The Green Clover

Friday, January 26, 2007



Frida Pancake's man's band. Starts around 10ish. Should be fun.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

EVERY PERSON HAS A UNIQUE TONGUE PRINT


An interesting thing happened last weekend in Vegas (always a good starter sentence). I laughed more than I could remember, and I drank more than I care to admit. With all of the recent tragedies in the city and the crushing accumulation of personal events, it was a welcome vacation from reality.

You can spend a considerable amount of time pondering the appeal of Vegas (or for that matter, you can spend a considerable amount of time trying to remember your time in Vegas). But what struck me the most about my brief interlude there was a traveling exhibit. On my last day, a group of us went to see The Bodies Exhibit at The Tropicana Hotel on Las Vegas Blvd. I had read about the exhibit beforehand and it was something that didn’t really interests me, although I was the one to pioneer it.

Death is a difficult enough issue for me to grasp as it is, but for some reason I have always struggled with the defenselessness of death. Death has a vulnerability that unnerves me. It’s the inability of choice, regardless of what kind of air-tight directions you leave. Even as a child, I wrote wills with elaborate instructions, but still worried my parents would put me in a frilly dress, even though I specifically requested my Red Sox’s hat. Would they portray me as an angel though I (accidentally) burned down a lot, beat up the school bully, and got kicked off the floor hockey team for throwing my stick (twice) at the coach (he was making ludicrous calls, and I was the captain, after all)? And when I viewed the massive graves of Jew in the pages of the World War Two books I read, it put me in a complete state of panic. Not only was the senselessness of the death sickening to me, but the disrespect of the bodies was almost as worse.

As someone who routinely roots for the underdog, there is no one more deserving of a “rah rah” cheer than a corpse.
The first time I saw a dead body was when I was 16. How I got into that college-level biology class my junior year in high school was beyond me. Divine intervention? Probably a scheduling mistake by the nuns. This was evident when our biology teacher announced we were going on a field trip to see a cadaver at the local university and I was the only one in the class to clap. I am sure many attributed it to my infamous selective hearing – the words “field trip” spun around my head like a half-lit disco ball inside a dumpster. That was only partially true. To be honest, it was because I no idea what a cadaver actually was. I figured it was some kind of fossilized rock, or perhaps a new machine to measure bone density in mammals. I really couldn’t give a shit; I was getting off of the school grounds. I was consumed by my Scarlet O’Hara philosophy: “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Of course, when tomorrow came and I was informed of the proper definition, my deadbeat doctrine quickly changed. I didn’t want to go. But faced with reality of being left behind in study hall by myself under the supervision of Sister Beatrice, who always said, “Deal with it, Missy,” and whose saggy arms could act as sails on a catamaran, I chose to see the dead body.

The day of the field trip, we all endured the “act like an adult” lecture and “this is a privilege” speech. I remember bouncing up and down on the bus I was so excited. Even being forced to wear my dreaded Catholic School uniform in public didn’t detour me from my exhilaration. I had been preparing myself for this day. All I had to do, I reasoned, was stand in the back of the room, stare off into space and think about other things. It would be just like any other day in biology class. I had survived dissecting a frog and fetal pig (barely – and that is another story) in that very same manner. It was a tactic that worked well for me. I learned it was quite easy to become lost in a sea of green and blue plaid skirts.

While I knew the lecture from our biology teacher was expected, I wasn’t prepared for the lecture from the college professor. I assumed it would be along the same lines as our teacher’s (minus the threats). It wasn’t. “The man you are going to see is named Phil,” he told us, slapping his clipboard against his thighs. “He’s 67 years old and his family donated his body to science because he loved the field so much.” He waved his clipboard in the air. “Follow me.”

Phil? I was much happier with “the cadaver” but now he had a name. Now he was someone. Now he had a family. Now he had breathed, lived, loved, had regrets. He walked, he danced (maybe poorly, but still) he lived. I wasn’t ready to be part of his end-story.

