When crime hits too close to home . . . again

I have so many things that I want to blog about. I want to blog about my trip into the Barataria to go canoeing with the alligators. I want to blog about my family’s first visit to New Orleans and our trip to Honey Island Swamp and to great places like the WWII Museum. I want to blog about the awesome CD release party of Shamarr Allen and the Underdawgs.

But once again I find myself caught up in the never-ending cycle of news stories centered around violent crimes. This time the crime was one that my friends were witness to. In the wee hours of Saturday morning, some psycho opened fire on his estranged wife and her friend in the middle of a crowded bar, my FAVORITE bar, the bar in which I feel most safe and most welcome. The woman died, and the friend was severely injured.

According to the news story on NOLA.com, the victims had just gotten off work at a local hotel and were relaxing with a cocktail when the husband, who had been arrested there earlier in the week, stepped through the door and opened fire.

It breaks my heart to realize not only that crime CAN and DOES happen everywhere, but also that my friends were there and could easily have been injured.

I realize that this crime was the product of a domestic dispute and that little could have been done to prevent it. (The husband was arrested earlier this week and a restraining order was filed against him.) But it comes on the heels of so many other violent crimes throughout the city:

On Friday night a 24-year-old man was shot in the face and hip just blocks away from the site where a 35-year-old woman was killed when someone opened fire. On Saturday a bullet-riddled body was found on Airline Highway. (Yes, I know that’s Jefferson Parish, but it’s still close enough to be frightening.) Just the other day, in Marrero, a 14-year-old boy was shot in the head with an assault rifle. A seven-year-old boy was shot when his father stopped to buy drugs with his two kids in the car.

The most telling part of incidents was one line in the initial story posted on NOLA.com concerning the death of the 35-year-old woman. According to the story, a fight began in the parking lot of a gas station, one opponent wielding a baseball mat, the other a machete. The line to which I’m referring: “He said he called police but they did not come.” After the men left, one returned with a gun, firing into a crowd and killing the woman, an innocent bystander.

What’s wrong with this picture? This is not an isolated incident either. In 2007 NOLA.com posted an article concerning an attempted rape on Royal Street. The police were called but never arrived.

On May 1, NOLA.com reported that the NOPD admitted that it had “misreported” recent rape statistics. This on the heels of a story of a young woman who was kidnapped in the Quarter, raped, and dropped off in Gretna. The NOPD is investigating the kidnapping, but neither Orleans Parish nor Jefferson Parish wants to investigate the rape charge. The two parishes are fighting like my brother and I used to over who had to wash the dishes. “I don’t want to! I did it yesterday! It’s his turn!”

“It’s not my job! It’s yours!”

Who’s job is it? Who is to be held accountable? While our illustrious (insert sarcasm here) Mayor Nagin is defending his every suspicious move by claiming that those who would like some accountability are simply politically motivated and are hurting the recovery of New Orleans, the beat goes on.

Where are the crime cameras? Why do the traffic cams work so well as catching speeders and red-light runners, generating income for the city, but none of those crime cameras work?

While Nagin is busy giving non-answers and Police Superintendent Riley is busy cooking the books on crime stats, the city that I love is flailing. Who is going to help?

Yesterday’s sign of the times came in a phone call to my mother, who is very much in love with New Orleans, though she does not live here. I realized how bad things have gotten here and how bad the news looks to others when she said to me: “I think it’s time you moved home.”

The problem is, I already am home.

Mardi Gras in Cajun Country

If only the city of New Orleans were as efficient at erecting and repairing homes as the crawfish are at building them in a yard in Carencro.

Well, the highlight of this year’s Mardi Gras season was a trip out to Cajun Country with Anne-Marie. We left on Friday, February 20, late as usual. We headed through the dark along the crowded highway past Baton Rouge and over the Atchafalaya Basin, passing signs along the way for places like Bergeron’s Boudin and Cajun Meats.

By the time we reached Lafayette, it was close to 9 o’clock, and we were starving, so we headed right for Randol’s Restaurant and Salle de Dance. I liked it immediately when I saw the huge carved alligator outside the entrance. We were excited about the prospect of finally getting in some Cajun dancing, but there were only a few people on the dance floor, and far too many kids for me.

