New Orleans reminds you that it's important to slow down and absorb life, rather than let it run through you, or over you, however you want to look at it. The colors, sights and sounds belong in our skin, seeping through our pores and filling our veins with inspiration. No one can create without looking outside of one's self. This must be why this city is saturated with so much pulsing creativity, there's an ingrained understand that we are a part of this hungry place, in the dirtiest, visceral, vivid way possible. It inseminates us with ideas and guttural vibrations.
As I was rushing down St. Claude on my bicycle, I heard the train howl in the distance. In order to get into the lower 9th ward, one must cross the traintracks, the physical and symbolic gateway into a post apocalyptic zone. Boarded up, dilapidated homes slump in dismay, in loneliness, in abandonment, with prison tatts and battle scars that remind us of the day hell escaped from the gulf. Shops push poison, people push poison, people carry their poison behind them, shoulders heavy and sore. My new friend told me that this is a city full of ghosts, both living and dead. As the dead weave in and out of the rickety rafters, the living weave in an out of the cracks of life. The vacant stares, the hollow hearts, we all have the potential to become broken, to become the creaking branches hovering over rotten rooftops.
However, I refuse to believe anyone here went down without a fight. I have never seen a more tenacious people. Roots somehow manage to cling to slippery swamp here, and the winds that once blew all the trees away are pulling them back. The dead can't even bring themselves to move on.
I rapidly approached the tracks as the train came into view. It trudged along under the cotton candy clouds, amplifying the brilliance of the earth and sky with its mundane, flat cars. Toxic waste and explosive fuel sloshed inside giant vessels rumbling under rusty wheels. It creaks and trudges slower than my stride. I could beat it to its destination with a leisurely stroll. It was hard to understand how such an industrial eyesore could fill me with such intoxication. I was hypnotized by the rhythm of the wheels and the whistle sexed my ear drums. There was no way I could be angry. I would be 45 minutes late because of this, but it's a moment in time. What right does my schedule, my clock, have to rob me of the bridge sprawling across the expanse? or the gnarled branches wafting with the breath of the freight train? These are the tiny moments that never leave us. These are the reasons the dead never leave.
After 20 minutes, I decide to sit on the median shoulder with an older man. The line of cars has grown about 5 blocks, and everyone is just waiting, accepting their fate, taking it for what it's worth: a moment in time. The man's eyes carried about 65 years of sorrow, and about a thousand years of joy. He couldn't have been more joyful that I decided to sit next to him. I asked him where he's from and he said the lower 9th. I asked him if he was there during Katrina and he said yes, and so was his Mama . She was also there for Betsy. He had to carry her away from her house kicking and screaming during Katrina, she didn't want to leave. She was hollering "I made it through Betsy, I can make it through this!! Leave me here!!!"
"But Mama, you can't swim!"
Many people weren't as lucky as Mama. They didn't have a son to carry them away.
Can you imagine swimming out of your home as you watch it submerge under apocalyptic flood waters? Sinking beneath waves 30 feet above your driveway? This is beyond my realm of understanding.
The man told me God blessed this city with my presence. He thanked me for my good work.
As the train ultimately passed, I biked at half speed towards the industrial canal, and hoped the bridge would be up. I wanted to watch a ship go by. I wanted more whistles, more steel, more patience, more fissures in time's hands.
The bridge was down, but rose on my way home. Each way in and out of the lower 9th, I was reminded to slow down and look around. When waiting doesn't feel like waiting anymore, you know you're on to something.
<3
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Cross that bridge
In my quest to become a true New Orlean, I have been spending copious amounts of time on my porch. I fix myself some coffee, or some eggs, or what have you, and bask in the sun next to my camelia plant. I usually wear Brandon's brown hat tilted forward to shield the sun, sip my coffee, and attempt to slow my head down. My camelia plant is actually my new favorite thing to hang out with. She is quiet, beautiful, fragrant company. Being alone is easier when you have a camelia plant.
After my date with my porch and camelia plant, I jumped on my bike to go to the Lower Ninth Ward Village, a non profit community center for youth. For those of you who might not know, the lower 9th ward is one of the most economically depressed communities of New Orleans, and was one of the the neighborhood hit the hardest by Katrina. Before Katrina, the lower
9th had 7 schools, it now has 1 charter school. Most of the students at this charter school are not even residents of the lower 9th, and most lower 9th children have to spend 2 to 3 hours on a bus to get to school. As you can imagine, the drop out rate for lower 9th children is through the roof, almost 65% I believe. The Lower 9th Ward Village seeks to help these children and build community through educational and recreational programs. Mack,the executive director, says that if I really want to make a difference with my teaching, if I want to challenge myself and serve the community that really needs my level of commitment and compassion, I need to be a part of this project.
