Tangiers

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Moving Target

Or

Home Plate

“If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangier; she left here last early spring, is livin’ there I hear. Say for me that I’m alright, though things get kinda slow; she may think that I’ve forgotten her, don’t tell her it isn’t so”

--B. Dylan

        I have a musician friend who can get better gigs and recognition if he moves to Mexico City; I have an artist friend that loves her new digs in New Mexico; the culinary graduate that I helped cannot wait to get back to San Antonio; and our favorite old bartender prefers San Miguel Allende.  They say they’ve had enough; they say they can’t live like this anymore; they say life is better elsewhere. Costa Rica. Houston. New Jersey, for god sake!

        Over 15,000 last year; 9,000 the year before--left New Orleans metro area. They’re movin’ out. Why? What is so alienating? Who are these turncoats? Why did they treat us so thoughtlessly; how could they do this to me?

        Here’s some of the reasons I’ve heard: Cost of living and housing prices; economic opportunities (better elsewhere) and the big one: (violent) crime. Other than that they’ve pointed out there’s sub standard education here; lack of infrastructure; ineffective government and overall condition of our streets. Also, flooding, storm possibilities, power outages and price hikes on everyday expenditures such as electricity, gas, food, clothing, insurance and entertainment. Salt water intrusion. Margaret Orr retiring.

         I say “is that all? It’s always been like that on Plantation New Orleans!” And, here it comes: the ‘Get A Clue Phone’: ring, ring…. Get a clue. The challenge is not that New Orleans has gotten to be a worse place to live in the last twenty-five years; it’s that it hasn’t gotten any better.

        It’s like you’re on a path going; it’s a hike, the hike of life. You got your ups and downs but you’re headed for home, a quiet space, a happy place; the road is a little rough but you’re going on and on because that’s just what you do: you travel that path, watching your footing, friends along and going in the same direction; you’re singing, you’re laughing, maybe even dancing.

        Then you notice that it’s not only not getting easier, it’s, in fact, getting harder and you’re getting tired. Some of your friends are dropping out to take easier routes; some have left you all together. Somebody passes you a note: “P.S. your cat has died.” You’re having second thoughts.

        I love New Orleans, that faded starlet, that tipsy vaudevillian, that sly old fox wrapped in her muddy old river stole. I’m at home in her arms and we’re lovers.  I’ve resided in over a dozen cities and towns and visited a score more. I’ve hitchhiked and driven the length of this country more times than any normal person should. I’ve ‘Driven every kind of rig that’s ever been made’ and been willin’ to keep movin’.

        “I’ve been all over the world” he said; “I’ve been to North Carolina.”

        I first came here in the 60’s and spent seven years. I returned from my travels in 1999, coming to the conclusion that the other places that I wandered in and out of were fine; however, they were not New Orleans.

        I drove back into town in a twenty foot U-Haul on a 2,300 mile road run and left the freeway as soon as I saw the skyline and realized that I was, in fact, back home. The first thing I did was swing low, park that chariot and get me a bowl of gumbo; the waitress was not impressed with the poor boy’s return and exuberance just to have my feet planted again on this firmament. 

        I glanced out the café window and spotted two boys on three bicycles and mused on how sweet it was that kids were still stealing bikes; until I hipped that this was thirty years later and the kids I saw were children or even grandchildren of the kids that had stolen my bike the last time that I lived here. I remember thinking “you mean, we still haven’t taught our kids that it ain’t right to take someone else’s bike?”

        Reality check. Things have not gotten worse living here; things have not gotten any better.

        I’ve roamed all over town here since my return and I’ve been reminded of the poverty, abandon and general demolition of spirit and property by neglect. I’ve seen how manufacturing jobs have disappeared. I see a ‘For Rent’ sign on the Coca-Cola bottling plant; condominiums in the CIVIC Theater; homeless camps under the I-10 overpass. I’ve witnessed the two edged sword of short term rentals that flip sub standard housing and re-energize residential neighborhoods at the cost of dislocating residents.

        And still, as Lafcadio Hearn wrote: “I wouldn’t trade it for the whole state of Ohio.”

        Debbie and I bought a house here, first time home owners; the note is about the same as the money that we’d be paying in rent here; added expenses of owning are sometimes daunting. Owning comes with its own challenges and it’s a bear keeping up with them all. It’s tough living here; but I wouldn’t live anywhere else (at least not in this country) and neither would she. Did we want to have to buy a house at our age? No. Are we going to be able to live out our thirty year mortgage? Odds are against it; but, my spirit was born here and I know New Orleans, the then, the now and I’m still in love with her nebulous and evasive character.

        Sundown yellow moon, I replay the past; I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast. If she’s passing back this way, I’m not that hard to find, tell her she can look me up, if she’s got the time. (more Dylan)