Randol’s is a good-sized restaurant, and by the time we finally got a seat and ordered dinner, the band was just winding down for the night. Near the end of their set, I got to enjoy one of my favorite waltzes, the Lover’s Waltz, while I dined on my Bon Temps Poulet (Good Time Chicken).

We started the next day early, heading over to land owned by Anne-Marie’s family in Carencro, right along the Carencro parade route. The lot was filled with cars, Harleys, RVs, and Cajuns having a good time. After meeting up with Anne-Marie’s friend Leigh and her daughter, we parked ourselves along the parade route and waited.

The Carencro parade reminds me a lot of the truck parades that roll down St. Charles after Rex on Mardi Gras day . . . a never-ending procession of decorated trucks and floats, the riders of which are generally a great deal more generous in throwing beads and other throws than some of the Mardi Gras krewes.

The parade in Carencro seemed to last forever. Many floats were advertising businesses (like the Stop Supermarket, which boasted the area’s best cracklins), and some were just plain silly, like the Kroo de Crotte and the Krewe de Krunk Krazie. Some were themed, like the Kameaux Krewe, featuring riders wearing camouflage, and several boasted outhouses on the back.

All were shiny purple, green, and gold tributes to the joy of Mardi Gras season. By the time we were done, we were all covered in beads and overloaded with cups and other cheap souvenirs of the day.

We soon found ourselves in Lafayette at Mittie’s house, visiting with Stephanie, Leigh, and Mittie, while all their children played outside and waited for yet another parade . . . the evening parade through Lafayette.

It rained constantly throughout the parade on our little group of merry-makers. The parade route wasn’t crowded, and though it was sometimes hard to see through the rain, we all managed a pretty good collection of loot. My best catch was a medallion that said “Krewe of Bonaparte, Lafayette, Louisiana.” Not bad for my first trip to Lafayette.

Eventually we decided to hit up a bar in Lafayette for a drink on the way home. We were cold and tired, but it seemed a shame to be in Lafayette and do nothing. We chose a place in town, but the music was too loud, the place was too crowded, and we were simply too tired from a long day of bead-whoring to fully enjoy it.

Anne-Marie’s family’s home in Carencro is cozy and warm, and her bookcase is enough to make any Louisiana nut like me drool—so many books, so little time. Her grandmother and mother were responsible for authoring a series of children’s books featuring a character named Clovis Crawfish, as well as other regional histories. I’d love to take my time exploring that bookcase.

Carencro is, like most of the South down here, completely flat, but there are still plenty of stretches of unspoiled nature and big yards, like the one outside the house.

On Sunday morning, I learned about some very industrious crawfish. I assumed that crawfish lived entirely in the water, but that’s not exactly so. They’ll build themselves homes in any yard where the ground is wet, and they’re quite efficient at it. On Sunday morning, Anne-Marie’s yard was covered with both old and new crawfish piles. I guess this is why crawfish are often referred to as “mudbugs.”

Sadly, our juvenile attempts to get them out of their holes by poking sticks down them went unanswered.

Overall, the weekend in Cajun Country was a relaxing and rewarding experience. Like most people I’ve met in Louisiana, the folks in Lafayette and Carencro are just that . . . good, polite, hospitable folks . . . and I believe they are a shining example of the term “Southern hospitality.”

The Most Clever Gift

My Christmas gift from Anne-Marie and her son, Zack: a homemade voodoo doll and a bottle of roux (a mixture of flour and fat, most often butter or oil, used as a thickening agent and the base of many Louisiana dishes) = Voodoo Roux!!!

I love it!

Mardi Gras 2009

Another Mardi Gras is fast approaching. In addition to the opportunity to wear some ridiculous Mardi Gras hats I’ve managed to find, I think this year’s Mardi Gras will be even more interesting than last.

This year, my good friend Anne-Marie has invited me to Carencro, Louisiana, to experience a Cajun Mardi Gras with her family. And by “her family,” I’m told that that pretty much covers the entire town of Carencro, in one way or another.

This past weekend, the girls and I got out our dancing shoes and went to see Beausoleil avec Michael Doucet at the Maple Leaf. I’ve seen Beausoleil a few times before, but it’s been a while since I’ve listened to good, live Cajun music. There was a pretty good crowd at the Leaf, and we were pleased to see so many people dancing, and quite a few willing to ask a gaggle of single young women to dance. Anne-Marie is Cajun and can really cut a rug.

