleanians, if these people are right.

They are not.

They have come to the wrong place at the wrong time.

The “missionaries” are not welcome tourists on many fronts. The standard saying is that “they come to town with the Ten Commandments and a ten-dollar bill, and don’t break either one.”

***
As I cross in front of St Louis Cathedral on Mardi Gras afternoon, I notice that their act has not changed much over these last years.

A very large— well over six feet tall— Jesus stands under a twelve‑foot cross, preaching to the masses through a wireless headset microphone. With one hand he balances his cruciform burden, and with the other he gestures vehemently to the assembled masses. Jesus is in character, long hair and beard, white robes, sandals, crown of thorns, fake blood and nail wounds. He is howling, his cowboy-accented words amplified through two large outdoor speakers imbedded, one in each arm, in the ends of the cross’ horizontal bar. His amp is set at a blaringly loud volume, overwhelming every sound under the revered church’s tower.

At this point he seems to be babbling in tongues, under some divine spell. He points at the sky and invokes some sort of forceful intervention into the festivities around him. There is a wild look in his eye. I suspect he might be looking for moneychangers in the temple.

Alas, he is. As I pass, he spots my outfit. The connection is immediately made. Governmental or no, Satan is close at hand. His eyes come alight even further. He runs toward me dragging his cross, grabs my favorite commemorative cup from my hands and holds it high above his head, still wailing in tongues, before he draws back and tosses it at the sky. Two of his henchmen— part of the Texas apostle contingent, I suspect— nod and voice their approval of both the banishment of the demon whiskey and the defeat of the feathered and poop-covered devil that undoubtedly has arisen that very morning from one of the above-ground graves that dot this corrupt and off-kilter city. Jesus has done his duty, and they are proud.

I am not quite so elated as the smiling Baptists.

But somehow I am calmed by the attack. From previous confrontation with creatures of this ilk, I know what my response must be. I am directed. I go to the bar of the Cafe Banquette and ask for their largest go‑cup, a 40‑ounce plastic container, to be filled with ice water. When I explain its purpose, the bartender not only gives it to me for free, but buys me a drink, on the house. The day before, the uninvited preachers had called his wife a brazen harlot when, dropping him off for work, she had refused one of their leaflets.

I carry the water back into the Square, where I hear the ersatz Jesus now speaking in English, preaching love and truth and forgiveness. As the Fates would have it, his back is to me. I walk up alongside, and pour the icy water slowly over his head.

The result is instantaneous.

He yells: “Mo‑ther‑FUCK‑er!” very loudly, and this invocation is carried with some force by his speaker system throughout the Square. There is a split second of silence before tittering and guffaws begin to rain down like so much happy confetti. JC spins, his right fist balled tightly and flying hard in a wide arc at my face. However, he is off‑balance, what with holding his cross upright, and it takes very little effort for me to lean backward out of harm’s way, and slap the blessed savior firmly in the solar plexus.

He already has “Son of a…” out before his disciples jerk the microphone from his head. His electronics tangled in his crown of thorns, Jesus almost falls over with the force of his removal from the airwaves. This makes him even madder. His face is totally crimson now, his beatific eyes are veined and bursting from his head. It takes both of his biblical associates to restrain him. Love and forgiveness are forgotten in a cascade of righteous fury. The crowd that his act had held a few minutes earlier is now trying to become invisible, inching their way backwards, talking to each other, disguising any previous interest in salvation on the spot.

JC finally sees what had happened, forces his anger down, and shakes off his companions. He stands without help, though he is still trembling with violent emotion, and begins wringing ice water from his beard.

I back away, keeping an eye on him. The man seems so untrustworthy.

I get to the point where I have to turn, and do so, fully expecting to be attacked as soon as the man’s wits regroup. Thankfully, they do not.

I am a dozen paces away when I hear the unamplified remark, aimed in my direction. Since I know the man ultimately devoid of irony, I immediately feel he has given me an unconscious gift, when he says, quite loudly in my direction these words: “Christ, what an asshole!”

***
Really.

——
Epilogue: The New Orleans City Council, in direct reaction to the religious protests at Southern Decadence and at Mardi Gras, has just enacted a law banning use of megaphones and loudspeakers within the confines of the French Quarter year-round. The new ordinance was in place on 19 January, but could not be strictly enforced this Carnival until decibel meters arrive. The devices, which will be on the streets within the next few weeks, will allow New Orleans police officers legal proof of offender transgressions and subject them to fines and physical banishment from the Quarter.