Duh.
My idea is to have the NOLA free school collaborate with the village and have classes in their awesome facility when they finally open. I want the program to be somewhat of a mentorship, where older students who are struggling in their classes can gain extra credit by coming to my program and helping little kids. They will improve their reading and writing skill while helping others, and I would like them to make books that they can take home. It's going to take a considerable amount of networking and research, but it is so worth it. Even if it isn't as awesome as I envision it, something that even comes close will be beneficial. That's for damn sure.
After my date with my porch and camelia plant, I jumped on my bike to go to the Lower Ninth Ward Village, a non profit community center for youth. For those of you who might not know, the lower 9th ward is one of the most economically depressed communities of New Orleans, and was one of the the neighborhood hit the hardest by Katrina. Before Katrina, the lower
9th had 7 schools, it now has 1 charter school. Most of the students at this charter school are not even residents of the lower 9th, and most lower 9th children have to spend 2 to 3 hours on a bus to get to school. As you can imagine, the drop out rate for lower 9th children is through the roof, almost 65% I believe. The Lower 9th Ward Village seeks to help these children and build community through educational and recreational programs. Mack,the executive director, says that if I really want to make a difference with my teaching, if I want to challenge myself and serve the community that really needs my level of commitment and compassion, I need to be a part of this project.
Duh.
My idea is to have the NOLA free school collaborate with the village and have classes in their awesome facility when they finally open. I want the program to be somewhat of a mentorship, where older students who are struggling in their classes can gain extra credit by coming to my program and helping little kids. They will improve their reading and writing skill while helping others, and I would like them to make books that they can take home. It's going to take a considerable amount of networking and research, but it is so worth it. Even if it isn't as awesome as I envision it, something that even comes close will be beneficial. That's for damn sure.
Monday, February 14, 2011
A rock and hard place
How has it bee 10 days since I've written in this? Shame on me.
In truth, it feels like 10 years. There is something about this place that packs 3 weeks worth of time into each hour, and somehow I feel like I've spent my entire life here. For a town that has a reputation for taking it slow and easy, I sure feel like things are moving a mile a minute, or perhaps that's just how I operate. Working in an inner city New Orleans school has really sped up the time as well. I feel like I'm learning a thousand things every day I'm with these kids. It makes my brain buzz to think about my position with these kids, both socially and personally, and how I need to connect my ideals and politics with my pedagogy. I find it entirely problematic that I, the only white person in the room, stand above these black children asserting power and control. Everyone told me to be a hardass with them at first. It seemed like that would be the only way to handle these raucous 6 year olds, because they just would not respect me. Their regular teacher had to come in and lay the smack down on them. She found out two of my students were crawling on the floor so she made them crawl on the floor for 15 minutes in from of everyone. I found this to be cruel and slightly crazy, but couldnt really do a damn thing about it. So, for myself, instead of implementing corporal punishment, I decided to make a fun discipline chart with red, yellow and green cards with faces next to their names. I implemented reward as well as punishment, and decided to be a hardass about my consistency and expectations. I had one girl throw herself on the floor and throw a tantrum because I gave her a red card. I had to remove her from my class because we couldn't get a damn thing done with her carrying on. However, most of the time now I can get the kids to behave with a calm, friendly, loving attitude. Today I told them how amazing they are and asked them to make Valentines for themselves. They know how much I like them, so they want to behave and impress me. It is mutual respect. Duh, Ms. Thompson.
Yet, one of my students tore up the Valentine she made for me because I gave her a red card. Sorry Ebony, making me a Valentine isn't going to make it ok for you to hit kids.
For the first time, I am feeling like a real adult. I have a 'real' job, I live alone, and have become a bit more of a homebody. Tonight my best friend needed my support and I felt in a position to not only listen and support, but to give sound, wise advice. I have to appreciate that all the crazy shit I've been through has give me an arsenal of knowledge that I can't discount . I hugged her and started crying because I could feel how much hurt she felt. I wish everyone could feel emotions through skin. It really makes it easier to feel close to people.
