Sunday, March 22, 2015

New Orleans ice cream shop

I wonder what will happen the man in the ice cream shop.

It was a hot afternoon. It has been awhile since I've felt heat like this. Sweltering, the type where you will sweat within minutes of being in the sun. I relish it, as it feels like home. We were chopping down weeds in one of the lots near the church, and another team was doing the same at an adjacent lot. We were progressing - rows of weeds and bushes were reduced into holes between fences, where we can see each other's faces.

It felt good. Our sense of contribution was swinging between high levels of contribution to just darn nothingness. How does clearing lots contribute or impact the community that we were in? Will people in the neighbourhood, with 52% unemployment, get jobs with what we were doing? We couldn't understand, but our hearts were open to learn.

The people in the neighbourhood has experienced gentrification. It is possible that the people have moved from another neighbourhood that experienced revitalisation and thus was too expensive to live in. They possibly moved to this neighbourhood as the rent is cheaper - the place is poorer. The neighbourhood that they are in now will probably undergo it too, as it is close to the city. We have not talked to a soul in the neighbourhood, but we were learning that the facade of the neighbourhood was important to let the society and other people know that the neighbourhood is progressing, that there are people here living - too many empty lots are signs of a deteriorating neighbourhood.

The dilapidated ice cream shop stood in between the lots the two teams were clearing. Discovering that the building was an ice cream shop gave us the answer to the many chip bags found among the weeds in the lot. It had chips and ice cream painted outside of the now dirt-filled white-washed building - the building with the blue roof. There were no doors - light shone through the doors and illuminated the house. Tyres were lying on the ground - probably 12 of them. The house must has been abandoned for a long time, as there were vines growing from above and from the ground of the building.

I heard whimpering from within. I jumped instinctively, thinking that a dog was inside. I realised how wrong I was after what felt like a minute or two. My husband said that there was a man inside. Being a curious cat, he went inside the building to check it out before we started work on the building. I couldn't believe him. How could what sounded like a dog be whimpers of a man? How could someone stay in such a building? I couldn't believe him.

Jeff was summoned. He went into the building, and confirmed my husband's statement. I still couldn't believe him. I had to see for myself. Without the thumbs up from Jeff, our team leader, my husband, Jenny ( a fellow co-worker), and I went to the back door to check out what or who it was.

I was afraid. What if the person pounces at me? What if he had syringes in his hand, ready to prick it into my skin? What if I get HIV from my silly act of bravery? I had my husband with me. I'm not afraid.

I shuffled my feet towards the back door. There I see him - a black guy with sunglasses on, lying on a pile of rubble, seemingly enjoying his day. His posture looked similar to a person lying on a beach. He could have been enjoying himself, and we wouldn't be able to tell have it not been for his whimpers.

We prayed for him outside the building. For us to know what to do, and for him to be safe. Thank you Wendy, for leading the prayer. Jeff made a phone call to the church, asking them what they would do with someone they have discovered in an abandoned ice cream shop.

I subconsciously wondered throughout the day on what will happen to the man. Will the church help him get out of the ice cream shop? Where will he stay? I asked Jeff at the end of the day. He mentioned that the church will not do anything in such as case. The man was not causing any harm, and even if they called the police, the police would also leave him as he is, because he has not committed any crime.

My morals are summoned. I do not know whether that was the right thing to do, or whether I would have done differently. I continue to wonder what happened to the man in the ice cream shop.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

New Orleans Super Sunday Indian Parade

For the first time in months, I could feel the heat on my face. It reminds me of the weather back home – constant heat every day. This was the best weather anyone could have got – the Sun radiating heat and the Wind was feeling cold. This could possibly be the best day in ages – the Boston cold has sunk deep into my skin for two months and fourteen days.

Waiting for the parade to start, we wondered what’s its purpose. Perhaps it is to celebrate a history. Perhaps it is to celebrate a tradition. Perhaps people know how to have fun here. This was never the case back home. We enjoy parades – one with floats going past, with small Styrofoam pops making up large cat structures. But it was never purely for fun. It was for a religious festival…Wesak Day maybe, a public holiday that I never bothered to fully understand the underlying meaning of.
As we walked inwards on Washington Ave, we saw many vendors lining the street. Seafood platters, crayfish pie, ice cream, and oh, the alcohol – how could we forget that. Heineken, liquor, etc. Men walking along the streets were holding on to alcohol bottles. The bottles were whispering to me, asking me to buy them and consume the liquid that was inside.

The smell of humidity and smoke was in the air. The thickness of the air was satisfying. Yet having too much of it was suffocating. I wondered where the smoke came from. People had cigarettes in their hands. It probably comes from there. Galvin pointed out that the smoke may be marijuana and not tobacco. I breathed in the stuffy air. It smelled sweet. Like shisha in Doha, Qatar. Perhaps the smoke wasn’t from the cigarettes. Maybe they were, but marijuana was wrapped inside the roll of cigarettes.

The parade was walking towards us. Each team had a different dominant colour. I was attracted to the orange one – it reflected the colour of my top that day, and I could easily blend into the parade to be one of them, to take a photo with them. I wondered about the significance of the parade. Google says that each team represents a different native American tribe. My eyes tell me that 90% of the paraders are of African American decent. Was the parade ever dominated by native Americans? I questioned.
My mind was hallucinating then. The heat was getting to me. I was seeing men in feather costumes marching, unknowing of what they represent. Perhaps this sense of unknowness is shared by the passers-by too.

As we walked towards a street that was quieter, we saw people who were sitting outside just chilling around. We see  broad houses beside narrow ones, posh houses beside delapitated ones. We do not know which represents reality.

New Orleans has so much character that it is too much to bear. You can’t put it all in one box, you can’t characterise it as quaint – the poverty jumps out too much. You can’t say that it is a fun city – again, the poverty jumps out too much. You can’t say that it is a poor city – it has too much character to be characterised just as that. O help me please, describe what New Orleans is. Maybe it’s all of the above.