——
Jim Gabour is a film producer, writer and director. He was twice selected the featured director of the year at Amsterdam’s International Broadcasters Conference and recently received a Grammy nomination for his documentary on composer Terence Blanchard. He lives on the Web here. On the planet, he lives in New Orleans, where he is artist-in-residence and professor of video technology at Loyola University.

Dead, they were all dead.

Spring 2006 was marked in New Orleans by the appearance, in patios and yards everywhere, of thick carpets composed of unmoving migratory butterflies, jeweled dragonflies, moths and honeybees.

In its zeal to stifle the clouds of aggressive disease-riddled carrion flies and mosquitoes, the government (which government, we don’t know, as they all seem to have dominion over New Orleans these days) had adopted wholesale nighttime aerosol bombing from crop-dusting planes and daytime fogging from truck-mounted fumigators. Residents appreciated the reduction of biting insects, but simultaneously mourned the quick loss of the first gay fluttering colors seen in the City in months. More seriously, for those of us who grow things, was the sudden removal of pollinators for flowering trees and plants.

Backyard fruit and vegetable crops never had a chance that spring.

The natural predators of the insects, the myriad of lizards and frogs native to our swampy City, were also in large part destroyed by the insecticides.

Those of us who took pride in growing a portion of our own food, and doted on the simple beauty of our environment, once again felt betrayed, on yet another level.

***
Eighteen months later we are recuperating. This fall the butterflies are back, the bees buzzing about, and the first few baby frogs have appeared around the fringes of backyard fountains and ponds.

Frogs! Who would believe that I would care about frogs? But these are no common amphibians. Hyla avivoca, The Bird-Voiced Treefrog, is native to New Orleans, and in recent years state legislators with no better things to do (this hurricane recovery business having become tiresome) have officially crowned avivoca as “The State Frog”. I have no idea what responsibility that title carries, and it seems neither do the frogs, as I have seen no tadpoles bearing gilded inscriptions, nor hopping amphibians beribboned with multi-colored medals to denote their governmental distinction. At least not yet.

The legislature goes back in session shortly, and dealing with the City’s recovery is boring hard work. Maybe there will be a week’s debate on which month should hold State Frog Day. The state already has a Frog Festival, the 35th version of which was just celebrated three months ago, over in Cajun territory in Rayne, Louisiana. Cajuns don’t use the proper Parisian grenouille to designate their honoree, however. Their word for these large bullfrogs is probably the best onomatopoeia I have ever heard: ouaouaron, pronounced wah-wah-ROHN. Tell me that doesn’t instantly say frog.

Though the diminutive “state” Bird-Voiced Treefrogs lack their own individual festival, this has not deterred the returning avivoca from their passion, and every night now that the weather has turned cooler and windows are open, the neighborhood drops into sleep to the sweet song and warbles of these talented creatures.

They also eat at night, the frogs, and mosquitoes are slowly disappearing. Of course the singers have been assisted in reducing the blood-sucking insect population by the reemergence of their tailed kin. Chameleons and geckos, salamanders and newts, with spots and stripes and neon colors, have joined forces and now fill every shady spot under every bush and structure on the block. They preen and strut and eat the bad guys.

Another totally new addition to the flora of the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood since Katrina are dozens upon dozens of huge “volunteer” papaya trees, each bearing hundreds of pounds of delectable fruit. They are in every yard. I have heard speculation that the ultimate source was a single tree nurtured by a family near the late, lamented El Palaceño bodega. Though the Cubano family did not return after the storm, their tree and its fruit and seeds were ripped apart by the wind and spread over a dozen square blocks. This year we are reaping the bounty, and with the resurgent and always-abundant native banana plants, we are again eating well from our yards.

In another ironic bit of flora recovery, the “Resurrection” ferns are back. These amazing resilient plants primarily inhabit the limbs of the Live Oak trees that were so badly damaged in Katrina. In their dormant state, when the ferns are stressed, they dry so completely as to be completely invisible, existing as a part of the gray scaly bark of the oaks. When the right living conditions develop, overnight they find a way to come back to life, and coat the trees in a lush green blanket. As they have this past week.

