Cornerstones 2008

Written and Compiled By Rachel Breunlin Abram Himelstein Bethany Rogers

Edited By Rachel Breunlin

Designed By Gareth Breunlin

Published by Neighborhood Story Project P.O.Box 19742 New Orleans, Louisiana 70179 www.neighborhoodstoryproject.org Š All rights reserved. 2008

Cornerstones is an ongoing project of the Tulane City Center. http://www.tulanecitycenter.org

TABLE OF C O N T E N T S Introduction & Acknowledgements

4

Carrollton : The Maple Leaf Bar

Site Plan and Floor Plan Documentation Hank Staples Karina Nathan Tony Cassatt

6 8 10 12 14

Seventh Ward: Joytown Square Site Plan and Floor Plan Documentation Nat Williams Mike Butler Jackie Alford

52 54 56 58 60

Central City: Sportsman’s corner Site Plan and Floor Plan Documentation Theresa Elloie Alfred “Bucket” Carter Joseph “Monk” Boudreaux

16 18 20 22 24

The Marigny: Mimi’s in the Marigny Site Plan and Floor Plan Documentation Mimi Dykes Chris Rudge Melissa “DJ Soul Sister” Weber

66 68 70 72 74

Midcity: Liuzza’s By the Track Site Plan and Floor Plan Documentation Billy Gruber Ben Gasper Kelly Sansone

26 28 30 34 37

Seventh Ward: Roman by Terry Site Plans Terry Joseph Tony Marrero Gregory Hill

40 42 44 47 50

Lower Ninth Ward: The House of Dance & Feathers Site Plan and Floor Plan Documentation Ronald W. Lewis Patrick Rhodes Demetrius “Mimi” Alexander and Elyonda Napoleon

76 78 80 85 90

cornerstones nomination form

95

INTRODUCTION Rachel Breunlin Seventh Ward Resident Co-director of the Neighborhood Story Project End of August, 2005. I was exiled in Houston.

Like New Orleanians spread around the country, I’d assumed I’d be back in the city within a few days, and then had to come to terms with the fact that life wasn’t going back to normal.

Right before the storm, my co-director in the Neighborhood Story Project, Abram, and I had published five books written by high school students about neighborhoods around New Orleans.

Over the 2004-2005 school year, we’d gotten to know new pockets of the city, and were in deep mourning that the places where we had recorded stories on stoops, danced in bars and side streets, photographed parades and Mardi Gras costumes, eaten Jamaican callaloo and corner store po boys were now all under water.

When we weren’t watching TV, we manically tried to reach people through cell phones and email. It was hard to realize how many numbers we didn’t have—we were used to just stopping by houses, barrooms, and restaurants to check in with many friends, neighbors, and NSP supporters. Over the course of the next few weeks, we remembered more and more details we’d taken for granted while living in the city, each one compounding our longing for home. And in October, when we finally had the chance to return thanks to self-made press passes, we entered what Abram called a moonscape of crusted, cracked mud, and thought about what our contribution to the city’s rebuild could be.

Each person (or nonprofit organization) has their own way of responding to disaster, and ours—as

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a community documentary program—was to document the vitality of New Orleans neighborhoods. We were worried that in the plans for the rebuild, the local knowledge and places that make our communities strong would be missed.

It soon became clear, however, that New Orleanians wouldn’t let this happen. As they fixed up their homes, they rebuilt the small businesses and meeting places that tie our neighborhoods together. We wanted to develop a publication that showed this process in action, and teamed up with cultural geographer Bethany Rogers, whose own work on documenting important neighborhood places was aligned with the vision of this project.

From our collaboration came Cornerstones.

Bethany Rogers Midcity Resident Director of Cornerstones In all of the neighborhood meetings, planning charettes, and coffee talks that we joined after the storm, there was a consensus that New Orleans was unique, but rarely a deeper dialogue about what makes the city so special. The Neighborhood Story Project’s mission, “Our stories told by us,” led Rachel, Abram, and me to consider our personal experiences and connections to some of our neighborhood places—the social and cultural landmarks that helped revive the city after Katrina. We found these places to be revealing and tangible expressions of the special and hardto-define qualities that make New Orleans great, such as colorful local histories, spirited personalities, and longstanding cultural traditions. As we visited them over the course of two years, it became clear that they are the concrete building blocks of New Orleans—the cornerstones.

The seven neighborhood places chosen for this publication—the Maple Leaf, Sportsman’s Corner, Liuzza’s by the Track, Roman by Terry, Joytown Square, Mimi’s in the Marigny, and the House of Dance & Feathers—came out of our own journey back into the city. Some are our regular haunts, others are places we were introduced to after the storm. Through our interviews, maps, design drawings, and photos, we want to reveal the intriguing and sometimes complicated ways our cornerstones bring and hold people together, creating the living landscape that sets our city apart.

The stories we have compiled are just the beginning. At the end of the book, there is a nomination form that we hope New Orleanians (living here and elsewhere), will fill out to expand our collection of historic and cultural landmarks.

What neighborhood places are meaningful to you, your communities, and the city at large? We want to collect a full spectrum of nominations— from places that have been around for a long time and represent an important segment of local history to new spaces that serve an immediate and cherished purpose in the community. We hope to document sites grand in scale and design, as well as spaces that are unassuming, even humble.

Please consider this range when selecting a special site for our survey.

Once nominations are submitted, a public database and website of our city’s important places will be created. In conjunction with Tulane’s City Center, Cornerstones will carry out efforts to identify and document New Orleans’ overlooked and threatened landmarks citywide. In order to illustrate the dynamic qualities of our city’s cornerstones, the registry will feature the reflections and insights of the people who work, live in, or use the nominated spaces through written narratives and interviews. We will also account for the

architectural and design elements of nominated sites to better understand the interplay between our city’s built and cultural landscapes.

The creation of a registry of everyday monuments and gathering places is essential in postKatrina New Orleans. Demolition and redevelopment plans are not always sensitive to the role of our city’s cornerstones and losing these spaces will destroy community environments and social and cultural networks. As a result, Cornerstones also takes place-advocacy seriously. With your help, we want to take into consideration factors that threaten the future of any sites nominated for the registry. By documenting local significance and threats to the vitality of nominated places, we hope to help protect the special spaces that make our city and our neighborhoods worth coming home to. Thank you for joining us in celebrating the everyday monuments and gathering places of our city.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS How did this book get made?

Many people and organizations went into making this publication possible. The Neighborhood Story Project (NSP) would like to thank its partners, the University of New Orleans and the Literacy Alliance of Greater New Orleans, for their ongoing support. We want to thank two NSP board members for sharing their passion for ethnography and bookmaking with us—cultural anthropologist extrodinaire Helen Regis for her collaboration on the initial vision of the project and editorial feedback on earlier drafts and GK Darby for helping us think through our publishing options. Thank you to Abram for helping to construct the narrative voice(s) for the book and to our graphic designer, Gareth Breunlin, for his everlasting creativity and patience.