In truth, it feels like 10 years. There is something about this place that packs 3 weeks worth of time into each hour, and somehow I feel like I've spent my entire life here. For a town that has a reputation for taking it slow and easy, I sure feel like things are moving a mile a minute, or perhaps that's just how I operate. Working in an inner city New Orleans school has really sped up the time as well. I feel like I'm learning a thousand things every day I'm with these kids. It makes my brain buzz to think about my position with these kids, both socially and personally, and how I need to connect my ideals and politics with my pedagogy. I find it entirely problematic that I, the only white person in the room, stand above these black children asserting power and control. Everyone told me to be a hardass with them at first. It seemed like that would be the only way to handle these raucous 6 year olds, because they just would not respect me. Their regular teacher had to come in and lay the smack down on them. She found out two of my students were crawling on the floor so she made them crawl on the floor for 15 minutes in from of everyone. I found this to be cruel and slightly crazy, but couldnt really do a damn thing about it. So, for myself, instead of implementing corporal punishment, I decided to make a fun discipline chart with red, yellow and green cards with faces next to their names. I implemented reward as well as punishment, and decided to be a hardass about my consistency and expectations. I had one girl throw herself on the floor and throw a tantrum because I gave her a red card. I had to remove her from my class because we couldn't get a damn thing done with her carrying on. However, most of the time now I can get the kids to behave with a calm, friendly, loving attitude. Today I told them how amazing they are and asked them to make Valentines for themselves. They know how much I like them, so they want to behave and impress me. It is mutual respect. Duh, Ms. Thompson.
Yet, one of my students tore up the Valentine she made for me because I gave her a red card. Sorry Ebony, making me a Valentine isn't going to make it ok for you to hit kids.
For the first time, I am feeling like a real adult. I have a 'real' job, I live alone, and have become a bit more of a homebody. Tonight my best friend needed my support and I felt in a position to not only listen and support, but to give sound, wise advice. I have to appreciate that all the crazy shit I've been through has give me an arsenal of knowledge that I can't discount . I hugged her and started crying because I could feel how much hurt she felt. I wish everyone could feel emotions through skin. It really makes it easier to feel close to people.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Brick walls and Bumps in the night
Last night almost pulled me into the throws of madness. I couldn't feel my toes and I could see my breath as I huddled under my mountain of blankets. People say it never gets this cold here. After hanging up the phone with my dear friend, my heart froze over and I felt the ghost's presence like never before. The heater was, again, projecting dancing shadows on the wall and I heard soft breathing sounds, like gentle snores. Despite my best efforts, I let fear envelop me, and I called him back. He, of course, doesn't believe in ghosts and told me to calm myself. I told him I was afraid I was losing my mind. He said he wasn't going to go there, but now that I mention it, perhaps I was right. He was busy and I felt bad for disturbing him so I let him go about his business, and again, I was alone with the feeling. I began to calm myself and almost drifted to sleep when I felt the couch shake beneath me as if struck by a small earthquake.
There are no earthquakes in New Orleans.
I spun into hysterics and called Marika who consoled me the best she could, but I was inconsolable. I ended up falling asleep from exhaustion because my tears were so violent. I woke up puffy eyed and groggy, knowing that I had to do something about this, because I have more important things to worry about, more hearts to care for, more minds to nourish, to be so afraid.
I am brave as fuck. Anyone who knows me knows this. And being brave means doing things even when you are afraid, and further, conquering that fear with a vengeance.
I went out, rocked my job interview and landed a job that makes me bubble over with excitement. I will be working for an organization called "Young Audiences", a non profit organization that does arts education for children. I will be working in the after school program and I get to create my own curriculum, which is absolutely my wet dream! The supervisor liked me so much that she wants to start me right away with kindergarten kids. I proposed a sample lesson to her, where I will incorporate movement and theatre by showing the kids how to use their bodies and voices to become animals from all over the world. It is required to have a performance at the end of the lesson series, so I proposed to have a small play where the children pretend to be different animals and they can help me create the plot and such. It will be especially positive for aggressive children, who can exercise their aggression in a healthy, artistic way by pretending to be a lion or a bear (hopefully they don't maul the children who pretend to be bunnies....)
