By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
I am ashamed to be an American. We are a people who constantly avow belief in various gods, in liberty and justice, and yet our fellow American citizens, ancient ladies and four-day-old infants, were left to die in the streets for lack of food and water as though they were born in the slums of Mumbai or the favelas of Brazil. We tell ourselves and the world we can do anything, be it grow crops in the desert or bring democracy to Iraq, yet we cant land a helicopter on Interstate 10 or get buses to a convention center.
I extend that shame to those trapped who turned to violence. Even the guerrillas of Banda Aceh, Indonesia, laid down their arms after the tsunami for the greater good. Our young men raided the ammunition section at Wal-Mart. What kind of culture have we made?
And as for our government? For shame, Mr. President. With the deep inadequacy of your response, you have disappointed even the lowest expectations. Its worse than your most vociferous detractors could have predicted.
Even our smooth-talking, reform-minded, businessman mayor could not contain himself after three days of being where you and the other federal leaders should have beenon the ground, among the desperate people, your constituents. They flew down here one time two days after the doggone event was over with TV cameras, AP reporters, all kind of goddamnexcuse my French everybody in America, but I am pissed, Ray Nagin told a local radio station on Thursday.
Mr. Nagin said he told Mr. Bush that we had an incredible crisis here and that his flying over in Air Force One does not do it justice. . . . I have been all around this city, and I am very frustrated because we are not able to marshal resources and we are outmanned in just about every respect.
But in the end I am ashamed, once again, to be from this city. The people who have suffered the worst, the people who died for a lack of basic compassion, are my neighbors. And the same factors that trapped thembeing poor, being black, having no other options, no way outare the forces that make the city what it is.
I lived in Louisiana from the age of one till I left for college. Its no surprise any conscious white person feels guilty growing up there. Our grade school field trip was to Nottoway Plantation, where a young docent in crinolines pointed out the servants quarters back behind the big house. The first time our state comes up in the big social studies book is when they explain the expression sold down the river. (It was a common threat, since it was known that the work on Louisianas cotton plantations was the hottest and the masters the cruelest.)
But the guilt doesnt just come from history. It comes from enjoying the spoils of history today, as every visitor and every resident inevitably does. You can see it when you stroll beneath the scrollwork in the French Quarter; its written in every column of every mansion on St. Charles Avenue. You can feel it when you clap your hands to a young man tap dancing for change with bottle caps in his shoes on a square of cardboard, or throw a quarter to a transient blowing a saxophone on a cobblestone street. As Faulkner put it, The past is never dead. Its not even past.
Even during this deluge, signifiers of New Orleans class structure have stayed intact. Two reporters from Salon who slipped into the city this week described on Friday a scene of owners and employees of the legendary Brennans restaurant on Royal Street drinking Cheval Blanc and delivering chocolate layer cakes to the Eighth District Police Department even as the desperate scene at the Convention Center unfolded a half-mile away. We take care of them, they take care of us, the chef actually, in real life, said. Laissez les bons temps rouler, yeah you right.
Because heres why I feel so bad right now. Ive chased the Mardi Gras Indians when theyre stepping out in their peacock jewels under the expressway, and Ive shaken my ass at a thousand Rebirth Brass Band shows, and Ive eaten a pile of red beans and buttermilk biscuits and yelled till I was hoarse for a Zulu coconut, and Ive been fed all my life in the bosom of this culture made up of people who have been kept down by the weight of poverty and misery and the whole American trip. Thats the wellspring for all of us in America, really, the dark roux. Race is the central dynamic of American history. Jazz and blues, its unbearably trite but true, are the American art formthe jazz of New Orleans and the blues of the Mississippi Delta.