At Louisiana State University, we’d like to acknowledge the support of the Department of Geography and Anthropology. In particular, the guidance and encouragement of Bethany’s dissertation advisers Dydia DeLyser and Helen Regis (wearing a multiple hats in this project) in thinking through the intersections of geography, ethnography, and historic preservation have been invaluable.

This project wouldn’t be possible without the support we received from the places highlighted in the book. We are extremely grateful to the people who participated in our interviews for giving their time and sharing their knowledge. Bethany Rogers conducted and edited the interviews for the Maple Leaf Bar, the Sportsman’s Corner, and Mimi’s in the Marigny. Interviews for Roman by Terry, the House of Dance & Feathers, and Jackie Alford at Joytown Square were conducted and edited by Rachel Breunlin. Rachel and Helen Regis conducted the interview with Nat Williams.

Shintia Taylor, NSP Americorps member, conducted and edited the interview with Mike Butler. The interviews for Liuzza’s by the Track were done by Abram Himelstein and edited by Rachel.

We also appreciate everyone who donated images for the publication: Jackie Alford, B Fresh, Aubrey Edwards, Jason Fedak, Billy Gruber, Caitlin Heckathorn, the House of Dance & Feathers, Terry Joseph, Nicolas Kern, Andy Levin, Jorge Lopez, Devin Meyers (of Fotos for Humanity, a volunteer photography organization whose mission is “Sharing pictures, not taking them”), Karina Nathan, Chef Otis Shipman, Patrick Rhodes, Zack Smith, Andre Soloviev, and Eric Wittman.

We are indebted to the support of Scott Bernhard, Interim Dean of the School of Architecture, and Dan Etheridge, Associate Director of the City Center, for their generous support of the project and their editorial feedback on the architectural components of the book. A big thank you to City Center staff for their design expertise: Helen Juergens for her architectural photos, all of the architectural drawings except for the House of Dance & Feathers, and the photo montages of Sportsman’s Corner and Roman by Terry; Jess Garz for the maps of New Orleans, the site maps of the blocks, and the architectural drawing of the House of Dance & Feathers; Emilie Taylor for all the other photo montages featured in the book (and her overall graciousness), and Art Terry for building the Cornerstones website.

Finally, Cornerstones is indebted to the work of Place Matters, a joint project of City Lore and the Municipal Art Society, nonprofits dedicated to New York City’s public culture and physical design. Place Matters (www.placematters.net) has developed successful strategies for documenting and protecting sites important to New York residents, and their work has shaped this publication and the vision for the project. We would like to thank them for giving us permission to adapt their nomination form for our use.

The Cornerstones project is the result of an ongoing partnership with the Tulane City Center (http://www.tcc.org), the applied research and outreach center of the School of Architecture.

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Maple Leaf Ba r

MAPLE

LEAF BAR

Carrollton 8316 Oak Street

I first knew the Maple Leaf as one of New Orleans’ most sensual music venues with its red peeling paint on the tin walls, a shadowy, overgrown back patio, and a narrow dance hall with music shooting into the audience and through the building’s cracks to the enjoyment of outside show-goers. While the bar is famed for its role in promoting live New Orleans and Louisiana music, I have slowly discovered there is a neighborhood saloon part of the Leaf’s existence that is often overlooked.

It was actually the need to have a Carrollton gathering place that inspired six investors— united by their enthusiasm for drinking, chess, and debate—to open the Maple Leaf in 1974.

Originally the Maple Leaf Rag Time and Chess Club, the Leaf was initially more of a “talking” bar and featured an array of personalities from the city’s educated and powerful to the neighborhood’s homeless. I still find various evolutions of this “talking” crowd when I chat at the front bar or visit on the patio in the afternoons before the nightly music transforms the bar into an internationally acclaimed club.

The Leaf regulars, whether afternoon philosophers or late night dancers, have such a strong sense of community, they have created their own krewe, the Krewe of Oak, that costumes and parades every Mardi Gras and Mid-Summer Mardi Gras, taking the Maple Leaf on a musical Uptown bar hop. Throughout the rest of the year, the krewe is held together by the regular rhythm of events at the Maple Leaf like holiday potlucks, Sunday poetry readings and crawfish boils, birthday parties, weddings, and wakes. These events make a community that distinguishes the Maple Leaf as much as its pressed tin and live New Orleans funk.

—Bethany Rogers

tage, by Emilie Taylor.

Maple Lea f Bar photo mon

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site plan

“This neighborhood was the town of Carrollton until 1874, and then it became the Seventh Municipal District. The people who lived up here still felt like it was a separate town. Oak Street, the business district, was developed in the 1890s. This building, when it opened, did not have electricity—it was gas lighting.You can see the pipe sticking out of the center above the bar; that’s the gas line and how they lighted the place.

The building’s been so many things over the years. In the 20s, it was a bicycle shop. It’s also been a coffee company, a laundry mat, and I think a nickelodeon. People have always lived upstairs, and I've even met people who've lived in my apartment.”

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– Hank Staples, Co-owner

“The tin walls are absolutely beautiful. That was the first thing I noticed here. I love the way the way you come in and there’s a long bar and conversation going on. Then there’s the dance hall and the pool table room, which has its own scene, and the courtyard, which has its own scene, and the alley, which has its own crew of alley cats. The colors too— having the browns and silvers and maroons give it that old world charm. It’s like a time warp.”

– Karina Nathan, Bartender and Queen of Krewe of Oak 2006

B

F

A

C

maple leaf bar plan

D

E

A. Front bar B. Stage C. Dance floor

D. Back bar E. Patio F. Alley

0

5‘

10‘

25‘

From left to right: Looking under the awning of the Maple Leaf, by Helen Jergens; Krewe of Oak at the bar, by Bethany Rogers; Maple Leaf’s famous pressed tin, by Helen Juergens; and a packed dancehall, by Bethany Rogers.

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Hank

Staples

Co-owner & Manager of Maple Leaf

I was first officially introduced to Hank Staples after Hurricane Katrina. The Maple Leaf took on a new iconic role in post-Katrina New Orleans, as one of the first businesses to re-open and the first venue to have live music after the storm. Despite his famed elusive nature, Hank and the Maple Leaf were in the media spotlight and business was demanding, yet he willingly gave of his humor and stories to convey his sense of the Maple Leaf’s significance to the Carrollton neighborhood and to New Orleans. His own experiences with the Leaf make him an integral part of the bar’s history.

Born and raised in Washington, D.C., Hank came to New Orleans via New York for a visit 26 years ago and never left. Soon after he got to town, he moved above the Maple Leaf and joined the eccentric crew of barroom regulars. First working as a bartender and then slowly giving in to the pull to buy into the Leaf, Hank is now the co-owner and primary manager. He continues to live upstairs while managing the bar in his very committed, yet relaxed style characterized by his unpredictable but regular presence and refusal to own or be reached by phone. His low-key approach, dry wit, and, most importantly, financial commitment to artists, have been central to the evolution of the Leaf into the vibrant music club it is today.