***
On the fauna side, once-domestic animals, pets abandoned in the face of the evacuation, often on the legally binding orders of the soldiers and police officers who stripped pets from evacuees boarding buses out of the City, have begun to re-approach humans.

For the last four months, three black cats have co-inhabited our backyard. We don’t know if they are from the same feral litter, but feed them morning and night, and each day they have come closer and acted friendlier.

One, a tuxedo whom some call Blackie and I call Foots (he has white spats), now comes to me and will even sit in my lap. He was obviously captured after the storm, castrated and released, as is evidenced by his left ear, which is missing its top third. Force-fixed cats were caught and disfigured in that manner immediately post-K, when every animal was considered feral, rabid and dangerous. The missing ear was to prevent their being picked up again. At least they were not euthanized, which was the case with many of the personal pets confiscated at the Katrina bus boarding sites.

The three cats are often joined at breakfast and dinner by a large raccoon who has taken up residence in the abandoned fire station on the back of the block. We thought him a lone straggler these last months and have watched him grow ever larger, until just the other morning when he arrived for breakfast with two short and fuzzy versions of himself.

The three masked stripers love the papayas and bananas that fill their dish each morning.

The fact that the fruits are once again home grown does not impress them.

***
One less-positive sign that the effects of our urban trauma have not yet left, however, is an almost metaphorical physical apparition.

It involves parking.

Some years ago, on Loyola Avenue downtown near City Hall, a group of disciplined and creative artists created a multi-storied trompe l’oeil painting of a clarinet. It is quite beautiful, and from a distance looks like… a multi-storied clarinet. The painters even made the reflections in the chrome of the instrument match the buildings and area around it. Unfortunately, a part of that view is a quite banal asphalt parking lot.

That lot, immediately below the clarinet, has somehow been chosen as the official encampment of the Louisiana National Guard, and though they are thankfully not part of the reflection, at the mouthpiece of the instrument sit dozens of desert-camouflaged, bulletproof military Humvees. And dozens more military police cars.

All of which daily drive our streets.

Amidst the returning butterflies.

——
Jim Gabour is a film producer, writer and director. He was twice selected the featured director of the year at Amsterdam’s International Broadcasters Conference and recently received a Grammy nomination for his documentary on composer Terence Blanchard. He lives on the Web here. On the planet, he lives in New Orleans, where he is artist-in-residence and professor of video technology at Loyola University.

I hope someone filmed the productions of Waiting for Godot director Paul Chan put on earlier this month in the open air of New Orleans. Wendell “Bunk” Pierce as Vladimir and J Kyle Manzay as Estragon, holding forth while waiting for that which will never come amid the slumped houses, skeleton trees, post-Katrina emptiness of the Ninth Ward had to be a pop-political event that should be available to cable and iTunes viewers everywhere.

Here’s Chan on why Godot and the Ninth Ward: “The sense of waiting is legion here. People are waiting to come home. Waiting for the levee board to OK them to rebuild. Waiting for Road Home money. Waiting for honest construction crews that won’t rip them off. Waiting for phone and electric companies. What do people do while they wait? They banter and entertain and it’s a form of keeping hope alive…”

Pierce says the location in this case really was the play. In fact, the theater company reportedly reserved seats for the performance for President Bush, Governor Blanco and FEMA officials—all of those they call the “Godots of New Orleans.”

Read more about the production at NPR and an excerpt from the play after the jump.

