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Wait a minute. Don’t make your move too soon. Years ago when Meshell debuted at the National Black Arts Festival in Atlanta, I was there. Enthralled by her combination of musical talent and autobiographical fierceness. And when that forward thinking sprite, Staceyann Chin newly arrived in New York was about to explode, I was also there. Marveling at the giant talk of this little sister. That was decades ago. They are still holding forth.

But of course, a lot of water has flowed under their bridges. They worked, and worked hard at their respective crafts. Developing and sharpening their artistic visions while living their lives, neither of which was easy, but they persevered. It’s not easy in the U.S. being lesbians who do not commercially exploit their sexuality but who also do not shrink from confronting the class-defined/racially-entombed anti-sexuality/anti-racism of this nation. 

Neither was born in America–Meshell in Berlin, Staceyann in Jamaica. Both have chosen to live and work primarily in this cold, cold clime. At one point late in their respective careers they joined forces on a gender defying/defining event. They not only did a public series, they also sat and talked about their lives.

The meeting was iconoclastic. Check it out.

 

 

 

> Simply the G.O.A.T.–The Greatest Of All Time–Gymnastics.

Competitive gymnastics is a rough sport. Broken bones, torn ligaments, sore muscles and most of all the combination of physical and psychological strain. The movement–the constant twisting, flipping, soaring, and yes, falling: landing wrong, dislocating a shoulder, on and on. Few know the troubles gymnasts endure.

Now, add to that sexual assault by a physician–a man who is allegedly your doctor, only to find out how routine his sexual assaults are. Add to that the people and organizations who are supposed to look out for you, well, they look the other way.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, imagine you coming out of a foster home. You shoulder the burden of looking out for those younger than you. Looking Out. Who looks out for you?

They tell you “Just flip and fly little woman, it’s going to be alright. Smile. Do your thing and smile. How hard can it be to smile?”

Simone has never asked for pity. No public complaints–not even when she revealed her abuse.

It’s hard to be human when people see you as super-human.

As able to leap. . . oh the burdens of being the best is a far, far greater burden to carry than most will ever know.

Simone, you are still young. Lay them burdens down. You have done what no one else can do. Rest, dear sister. Stop now. You have nothing more to prove. 

We salute you.

Live the rest of your life howsoever you wish, howsoever you will. You’ve earned it. Peace be unto you.

 

 


Photo: Chuck Stewart
John Coltrane (September 23, 1926 — July 17, 1967)
Alice Coltrane (August 27, 1937 — January 12, 2007)

After Trane, what does one do. In his latter years, John Coltrane produced music that was on a different level. No longer mainly “Favorite Things” in 3/4. The music of his last years was utterly cosmic, which meant that healthy portions of it was chaotic, the chaos of the universe coming into existence. Exploding. Expanding. Literally taking up space while taking shape, physically and philosophically it’s the birthing process which we all are born into, born out of. The making of meaning from the incoherence, the formlessness of all possibilities existing simultaneously. Our life is simply one of a myriad of possibilities; as much what we make of the gift of life as what we are given by the context of time, place, and circumstance.

Form is an afterthought. A way to impose meaning on moments of existence that spontaneously come into being. Most of us are most comfortable with form, reject the inchoate jumble that eventually we shape (or shapes itself) into something we recognize. Conception is actually just the process of giving coherence to the accident (or should we say, the happening, the unpremeditated happenings, such as the fertilization of the egg transforming into embryo).

BCT Records ‎– BCT-1972 https://www.discogs.com/release/13701911 Recorded live at the Berkeley Community Theater, 1972. 7. 23.

1 Journey in Satchidananda 00:00
2 A Love Supreme 21:25
3 My Favorite Things
40:12
4 Leo
56:08

Bass – Charlie Haden
Drums – Ben Riley
Harp, Organ, Piano – Alice Coltrane
Sarod – Aashish Khan
Tabla – Pranesh Khan
Tambora, Percussion – Bobby W.

 

Coltrane made music that was sound before being formed into the sounds we recognize as music. Downbeat magazine called the music Trane created with Eric Dolphy “anti-jazz” nevertheless Trane went on to make cosmic music that was way beyond anti-jazz. Trane with his conceptions and his horn, as well as with his cohorts, collectively they made both musical order as well as the chaos out of which order came–know this, order comes from chaos and not the other way around: order does not come first. When one is reared appreciating order, well then, chaos is often unacceptable even though order is nothing more than chaos locked down into acceptable patterns, i.e. order.

Which brings us to Alice Coltrane, she not only understood but, like Trane, she was expert at both chaos and order, paradoxically, the order she generated included traditional Black gospel as well as traditional expressions of religious music and chants from India. Plus, she is an adept at modern jazz, expert as both a concert pianist and a master of an unique-in-jazz organ sound. Add to that her ability to expertly play the harp. Alice Coltrane is nothing short of an avatar of modern music.

There has been no other musician who took up where Trane took us and then went on to go beyond. That they were married, reared a family, in addition to producing unequaled and unique music, that’s just plain other-worldly. Alice Coltrane. Both our roots and our future.

