Day 2: Mardi Gras Day - Half of the New Orleans group went out to Frenchmen Street after the day’s Mardi Gras festivities, unable to believe that Mardi Gras finishes during daylight, to check out the “local” scene, versus last night’s debauchery of Bourbon Street. I, however, (and the truth comes out) was never made for the social scene of New Orleans (on multiple levels), and had to come right back to the Inn. Really, I would love to hear some good, old time jazz, but I need to debrief myself, if the whole PHAST group won’t get to it till tomorrow morning. I am physically, mentally, and emotionally drained.

Today the New Orleans site group was the Katrina Krewe with the Glad bag team and the New Orleans mayor's office. We were supposed to promote a clean New Orleans by handing out individually wrapped Glad bag samples, although Flo was horribly demeaned once she realized it was more of a PR gimmick than real public health outreach effort. When we finally maneuvered our behemoth rental SUVs to St. Charles and Napoleon this morning, ahead of Zulu and Rex, we grabbed bags of bags to hand out. I quickly wandered away from the rest of the group, focusing on families with BBQ and party setups since I figured they’d use the bags most productively, and ran out quickly (tell me to give things away, and I will give them away!) so I went back for more. Then the adventures began.

A Different Mardi Gras - I walked along the emptier, non-parade side of the route, and decided to cut down further on the route and work backwards to cover areas we would otherwise miss. I was already seeing an eerie and stark difference along the parade route. While Rohan, Shawn, Flo and I were driving down St. Charles Avenue from the highway, one thing popped out at me – it was really white. The crowd was really white. And that was weird. Funny how I never noticed what an integral part the black community was to the spirit of Mardi Gras and New Orleans…until they were gone (and of course, I never fathomed that to happen). And once I started walking around, it was even more apparent that this year’s Mardi Gras lacked the vibrancy and the soul of what makes New Orleans so special, and that it felt more like Sunday at the park with bicycles and yuppie backyard picnics than a spirited festival with multicultural origins. This is only one of many confirmations throughout the day of the news articles I’ve read and the commentaries I’ve heard from friends at home about how much the city has changed and the uncertainty of its future. (US News and Report, Special Issue: New Orleans, February 27, 2006)

Migrant Workers - The first noticeable and surprising change I found when I returned home Saturday was the number of itinerant migrant workers in the area. There is high demand for laborers, and they are coming to meet the demand. I didn’t understand why our own wouldn’t snatch up those jobs themselves, with 1 in 5 New Orleanians unemployed, but then one team member noted that a lot of the wage earners are the gone. But if these migrants settle down, and the black underclass does not return (as is part of the controversy), the dynamic and personality of the city will change completely...which would happen with the latter alone anyway.

On my walk to the farther end of the parade route (also messier and a more mixed crowd), and I struck up a conversation with a woman walking in the same direction. I’m not sure what drew us to each other, but it was not hard to start build a rapport with each other, despite the language barrier. She even joggled some of the high school level Spanish remaining in my brain. But we mainly communicated with hand gestures to accompany our broken Spanish and English.

Dilma is a migrant worker from Honduras who cleans rooms at the Garden District Hotel. She’s eighteen years old and has been in New Orleans for five months with her two sisters and one brother, while her parents stay in Honduras. Two months prior coming to New Orleans, she worked in New Jersey, and she only plans on staying for a few more months before going back home. Before the hurricane, wages were $5-6/hour, but now she is able to earn $10/hour, working eight hours a day most days of the week, with a whole floor of twenty rooms her own. She lives on S. Carrollton Avenue and must walk to the hotel at Jackson Avenue, about a four mile walk, and manages to like the city alright. New Orleans versus New Jersey? Pretty much even.

Fried Chicken - I have been craving fried chicken for two whole days now, and have gotten none, save either things fried or things chicken. I won’t rest until I have two-in-one, but today I had a good substitute, although I had to work for it. After I left Dilma at the hotel, I found that Zulu was already making its way up Jackson onto St. Charles. I tried to pass out some bags, but the effort was futile in those bead- and coconut-crazy crowds. So I again went over to the non-parade side of the route to pass out bags, heading back towards Napoleon. At the corner of Jackson and St. Charles, though, I noticed some good smellin’ soul food…BBQ chicken and beans. Mmm! But it was still about 10am, so I figured I’d wait.