I’ve learned that even though I do have rhythm (I do! I swear!), I pretty much suck at Cajun dancing. It’s not that I can’t learn steps . . . I think it’s mostly because I’m terrible at following a lead. I’ll need a lot more practice before I can do anything but make a fool of myself out in Cajun country. Good thing that every Sunday at Tipitina’s there’s a Cajun fais do-do featuring Bruce Daigrepont.

According to Anne-Marie, Cajun mothers would put their children to sleep with the words “fais do-do” (go to sleep, or make sleep). After the children were asleep, the adults were free to dance the night away.

This may be my chance to get in some much-needed practice, so we both hope to make it to a few fais do-dos before the big weekend in Carencro.

Regardless of whether or not I get the hang of it or just wind up looking like a dodo myself, I’m sure that Mardi Gras 2009 will be a spectacular adventure.

Do you think they’ll like my hat?

Stand up. Speak out.

Two years ago, the group Silence Is Violence was formed following the brutal murders of musician Dinerral Shavers and artist Helen Hill. In January 2007, the group organized a historic citywide march on City Hall to demonstrate the public outrage over the murder rate.

Two years later, New Orleans is still, per capita, the murder capital of the United States and one of the most dangerous cities in the world.

Wow. We’re number 1.

Yesterday, residents all over the city once again attended citywide rallies. In addition to a morning motorcade in memory of Dinerral Shavers and Helen Hill and an evening procession for one of the smallest and most recent victims, Ja'Shawn Powell (murdered, it appears, by a father who didn’t want to pay child support), citizens also gathered on the steps of City Hall at noon, where the names of the year’s homicide victims were read aloud.

In all, about 50 residents attended the memorial. They came dressed in red out of respect for their lost loved ones. They dressed their babies in red. They dressed their dogs in red. They stood silent while friends and relatives of murder victims recited their names and ages.

But where is the outrage sparked by that march in 2007? It seems sometimes as if the outrage has been replaced by resignation and a sad acceptance.

One hundred eighty names were on the list. While all murder is shocking, I was even more shocked by the ages . . . far too many in the 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 age range. Far too many. Far too young.

Also attending the rally were several city council members. Commenting after the reading of the names was new District Attorney Leon Cannizzaro, who expressed his office’s desire and intent to involve themselves in the process of criminal investigations far earlier than D.A.s of the past.

He seems sincere and competent, and that makes me hopeful, but not yet optimistic. I’ll be optimistic when New Orleans finally has a competent new mayor and a competent new police superintendent. I’ll be optimistic when criminals are finally kept in jail instead of slipping through the eternally revolving door at the D.A.’s office. I’ll be optimistic when witnesses of violent crimes are sheltered and protected instead of harassed, threatened, or killed.

New Orleans is a beautiful city. It’s MY city now too, whether or not I was born here. It breaks my heart when I talk with people who are too frightened to visit. The city is rich with culture and atmosphere, food and friendliness, sunshine and jazz. We shouldn’t be simply saddened and resigned to violence and crime . . . we should be outraged. In the end, communities must come together to protect not the guilty, but the innocent . . . ourselves, our neighbors, our children, our friends.

Silence IS violence.

Stand up. Speak out.

Deadliest City...

It sounds like it could be the Discovery Channel's latest nail-biting reality series, but here it's just another headline. It is reality.

The Advocate, a Baton Rouge-based newspaper, reported today that New Orleans has been declared tops in the nation in "brutal, homicidal violence." The study, conducted by Washington-based Web site foreignpolicy.com, listed New Orleans, along with Caracas, Venezuela; Cape Town, South Africa; Moscow, Russia; and Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, as one of the the top murder capitals of the world.

According to the FBI statistics, in 2007 New Orleans averaged 95 murders per 100,000 residents. Per capita, it's the largest murder rate in the United States. 5 people have been killed in the last two days, according to nola.com this morning.

Numbers and statistics and headlines may seem unreal when viewed in black and white. Often, it's not until crime touches us in some way, no matter how small, that we realize how vast the epidemic is.

This past weekend, while engaging in my usual Sunday afternoon boozing at the Erin Rose, my friend Anne-Marie drove into the Quarter to meet me. When she offered to drive me home, I jumped at the chance to save on cab fare and catch a ride.