Bethany: Can you tell me a little bit of how the place got started?

Hank: It was a group of people that originally just wanted a talking bar, and it was a very interesting group of people. At that time, they swore there would never be a television here. There was live music the opening night, but that was not really the focus. I don’t think they ever thought it would evolve into the musical icon it is today. It

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Hank in the Krewe of Oak Parade, by Jorge Lopez.

did very, very well for a few years, because it was a very different place. There were six owners: All of them had careers in intellectual areas, and they all had their own wide circle of friends.

There was a college professor; he taught Slavic and Teutonic languages. There was a lawyer, of course. If you ever saw the movie “JFK,” there was one point when Kevin Costner gets upset because one of the volunteers in his office had taken all the files over to the attorney for Clay Shaw, and that individual was one of the original owners. Anyway, it was very successful because there was a huge bunch of academics here every night shouting and arguing, and then there were all the law and journalist people. Tom Bethel, who now works for The Nation, was one of the original owners. And one of the original guys was the state chess champion, John Parsons.

B: Originally the bar was called the Maple Leaf Rag Time and Chess Club, right?

H: Yeah, so the chess players were here. Of course, all these guys were so much younger then, so it had that youthful energy to it. It’s funny to look at them now and think that there was ever youthful energy in any of them, but

there was. There were a lot of white junkies because the neighborhood was extremely seedy and run down. It made the place fascinating.

You had lots of them, in the afternoons particularly, so the bar had this very interesting mix. It still had a lot of the mix and fascination 10 years later when I came.

B: Let’s talk about the evolution of it into more of what it is today, more as a music club, and how you came into all of this.

H: Well, I don’t want to brag, but we were, and still are, one of the premier places in town post-Katrina for local music. Tipitina’s is doing a lot of high-profile work raising money for people, which is very, very important, but for just keeping the flame going, I would say we’re certainly up there. Over the years it’s hard to decide when it went from being more of a bar to a music club. Its role now is music, but when it opened it was a neighborhood tavern that occasionally had music. Today it’s a music club that has a strong neighborhood tavern aspect to it and also does other stuff. The business, though, survives and thrives off its live music, not off its other happenings.

It’s funny, though, we lost money on music for a long time. At one point, nobody wanted to play here, and that’s because the money was so bad. It was just a dreary vibe. People would take the gig just to take the gig. Nobody was really enjoying it. I felt that money was a big part of it. After I bought into the bar, I was trying to pay people better, and it was harder for quite a few years, because we lost a lot of money on bands. Ultimately, I think it was the correct decision. We pay better than just about anybody in town.

B: Tell me about those first generator shows you had after Katrina. What was the spirit of people, what did it mean?

H: It meant a lot. We had Walter “Wolfman” Washington. Any person that I could get a hold of that played at the Maple Leaf, I tried to get on. There was such devastation in the city.

Nobody knew what anything was going to be like. So many people were facing utter financial ruin. Just being around everyone else in the

same situation and having some sense of normalcy, like hearing Walter at the Maple Leaf, was very important.

B: There’s a lot of stuff that people don’t realize goes on at the Leaf. What are a couple of those events that happen only here?

H: Well, we have lots of funerals here. There’s a lot of people who feel like this is how they would like their sendoff to be. Lots of weddings. There aren’t a lot of barrooms that really do have weddings. I’m sure there’s even been conceptions here. Over the years we’ve definitely had various odd things like the New Orleans Alien Abduction Forum. And now we have the New Orleans Fashion Collaborative on Saturdays. We have the chess players on Thursdays. The Grand Master, the highest ranking you can get in the chess world, is Russian. He moved to New Orleans and lives on Oak Street on the other side of Carrollton.

He and his group play here about three times

a week. And we still have the Everett Maddox poetry readings.

B: You mentioned earlier that the bar did really well the first few years, then were there some doldrums?

H: It’s had several doldrums over the years. It had prosperity in the 70s and then it had a horrendous period. There have been several horrendous periods. At one point, I had bought into the business and I had also bought the restaurant that is now Jacques-Imo’s next door and that had gone under. There was a day when our money here was so low, I thought we were going to go under here, too. These orange light bulbs are part of the feel of the place. We’ve been using orange light bulbs since day one, and people would notice immediately if we didn’t have the orange light bulbs. We didn’t want to go with white light bulbs, but the orange bulbs were expensive—they’re like three dollars a bulb—and we’d run down to our last three or four, so depending on whether it was day or night, we were moving the bulbs around from the inside to the outside. There have been several periods like that. We’re doing very well right now, but it’s a roller coaster business, and I expect in the future, there will be more times where we’ll be swapping light bulbs.

B: The last question I’ve been asking is if the Leaf were to disappear, what would’ve been lost?

H: The Maple Leaf participates in the culture of New Orleans in many, many different ways. In literature. In music. In funerals and second lines.

I would say we are basically the only white club that is a starting point for a second line, which is the Pigeon Town Steppers on Easter weekend.

We participate in the cultural life of New Orleans in many, many areas. So that’s what would be lost—a participant in all aspects of New Orleans culture. Perhaps, even a leader.

Walter “Wolfman” Washington playing at the Maple Leaf, by Bethany Rogers

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11

Karina

Nathan

Queen of Krewe of Oak, 2006 Boss Lady of Miss Karina’s Designs Mother Shucker of the Bearded Oysters Maple Leaf Bartender

Miss Karina as the Mother Shucker of the Bearded Oysters, coustesy of Karina Nathan.

A Boston native, Karina Nathan always had a natural affinity for costume and clothing design, but she never had a vision for how it could become a professional pursuit until she moved to New Orleans in 2002 and experienced her first Mardi Gras. Her original MOM’s Ball design, the now famed Mardi Bra, kicked off her fashion career that grew into Miss Karina’s New Orleans Fashion Design, a production and retail line that also features flapper headbands, fur legwarmers, and necktie skirts.

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Before I knew Karina, I knew all about her Mardi Bras because they were alluringly displayed for sale all around the Leaf. Once Karina started regularly bartending at the Leaf, though, she stood out as the “Mother Shucker” of the bar’s female dance troop, the Bearded Oysters. She is also, notably, the resident fashion designer, managing the New Orleans Fashion Collaborative sales at the Leaf and operating her design business from her studio above the bar (she works in the space next door to Hank’s apartment). The Krewe of Oak acknowledged their respect for and appreciation of her creative Maple Leaf flair by naming her Queen of the Krewe in 2006.

Bethany: Had you been into design before your move to New Orleans?

Karina: I had, but it was not a professional pursuit in my mind. I didn’t see any opportunity for it other than theater. We grew up right next to Salem, Massachusetts, and I always loved the costumes for Halloween. I did a lot of costumes for my college friends. Then when I came here, I came up with the Mardi Bra to wear for my first MOM’s Ball and it was the biggest hit. My first sale was for a thousand Mardi Bras. I was

just blown away. I didn’t know what to do. I got that done and decided I should go to business school.