Excerpt, Waiting for Godot

VLADIMIR: Well? What do we do?
ESTRAGON: Don’t let’s do anything. It’s safer.
VLADIMIR: Let’s wait and see what he says.
ESTRAGON: Who?
VLADIMIR: Godot.
ESTRAGON: Good idea.
VLADIMIR: Let’s wait till we know exactly how we stand.
ESTRAGON: On the other hand it might be better to strike the iron before it freezes.
VLADIMIR: I’m curious to hear what he has to offer. Then we’ll take it or leave it.
ESTRAGON: What exactly did we ask him for?
VLADIMIR: Were you not there?
ESTRAGON: I can’t have been listening.
VLADIMIR: Oh… nothing very definite.
ESTRAGON: A kind of prayer.
VLADIMIR: Precisely.
ESTRAGON: A vague supplication.
VLADIMIR: Exactly.
ESTRAGON: And what did he reply?
VLADIMIR: That he’d see.
ESTRAGON: That he couldn’t promise anything.
VLADIMIR: That he’d have to think it over.
ESTRAGON: In the quiet of his home.
VLADIMIR: Consult his family.
ESTRAGON: His friends.
VLADIMIR: His agents.
ESTRAGON: His correspondents.
VLADIMIR: His books.
ESTRAGON: His bank account.
VLADIMIR: Before taking a decision.
ESTRAGON: It’s the normal thing.
VLADIMIR: Is it not?
ESTRAGON: I think it is.
VLADIMIR: I think so too.

Silence.

ESTRAGON: (anxious) And we?
VLADIMIR: I beg your pardon?
ESTRAGON: I said, And we?
VLADIMIR: I don’t understand.
ESTRAGON: Where do we come in?

Mr. Dilbert: They said they couldn’t insure my house. I got nothing. It’s hurricane season again and I’m living in a FEMA trailer with my sick wife!

The New Orleans: Labor of Love project is a grassroots public-awareness campaign that’s working to get volunteers down to New Orleans to help rebuild homes in the worst-hit areas of the city. The voice of the project, founder and director Katina Parker, started by making a documentary about eighteen students from Los Angeles who volunteered last year. Segments of the documentary will air this month at the organization website.

“Initially there was day-long coverage of [the Katrina disaster], reporters breaking down reporting the dire situation. That coverage dwindled to FEMA’s blunders, corruption, crime. That doesn’t move people to act. People think it’s too complicated to get involved,” Parker recently told Louisiana writer and blogger Nordette Adams.

Labor of Love has so far raised more than $18,000 in donations and is sponsored by the International Humanities Center, which supports projects “devoted to a vision of ecological and humanitarian stewardship that benefits all creation.” How do you say no to that?

Longtime New Orleans resident and writer and film director and general production guy Jim Gabour has been writing for the British site Open Democracy for a few years, usually about life in his hometown post-Katrina.

His most-recent post is a gem of a report from the set of an Uncle Ben’s Rice commercial filmed by a British director for European consumers. Gabour was working in production for the shoot, overseeing the lighting and sound and so on. The series of commercials they’re filming, he reports, is of course one huge stereotype machine—of African Americans, of the south, of the States, of New Orleans—and all of it conjured to give the illusion of authenticity, to make Uncle Ben’s products seem like real-thing original-item wholesome Creole cooking!

“This commercial would only air in Europe. The account executives were already auditioning females back at the hotel, looking for the proper accent. Something cruder was needed, they thought. Rougher. Something unrefined. Like America. Like New Orleans…”

O‘DONNELL: So let me get this clear. Someone in the White House was telling you to lie?

BROWN: Well, yes. They give you the talking points. Whenever you go out to do any interviews they always have the talking points. Here‘s what the message for today is and here‘s how we are going to spin everything. That‘s just the way Washington, D.C. works and that‘s just wrong.

Read the full transcript from his interview on Hardball (you gotta scroll down to the bottom to find it, sorry).

I ran all the way home. I was yelling to my grandma, “We going to die, the water is flowing up the street and it looks like it is getting higher.” I began to cry.

“Well what can I do? Won’t you stop crying? It’s going to be OK,” my grandma replied. I was scared for my life.

Then my mom stormed in the door.

“Get only two outfits and some shoes,” my mama said in a scared voice.

“Mama, I don’t want to leave my grandma,” I said, crying.

“She can come too, I don’t want to leave her here either.”

So I went to my grandma’s room to ask her would she go with me. I got on my knees besides her and asked, “Grandma, come with us please, I don’t want to leave you here without me.”

“Girl, just go with ya mama, you hear me, now go on.”

My mom tried to convince her to go, too, but my grandma wouldn’t budge. Deep in my mind I was wondering what would happen to my grandma if I were to leave her. It hurt me to my heart to leave her, but I was too scared to stay.

As we passed the bridge on Claiborne and Earhart Boulevard we saw a dead man lying at the foot of the curb with a white sheet over his body. I looked at him with amazement because I had never seen a dead body before.