 

 

Ethelbert and I have known each other a long, long time–way back in the 1970’s Black Power era. In preparation for this interview, Ethelbert did some homework. He investigated both my writings and the various eras I covered. Plus, he kept the conversation moving, not letting it get bogged down in minutiae and not staying on any one topic too long. He is an expert researcher and archivist, what with being a graduate of Howard University and an ardent student of Sterling Brown.

Back in the day, when I was awarded a fellowship at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, I wrote a poem about and dedicated to Ethelbert.

The poet I talked about who wrote the “I Am New Orleans” poem is Marcus Christian. In addition to this hour-long conversation, there is not much else to say. Thank you brother Eshu.

= = = = = = = 

Echoing Eshu’s Love Songs
(for “eshu” ethelbert miller)

man, the relevance of coincidence is a motherfucker
just today, walked down commercial street
the business end of provincetown
in and out of shops, paused here, there
entered where attracted by something
backed out and continued
found this used bookstore (found?
must be careful of my verbs
i am not a white man
the store was there before i
got there) entered
they had a poetry bookcase
bought 4 books: sam cornish–songs 
of jubilee, kimiko hahn–air pocket,
akua lezli hope–embouchure, and
e. ethelbert miller–where
are the love poems
for dictators? / before midnight
had read, scanned or run thru
them all. yes, of course
i knew about dictators,
have run into a few before
on an occasion or two
or should i say ill-occasion
have even been one, but
i did not own the book on that

there are no love songs
for dictators, not even
i’ll be glad when you’re dead
you rascal you–cause even that
has a bit of affection, anyway
i think it one of your better books
you were on to something
or maybe simply on something
or was it someone
who had your mind so open
you could feel the impress
of another’s smile, another’s
grimace, and you could walk that
shit home backwards and blind
like a beggar going back and forth
between their favorite corner
and the poor piece of space
they call home

so, then i got this email from you. and all i can say is damn, and look out the window a second into the dark and know that either god is laughing or i should be because the universe sure enough knows how to confound the wisdom of we poor wretched fools who make the mistake of trying to understand it, the universe, that is, and i started to wondering if anyone really knows why their lover loves them, actually that’s not quite true, cause where i started with was wondering does nia know why i love her, do i know, is love knowable or simply, if we are lucky, embraceable? like who knows where the song comes from or goes to, we just lucky when we can hit the notes and carry a tune. . . like that, and now i’m free typing this without knowing where it’s coming from or where i will end up, just knowing i wanted to let you know, that i hear you, brother, i hear your songs and echo the rhythms–ain’t no love songs for dictators, for love is beyond the frequency of the ears of those who consciously hurt others

 

17 Sept. 2021

 

Another rainy night in New Orleans.

Sometimes songs come to you. Unbidden. You don’t consciously call them up. No person, no time, nor event even suggests the tune’s appearance, but. . . no matter, there the air is.

Here is Fire and Rain”. I’ve written at length about the song and its back story before. See this rundown from when I did Breath Of Life (Sept. 2010), my music blog back in the day. You can find most, if not all the versions mentioned on the internet. But I’m highlighting three of those interpretations–all on the slow and deeply moving side of my emotional fence.

I don’t know what or who I was thinking about. . .but I’ve already said that. I’m just truly moved by a combination of a passing melancholy and a realization, as another song says, into each life some rain must fall.

My earlier write-up investigates the legend. As I’ve said (or was written) on some other occasion: we “Negroes” (referring to us in a fifties vernacular, with tongue firmly in cheek, because this is looking back, not forward), us folk can make the most beautiful music out of emotionally shattering experiences.

The three totally dissimilar but somehow similarly evocative versions are by:

Bobby Womack

 

New York born but long time Canada-based Ranee Lee

 

and a man I used to occasionally and sometimes sardonically imitate his voice and style, Richie Havens

R&B, Jazz, and Folk, respectively. They all three speak to me, and hopefully to you, in a self-reflective moment.

Just one of those moods. If it’s not for you, doesn’t appeal to you, well, skip it. It’s ok. The sun will shine tomorrow.

–15 Sept. 2021

 

Two days ago on Wednesday, Sept. 9, 2021, I woke up extra early, around about 1a.m. in the morning. Immediately noticed a light was on. Hallelujah. I quickly surmised power had been restored. I know that our slog is far from over, but now we are rolling down the easy side of the mountain.

However, it has not been an easy ten days. Hot, with only brief rain. All kinds of rumors fouling the air. Stores with empty shelves, if and when you found a store open. Fortunately for us in New Orleans the tap water was still flowing. In other parts of southern Louisiana the order of the day was either no water or a boil water advisory.

Hurricane Ida was a beast. Killing people as far north as New Jersey and New York even though it arrived on land in Louisiana. Right after Ida hit us in New Orleans, life was strange. The sun was shinning. The sidewalk was dry. But the day was nothing nice, especially following the way Ida slow-walked through our city.