Anyway, when I came home from my triumphant interview, I lit my sage stick and walked around the entire apartment proclaiming respectfully, yet assertively, "You will not scare me, I will feel safe here, I want to live here in peace with you, but I will not allow you to scare me". I used sage before, and ASKED her not to scare me, but that obviously wasn't enough. Now, though I am feeling a bit of anxiety, I do not feel fear. I think I am mostly just processing everything that is happening. It's only been 2 weeks and I have already moved into my own apartment, landed a brilliant job, wrangled with a spirit, gotten involved with community projects, and countless other things. I suppose this is what it means to run.
There are no earthquakes in New Orleans.
I spun into hysterics and called Marika who consoled me the best she could, but I was inconsolable. I ended up falling asleep from exhaustion because my tears were so violent. I woke up puffy eyed and groggy, knowing that I had to do something about this, because I have more important things to worry about, more hearts to care for, more minds to nourish, to be so afraid.
I am brave as fuck. Anyone who knows me knows this. And being brave means doing things even when you are afraid, and further, conquering that fear with a vengeance.
I went out, rocked my job interview and landed a job that makes me bubble over with excitement. I will be working for an organization called "Young Audiences", a non profit organization that does arts education for children. I will be working in the after school program and I get to create my own curriculum, which is absolutely my wet dream! The supervisor liked me so much that she wants to start me right away with kindergarten kids. I proposed a sample lesson to her, where I will incorporate movement and theatre by showing the kids how to use their bodies and voices to become animals from all over the world. It is required to have a performance at the end of the lesson series, so I proposed to have a small play where the children pretend to be different animals and they can help me create the plot and such. It will be especially positive for aggressive children, who can exercise their aggression in a healthy, artistic way by pretending to be a lion or a bear (hopefully they don't maul the children who pretend to be bunnies....)
Anyway, when I came home from my triumphant interview, I lit my sage stick and walked around the entire apartment proclaiming respectfully, yet assertively, "You will not scare me, I will feel safe here, I want to live here in peace with you, but I will not allow you to scare me". I used sage before, and ASKED her not to scare me, but that obviously wasn't enough. Now, though I am feeling a bit of anxiety, I do not feel fear. I think I am mostly just processing everything that is happening. It's only been 2 weeks and I have already moved into my own apartment, landed a brilliant job, wrangled with a spirit, gotten involved with community projects, and countless other things. I suppose this is what it means to run.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Playing chicken with the waves
Despite my best efforts to embrace her, the spiritual presence in my apartment chills me. I am trying to understand whether it is the countless episodes of 'Are you Afraid of the Dark?' I watched as a child, or if there is something really going on here. Perhaps it is my crazy imagination, and I am manifesting these feelings, but I don't think so. I feel a clenching in my chest, like something is about to happen at any moment. At times, I don't feel her at all, but at night she is pulsing through this place. It's not that Im afraid she is going to hurt me, but being someone with a heightened sense of empathy, I feel that I am taking on some of her heaviness. I don't think spirits linger unless they are too heavy to fly away. What is keeping her here?
I am repeatedly playing youtube clips of my best friend's poetry to bring me peace. His voice is like having a hand to hold. His words are a warm blanket. How fortunate I am to know I'll never be alone.
I am repeatedly playing youtube clips of my best friend's poetry to bring me peace. His voice is like having a hand to hold. His words are a warm blanket. How fortunate I am to know I'll never be alone.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
You've been climbing up hill for 12 years, now you have to learn how to walk down...
Rob Breszny, an astrologer I enjoy, advised me that instead of flying, to learn what running feels like. Running is only sustainable at a steady pace, and I have been in full flying sprint. I always thought my tits were too big for running, but Im learning that I can always equip myself with an excellent sports bra. I have the ability to do that, it's not very hard. It just feels hard.
Whatever, life theories aside, I live in a beautiful apartment in the French quarter. It has high ceilings and is wall to wall brick. Theres a loft big enough to stand in and a gorgeous kitchen with...a fucking dish washer. I haven't had a dishwasher in 7 years! The courtyard is beautiful and the neighbors are hilarious and delightful. I really hope I can swing this. I get such good energy in this place and when I walk in, got a surge of confidence and started chanting " I can make this work! I can do this!"