B: How was Miss Karina’s born?

K: It was actually born before I moved to New Orleans. A girlfriend of mine went thrift store shopping and she found this big vintage fur coat and said, “Miss Karina, this is what you’re going to have to wear to New Orleans.” And so it always stuck, “What is Miss Karina going to wear to New Orleans?”

B: It sounds like the business side of it launched with that thousand-piece order, but when did it gel into its own real entity?

K: The Bearded Oysters was the beginning. I had my own market for girls that liked my work and they were buying my Bearded Oyster costumes for the dance troupe. They were so supportive of what I was doing that I started going to stores. My first year Mardi Bras were in every single costume shop in town and every independent lingerie store. I just hustled like crazy. I would go down to Bourbon Street and sell them off my chest. Anything to get them out there. I didn’t really make any money. I just sold them cheap because I wanted them everywhere.

B: The Bearded Oysters folds into Miss Karina’s; can you tell me more about that?

K: Well, first off, I wanted something that brought more women to the Leaf. Hank had kind of put me on this mission to get more women around that are fun. All of the major designers have lifestyle

brands now, so the Bearded Oysters are like the fantasy lifestyle brand of Miss Karina. It was also a way to get my designs out there. My first Mardi Gras, I had seen the Pussyfooters. I had never seen anything like it. I called them up because I wanted to do Mardi Bras for them and they said, “No, we already have costumes. You have to find a dance troupe that doesn’t already have costumes.” I was like, “What kind of dance troupe doesn’t already have costumes?” I decided to start my own and I just opened it up to all women. Now we have over one hundred members of the Bearded Oysters.

B: And what would you say Miss Karina’s is to you? What is the philosophy behind it? What do you want it to bring other people?

K: As a costume line, I enjoy using the materials of New Orleans that I find to incorporate into costumes. There are a lot of reused materials, like Mardi Gras beads, that almost have their own beauty before they’re put on the clothing.

Here’s my mission statement: Inspired by the world’s rituals of costuming and masquerade, Miss Karina’s designs incorporate authentic materials that stand out for their beauty in both appearance and history. Each handcrafted piece is unique, timeless, and guaranteed to turn heads, much like the city of New Orleans that inspired Miss Karina.

Miss Karina strives to provide customers with a quality product fashioned to withstand turbulent times of trendy fashion while providing a humorous dose of resourcefulness.

B: Since your studio is above the Maple Leaf, how do you think the bar influences your work?

K: Hank has been incredibly supportive of the Mardi Bras; he thought it was a million-dollar idea immediately. When I first applied here I didn’t even write on my résumé that I was doing it because I didn’t think it was anything anyone would look at fondly, but immediately when he saw the Mardi Bras, he said, “Oh, you should sell them here.” Also with the New Orleans Fashion Collaborative here every Saturday—that helps him and helps me. That’s really nice.

the music into my design. I’m not really here for the music. I’m here for the people and for my business. But I like working nights, so I usually work through the shows, and I love the cheering downstairs when I’m sewing. I’ve also been inspired by Frenchy [a performance painter with his studio across the street from the Maple Leaf] and I know he’s been inspired by me, because we’ve done some artistic projects together. Seeing him, the way he responds to the music, I assume not every note of the music is going through him and his work, but there’s always a piece that he can pull out of it. One of the things that I chant to myself when I’m designing is, “Everything I do is gonna be funky from now on,” which keeps my designs colorful no matter what mood I’m in. A lot of the funk groups downstairs, especially the Rebirth, George Porter Junior, and Papa Grows Funk, just keep me going funky.

B: Do you have any other thoughts, anything you’d like to add about your design work or the bar itself?

Top to bottom: The Krewe of Oak’s parade; Karina Nathan and Tony Cassatt’s reign in 2006, by Bethany Rogers.

K: I see all the parts of it as me. One thing couldn’t exist without the other.

Over the last couple years, I started to create to the music at the Maple Leaf. Before that, I didn’t feel that there was a way to incorporate

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13

Tony

Cassatt

King of Krewe of Oak 2006 & Oak Street High Stepper Tony Cassatt and his younger brother Jacques were two of the first Maple Leaf regulars I met.We were sitting outside on the rear patio trying to cool off during a hot and funky Rebirth Brass Band set. I had already seen Tony a number of times at the bar—he was unmistakable in his boots, sport coat, and fedora hat, highstepping to the live music. Tony and Jacques’ desire to share their passion for the bar was also memorable:Tony, in particular, was a willing storyteller and keeper of Maple Leaf history. His unique style and tangible passion continue to make him a prominent regular, and have also earned him the honor of being the King of the Krewe of Oak in 2006. As a former king,Tony holds reverence for the traditions of the krewe—in particular, the occassion to memorialize his brother Jacques by building a float in his honor that rolls with all Krewe of Oak parades.

they are with you, or they are not. And you get to decide. There’s no initiation. No membership.

You don’t have to do anything. You only have to be there. Contribute to the place in your distinct way and join in on our parades, and even the parades are only if you want.

The Krewe cares about New Orleans, not just about the history, but about the future. We celebrate history through the heads, which are past

members of the Krewe that have died. In their honor we have made papier-mâché heads that roll in our parades. I think that is something that speaks to the Krewe. We acknowledge the people that have been there before us. They are recognized as being important and we remember.

We have a great sense of history at the Maple Leaf. It’s a lot of really neat people that are interested in what happens in New Orleans, and they celebrate life in similar ways and feel the

Tony: There is no place like New Orleans for being able to be a unique individual, and that’s the thing, you can be anything you want and the city doesn’t care. You can create your own reality in New Orleans and people will accept that reality. My favorite example is Ernie K-Doe, the Emperor of the Universe. And he was the Emperor of the Universe. Ask anybody here, all the thousands of people that came out for his second line, and they will tell you the same thing. What makes it great about being the king of the Krewe of Oak is I’m a king. It’s solely what it means to me, what I bring to it. I get to create my reality.

I’ve been king. Now I’m not a Maple Leaf elderly statesman by any stretch, but being the king of the Krewe of Oak is a great honor. Some men want to win the Heisman Trophy, but being king is like that for me, it’s a recognition by the Krewe that I am someone who belongs here and who contributed to the place. I consider that time well spent.

Karina talks about people in the Krewe of Oak being part of our tribe. I think it’s a wonderful word. You don’t necessarily have to like some, but they are in fact part of your tribe. Either Tony at the Leaf, by Bethany Rogers.

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same things. They express themselves in music; it’s a bigger part of their lives.

Here in New Orleans, we celebrate life and we celebrate death. A jazz funeral is a celebration. It’s an acknowledgement to the community that another soul has come home. We cry when you’re born and rejoice when you die. After having spread my brother Jacques’ ashes at the Tree of Life in Audubon Park, it was amazing to have the Maple Leaf, where the doors were open to me and all of our friends. Even the food was provided and booze was discounted. One of the greatest musicians on the planet, Jon Cleary, came and basically offered his services for free. All of the people that loved my brother came to celebrate his life and to dance, because he loved dancing so much. That was what made him freest. And people have said to me since then, “That’s what I want to have happen when I go, exactly what we did there. That’s how I want to be remembered.”