It wasn’t the water, it was the wind. All over the place, trees had been blown down. Not snapped in two but rather the whole nine, ripped from the ground, roots visibly sticking out. Old oak trees and especially small trees of various kinds that had survived Katrina lay on their sides unable to withstand Ida’s powerful wind gusts.

Our small unit: Asante, Peteh, Akeel and myself had decided to tough it out. And tough it was. Early in the aftermath I sometimes second-guessed the wise-ass wisdom of my decision to stay when I had various opportunities to abandon ship.

I dipped heavily into my stash: generator, food, household supplies. But that is what savings are for, moving through and pass the unforeseen but deadly storms of life. And, of course, there were numerous negative surprises along the way.

Like when Chop jumped up on me one day when I was returning from the store. I had plastic bags in hand. I thought the dog was playing but he was serious. Took a deep nip out of my chest. I’m from the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans. I was surprised but not afraid. The bleeding was minimal because I had quickly backed away but even in the following week I had small but nevertheless deep bumps where Chop’s fangs had punctured the right side of my chest.

Or when Akeel and I went to a supermarket early one morning trying to beat the crowd only to find out that the store didn’t open until 9a.m. So we went to another store a couple of miles away and were able to secure the necessary food supplies.

I knew I couldn’t return empty-handed. The plan was to have a small free breakfast program for the neighborhood. Ms. Rosita Richardson, Peteh’s mother, came over to give us an expert hand. Peteh’s sister, Melanie and her family, supplied a foil chafing dish set-up that was used to keep the food warm. Asante was cooking. Peteh and Akeel were moving boxes, tables and giving out styrofoam go-plates with grits, scrambled eggs, orange slices and either biscuits or toast.

The food giveaway was Peteh’s idea with Asante’s immediate concurrence.

Earlier in the week, Peteh had planned to drive up to Baton Rouge to get some chickens. Felton DeRouen II is the animal husbandry staff person at the Southern University Ag Center where he helps “new and small farmers with knowledge on how to start and run a small poultry farm while providing fresh eggs to our community”.

So Peteh returned not only with the thirty chickens he went up there to purchase but also with thirty dozen eggs. The start of Peteh’s small poultry operation was the basis for our free breakfast program.

We were blessed. We had our health, working vehicles, and the cash needed to purchase food and supplies, plus material support from family and a friend who provided supper plates. Needless to say the much appreciated breakfast went quickly as the word spread that we were offering free food.

At some point we must realize that giving thanks is not simply a “don’t worry be happy” mental exercise.

Of course, Asante lives in a working-class neighborhood rather than in a gated community where a free breakfast doesn’t mean much. In a sense giving out meals is not a philanthropic nor even Good Samaritan activity. Many of us profess Christian/Islamic/Buddhist ideals, but how many of us actually work to help people we see every day but whom we probably don’t even know by name?

By noontime all the food was shared and the kitchen and front room cleaned. What a productive morning.

 

 

 

 

I really don’t have anything to say.

About three hours ago, when I woke up from a mid-morning nap, everyone was gone.

Akeel left early during the dawning day. Off to be with his mother who had come to pick him up. I could faintly hear her outside. A bit later after drinking some of a papaya-based juice, I went online looking for the U.S. Open tennis matches. I was a bit too early.

Asante had left a note: “Baba–we out for a minute. Holla if you need anything. See you soon. AS”.

I wish she had woken me. I retired to the lazy boy chair, my sleeping spot of choice, and dozed off.

When I awoke for the second time today, they still were not back. The dogs were milling about in the yard. Eventually, I remembered a Netflix movie (“Worth”) I had half-heartedly planned to view. Started watching this saga about one of the lead lawyers dealing with the 911 aftermath. This was not a cheery movie but it caught my interest.

And then the generator cut off.

So now what?

I fight the feelings of despondency. Confront the old “woe-is-me” wolf at the front door of my consciousness.

I know I am not alone. I am in a city populated by those who decided to stick it out. All of those who, in one way or another, have elected or been forced by lack of funds or by no way out trials and tribulations, forced to suffer in a metropole with no electricity. And, as a result, we became canaries in the coal mine of New Orleans.

After more hours of semi-sleeping and meditating, finally, the day is done. Now the sun is going down.

I decide to type a brief note–I’m working on my laptop, which, when I first woke up from that mid-morning nap, I had the partial good sense to hook up to the extension chord that snakes outside to the generator. The MacBook is fully charged. The desktop and everything else dependent on electricity is down.

It’s either type on the laptop or scream and holler. What do I do?

Looking at that 911 movie is strangely comforting. My middle daughter, Kiini was living in Brooklyn when the twin towers fell. My youngest, Tiaji was living in the D.C. area. Unbelievable as it may be, on that day of the attack I had already planned to show a movie to the workshop I conducted on Tuesday afternoons.

The movie was “The Terrorist”, set in Southern Asia near or in India. A band of insurgents prepares to do an armed action confronting the authorities. No joke, that’s what I was doing. I showed the movie that evening to our workshop, all of whom had seen the 911 attack that was broadcasted on television ceaselessly that day.