When we got back to the car, we found that it had been broken into and rifled through. While nothing major was stolen, except for a few dollars of emergency cash, this fairly common occurrence is just the smallest ripple in the pond.

In addition to feeling violated by the break-in, Anne-Marie now has to worry about whether or not the criminals walked away with any of her personal information. She's getting an alarm system for her house and breaking out her shotgun, just in case.

So what's the solution? Martial law? Vigilantism? My thoughts: Personal responsibility, coupled with a small dose of vigilantism.

A recent story in the Times-Picayune told the tale of a robbery gone wrong when a passerby intervened, shooting one of the would-be robbers. While this might seem extreme, to me it seems cosmically just. Very little has been done to lessen crime in New Orleans. Our red-light traffic cameras work spectacularly to catch red-light runners and speeders, but our crime cameras are still not up and running, and the number of violent crimes keeps in rising and the NOPD is working diligently to pin some of those crimes on dead men who were in jail at the time.

Perhaps what it takes to bring down crime will be to put not the fear of God into criminals, but the fear of the average resident. I don't have any sympathy for the would-be robber, who may have lost a kidney and may be paralyzed for life. I'm positive that he would have shown the same compassion for his victim. If it ever comes to choosing between my life and the life of some criminal, I'll take me any day.

This weekend, Anne-Marie and I are going gun shopping. We've been to the gun shows, fondled various weapons, and both pretty much decided on our choices. (She's opting for a revolver, while I'm leaning toward a 9mm.) She's passed her gun safety course, and I'm signed up for mine. Within a few months, we'll both also have concealed carry permits.

We will certainly not become vigilantes. What we will be is armed, safe, and smart women, capable of protecting ourselves. We both pray that time never comes, but we won't be unprepared if it does.

I'd also like to get a guard alligator for my courtyard, but I don't think my neighbors would approve.

A Monster Named Ike

New Orleanians breathed a collective sigh of relief recently as the much-anticipated forecast models shifted Hurricane Ike into Texas. Not that we wish bad things upon most Texans (except for the Dallas Cowboys), but we are still broke and exhausted from our recent Gusta-vacation. Much of south Louisiana is still devastated, and recovery will take a very long time.

However, Ike is proving to be quite the monster in the Gulf. The following is from the blog of Dr. Jeff Masters from Weather Underground:

"Hurricane Ike is closing in on Texas, and stands poised to become one of the most damaging hurricanes of all time. Despite Ike's rated Category 2 strength, the hurricane is much larger and more powerful than Category 5 Katrina or Category 5 Rita. The storm surge from Ike could rival Katrina's, inundating a 200-mile stretch of coast from Galveston to Cameron, Louisiana with waters over 15 feet high. This massive storm surge is due to the exceptional size of Ike."

That's a frightening thing to consider . . . how close New Orleans came to disaster again. Despite the fact that Ike passed more than 200 miles south of us in the Gulf of Mexico, the New Orleans area has been experiencing tropical storm force winds and rain all day. The alley between our house and the neighbors' was flooded this morning. I avoided the side entrance, thinking that I'd keep my feet somewhat dry if I just left through the front door.

That was not the case, as my car was sitting in about three inches of water from the rains, which were starting to pond on both St. Charles and Carrollton this morning. The wind outside still sounds like it's about to tear the roof off my office building in Metairie.

I just spoke with a friend in Houston. They, like many of their neighbors, are staying behind as Ike takes aim at Texas. They might have evacuated had she not just given birth via C-section, and she's just in too much pain to spend hours in a car. So now I have to worry about her as I track Ike's progress across the Gulf.

The National Hurricane Center's site also now shows two areas of disturbed weather that need to be watched. Thankfully, both currently have only a low potential for development.

I'm tired. I'm tired of packing and tired of staying up all night monitoring storms. I'm tired of worrying and stressing and planning. I'm tired of the wind and rain and tornado warnings.

Why do we do it? Why do we risk ruin and despair every year? What makes it worth it? For many people, New Orleans is home. For some, like me, it's my adopted home. So what makes us stay?

Maybe we all love it here.

Or maybe we're all just crazy.

