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Spirits in
the Dark: Post-Katrina New Orleans
By Kalamu ya Salaam
Nobody missed a beat. No pause. No
exasperated sighs. No moans of ‘awwww, mannn,’ or groans
of ‘shucksssssss.’ Just a quiet, steady continuance as
we sat in semi-darkness reading our work and receiving
feedback. Our ages range from fifteen to fifty-nine. Our
stories, like our lives, are distinct in their details
but essentially we are all battling to hold on to our
sanity.
Chris laughs his hearty laugh as recent college-grad
Ashley deftly uses somewhat humorous descriptions to
explore the hardships of an extended family dealing with
death and aids. Eighteen-year-old Dominique tells us why
she's no longer a youthful teenager. I read my latest
Big Easy report that focuses on a close friend who was
thrown in jail. A power failure is the least of our
worries.
Blackouts happen frequently now, not just in the
so-called devastated areas but all over town. Last week
Harold and I were eating at his apartment and in the
middle of a mouthful of well-seasoned fried catfish from
Manchu's, the lights flickered off.
People who don't know us often mistake Harold for my
older brother, or me for a son Harold had when he was
much younger. People who do know us understand that we
might as well be brothers, recognizing that I treat
Harold with a filial respect accorded to no one else.
Post-Katrina is particularly hard on our elders and
Harold, born in 1931, has to make a decision: stay or
go.
Medical care is spotty—all physicians Harold trusted are
gone. Most of Harold's immediate family lives in
California; the few who were here evacuated to Texas and
have decided not to return. Harold remains because all
the work he wants to complete before his transition is
here but he doesn't know how much longer he can hold on.
He is stubborn, yes, but not stupid. He's been weakened
by a stroke that left him with a pronounced limp and a
partially disabled right arm. Then there is the onset of
glaucoma. But what worries Harold most is the
deterioration of our city.
Recently our weekly conversations have returned time and
again to his dilemma: should he be sensible and leave or
be determined and stay.
I think he should go. I want him to stay. So, I listen
without taking sides. If he needs or wants something, I
try to help out. What else can I do?
Last week he had a taste for catfish. Before Katrina,
copping some catfish would have been a snap, but now,
there are not many neighborhood restaurants open, plus
the pickings are mighty slim when it comes to
black-owned establishments. We decide on take out from a
hole-in-the-wall, Vietnamese run, Chinese/Soul-food
joint.
In the midst of a thunderstorm, we eat and talk in the
dark. I try my best to joke: hey man, if we was Indians
we could get a candle and sit down and sew. But we're
not Indians, there's nothing for us two old men to do in
the dark except sleep, especially considering we have
just hardily eaten our fill.
When the lights came back on, I rose from the couch,
checked on Harold (he was sleeping soundly in his
bedroom), slipped out the door and intended to head
uptown for my nightly session with my friend Doug. I
have accepted the task of ensuring Doug takes his
nightly medication. That's no small feat. Like all of us
Doug needs encouragement, lots of encouragement.
At first I thought it was just a little standing water
outside the back door, and then I thought maybe this
part of the parking lot is low, but finally I got the
message as I peered myopically at a newly filled,
foot-deep wading pool that less than two hours ago was
dry asphalt.
I had on loafers. I tried tip-toeing. That didn't work.
I splashed over to the fence where I had parked. The
water was way past ankle deep on the driver's side but
maybe only four or five inches on the passenger side.
Once in the passenger seat of the small Corolla I had to
manage the task of hoisting my big-ass body across the
console with the shift sticking up and maneuver into the
driver's bucket-seat. After a minute or two of twisting
and turning, I finally slumped in place.
I felt horrible. My feet were wet. It was still raining.
I called Carol, explaining that I was wet and miserable.
She advised me to go home and she would let Doug know.
Two of the city's largest pumps are burnt up. Katrina
flooded them with salt water and the massive engines
were not cleaned before this summer's first big rain in
June. One-point-five inches of water later, the pumps
broke down. Now, every time it drizzles there's standing
water everywhere because the pumps are functioning only
around half-capacity.
I'm sure people are tired of hearing about our problems.