Back then I understood the Terrorist movie on an intellectual and political level.

Now, I feel the movie personally. I look out into the waning light as the sun sets. What can I say to people to help them understand. . . not understand my situation, but rather understand the situation of all of us.

We are all facing Chinua Achebe’s famous dictum/famous question: What do you do when things fall apart?

When the center of your familiar existence no longer holds–that’s a paraphrase from Yeats, I believe. I used to co-teach an AP English and creative writing class with Jim Randels. From time to time, I see some of my former students. Occasionally I talk to Greta, Jim’s wife and less often talk with Jim. It has been years since we were colleagues in the classroom.

What I really want to do is encourage the people, encourage all of us to keep fighting even though I know many of us eventually might not survive the various disasters we face.

Our historic humanity demands, regardless of how discouraged we may get from time to time, the demand is to stay strong, hold the line, and keep on keeping on.

I want to tell people, especially those younger than myself, no matter how we feel as individuals, no matter that some of us will not survive, no matter it’s hot and the generator has konked out. No matter. Whatever.

We are survivors. I couldn’t be here if my people had not survived. If I did not come from the stock of enslaved Africans who faced literally centuries of enslavement and carried on regardless.

It’s complicated but I know we can do it.

Earlier I read a brief article about Jesse James. How he and his brother, Frank, came from a so-called good family. How they had joined the Confederate Army on account of the animosity engendered when the Union Army came through where they were living. Unbelievable as it may seem, I briefly went to school in Northfield, Minnesota at Carleton College. That’s where the Jesse James gang disbanded after they were confronted by the small Northfield town that was laying in wait for their arrival.

We all have so many generally unknown connections to history.

We are never alone. Not really. Never unconnected. Even people to whom no connection is obvious, we all have points of history in common. Sometimes near points, most often distant points; distant in both place, time, and social circumstance. But we also have common points of reference.

The struggle on a day-to-day basis is to survive. However, ultimately the struggle is really to recognize each other’s humanity regardless of the differences in how we are: ethnically, gender wise, racially, or whatever–the struggle is to find the concordances no matter the specifics of who we are and how we struggle.

There is a human fabric that connects us even as the individual particulars of our existence seem to separate us. Whether we focus on fellowship with friends, or whether we focus on fighting against foes, or even if we don’t focus at all. No matter. We are connected and, on a human level, have something in common.

Think of someone you know. Think good thoughts for them. And let your good thoughts of connection, inform and guide you as you live the rest of your life.

I am not saying “don’t fight”. We must fight whatever powers that be arrayed against us but I am saying that as Che Guevera knew, at our best, we should all be motivated by great feelings of love.

Love for our loved ones. Love for those we barely know. Even love for the humanity inside of our enemies.

Let love be an active choice to live a better life. Individually and collectively.

Focusing on your own individuality is easy. Seeing others as separate from ourselves. Embracing only family and chosen partners is easy.

The challenge of life is to embrace all. To fight when we are forced to but to love even as we fight.

Our future depends not merely on our fierceness in fighting, but more importantly on our ability to love each other. Not only intellectually. Not just abstractly. But rather to truly love. In day-to-day practice.

Love is not just a concept. Love is an action. A choice to help all fellow humans we encounter to be their best selves. Every day, we have at least one opportunity–and usually multiple opportunities–to express love, to demonstrate love.

To at least say hello. To provide assistance. To touch. To embrace. If nothing else to smile. To wave as we pass someone.

Every day. Every moment. We can and should choose to be human and to share that choice with another.

 

 

 


That’s a fruit plate, two small pieces of catfish cut in half, scrambled eggs, and two bottles of liquid nutritional supplements along with a big helping of tea to drink.

NEW ORLEANS–Another day trying to make it to the other side. . . started to paraphrase “the sunny side of the street” but sunshine is not what we need at this moment, even though blue skies and no rain is deeply appreciated.

This morning we woke up–I say woke up, but don’t get the impression we were sleeping in our own beds, especially not the beds we slept in last week. No. Many of us were making do on air mattresses, couches in other people’s homes, and shuffling about scavenging whatever provisions we could stumble across.

Of course, a number of us are still in our own abodes–however the bulk of many of my friends and associates have de-camped for other parts of the country–both near and far, known, and in quite a few cases, parts unknown.

I live in an apartment at Ashe Cultural Arts Center and decided to join my daughter, Asante, and Peteh Muhammad, Asante’s fiancé, along with Peteh’s son, Akeel. Asante lives on Norman Francis Blvd., the former Jefferson Davis Blvd., in what is called the mid-city area. When Ida hit we (including two dogs: “Eight” and “Chop”) moved to a house owned by Peteh’s people. He had agreed to take care of the property located in the 8th ward on Law Street, corner of Almonaster.

I write to you now from exile, even though I am ensconced in my native city.