To make a long story short (I have a feeling this entry will be dragging on for quite while) I marched into the room and ran smack into the table where a dead, clammy, naked Phil rested. I guess I had envisioned something out of Star Trek. The professor would push a button and Phil would descend from the ceiling. Or flip a switch and pop out of the wall. Or at least he’d have a white sheet covering him. Nope, there he was, in all of his unintentional immodesty on the table. And while I am proud to say that I did manage to maintain my composure for a few minutes, once they started poking around his body cavity and holding up various parts for examination, my composure quickly desengrated. “You don’t care about this man,” I hollered. “You have no feelings for him. Phil had a family and you don’t care. Why? Because you’re all a bunch of insensitive assholes.” I was quickly escorted from the room and was so traumatized from the whole affair that I was actually excused from school for the rest of the day. I can’t even begin to tell you what a rarity this was, having once attended school with a 101 temperature and hallucinations of Bugs Bunny driving a convertible.

So, this was all factored into my apprehension of viewing The Bodies Exhibit. Still, I was older and wiser (?).
The Bodies is an exhibit where human bodies are immersed in acetone, placed in a bath of silicone and sealed in a vacuum chamber. Perfectly preserved- like a dried apricot. The bodies are so stripped down and so depersonalized that you have to actually remind yourself that they were once humans. And I think that’s their intent. They had these humans in multiple poses to represent the way our muscles and bones work. They also had pieces of the body: healthy lungs vs. smoking lungs, parts of the heart, eyeballs, etc. The most difficult thing to view was the fetuses. It’s one thing to see a five-week old fetus in a textbook, it’s another thing to hold your pinky finger up to a glass case and measure it.

It’s my fault that I personalize situations; it’s a bad habit I have to take even the most detached circumstance and find some kind of sympathies. Looking at the “specimens” (as they called them) only made me revisit my recent feelings about violence and death.

What makes someone gun down a mother with sleep in her eyes? What possesses an individual to unload a clip into a car, not even caring if their intended hit is surrounded by innocents? These are basic questions everyone asks, and it’s almost embarrassing to recapitulate them. Thus far, I’ve been blessed that I have never intimately known anyone who was murdered (although I have known some suicides). But I have known people who have murdered.

When I first moved to New Orleans, I became friends with a dj in the bar where I worked. He was funny and odd, and when it was slow we would do crossword puzzles together. He let me keep my schoolbooks behind the dj booth and because I was punctual and sober for my shifts (something that would seem to be the most rudimentary of requirements, but apparently was something of an oddity) the management looked the other way and let me sit at the booth and read when it was slow. Sometimes I would give him my notes, and he would quiz me if I had an important test coming up. When I wasn’t studying, he was frequently telling me about his love life- either exalting it or bemoaning it. He couldn’t seem to exist without being in a relationship and it was almost scary how quickly one would end and another would begin “She’s the one,” he’d say, about a girl he had just met the night before in some bar. “I can feel it. I’m in love for the first time.” I didn’t try to analyze it; I just listened and thought about how different people can be in matters of the heart. How can anything that authentic occur with as much haphazardness as a wink? It reminded me of “The boy who cried wolf,” except he wasn’t consciously lying. He believed the authenticity of his proclamations, so I would sit and listen to his various dramas (and there were many).

The dj and I did not travel in the same circles. He was much more a part of the recreational, late-night, drug crowd, and I was more of the two-drink minimum. But still he would come over to my house sometimes for barbeques or parties and he knew not to offer me anything.

After I moved from the bar scene, I lost touch with him. Occasionally I ran into him in the Quarter with his newest girlfriend, and we always greeted each other warmly. I heard from friends that he had gotten even deeper into drugs and the nightlife. A few years ago, when I was returning from an art convention in Baltimore, there were various voice mails from one of my friends asking if I had heard the news. A stripper had been murdered by her boyfriend. Thinking I knew the stripper, I held my breath and called my friend. She asked me if I was sitting down. I didn’t know the stripper; I knew the boyfriend. It was my dj friend. In a drugged-up rage he beat his girlfriend to death, stuffed her in the back of her car, dumped her body in a swamp in Lafayette and took off for Chicago. She had a two-year old son. Her parents were immigrants who moved to this country when she was a teenager so they could give her and her sister a better life. And she ended up human luggage in the back of her own car with a body full of swamp water.