However, the walk back towards the station was like a descent into a despair of disparity. Walking along St. Charles towards the uptown area, the change in face, race and social condition was evident. So was my comfort level. I was able to chat with some folks I handed bags to, wishing a happy Mardi Gras, this and that. And although I cannot generalize, the warmth certainly seemed to disappear as I got closer to Uptown. I didn’t realize how far I had walked (1.5 miles one way), and was surprised when I found Rex upon me, with the Texas A&M Aggie band at the lead with their crisp white uniforms. I got stopped on the road and waited until I realized I couldn’t go further, so I turned around. But then there was this middle-aged white woman in my face, “Yes, you ARE in my way.” I was so shocked and at a loss for words. I just found my way out, but after a few minutes of rumination, I grew angry at the memory that yes, there are people in this city who DO think I’m a foreigner and who DON’T think I can speak English. Not that that’s what the woman thought, but her attitude was so out of line that I will only speculate, and poorly because she was mean.

Anyway, I was pissed by the time I got back to the Glad station, and all the ill feelings that had pushed me away from New Orleans came flooding back to me. The altruism and the hope for the rebirth of this city had disappeared, and it was replaced with my disgust for Mardi Gras, the racial undertones, and yes, the institutionalized racism in Mardi Gras that have always bothered me.

There was only one solution…soul food. BBQ chicken soul food, which was 1.5 miles back the other direction. I was dehydrated, fatigued, and starving, but I wasn’t going to pay $2 to pee for Sacred Heart, nor give them my money for cheap food. So I went back (with a 3rd full load of bags). God, I didn’t think I’d make it, and in fact, stopped for a hot dog break. But when I made it back…that BBQ chicken leg and beans were so rewarding.

Only a Disguise? - I had my plate of hope in hand when I saw a familiar face one block away from the soul food. It was my old psychology professor from UNO, Spring 2005 semester, in costume with the political flavor of the moment, “White Chocolate,” a spin-off of Mayor Ray Nagin’s “Chocolate City” foot-in-the-mouth. I only confirmed it was him when I got close enough and saw that diet Coke bottle in his hand. He always had one bottle, if not two or three in a plastic bag for class. He remembered me and I remembered him, though we couldn’t remember each others names, though we pretended as if we did.

He told me all about his personal experience after Katrina, and about the power struggles of class and race in getting the city back on its feet. The stories about sniper fire at the helicopters and floating bodies were in fact factual and perversely widespread, although hushed up by the powers that be, who don’t want to publicize the extent of their failures. That’s evident in the filtered national news coverage we have received in Michigan. There were two waves of looting, the first from the desperate locals, and the second from the mediators who were supposed to be helping them. Other abuses of power existed in shameful abundance. And people are still sensitive, looking for someone to blame, in need for immediate solutions.

This Mardi Gras is a much needed step towards normalcy, but it in no way signifies it. To understand the extent of the damage, we must leave tourist haven for the Lakefront and the Lower Ninth Ward (which we should tomorrow). And there is one take-home message: do not assume anything. We cannot assume that anything will be as it seems or said.

Late Lunch - Fast foward to post-parade because I don't even want to think about the walk back, the pick-up truck bed, too many bags, too many hands...and the begging (guess I'm thinking about it now). That's one part that I always bothered me about Mardi Gras. "Throw me something, Mister!" How unequal and demeaning can you get when you're begging for plastic jewelry from a masked man above you, and the only reason he's above you on that float is because he has the money and "status" to be a member of a professional fraternity! Ohh, don't get me started. Moving ON!

We went down Magazine for lunch, with half of us at the Bulldog, where my JETAA friend Rob actually brought me before I left for Michigan. A pleasant spot reunion. However, with the end of Mardi Gras Day bringing loads of hungry people, the wait for our hamburgers and fries ended up being 1 1/2 hours. And that brought angry people. I thought it was pretty amusing because we would usually just sit back and go with it, knowing that it'd have to take that long and the one cook was trying his hardest (although not most efficient-est).

In fact, the guy who placed his order after ours was hanging around us "food lobbyists" in hopes of getting his order when we started chatting. He was a local who agreed that yeah, we'd just go with the flow, and tip extra for his hard work. We started talking about Katrina and people's homes, and he told me a story about when he went to the bank the other day. The line inside was stretching all the way out the door, so he went to a different branch. When he got there, the woman waiting in front of him said, "Every morning, I pray for patience. Because that's what we need everyday to get by. Patience."