Ida is a prelude to tomorrow. An opening act of America’s future. This is what next year, and the year after, so forth and so on, will look like. Dystopian and totally unpredicted events, increasingly, will dominate our days.

The follow-up of Ida oxymoronically did more damage in New York and New Jersey than it did in Louisiana where the storm crashed ashore. By Saturday, September 4th, over forty people have died as a result of the storm with only 4 reported fatalities in Louisiana.

Let me see if I can break down the disparity–particularly what happened in New Orleans.

New Orleans has a centuries long tradition of dealing with hurricanes. Today most Americans remember when Katrina hit the Crescent City. However, recalled or forgotten, history is not the problem. Tomorrow is the question.

Is our nation ready to really deal with climate change?

The tail-end of Ida, which crept quickly upon us, smacked Louisiana dead up in our face. While New Orleans suffered a near total loss of electricity, our city didn’t bear the brunt of Hurricane Ida. There were literally bunches of Louisiana small towns, villages, and a few medium-sized cities that were inundated with water and severely damaged by wind. A handful suffered storm damage to 100% of their physical infrastructure.  

Three days after the storm, our hurricane household set off in a search of a larger generator. The little machine that Peteh bought almost two years ago for an entirely different purpose was not ideal for pulling 24/7 house duty during hurricane Ida.

So, we journeyed down into St. Bernard parish, a suburb just below New Orleans. About fifty or so years ago when I was growing up, if you were Black and had good sense, you didn’t go down there at night, indeed, not at all if you could help it. That was arch segregationist, judge Leander Perez country. The truly wise among us didn’t shop or stop there.

As we rode down Leander Perez highway, on a clear and sunny day, images and uncomfortableness flooded me even though nobody we passed seemed to give us a second thought. The reality was that this was not the same place as when I grew up back in the fifties.

Like something you see on television, we had pulled into the Tractor Supply store. It was big and busy, row after row of agricultural products and equipment. Peteh was comfortable. His regular gig is landscaping and interfacing with regional farmers and academic-based agrarian personnel at Southern University in Baton Rouge. I was completely out of my element and appropriately silent as I followed instructions.

Peteh and the sales person discussed generators. We ended up purchasing a 5500-watt portable to replace the 2200-watt unit we were then working with. Barely 15 miles south of New Orleans, the tractor and feed store had electricity. Without even a hint of racial animosity, the store employees bantered with us as though this was a normal day. What a strange combination: casual Deep South comity  contrasted with the impersonal urbanity of New Orleans.

Peteh inspects the small Honda unit we were working off (above) and the larger new generator we now use.

In New Orleans the 9th ward takes up almost a full third of the city. I was born and grew up across the canal in the Lower Ninth ward. Asante is also ninth-ward born and reared. Indeed, when we returned from our little trip, because the Claiborne Avenue bridge was up, we decided to jump over to St. Claude Ave. and went down Egania, which is the street we lived on for a year or two, a couple or three years after Asante was born. She remembered the house when I pointed to it.

It’s a bit disconcerting trying to deal with conflicting realities. On the one hand I have all my pre-Civil Rights memories. On the other, there is an immense gulf between urban New Orleans and agrarian St. Bernard parish. This is a time and space warp that sling-shots one back and forth. I could be an extra in a Hollywood futuristic flick except this is real 21st century life.

Back at the homestead after our foray out into the nether world, 15 year-old chef Akeel decides to take the lead on preparing our brunch. Notice that he put in a lot of time arranging the fruit he cut up. The meal not only tastes good, the spread is also visually attractive.

We best get ready to carry on when there is a breakdown in whatever is our daily routine. A small stash of cash (at least $500) will make a big difference in the days ahead. Make plans to get with some of your buddies and purchase a generator and also, more importantly, have at least one person in your crew that knows how to maintain a generator.

I know this all sounds extreme and doesn’t seem to make much sense but the future is almost here and, as the world whirls and reels from climate disaster to climate disaster, you won’t be able to count on urban infrastructures to work in ways we know of as normal today. In the next decade, a comfortable modern life without an accessible source of electrical power is not going to be prudent.

Of course, life won’t all break down instantly or just in one place, but it will help a whole lot to have people, places and spaces that can function in a disaster context. Make sure you have access to household and electronic communications equipment beyond cell phones. Small and portable fans, battery-operated lamps (make sure you have a more than adequate supply of batteries), and especially power-strips & extension cords will be very valuable. And don’t forget a portable AM/FM radio. Many of us already own portable computers, they will be necessary along with medical supplies, and at least a tote bag to carry toileting items.

Howsoever one deals with the future, let’s not go grim and down hearted. We need laughs, smiles and, yes, giggles as we push on through to the next level. Life ought not be a depressing task to do your duty. We are the descendants of the formally (and formerly) enslaved. Our people pushed pass being downtrodden and created a culture that influences the world.

We did it with Ragtime, with Blues, Jazz and Gospel, with Hip Hop, and who knows what’s coming next.) Our oral and aural traditions are resilient and powerful.

If we are truly who we are, we will keep on pushing.