I think much of the good energy is coming from the ghost who lives here with me. I can tell she's a she, and I can feel her so very strongly. When I walked into the house, I said "Hello, I'm Kate and I'm going to live with you". That is when the surge of optimism came. I lit sage and asked for protection, for myself, this house, Marika, and for her as well. I told her I wanted to know her story and live in peace with her. I can hear her upstairs and it brings me chills. I told her that I am a bit afraid, that I wanted her to feel free to assert her presence, but it's new to me and brings me some anxiety. I've never lived with anyone who's not of this world before. I asked her to please take it easy on me. Don't make things fly around yet, ya know?
I am beginning to think that I am in a novel, and someone is reading about me, shaking their head and whispering:
"damn"
Whatever, life theories aside, I live in a beautiful apartment in the French quarter. It has high ceilings and is wall to wall brick. Theres a loft big enough to stand in and a gorgeous kitchen with...a fucking dish washer. I haven't had a dishwasher in 7 years! The courtyard is beautiful and the neighbors are hilarious and delightful. I really hope I can swing this. I get such good energy in this place and when I walk in, got a surge of confidence and started chanting " I can make this work! I can do this!"
I think much of the good energy is coming from the ghost who lives here with me. I can tell she's a she, and I can feel her so very strongly. When I walked into the house, I said "Hello, I'm Kate and I'm going to live with you". That is when the surge of optimism came. I lit sage and asked for protection, for myself, this house, Marika, and for her as well. I told her I wanted to know her story and live in peace with her. I can hear her upstairs and it brings me chills. I told her that I am a bit afraid, that I wanted her to feel free to assert her presence, but it's new to me and brings me some anxiety. I've never lived with anyone who's not of this world before. I asked her to please take it easy on me. Don't make things fly around yet, ya know?
I am beginning to think that I am in a novel, and someone is reading about me, shaking their head and whispering:
"damn"
looks like a nice day for a tornado!
How do you recognize a rational fear? And when is that fear colored and warped by past wounds and patterns? When do we read the signs? and when do we recognize that those signs are simply the shadowy outlines of our insecurities? When do we do the safe thing and when do we do the thing that puts fire in our bones?
My brain feels like this ominous southern storm cloud outside the cafe window, shifting and expanding in ways that don't even make sense. I have written and theorized a lot about my obsession with clouds, and the more I think about it, the more it clicks. The storm cloud is pulled by wind, airy and flowing yet heavy, oh so heavy, with what it has absorbed. My mind soaks up the water and dirt and poison from this earth and is pulled like taffy by the winds of this existence. Any illusion my naive, crazy ass mind has about understanding the mechanics of this taffy puller are completely preposterous. We are in the midst of an electric shitstorm and I can't talk the lightning out of hitting me. I also can't pretend that I have some sort of lightning resistant skin. I think the lightning will hit me, but I have to turn myself into a conductor and shoot everything out of my pores as hard as possible.
We are at a time in our lives where we cannot hold things inside anymore. The world is changing at such a rapid pace that if we don't start morphing along with these storm clouds, we will be left floating, lost, and shit out of luck. It's not going to cut it to look out for number one anymore. It's not going to cut it to be safe anymore. Life is too short, too fragile, to hold back.
We must do the dangerous, exciting, invigorating, novel worthy adventures we dream of. Because now is the time plant seeds.
Because the rain is coming.
My brain feels like this ominous southern storm cloud outside the cafe window, shifting and expanding in ways that don't even make sense. I have written and theorized a lot about my obsession with clouds, and the more I think about it, the more it clicks. The storm cloud is pulled by wind, airy and flowing yet heavy, oh so heavy, with what it has absorbed. My mind soaks up the water and dirt and poison from this earth and is pulled like taffy by the winds of this existence. Any illusion my naive, crazy ass mind has about understanding the mechanics of this taffy puller are completely preposterous. We are in the midst of an electric shitstorm and I can't talk the lightning out of hitting me. I also can't pretend that I have some sort of lightning resistant skin. I think the lightning will hit me, but I have to turn myself into a conductor and shoot everything out of my pores as hard as possible.
We are at a time in our lives where we cannot hold things inside anymore. The world is changing at such a rapid pace that if we don't start morphing along with these storm clouds, we will be left floating, lost, and shit out of luck. It's not going to cut it to look out for number one anymore. It's not going to cut it to be safe anymore. Life is too short, too fragile, to hold back.
We must do the dangerous, exciting, invigorating, novel worthy adventures we dream of. Because now is the time plant seeds.
Because the rain is coming.
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