Karina’s and my gift to the Krewe of Oak was to make a head of Jacques that will put his memory front and center stage two times a year. We’ll put his head on top of a golf cart and will parade around the city and all dance and celebrates the fact that we got to know this person. For me, it’s almost like the wake is now over, because he’s still here, his spirit is still here. He is still very alive, even though he’s gone. And that’s how we cut him loose. I didn’t know how to have a party for a man that died in our community, but I was shown how to. All of our friends, the Krewe, let me know how the jazz funeral is conducted.What a wonderful thing about the Maple Leaf.

Top to bottom: Memorial paper-mache heads for the Krewe of Oak parade; Jacques’ head in the Krewe of Oak parade, by Bethany Rogers.

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15

Sportsman’s corner

The corner of

Sportsman’s Corner photo montage, by Helen Juergens.

Sportsman’s corner 13th Ward/Central City Second & Dryades Second and Dryades is a prominent intersection in Central City and all of New Orleans. Over the last several decades, that section of town has been a concentrated scene of neighborhood barrooms, second line parades, and Mardi Gras Indian practice and performance. The Sportsman’s Corner bar, often referred to as Second and Dryades because it sits on the corner of the intersection, is the only bar at this social and cultural juncture that has remained open over the last three and a half decades. Mr. Louis Elloie opened the Sportsman “for the adventure” and today his daughter, Theresa, and grandson, Steven, carry on his legacy by making the bar a welcome and accommodating space for the neighborhood’s laborers, professionals, and many social and cultural groups.

I first spent time in and around the Sportsman’s Corner on Mardi Gras mornings playing the Indian waiting game. My experiences at Second and Dryades stand out among my Mardi Gras memories with the sounds of the Sportsman’s Corner jukebox and the nearby Zulu parade, the smells of barbeque coming from grills set up in the back of parked trucks, and the visual display of Mardi Gras Indians posturing in their sequins and feathers. But the Sportsman’s Corner, a modest one-story, white cinder block building, is much more than Mardi Gras day backdrop.

The Sportsman is the official barroom of Young Men Olympian, but it is also a major stop in all Uptown second line parades, especially now since so many of the city’s typical parades stops remain closed since the storm. The bar hosts an

exceptional array of social events, ranging from baby showers to social aid and pleasure club “comin out” parties to seafood frys to the one and only Saints Crawl Party.

I especially enjoy a Sunday at the Sportsman’s Corner. The “old timers” come out to visit and dance after the second line parade to soul and R&B hits from years passed and later a younger crowd joins the festivities, hopping between the Sportsman’s Corner and the Wild Magnolias’ headquarters next door for Mardi Gras Indian practice.

—Bethany Rogers

f Second and Dryades, by Bethany Rogers.

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site plan “There’s not much about the building that stands out. In fact, when my dad ran the bar we didn’t even have a name on the outside. It just looked like it was a house and it kept things real low key. The bar’s more about a home-y kind of feeling. Everybody seems to be like a little family. No matter what day you go, you’re going to see the same people.”

– Theresa Elloie, left, with her friend Michelle Longino in front of the bar at the VIP Ladies second line parade

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“I wouldn’t want to live anywhere but this part of town because of all the happenings, especially at Second and Dryades. It’s the friendly people and activities that make it.

We’ve got Mardi Gras Indians and second lines and regular parades.The bar is an important part of Second and Dryades because Mr. Louis was always so giving to everybody. He let different clubs and groups use his place for parties and meetings—that makes his bar a real neighborhood place and different from other barrooms.”

– Myra “The Queen” Boudreaux, Sportsman’s Corner regular for 20 years

C

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sportsman’s corner PLAN

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A. Bar & jukebox area B. Seating C. Billiard room

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From left: Golden Eagles in front of the Sportsman’s Corner, by Andre Soloviev; bar and seating area, by Helen Juergens; and the VIP Ladies second line stop at the barroom, by Bethany Rogers.

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THERESA

ELLOIE

Daughter of Louis Elloie, Proprietor Owner of Expression with Balloons Theresa Elloie is the daughter of Louis Elloie, the proprietor of the Sportsman’s Corner. After Hurricane Katrina, Mr. Louis suffered two strokes and his grandson Steven now manages the bar, while Theresa takes care of her father. Whenever I visit with Theresa at the Sportsman Corner’s, she is always accompanied by her father. She believes it’s important for him to maintain a presence at the bar and to uphold her dad’s tradition of hospitality. It’s not uncommon to overhear customers remark about what a generous and upright businessman Mr. Louis has been over the years. I’ve been told by many regulars in different ways that he “would always try to keep the neighborhood together.”

Theresa Elloie wearing her signature money corsage,

by Bethany Rogers.

Theresa also brings her own contributions to life at the Sportsman’s Corner. Inspired by the parties and parades she grew up around at the corner barroom, Theresa has developed her own line of work, making money, ribbon, and flower corsages for birthdays, second lines, funerals, and other important occasions. Theresa’s business “Expression with Balloons” is a reflection of the artistic and social spirit of the Central City parade and barroom scene.

Bethany: What’s the bar been like since the storm?

Theresa: Way more business. Business has tripled since the storm. People have more of a party spirit now. It’s like before, people would hesitate, “Oh, I’m not going to have a birthday party this year. I’m going to have a birthday party next year.” But now, people are like, “Oh no, I’m going to have a party, because I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

B: I know you do party decorations and flower arrangements; tell me about the business you started.

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T: Believe it or not, I had been working for Eckerds for 21 years, and at the end of the day, I never had money left. They always called on me at my job to come up with different things, and I was like, “I can do that on my own.” I started playing around with some things to try and make some extra money. I started making what I call money corsages; they’re made out of real money. I first started by making them for people at the bar.

B: Did this come out of growing up around the bar and all the parades?

T: Yes, it came out of the partying spirit, because a lot of times I would go to a party and you couldn’t tell who the birthday person was. I decided to make something to attract the attention of people, to let people know this is your birthday or your baby shower. I made a money corsage to show this is your birthday and that means, “Give me money.” People would have expensive clothes and when people would pin money all over, it could really mess up your clothes. The corsage keeps from ruining your clothes and it attracts attention.

B: What else do you make as part of your business?

T: I do money ones. I do second line ones. I do funerals. I do weddings. I do balloons and everything. After I started selling the money corsages, I branched off to doing parties and my business grew from there. My business is called Expression with Balloons.

B: Besides all these parties and parades, are there other special things that go on at the Sportsman?