 

 

 

Akeel, Peteh, and Asante, smiling thru this lil trouble. Akeel is Peteh son from a previous relationship.

 

Hurricane Ida turned us–the famous and fabulous “Big Easy”–into the BIG UnEasy.

And don’t be trying to get no gas. In the time of no electricity, damn near city wide, finding gas, especially for those trying to work off of portable generators that function on gasoline in order to output electricity, well, there’s nothing easy about it.

Peteh and my daughter Asante left early this morning, driving to nearby Mississippi to fill up vehicles and portable gas tanks. They could have got in lines that literally stretch as far as the eye can see for a $40-dollar or so limited supply of petrol–plus, no telling if the station will still will have gas left by the time Peteh and Asante get to the head of the line. So it was a better choice to burn a quarter tank in order to have a no hassle, no limit fill up.

By the way, Peteh spent all yesterday, landscaping, fixing the roof in the apartment converted from a garage, and shoring up fences. The boy was talking about how good the sun felt–must be his West African heritage kicking in. Anyway the grounds and those surrounding are impeccably manicured.

Peteh loves, absolutely loves, working with the soil, is deep into agriculture and such, ain’t no wise afeared of hard work outdoors–he also is a former Nation of Islam soldier. He had us rolling talking about his long trip to get a small supply of gas on Tuesday. I won’t attempt to even give you the gist of it on account of I’ll leave out an important part of the travail.

Your boy Odyssey had it easy compared to what Peteh went through–well I will tell you this part, and it ain’t even the hard part. He had plastic, thinking that if the gas pump was working they had to have a working generator to pump the gas and knowing that those pumps were powered by electricity, so therefore he could use his card, except once he got close enough, he found out the policy was “cash only” and a $40 limit.

Not to be deterred, Peteh found out a nearby Lowe’s store–and Peteh was no where near by where we staying in New Orleans, actually was over in the next parish (county is what they call those jurisdictions in the rest of the USA) and none of the ATMs were working–anyway, he found out that if you went to Lowe’s made a purchase with a card, and then returned the purchase, you could get cash back, but Lowe’s had something like a $20 limit on cash returns, and, well you get the picture. Peteh had to make three small purchases in order to get the cash to get the gasoline, where his place in line was being held by. . . oh, but wait a minute, how Peteh got his place in line held by the clerk is a whole other story, helped along by an “Inshallah” or two, and if you don’t know what that means, you never would of got to talk to the man in charge, who was making the decisions about. . . you dig?

No more water, it’s the lack of power this time–especially if you’re cooking with electric, which, fortunately, the house I’m currently hunkering down in cooks with gas.

My now deceased father, who made his transition back in the last century, used to bath or shower with cold water (really ground temperature water; during the summer time in Louisiana, that was not so bad). I don’t like that but I can do it if I absolutely have to, howsoever I would choose to go unwashed for a couple of days rather than shiver under a spray of tap water in a shower.

Speaking of which, metropolitan areas are really hard hit when there’s no electrical power. Although the water systems were generally working, faucet water and toilet water flowing, the hard part was that the sewerage and water department had a major breakdown in the near by parish. Both the back-up generators at their waste treatment facilities failed: the back-up and the back-up to the back-up–and, no, I’m not making this up. The authorities ended up dumping untreated sewerage into the Mississippi River. I need not say anymore about what a disaster that is. But something had to be done with the waste.

Ida has left us in the Big Easy with no easy choices about how to live.

The Louis Armstrong Airport is a modern, recently-opened facility, not too far from the previous commercial airport, however, with the lack of electricity out that way, the airport is unusable. Indeed, that’s the story of metro/urban modernity all over the country, especially at modern airports, no ‘lectric, no fly, stay your ass out the sky.

On top of no gas, if you were thinking about driving far away–and Louisiana is not only an oil-producing state, we have major gasoline-producing plants up and down the river, and all across southern Louisiana, well, if you were thinking about driving way-aways, and you didn’t have gas or you were trying to (emphasis on unsucessfully “trying” to rent a car, nada. No such luck. You just stuck, Chuck.), well the real deal is there ain’t no deal.

The siblings were ready, willing and able to kick in to get an airline ticket to get their mother out to the East Coast except you couldn’t fly out of New Orleans. So my grandson, was volunteering to drive Tayari over to Gulfport, Mississippi, which did had commercial flights to and fro-ing.

Jahi, my grandson, was staying in that sliver of the East in New Orleans which had electricity recently restored. Dig, flying out is a major operation. The deal was not just transporting Mama Tayari to the airport, but Jahi had to have enough gas to make the round trip and. . . well I won’t even go into tale of a long car trip when Jahi along with Mika (his significant other and Stefan, their newborn) broke down somewhere near Phoenix, Arizona when they were trying to drive from San Diego, where my son, and Jahi’s father, lives. 

Ain’t nothing easy these days. I believe Tayari got out this morning. No definitive word yet–Flash update. Tayari does not leave New Orleans until Saturday, will be staying with Jahi & Mika, who are staying with his grandmother around the corner from my nephew. They have food and water and electricity.