The other murder was closer to home. In November of 2005, I went home for my Grandma’s memorial. The last time I saw her was when I drove my cats from Colorado (where we evacuated) to my parents’ house shortly after Hurricane Katrina. I visited my grandma in her new retirement home. She was constantly being kicked out of homes for spontaneous outings (i.e. running away) and harassing other residents. She looked great; alert and spunky at age 92. The day after I left, her health dramatically plunged and she passed away a few days later.

When I came home for the memorial, I had been living in Post-Katrina New Orleans for about four weeks. I still didn’t have gas, phone, or cable. I boiled water for a shower, cooked on an electric grill, and slept in sweaters surrounded by space heaters. I still drove 25 minutes to buy a pack of fucking gum. And while I won’t go into all the emotions involving visiting a city that had all of its facilities and wasn’t surrounded by debris and destruction, I will say it was a massive culture shock.
The thing I was most looking forward to going home for was seeing my eldest niece, Erin. It had been awhile since we had been together. She had taken time off of work so she could drive down to see me. Being the youngest of four, I was always desperate for a little brother or sister and used to BEG my parents to give me one. They weren’t looking to add a fifth.

When Erin was born I was elated. Every show-and-tell in my third-grade class after that revolved around her: her favorite toy, her blanket, pictures, locks of her hair. The kids took to groaning out loud whenever it was my turn to present.

When Erin was 19, she began seeing LC and became pregnant. She gave birth to my great-niece, whom she named after me. My great-niece was a highly imaginative, somewhat bossy, and incredibly sassy little, redheaded, blue-eyed girl. I adored her. Shortly after my great-niece’s birth, Erin broke it off with LC. I was glad; I wasn’t too fond of him. He never made an effort. She married a nice guy and had two more children.

Erin remained close with LC’s mother, and would bring my great-niece over to visit with her. LC never held a job and was eventually diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, floating in and out of mental institutions. Erin had moved more than once because of his erratic behavior and threatening phone calls. LC moved back in with his mother and spent his days locked in his rooms playing video games and watching tv. The day before the memorial, LC’s mother called the local mental hospital. She was worried about her son because he had not been taking his medication and wanted him recommitted. A health care worker showed up at their door. LC became agitated, got a knife and stabbed the man to death. Then he went back to his room and continued watching tv. The man was 46 years old with a wife and children.

The murder caused a sensation in our community, since it was the first murder in over a dozen years. Every day I was home it was all over the news and papers. This tall, sullen boy who barely acknowledged anyone’s existence and was father to my great niece, stabbed a man to death while his mother screamed helplessly. Last month, he was sentenced to 30 years in prison. The man he killed helped the state pass a bill to require all health workers to have two people to respond to calls.
My great-niece is eight-years old and still ignorant about all of this. I can’t help but worry about her own mental health, since schizophrenia is hereditary. I think about hugging her every day.

I don’t even know where I am going with this. I’m not attempting a dues ex machina in my final paragraph.

One of my problems with Phil was this- did he actually think his life was going to end up with a bunch of school girls in saddle shoes and penny loafers surrounding him with plastic gloves and poking at his internal organs. Giggling at his slightly green-colored penis? Does anyone expect their life to turn out the way it does? Good or bad? Phil was supposed to make me understand the workings of my body better; instead he made me understand the workings of my mind better. He was just a reminder that at age 16, I was mortal, and it wasn’t something I wanted to be reminded of. And despite, my usual sunny disposition, while some of the girls joked about how they hoped they never married a man as stocky and portly as Phil, they seemed to take the stance – “Thank God, we’re not him,” or “Thank God, we will never be with someone like him.” I took it as, “Oh God, I am him.”