Complimentary "Dead Hooker Under the Bed" Smell

Finally, our long week away from home and hours of weather-watching are over . . . for now.

Our stay at the Dead Roaches on the Floor Motel lasted four nights, four night of wondering where the dead-hooker-under-the-bed smell in my friend's room was coming from, not to mention what looked suspiciously like bloodstains on the curtains of my room.

We concurred that the hooker head been killed in my room and stuck under the bed in hers. She didn't have the nerve to check to see if the body was still there.

Our evacuation to Mississippi culminated with the untimely but not unexpected death of my car. Yes, I could have paid a fortune to fix it and then come back to New Orleans needing to get a new one anyway. So I ditched the Dodge in lieu of a more reliable Toyota. We were riding in style.

Bumblefuck, Mississippi, was actually a little town about 100 miles south of Memphis called Grenada. While the squalid conditions of our hotel turned us off initially, not to mention the creepy men hanging out in front of our doors drinking beer and staring at us, the people of Grenada turned out to be friendly, courteous, and helpful, from the bartenders at our favorite spot in Grenada (there's not much to choose from), Jake and Rip's, right down to customer service rep at the garage that gave me my car's final diagnosis (death sentence).

We left Grenada early Wednesday afternoon to head back. Traffic was heavy, but unlike our escape from NOLA, at least this time we had air conditioning. We barreled our way down 55 South until traffic finally slowed to a crawl and were were forced to rethink our route. With my friend Jen in charge of the road atlas, we hopped onto a service road and quickly came to a two-lane highway leading pretty much right down into Louisiana. It wasn't long before we were on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway (the longest bridge in the world) and almost home.

We arrived at dusk, just in time to find we had no electricity. We'd also heard on the radio that there was a curfew in place, so finding someplace to go for food or cool air was out of the question. We spent a hellish night sprawled out trying to stay cool and get some rest.

My roommates arrived home the next day. They had gotten stuck on another route and ended up in the middle of Baton Rouge, without gas, in the middle of this night, in the middle of a curfew.

We cruised the neighborhood to check out the damage, noting that the National Guard were stationed in front of all the Rite Aid stores. Rite Aid was hit harder by looters during Katrina than Walgreen's. Why? Well, because Walgreen's doesn't sell beer or booze. It's nice to know that someone was protecting all that alcohol.

Overall, power was still out for most of the area, trees were down, windows blown out. In fact, my roommate lost two panes of her window to the storm. Thankfully, that was the extent of our damage.

It seems our voodoo dance must have worked after all. Never underestimate the power of a rubber alligator. Thanks, Boudreaux.

Thursday afternoon we left our steamy house and headed over to the Maple Leaf, hearing that they had electricity . . . and food. Indeed, in an incredible display of generosity, the Leaf had been feeding the entire neighborhood with free food all week. Patrons at the Leaf seemed tired of being without power in their own homes, but genuinely happy to be back.

Thursday also brought another night of hot, sleepless discomfort. By mid-afternoon on Friday, however, as we all lay around sweating and stinking, the power was finally restored. We whooped and cheered and immediately turned the AC on.

It's Sunday now. Power has been restored to many parts of the city, but the streetcar still isn't running, and I miss hearing it rumble by my house.

Things are slowly getting back to normal. People are coming back, city workers and residents are clearing debris, and New Orleans is getting back to business as usual.

I worry about New Orleans as I watch Hurricane Ike. While our Gusta-vacation went smoothly, I've heard numerous people say they wouldn't do it again, that they'll take their chances with a storm. This kind of complacency will inevitably lead to another Katrina-like debacle, and I only hope that Mother Nature is kind to us for the rest of this hurricane season.

As for me, I'm still watching Ike. He's looking like he's going to Texas, but I'm keeping a close eye on him anyway, just in case he changes his mind. I will not be complacent. Should Ike appear ready to visit Louisiana, my ass is hitting the highway . . . again.

I worried a great deal last week that Gustav would close the book on New Orleans for me. For now, at least, I take comfort in knowing that for both of us, NOLA and me, the story goes on.

I wanna go home . . .

It looks like this eternal day of watching and waiting might finally be over.