Meanwhile, also just spoke with Asante who left earlier to get gas. They found a station in Sorrento, near Donaldsonville, Louisiana, which is where my father was from (he literally walked to New Orleans to get an education at McDonogh #35 High School. That school, as well as a number of other schools in both New Orleans and Baltimore, Maryland were underwritten by the largesse of John McDonald, who was a big time slave trader back in the day and willed millions of dollars for education. It’s a complex story and I have only given a brief peep at a multi-faceted and interlocking aspects of the story originating in slavery times (which certain White folks, euphemistically and rather fondly, simply refer to as the Antebellum era).

The whole convoluted “no electricity / no gas” tale reminds me of that famous line (I believe it was from Shakespeaer’s “Richard III” when your boy was sent a-tumbling to the ground, “a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse”. Well here we are in the Crescent City hollering “electricity, electricity, our city is suffering no electricity”. And even if you have a generator, you got to have gas to run that. If Richard lived here, he probably would be on the neutral ground (what that is, is another story for another time, let me just say, “a wide median” separating the lanes on a multi-lane highway or major divided street), anyway, we unfortunate souls are crying about the killing lack of no electricity.

Of course you know, some kind of way, they–the powers that be who can made such things happen–they found a way to power up the French Quarter, which counter-intuitively was actually originally built by the Spanish, but that too is another story for another time and partially explains why the historic ceramic signs on the sides of antique French Quarter buildings refer to the streets as “Calle” rather than “Rue” this or that.

By the way,  just to show you how deep the colonial influences flow, my birth name, Vallery Ferdinand III, is French on the first half and Spanish on the second, and when people try to tell me my Swahili name “Kalamu” is strange for an African American, I just smile. If it’s strange for us to have African names, how much stranger is it for us to have French, Spanish and English names?

My nephew Kamau (along with his two daughters Laini and Asilia) lives in New Orleans East, a much derided area of the greater Metro area, his parents live on the other side of the I-10 expressway, just a couple of miles from him. He has electricity, they do not. He lives on a different grid from them–and so it goes, on and on.

This is not meant to be a “woe-is-me” tale of a crippled city. As rough as it is right now, especially if you ain’t got enough gas to keep your generator fired up, assuming that you have a generator, no matter, if you walking, driving or flying (of course, them dirty mother. . . let me not get started on how the rich not only are not suffering, they are prospering, kicking back on yatchs and such, cruising up and down the river, or lounghing about on the Gulf of Mexico, even though the Cruise Lines are beset with a different set of Covid-related problems.)

Oh yeah, Covid. Well Louisiana is a big center of Covid, and. . . well, let’s just say if Ida didn’t kill you Covid is waiting to finish you off.

But, all in all, we are surviving, steady striving. We may be suffering but we ain’t giving up. Mama said there would be days like this, and we best survive this little trouble so we will have some entertaining stories to tell our grandchildren and great-grandchildren, bless their little souls.

More in a minute, time to go drink some cool water. Got to stay hydrated,

By the way, I feel sorry for them folks up in the Northeast who have to deal with the tail-end of Ida. It’s been a long time, maybe even never, since they seen hard times like Ida brings. So like my man Ed Brown used to say, when you are nearly at the end of your rope, don’t just struggle to hold on, tie a knot in the end of that sucker, and swing!

Keep swinging good people, keep swinging. This too shall pass.

 

 

Life will always test you. That’s what Tayari kwa Salaam frequently says. And from time to time, we are gifted with experiences that reveal the multi-faceted truth of that statement.

Yesterday started pretty good. I had it mentally mapped out. Went to the bank. Picked up a cashier’s check, planning to pay for a whole year of rent at my new digs at Ashe Cultural Center on Oretha Castle Haley Blvd. The idea was to be able to take my time unpacking 37+ boxes, getting my studio apartment into shape. And to be in a position not to have to be bothered with any major bills. My bank account would be approaching just above zero but I would be in a position to focus on the move and focus on my writing.

Was on my way to a second bank to collect my social security check. Felt really good. Thought I had everything under control. Had earlier received the message that dealing with the IRS was going well. Decided to get an oil change at the “Take 5 Oil Change” establishment that I had to pass in order to get to the bank.

There were only two or three vehicles in front of me. I was in the right hand of the two lanes and everything was running smoothly. In addition to the oil change, got an air filter for the engine and made a $3 donation to a children’s hospital campaign. The bill is $2.89-cents shy of a hundred dollars.

That’s when everything went south.

My battered, old green truck just plain konked out right after I paid the bill and was supposed to pull out. I tried starting up a couple of times. Nada. The sick sound of a failing engine went completely silent. Not even a click.

The guy in charge of my servicing, volunteered to push me off to the side. Asked did I have jumper cables. I did. We tried but no dice. He said “hold on” let me try my co-worker’s cables. She has heavy-duty jumpers. That didn’t get it either.