Looking at The Bodies made me feel almost the same way. I felt like a passenger of my own flesh and bone. It made me value breath and respect life even more. It made me mourn for those who, technically, could now be put on display. (Isn’t James Brown still in his living room?)

I don’t know what to say about the philosophical differences between a drug-hazed murder and a mentally ill murder. Or maybe, I just don’t want to address it. This has rambled on and in too many directions for too long.

Heraclitus, “The Dark One,” had these conclusions:

You can’t go home again.
Your childhood is lost.
The friends of your youth are gone.
Your present is slipping away from you.

But with this seemingly pessimistic view, it provides almost a comforting logic. It shows that life is not an arbitrary event; it’s an eventuality. It’s universal.

You control the things you can. And I guess that is what I am still trying to learn.


The Bodies

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

KEEP YOUR PANTS ON


There has been a slight change in the starting point for the march tomorrow on City Hall.
1. Formation: 11AM at the foot of Canal Street (by the World Trade Center).
2. Depart: 11:30AM Process up Canal Street to Tchoupitoulas
Left on Tchoupitoulas to Poydras St.
Right on Poydras and walk to Loyola Ave.
Right on Loyola and start a BLOCK OF SILENCE in honor of loved ones lost to violent crime.
Left on Perdido to the steps of City Hall.
For more information, visit Silence is Violence
They are requesting that our public officials answer three fundamental needs: Presence, Protection and Accountability.
Their two slogans reflect these needs: Walk With Us and Silence is Violence.

Remove your pants before resorting to violence - Yoko Ono

Monday, January 08, 2007

NEW ORLEANS’ BLOOD RED RIVER


I first read about the signing of Lalita Tademy’s new book, “Red River” a couple of weeks ago. I marked it on my calendar of something of interest to attend. The novel begins with the horrifying account of the 1873 massacre in Colfax, Louisiana. On April 13, 1873, blacks gathered in defense of local Republicans and their own citizenships. White Supremacists were determined that the voting rights for former slaves would not be honored. The recent 14th and 15th amendments granted citizenships to blacks and prevented states from denying the right to vote based on race. The White League was formed, a “shadow” government with their own army, hell-bent on securing white rule in Louisiana. When the day was over, over hundred blacks were killed. Of those murdered, nearly half were slaughtered after they had already surrendered. Three men from The White League died. In the aftermath, the federal government convicted only three whites. However, they were freed when the U.S. Supreme Court declared they had been convicted unconstitutionally. Tamedy details her family’s fascinating history in this fictionalized account of her ancestor’s survival of 1873 riot. She will be discussing and signing her book, this Wednesday, 6PM, at the independent bookstore
Octavia Books located at 513 Octavia at the corner of Laurel.

Unfortunately, this book only seems to coincide with the current theme playing in New Orleans: senseless killings. The recent murders of Dinerral Shavers and Helen Hill have confirmed the fundamental lack of leadership and protection that presently plagues this city. I won’t go into the details of their murder, it has been gone over before. However, what I will note is Shaver’s involvement in the Hot 8 Brass Band. A drummer and music teacher, people who knew Shaver spoke of his dedication, generosity and enthusiastic spirit. Hill was a filmmaker, wife, mother and owner of a pet pig. Hill and her husband were both active in the community assisting others that were less fortunate than themselves. Ask anyone in the city and they will probably tell you the same thing.

Above Hill’s obituary in Sunday’s paper was the obituary of nineteen-year old Corey Hayes. He was found dead with several gunshot wounds to his head and body on the 2300 block of Fourth Street in Central City. I can’t tell you what Hayes’ interests were. I can’t tell you the names of his pets. I don’t know what type of music he liked. Hayes only noted distinction was being awarded the dubious honor of being the first person murdered in New Orleans in 2007.