Overall, New Orleans got very lucky in terms of damage. The Industrial Canal in the Ninth Ward was overtopped for quite some time, but there were no breeches. The eyewall of Hurricane Gustav made landfall some 70ish miles to our southwest, devastating Cajun country and towns like Houma and Lafayette along its way. A levee in Plaquemines Parish came very close to failing.

I have to say that local government did a bang-up job in the way of preparation. Bobby Jindal was impressively on the ball. I'm no fan of Republicans, but that man has earned my deepest respect this week. Not only did he appear in constant press conferences all week to keep residents informed of the danger, but he also arranged for the evacuation of a majority of New Orleans citizens who had no means to leave on their own.

I only hope that if another evacuation takes place this year (and my gut says it will), that today's close call does not lead to complacency on the part of residents. Today's anticlimactic conclusion for New Orleans does not mean that every story will have the same ending.

Our mayor, C. Ray (not lately), came home from the Democratic National Convention just in time to get his name in the headlines, but I'm convinced that it was Jindal pulling all the strings. Nagin is simply a puppet who no one really takes seriously anymore.

It was announced before the storm that there would be no shelters of last resort, and that anyone caught outside of their own property after a mandatory evacuation was called would be arrested. Looters would be send right to Angola.

NOLA.com is now reporting that two people were arrested. Ninety to ninety-five percent of coastal Louisiana evacuated, in one of the impressive displays of efficiency that I've ever seen and the largest evacuation in Louisiana's history.

It seems that many lessons were learned and taken to heart three years ago.

Now we're waiting for news on when the city will reopen. It looks like we'll be stuck in Hotel Hell for yet another day, as the city will most likely not be open for residents tomorrow.

I'm pretty sure that the stain on my curtains here at the Dead Roaches on the Floor Motel is blood. I'm pretty sure that the smell in my friend's room is something dead. I suspect that the victim was killed in my room and hidden under the bed in hers (judging by the odor) and was more than likely just removed before we arrived.

We met several people from New Orleans this evening at Jake and Rip's, the barbecue joint across the street. I thought my car was in trouble . . . until I met someone who landed in this town because he lost the tranny on his car. At least mine is still running . . . for now. I'm a lucky girl today.

I'm tired, and I haven't slept well for days. I want to not think about Gustav, or Hanna, or Tropical Storm Ike, who looks to be headed into the Bahamas in about a week, or the new tropical wave emerging off the coast of Africa that looks as though it might also get a name this week.

I want to not think about anything. I want rest and peace and the comforting rumble of the streetcar passing in front of my house. I want my own bed and my own pillow on which I can finally dream my own dreams instead of nightmares of enduring loss. Sometimes even my dreams have bruises, but most of the time they also have a rhythm and a song to lead me home.

I just want to go home.

Down to the wire...

It's now less than 12 hours from Gustav's landfall on the coast of Louisiana. Unbelievably enough, I'm still receiving phone calls from friends who JUST found out what was happening. This seems unbelievable to me, whose life is consumed by this current crisis, but I realize that the world does not revolve around the Big Sleazy for most people outside Louisiana.

After Katrina, countless people suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome resulting from the disaster. Somehow, I think that even if New Orleans remains relatively unscathed after Gustav, that most people will STILL suffer from PTSD after the fact.

Here in Mississippi, my friend and I spent the day a Lake Grenada, a lovely little haven in the hills of Mississippi, at which we could while away our troubles for a little while. While floating in the cool water, I was almost able to convince myself that the constant hum in my ears was caused by distant outboard motors, and not by the not-so-distant freight train of my own fears roaring through my brain.

At dinner at a local barbecue joint, we both fought off tears as we realized how close to triumph or tragedy we really are.

When this is over, if all is said and done and we head back to an intact New Orleans, we're all still going to need a vacation and a prescription for Prozac.

Jen and I are in for the night, with the TV tuned to MSNBC. Jim Cantore is now in Houma, Louisiana. Sadly, that means that Houma is fucked. For those who don't know who Jim Cantore is, he's the Weather Channel's very own Weather Ninja. The saying goes that if Jim Cantore shows up in your town right before a storm, you know you're the target and it's time to get the hell out of Dodge.

Gustav is scheduled to make landfall somewhere around 8 a.m. Monday morning. We will not be sleeping tonight. We are exhausted, but there will be no rest for us until this drama has played itself out entirely and Gustav has taken his final curtain call.