By now Mr. Despair Bear is taking a deep bite out of my butt. Which is when I discover my phone isn’t working. I don’t now why. I used it this morning plus I have an automatic deduction plan. So much for calling someone for assistance. On to plan B, getting a battery at Firestone.

Fortunately, the Firestone repair shop is only about two blocks away. That was an establishment I had gone to before on the West Bank of New Orleans near where I previously lived.

I’m 74-years-old and have a generally sedentary life style. I don’t look forward to traipsing down General DeGaulle highway. Did I mention it’s August in the Crescent City? Real hot in the summer time. But what choice do I have? So I hike on down the road. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get a battery there, and figure out the rest. So much for the afternoon appointments I had. The focus was on getting my vehicle back to Ashe on the East Bank.

Firestone, here I come. When I get there, I find out they didn’t have a battery in stock. Any old battery won’t work. Different equipment for different vehicles.

One of their stores over on the East Bank had the type of battery I needed but it wasn’t located near by. At that point I’m fighting with myself to stay calm and figure out this little trouble. The guy behind the desk says he can get the battery delivered. I’m doing mental gymnastics. How long will that take? Should I just request to use their phone and call someone? No, wait. I don’t want to leave my truck at the oil change place. I’ve got Triple-A, but that means another bill to pay.

When I inquire how long will it take to get the battery, the clerk responds an hour-and-a-half, maybe two hours. I order it. Sit down inside the air conditioned show-room/office. The plan–such as it is at that point–is just get the battery and then figure out the next move.

There is idle chatter with a customer who is also waiting for his vehicle to be serviced. The customer knows the Firestone manager. They are talking about people they know in common and swapping stories about fishing in the gulf and watering spots near New Orleans. The manager is someone who has serviced me before.

When one of them goes in to talking about how our country is in bad shape; people don’t want to work, people don’t help each other anymore, yada, yada, I just stay silent. They all sound like Trump voters. I’m the only Black person around, plus I’m wearing a National Black Arts Festival t-shirt.

I ask the clerk whether he thinks the battery will arrive before 5:30. He says it shouldn’t take that long. At this point I have decided to tough it out, step by step. Thankfully, I have money in the bank and a new plastic card to replace the old one when I moved. (Which is another story entirely. Moving was not a simple endeavor, especially since I was selling the house and dealing with succession details.)

I pay the $153.22 Firestone bill and hunker down for what I hope will be a not-too-long wait.

It’s well before 5pm. I make the mistake of thinking maybe I’ll shortly get out of this fix. Long story short, the battery arrives right after 4pm. Now the next step: I don’t want to/probably am physically incapable of hand carrying the heavy battery down to where my vehicle is. I explain my situation and the clerk volunteers to drive me and my new battery down the road.

Ok, this should be where the story ends. But. . .

When I get to the oil change place, they are about to close. Due to covid, their hours have changed and they now close at 4:30pm. The guy who assisted me earlier comes over and says he will help me. Turns out he is the manager. I pop the hood and the cables won’t come off easily. He says he needs to finish up the cars in line and then he will come back and help me. Earlier I had given him $5. I don’t have much cash on me; you know, increasingly plastic is the order of the day. I wait patiently.

Before long, he comes back and after trying to get the cable off, decides he needs to get more tools than a simple wrench, plus he also needs some gloves because this one is going to take a bit of fiddling with.

This time when he comes back we talk while he works on changing the battery. I give him $10 more. It takes a bit of work, one of the old terminals had corroded and semi-sealed to the battery post. After about 15-minutes, he gets the job done. 

We had been conversing amicably while he worked. He gives me the line about how it ain’t fair for the government to pay people for not working. Says he has a friend who makes more by staying home than going to work. It ain’t right.

I respond that government subsidies won’t last long and that the real problem is that a lot of the jobs don’t really pay much money which is why an unemployment check is more than a job pay check. Would he want one of those low-paying jobs? He says that he had not thought about it that way.

Finally the battery is changed. The vehicle starts up. Once again I thank my volunteer mechanic. And drive back across the river. When I get to the apartment it’s almost 6pm. I figure out the phone disconnect. The auto-payment was on the old card and co-incidentally expired when I needed it most. Only took a minute or so online to get the phone turned back on.

I make calls. Reschedule appointments I have missed and then I climbed into bed. I had had enough drama for one day.

Two-something in the morning I woke up and decided to write this little essay about my ordeal. We all are facing trying times. But, don’t give up. Push on through. Every situation can be a set-back or a lesson. Additionally, from time to time, we all need a helping hand. Help someone if you can, regardless of who they are.

I plan to return to the scene of the disaster and give the guy who helped me a $25 gift card. Why? Because game recognize game. Financially, I am in a position right now where I can respond in the American way: i.e. with dinero.

We have to do far more than just wish for a better world. Reaching out to others is important. Particularly those who help us. And especially so when they are not like us, don’t necessarily share out views and values.

We are all, potentially and sometimes even actually, closer than our political beliefs. The song is right: reach out and touch someone. Make this world a better world. In ways both big and small, we can all help make this world a better world.