In July 2006, the slaying of five teenagers in New Orleans set off mass hysteria, not only in the city, but around the world. But I bet, if pressed, that 98% of New Orleanians could not tell you the name of the victims involved, nor could they tell you anything distinctive about them. They were a body count, a MASSIVE body count. I googled the incident and found various reports on AP, CBS, USA Today, ABC, and various other media outlets, but not once were the victims’ names ever mentioned. It was “three brothers and a friend.” “Five People Killed” “Five Teenagers Murdered.” They had their sex & ages listed and little else.

A recent study done by the Department of Psychology at St. Joseph’s University focused on how newspaper coverage reduced empathy and engendered blame for victims. This study focused primarily on female victims, but their findings are relevant to the way the media covers murders. The study discovered that empathy for the victim was increased by both inclusion of personal information and referring to the victim by name. Victim blame was also reduced by the inclusion of personal information.

What would happen if the media actually took the time to know the victims. Would it take that much to include a story, antidotes or details from their loved ones? This is important because it allows you to identify with them. It forces you to stop and see yourself in another human being. It reminds you of the sacrosanctity of the soul.
Ask the media for more details, push for more knowledge. Force the media to humanize victims, not stereotype them.

It is without a doubt that Hill and Shaver were exceptional people and the city will be less brighter without them. And it is a shame that it took their murders to jolt the city out of their mode of learned helplessness. But if it helps the citizens of New Orleans advocate change, their deaths won’t be in vain.

John Webster once wrote, “Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.”

I hope from these tragedies, that New Orleans can shriek out and let their voices be heard. One way is at the Enough! Stop the Violence Rally, Thursday, January 11th.
11AM: Meet at the foot of Canal Street.
11:30: March begins
Noon: Rally at City Hall.
I encourage as many people as possible who can go to attend.

Hopefully, Tademy’s personalized account of the massacre of 1873 will make people take a note from history and learn from it. To quote the Greek historian, Dionysius “History is philosophy teaching by examples.”

Let's not only learn from these tragic losses but work toward change, so that history will not repeat itself.

To Nagin, Riley and other local leaders:


And to the families of Helen Hill & Dinerral Shavers

Success

To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of one’s self; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived – that is to have succeeded.

Ralph Waldo Emerson


In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made in the name of Helen Hill to Doctors without Borders
Doctors Without Borders
Helen Addison Wingard Scholarship Fund at Columbia College,

To specifically donate money for Dinerral Shaver's family. New Orleans Musicians Hurricane Relief Fund

You can read about Corey David Hayes and sign his guest book at
Legacy

Friday, January 05, 2007

HAPPY NEW YEAR





Another year up in smoke, thank god. I threw my complaints into the Mid City bonfire again this year in a futile attempt to eliminate them. It is apparent that I need a better system because it never seems to work. Acid?

Still, it's fun to be out and about with hundreds of drunk individuals wielding fireworks. Every year I go, I am amazed I can still see out of both of my eyes and a large section of my hair isn't burned off.

Right now, I just want to pray for clear skies so I can get outside and finish my photography project. Oh, that and a camera that works.

Meanwhile....

A Gallery for Fine Photography on 241 Chartes Street is showing a collection of Diane Arbus photographs through Feb. Thursday to Monday 12-4. "My favorite thing is to go where I have never gone." DA

Savion Glover is coming back!!!! I saw him in the spring of 2005 and he was amazing. I was able to check off a list of things I have always wanted to do/see. He will be here January 25th at McAlister Auditorium. He is a genius and I advise everyone to go and see him. I will be purchasing my Tickets today.

The Historic New Orleans Collection Exhibit at the Williams Gallery on 533 Royal Street is closing this weekend. Go now! It's fabulous. Time permitting, I might go see it again.

And.. the art walk on Julia Street this Saturday night from 6 to 9. I always find that the best exhibits and most interesting work are NOT displayed on White Linen Night or Art for Art's Sake. Get out and support your local artists!

I know I need some mental mitigation from all of these senseless killings

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