T: We have a lot of meetings here with the different clubs. We always open up the space to different organizations, let them use the kitchen in the back. The way my daddy was with the customers, if they needed something from him in any kind of way, he’d be there for them. He was a real father figure to a lot of these guys. Daddy had one stroke after Katrina and one stroke after Rita, so since then I take care of him and Steven’s been running the bar. Before the hurricane, he was helping his grandfather, so he had learned the whole business.

B: What does the Sportsman mean to you now as an adult?

T: My daddy worked so hard here, it’s like his whole world was here, so it’s like this is my world now. I want to fulfill the dream he started. I want to treasure it, because he worked so hard to make it happen.

Top to bottom: Three generations of the Elloie family (Steven, Louis, and Theresa) in front of the Sportsman’s Corner; VIP Ladies parade stop at the Sportsman’s Corner, by Bethany Rogers.

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ALFRED

“BUCKET” CARTER

President of First Division of Young Men Olympian

Alfred Carter, better known as Bucket or Uncle Buck, grew up right around the corner from the Sportsman’s Corner. As a kid, lots of his neighborhood friends took after the Indians, but Bucket always had a love for second line parades and he joined the Young Men Olympians Social and Benevolent Aid Club (YMO)when he was only five years old. In his 67th year parading with YMO, Bucket is head of the club’s first division that regularly holds its meetings at the Sportsman. A retired K & B warehouse manager, Bucket graciously invited me to his Marrero trailer to share his cumulative insights about Second and Dryades, Central City parade traditions, and the YMO. Bucket continues to work on restoring his flooded Uptown home, but he remains socially active—I always see him out at second line parades or socializing with club members and longtime friends at the Sportsman.

Bethany: Where did you grow up in New Orleans?

Bucket: I grew up around the corner from Second and Dryades. I grew up on First and Liberty, not too far from there. I came up in that neighborhood around Shakespeare Park.

Bethany: What was it like growing up in that neighborhood?

Bucket: It was nice. It was lovely. All of us kids used to play ball in the street. We always did like the second lines. We used to see a parade pass and we’d run and go catch and follow the parade on Sundays. And we’d follow the Indians. It was real joyful as a kid coming up in that neighborhood. And during the summertime, we always did have a parade most every Sunday—all sorts of different clubs, church parades, Sunday school parades.

Alfred “Bucket” Carter at a Young Men Olympians parade, by Bethany Rogers.

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Bethany: When did you first get involved with Young Men Olympian?

Bucket: Well, the organization was originally off of Philip and Liberty in an old abandoned church. They had men in the neighborhood used to come get the kids to join the organization. I got in when I was five years old. They had an age limit during that time, you got in Young Olympians Junior at two and I think it was about 25, you couldn’t be in there, you were too old. Once you got that age, you would go over to Young Men Seniors. A bunch of us in that neighborhood were in Olympia.

Bethany: And do you still have a lot of real young guys like when you joined?

Bucket: Oh yeah, they still come in. Like I said, two years old and up. But we don’t have an age limit now. We have a lot of young guys, like three or four, and a lot of them parade. We take care of them. When they’re out there and when we’re parading, we make the older fellows watch them in the street.

Bethany: Can you describe what it feels like when you’re out there parading?

Bucket: I’ve been parading a long time and I still get excited. It’s fun putting your clothes up and talking about it. I still twist and turn at night. My wife used to say, “Man, for all these years you’ve been parading, you still act like a child.” It’s just that feeling you get. You get that knot in your stomach that Sunday morning. All these many years I’ve been doing it, I swear I shouldn’t be like that, but it’s just one of those things. You get excited that day. You’re going to be looking good and all the people are going

to be out there. And during the parade you feel wonderful. The music’s playing. If you don’t have rhythm, you’re gonna get the rhythm. If you hear all that good music and everybody laughing and talking and having fun, you’re going to get with it and that’s for sure.

Bethany: Have you guys ever used the Sportsman Corner as a meeting place?

Bucket: The division I’m over, the First Division, we use it every fourth Saturday to have a meeting in the back room. Mr. Louis has been good to us. He really takes care of us. Anything we want, we get. If we have a dance, he orders our liquor. He really is a fine man.

house. It’s been a little tense, but they try to put it behind them. You’ve got to have that faith to rebuild. Got to have that. Like my house, my sister wanted me to sell it. I was living back there

by Xavier University, so I got a lot of water. But I’m working on my house. I’m going to rebuild.

When people came home they were talking about it, but nobody’s talking about the storm any more. Even though they lost their home, they’re going to have their fun. They might ask you, “How’s your house coming along?” “Oh, all right,” and that’s it. They’re going to drink, play the music box, dance, or whatever they need.

Bethany: Do you think the Sportsman is important to Young Men Olympian?

Bucket: I think it’s really important, because a lot of them are from around that way. We all bummed around there. Weekends you see all the members around there. You can go around there and call the roll. Most all of them will be there.

Like I said, the proprietor is really a fine man.

Tops. He knows even though we got our own building, we’ll still be hanging around there.

Bethany: Do you think the Sportsman has helped keep the parade tradition going in Central City?

Bucket: I think so. Because a lot of different clubs Uptown stop there when they parade.

Bethany: What’s it been like since the storm there?

Bucket: It’s been all right. Seems like everybody has lost something—lost their home, their

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Joseph “Monk” Boudreaux, byAndre Soloviev.

JOSEPH “Monk”

BOUDREAUX

Big Chief of Golden Eagles

Big Chief Monk is a prominent musician and artist.

Particularly since the storm, he has been a major player in keeping the Mardi Gras Indian customs alive through his skills as a sewer, singer, and chief. I was familiar with Monk’s accomplishments and prominence as an Indian chief and musician, but my friend, Michelle Longino, encouraged me to interview him because he grew up by Second and Dryades and has played an integral role in other creative traditions that define Central City.

Monk, in fact, learned the Indian tradition of sewing, singing, and drumming from Indians that lived and practiced all along the Second and Dryades corridor. In addition to masking with the White and Golden Eagle Indian tribes, he is also a former and honorary member of theYoung Men Olympian Social and Benevolent Aid Club and he still sews for the club, as well as other social aid organizations. Monk also grew up in the building trades in Central City and he earned his living for many years as a house painter, supporting and raising his five children by himself.

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Bethany: Is it because there was always so much going on that people talk about that whole corner as Second and Dryades?

all the Indians there. We used to stay up all night just to see the Indians. It was in me. I just had to wait until I was ready to start sewing.

Monk: Yeah, because the H and R bar was the headquarters of the Wild Magnolias and the Golden Eagles, and we were backward and forward between there and the Sportsman.

B: Did you learn how to sew from your dad?

B: When did you start hanging out at Second and Dryades?

M: When I was a kid, I couldn’t go in the bars until I was maybe about15. Then you could sneak in for Indian practice.

B: Is that how you got into masking?

