Stephanie: Post-Katrina New Orleans

 By Kalamu ya Salaam

“Kalamu.”

I was headed into the Subway's on Gen. DeGaulle, about two or three miles from home, stopping to get a tuna salad-stuffed with all available vegetables—the same Subway where one of the sandwich artists knows me as “that man on New Orleans Exposed” (which is a pre-Katrina video done by a group of young Black men that focuses on the poverty and crime in New Orleans that under-girds the party reputation of Big Easy). I'm used to being recognized by the young, the poor and the black of New Orleans. I usually just respond, “yeah, that's me.”

At the reception for a life's work retrospective of visual artist and MacArthur genius John Scott held at the New Orleans Museum of Art, summer of 2005, Mayor Nagin came up to me and wanted to know how he could get five or six copies of the video so he could share it with “some people” who really needed to understand aspects of the New Orleans reality that don't usually get aired in the visceral way New Orleans Exposed presents its case.

Young negroes proudly displaying an armory to rival a gun show in Dallas, Texas, plus enough raw dope to look like somebody got a direct Columbia connection. Tragically, pre-teen boys rap about being gangstas and two barely-teenage boys smoke blunts like they been doing it all their young lives. I'm shown sitting on the stoop outside my former office in Treme talking about how much easier it is in the ghetto to cop a gun than to purchase a book.

“Kalamu.”

I look over toward an SUV parked a short distance away. A young woman is behind the wheel, waving my way. “Hey nah. How you doing?” I holler back as I keep moving toward the front door of the food establishment. I don't recognize her.

”It's Stephanie,” she replies.

Stephanie? My mind-computer hard drive is whirling. No quick hits, I'm unable to place the name or recognize her from the sound of her voice. I move toward the vehicle to get a closer view, thirty feet is too far away for my myopic eyes to be of any help in recognizing her face. Up closer I still don't recognize her. The driver's door opens and she steps out just as I get within arm's distance.

”Stephanie from Douglass.”

She's one of my former students. We hug. Tall, slim, copper-toned skin, straight hair, bright eyes, a direct way of talking to people. As we disengage, I stand in the open doorway of the SUV and she climbs back into the driver's seat. We conversate for about five minutes.

She was at Delgado Junior College when Katrina hit. Now she's working. I notice a beautiful tattoo on her right instep. I'm not a fan of tattoos. This is one of the few that seems attractive to me. I can't remember her last name or even how to spell her first name. She was only in our class for one semester. Not a special student, did just enough work to get by. But she's obviously glad to see me.

Indeed, in New Orleans today, everyone is glad to see anyone they knew before Katrina; embracing former friends and acquaintances is a flesh and blood affirmation. It feels good to touch people, feels real good, damn good. It makes you smile, even if you barely knew the person. I guess you can call it the after-the-battle syndrome when you wander about in a slight daze looking for fellow survivors.

Chance meetings and the inevitable vigorous handshakes or full body hugs that accompany such meetings are poignant moments, especially since we got our asses kicked in last year's battle and are now trying by the hardest to get it together to survive the aftermath.

Stephanie says she waiting for someone, to loan them some money. In her right hand is a wad a money. They were supposed to already have arrived but they are late, very late. I tell her not to leave them. Wait for them. She says she will.

These impromptu meetings in parking lots are the kinds of meetings I don't mind. Generally, I have come to hate meetings, especially those three hour wish-listing sessions full of bitter bitching and fantasy-planning that happen at least three or four times a day in Post-Katrina New Orleans. Every day. Meetings about this, that and the other. Neighborhood development is the buzz phrase. The cynic in me can't stomach spending so many valuable hours pursuing phantom solutions.

I feel myself about to go off on a tangent of bad-mouthing meetings. It's so easy to go off now. Going off doesn't take much. Sometimes somebody simply says “good morning” and, particularly if I know the person, I will acidly respond “can you prove that.”

”Prove what?”

”Prove that it's a good morning.”

If they smile, I acknowledge the smile and say, yes, that makes for a good morning. But a lot of times, I don't get a smile back.

I'm smiling at Stephanie as she tells me she always runs into people who think they know her, or who remember her from school but she doesn't remember them. She played sports, went to class, went home. Didn't hang out. “I don't remember most of them.” She looks me in the eye. “I just remember the people who tried to help me.”

A warmness filled me. Often we have no idea how much of what we do affects people. Stephanie never joined in any of our outside-of-class activities. She didn't do any deep writing. Seemed to be blissfully unaffected by taking an SAC writing class, yet now close to two years later here she was shouting out to someone who helped her.

”Good luck, Steph. See you later.” I turned to go get a tuna salad. The sun felt warm. Today I feel good.

post 7 July 2006