Looks like every other day we've got another shortcoming
or some other service falling apart. I know I'm tired of
it. Nevertheless, I would prefer to be fighting
frustration in New Orleans than kicking back somewhere
else.
In the unlighted classroom our circle of Students at the
Center staff and students are reading off of donated
laptops, the screens highlight our faces but not the
rest of our bodies. Our heads seemingly float
unattached. We probably look like a séance in one of
those cheesy horror movies where self-deluded crazies
sit around a table, hold hands and try to contact the
other world.
We carry on like the dark wasn't nothing. And it isn't.
Or rather that's all it is: nothing. Darkness is simply
the absence of light. The old folks were right: rather
than waste time cursing our conditions, it's better to
illuminate the way forward by letting our spirit lights
shine. That's why instead of crying, we are sitting here
laughing with each other.
posted 1 August 2006
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music website >
http://www.kalamu.com/bol/
writing website >
http://wordup.posterous.com/
daily blog >
http://kalamu.posterous.com
twitter >
http://twitter.com/neogriot
facebook >
http://www.facebook.com/kalamu.salaam
Guarding the Flame of Life
New Orleans Jazz Funeral for tuba player Kerwin
James /
They danced atop his casket Jaran 'Julio' Green
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Track List
1. Congo Square (9:01)
2. My Story, My Song (20:50)
3. Danny Banjo (4:32)
4. Miles Davis (10:26)
5. Hard News For Hip Harry (5:03)
6. Unfinished Blues (4:13)
7. Rainbows Come After The Rain (2:21)/Negroidal Noise (15:53)
8. Intro (3:59)
9. The Whole History (3:14)
10. Negroidal Noise (5:39)
11. Waving At Ra (1:40)
12. Landing (1:21)
13. Good Luck (:04) |
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Blacks in Hispanic Literature: Critical Essays
Edited by
Miriam DeCosta-Willis
Blacks in Hispanic Literature is a
collection of fourteen essays by scholars and
creative writers from Africa and the Americas.
Called one of two significant critical works on
Afro-Hispanic literature to appear in the late
1970s, it includes the pioneering studies of
Carter G. Woodson and
Valaurez B. Spratlin, published in the 1930s, as
well as the essays of scholars whose interpretations
were shaped by the Black aesthetic. The early
essays, primarily of the Black-as-subject in Spanish
medieval and Golden Age literature, provide an
historical context for understanding 20th-century
creative works by African-descended, Hispanophone
writers, such as Cuban
Nicolás Guillén and Ecuadorean poet, novelist,
and scholar
Adalberto Ortiz, whose essay analyzes the
significance of Negritude in Latin America. This
collaborative text set the tone for later
conferences in which writers and scholars worked
together to promote, disseminate, and critique the
literature of Spanish-speaking people of African
descent. . . .
Cited by a
literary critic in 2004 as "the seminal study in the
field of Afro-Hispanic Literature . . . on which
most scholars in the field 'cut their teeth'."
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Sister Citizen: Shame, Stereotypes, and Black Women in
America
By Melissa V.
Harris-Perry
According to the
author, this society has historically exerted
considerable pressure on black females to fit into one
of a handful of stereotypes, primarily, the Mammy, the
Matriarch or the Jezebel. The selfless
Mammy’s behavior is marked by a slavish devotion to
white folks’ domestic concerns, often at the expense of
those of her own family’s needs. By contrast, the
relatively-hedonistic Jezebel is a sexually-insatiable
temptress. And the Matriarch is generally thought of as
an emasculating figure who denigrates black men, ala the
characters Sapphire and Aunt Esther on the television
shows Amos and Andy and Sanford and Son, respectively.
Professor Perry
points out how the propagation of these harmful myths
have served the mainstream culture well. For instance,
the Mammy suggests that it is almost second nature for
black females to feel a maternal instinct towards
Caucasian babies.
As for the source
of the Jezebel, black women had no control over their
own bodies during slavery given that they were being
auctioned off and bred to maximize profits. Nonetheless,
it was in the interest of plantation owners to propagate
the lie that sisters were sluts inclined to mate
indiscriminately.
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