M: Well, a lot of Indians came from that area. First and Dryades, Second and Dryades,Third and Dryades, all the way up to Sixth Street. My dad used to mask Indian. And I can remember we used to see

M: No, not really, because he had stopped masking. I had a friend of mine, William Webb, who was the First Spyboy for the White Eagles. He was living right across the street from me, and I used to go over to his house and sit down, watch him, and take notes. The main thing is I was sewing, and I wasn’t staying home. I was a runner. If he needed something from the Chief’s house, I’d get on my bicycle, go the ten blocks, and get him some thread or whatever he needed, and bring it back. That’s how you learn. By the time I was 15, I was ready.

B: What tribe were you with?

M: The White Eagles.The White Eagles are Downtown now, but they were originally from Uptown.

B: How did you become Big Chief?

M: Well, it goes like this: When the Big Chief retires, First Spyboy is obligated to the tribe and he’s next in line. If he turns it down, then it’s the First Flagboy, and if he turns it down, it goes back to the Second Spy, which I was Second Spy for the White Eagles. The First Spy didn’t want it and First Flag didn’t want it, so they gave it to me. I must have been about 25. I was ready.

thing, Second and Dryades will always be there.

It will never die. The Indians will be there also.

That’s one neighborhood that will always be the same, no matter how they try to tell you, because it goes along with what we do. You hear people on Mardi Gras go, “We’re going on Second and Dryades, the Indians are going to be down there,” or, “The second line’s going to stop over there,” or, “They got Indian practice over there.” You want a sheetrock hanger? Go up on Second and Dryades, they’ll be around there every morning or every evening. Something’s always going on.

B: What does that mean to be “ready”?

M: That means I know what to do. I can do all the sewing and I’d learned the songs. To be Big Chief, you got to know how to sing. And I was taught everything by the older people. When you’re coming up, they could just about tell who has it in them and who doesn’t have it in them. Once they take you under their wing, they teach you everything. They know when you’re going to be the man.

B: What did you do for a living?

M: I was a house painter, but now I’m a musician.

B: Was that a family trade? Did you learn that from somebody in your family?

M: Yeah, my dad was a painter. My grandfather was a carpenter. And my godfather was a plasterer. I had all three of the trades.

B: In the Second and Dryades area, do you have a lot of guys in the building trades? Is that a big thing that gets passed along there too?

M: Yeah, lots of painters, carpenters, sheetrock hangers, they all hang around there. That’s where they meet up in the mornings before they go to work.

B: It seems like with the building trades, the Indians, and the parades, that Second and Dryades has been really important to some of the city’s important artistic and creative traditions.

Joseph “Monk” Boudreaux, by Andre Soloviev.

M: Yeah, they keep the city going. And Central City, it’s right in the middle. Uptown, Back-atown, Downtown, Front-a-town, that’s the middle, and a lot went on around there. I tell you one

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k

Liuzza’s b y the Trac

Liuzza’s by the Track Midcity 1518 N. Lopez

Liuzza’s sits at the corner of North Lopez and Ponce de Leon, occupying the first floor of what was the Liuzzas’ family restaurant with the Liuzzas living above it. Since Jack Liuzza’s death, the upstairs apartment has remained just as he left it, while the restaurant has been rented out by Ms. Liuzza. Since the old man’s death, it has had several incarnations.

For the last 10 years, the occupant of Liuzza’s by the Track has been a partnership between Billy Gruber and Jimmy LeMurin, and really a partnership between the neighborhood, and the owners and staff at the restaurant. On its best days, the corner restaurant and bar feels more like the best catered community center in America. On lesser days, it becomes the restaurant with the best gumbo in America.

My first time in the place I had barbeque shrimp.

Just a bunch of shrimp in sauce. Peel them yourself. Nothing on the side, just some bread to sop up the extra sauce. Second best meal of my life.

I got to know Liuzza’s well when my old roommate, Maleika, started working at the bar. I came in many nights to close with her and a bunch of the other regulars. Closing the bar was timeconsuming work, with many jokes to tell and songs to play. It stayed lively until Maleika was ready to leave, and the party often continued as we said our good-byes on the corner. When my wife, Shana, and I bought our first house, being four blocks away from Liuzza’s and right across the street from the Fair Grounds were the two biggest selling points.

—Abram Himelstein

Liuzza’s photo montage, by Emilie Taylor.

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site plan “This building is 80 years old. It was originally a grocery store, then a barroom. It was a restaurant off and on between the 70s and 80s, but the Liuzza family has always owned it. It represents a traditional neighborhood restaurant that used to be on most corners of the city. Horse trainers and musicians seem to like us. They come for the food and the reasonable prices.”

—Jimmy Lemarie, Co-owner of Liuzza’s by the Track

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“I’ve been coming here for more than five years for the gumbo and garlic oyster po boys. You never know who you might see—sometimes famous musicians. It draws a more intelligent group of tourists. The building is well worn like a comfortable pair of shoes.”

– Mike Robeson, Customer

Liuzza’s PLAN

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A. Dining area B. Bar & counter seating C. Kitchen D. Gambling room

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From left: Heather Booth and a crowded Thursday night, by Abram Himelstein; Liuzza’s bar, by Helen Juergens; Gregory Thompson, by Abram Himelstein.

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Billy

GrUBer

Co-owner

Billy is a favorite son of New Orleans. He grew up in a time and place where he could have chosen a much easier path, but he would have missed many of the best parties. There is a lot behind the chef/owner’s carefree attitude: service in Vietnam, fatherhood, several outstanding restaurants, and a social network the length and breadth of the city. There isn’t a bar or restaurant that I’ve ever been where Billy wasn’t known and cherished.

Other than my father, there aren’t many men I look up to, but Billy is one. Maybe this is why it was a struggle to work up the nerve to ask him for the interview. I went by his house, just over a block away from Liuzza’s. We sat at the kitchen table, and he told stories. The point of many of the stories was how much the patrons of Liuzza’s made the place special—pointing towards Dave Reed, Ben Gasper, and others. All true, but it takes a special kind of restauranteur who will let the patron become his partners, and eventually, his family.

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Billy supplied his own image for this interview.

Abram: So tell me, did you ever go to Liuzza’s before you– Billy: I think one time, and I don’t know why. I thought then it was just a sleazy, rough place.

A: Any charm? There are some charming places that are both sleazy and rough.

B: Yeah, it reminded me of places in the neighborhood that I grew up. I’m 61. You looked around and you saw things that had been there 30 years with cobwebs on it.

A: So how did you get married to Liuzza’s?

B: Good word. I started and ran Palm Court Jazz Café in the French Quarter. After you start something off and it’s blastin off, the thrill is gone. I just like to move on and do some other things. I knew Mack Rebennack—Dr. John’s— ex-wife, Sally, from down in the Quarter. She used to work for Pete Fountain. She mentioned this place and I just said, “Where?” I didn’t know anything. I had lived in the Quarter for ten years doing Palm Court. If you know anything about neighborhoods in the city, once you get in a hood, you really don’t move out of it too much.

A: Why would you want to?

B: Right, cause there’s the grocery, the banks, the hospitals. They have everything you need— all the watering holes on earth and the food. But anyway, I went and looked at it. I didn’t know the neighborhood. I knew the racetrack. I grew up at the racetrack. My father had a lot of horses.

The price was okay, and I realized, “Okay, Jazz Fest.”

Jack Liuzza had died about eight years before Jimmy and I took over— it had been in a tailspin since that time. When he had it, they supposedly had some of the best fried chicken around. It was a neighborhood place, and it was a horse business place cause you had three or four months really of the horses. The bar opened at three and closed at whatever. The two girls there had been there a long, long time. As a matter of fact, they ran it.

The bar just had these seedy characters. It wasn’t the most delightful fraternity brothers you’ve ever seen partaking in libations, but we just kept going and got a little game plan: Let’s do food.

We just wanted to do the basics, just a sandwich

po boy shop. We had to clean it out. It was terrible—they had holes in the kitchen floor, it was all wooden—and we didn’t start off with a lot of capital.

We opened right before the racetrack season started. It was me and this woman, Bernetta McMillan, who I now consider one of my dearest and best friends. She’s not there right now because of Katrina. (She’s in my will by the way.) She came to apply for the job. I called Martin Wine Cellar where she was working, and the guy just kept repeating her name, “Bernetta, Bernetta, Bernetta. Oh. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t curse, doesn’t drink. Just knows everything about football. Her favorite sport is tennis. Doesn’t like rap music at all, likes any kind of music.” She was the only person in 30 years in the business that I told something once and never had to say it again—and it was exactly as I wanted it done.

When you first open a restaurant, all your friends are the first wave that comes in and that’s pretty good because that fills the place up. You have to listen to their B.S. but it still works. And then at night, the track was starting to come in. One time, I was behind the bar looking at the people.

I’m not a scaredy-cat, but I wondered if I made my first mistake. I have never seen such stuff at the bar. I got a little worried.

On a Saturday, I’d see all the locals. They would all bitch, “We work. We could never get the food cause you close at 4:30. We get home at 5:00 and that’s it.” Well, about two months later we opened up at night til 8:30. The first two years, I threw out over 60 people and thank God 90 percent of those were talked out in conversation. Maybe there was 10 percent I had to get a little stronger, but that was it.

After about the three years, people started paying attention. If you’re not a Paul Prudhomme or an Emeril Lagasse or a John Besh, it takes quite some time. If you’re doing it on a shoestring budget, selling sandwiches for three and four dollars, you don’t have money for advertising.

We started getting recognized. One of the first people to come in was Jessie Tirsch, who is the

food writer at NOLA.com and also co-wrote one of Emeril’s cookbooks. She was one of the first ones to recognize the gumbo, and said it was the best in the city. Then all the other magazines followed and we gained national recognition.

A: Became the moving train.

B: The Gumbo Nazi.

Good People A: So I want to talk a little bit about the social landscape at Liuzza’s, which is why I really have made it home for so many years.

B: I was on the North Shore with my first restaurant. That was when everybody fled the white flight out of the city to Metairie and to North Shore in 1976, 77—a certain genre of people, certain income, certain this, certain that. When I left there, I did one or two other restaurants over there, but I just missed New Orleans. I came back and did the Palm Court Jazz Café— one of the top jazz clubs in the city. That was cool cause I got to meet a lot of Europeans during Jazz Fest because Nina, my partner in that, was English. I was lucky to be there because of the old jazz musicians, the ones who started the jazz in the city. When I got to Liuzza’s, it was just some good people, you know. Got stories like every group.

I started to see a core of people, and then friends developed out of that, and I became very lucky to be at this place— to meet some of the characters. These are Damon Runyon characters, some of the most lovable people on earth, some of the craziest, some of the hardest drinkin, hardest partyin, “Wait, don’t close, it’s only 4:00.”

I could name 30 people that I became friends with, including yourself. Some bartenders started bringing in their people and everybody started meeting each other. We had Whole Foods down the street where their crew would come in, and Dave Reed— God bless him—is just one of the best. People look at him and they just see this guy with long shoulder length hair, smoking and drinking, but one of the sharpest guys.

A: And sweetest.

B: I’m very lucky to consider him a friend. Ben Gasper, we have a portrait of him up at Liuzza’s.

When you first meet Ben, he’s missing a tooth out the side of his head and he’s got the greatest smile on earth. All the women seem to bow down to his feet. He’s got long gray hair that’s a little frizzy and he always puts it in a ponytail with a welder’s cap. I’ve turned him on to a number of people, friends of mine, who are contractors—he’s probably one of the best welders anywhere around the city and he does his deal.

In the beginning days, he had a motorcycle and it was always there. It was the Italian bike.

A: Moto Guzzi. It’s his girlfriend.

B: Yeah, one of the best bikes on earth. Somebody took a photo of Liuzza’s that we sell in the place and Ben’s bike is right out front.

If I come in in the morning, he’ll go, “Well Bill.

Bread man was by. I told him to come back in a little.” He just took care of the place. And the other side of Ben, we would go out and somebody would say, “If you drink twelve shots of tequila at this bar, you can get a free t-shirt.” So Ben naturally drinks the twelve shots, and more shots and more shots, cause he could get something else.

A: He can drink.

B: Yeah. As he would take care of me in the morning, I would take care of him some mornings. “Bill, I don’t know where my keys are.”

Mr. Leaf That brings me to Mr. Leaf. We inherited Gordon Leaf. He lived next door behind the garage to Liuzza’s and had an old crotchety beard. He had his own chair. He always seemed like a mean man. He had the seat on the window in the bar and drank Dixie beer. Jeopardy was his thing.

It used to come on at 4:00. All of a sudden, I’m hearing these answers come out of this corner.

The guy’s like an 85%. I said, “What’s the deal?”

He goes, “Well Bill, I was a merchant marine, but I never gambled. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do

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anything. All I did was read.” And he said, “I got to know a couple of things.”

Well, he started being a friend and always taking care of anything that wasn’t right. He got sick and had cancer. He had no family here. His son was in California in the service. The daughter was in Colorado. He had given me their numbers. I went and got the home healthcare nurse cause he was eligible to do it. I called his son. I said, “You know, you better get here. He’s not doing well.” He came down. I met him, and he didn’t impress me that much, and left.

Mr. Leaf’s ashes at Liuzza’s, by Abram HImelstein.

Gordon started getting worse and he had to go in some place. He had to get out of his house. He just lived in one bed, no nothing. He came in, drank, and came back there. That was it. And he read. Books were all over the place.

I started looking into hospice care. He had a sense of humor most people didn’t get. At the nursing home, they called him the Unabomber cause he was just scary. Gordon wound up dying in there. I talked to the sister. She was really nice. I had him write down all of his last things, and he wanted to be cremated and buried at sea.

I went to the place and got his ashes done. I said, “We’re gonna have a service for him. I think he would want to have it here at Liuzza’s because these were his friends, nobody else.”

I hired a yellow school bus and got everybody on. It was about 30 people, and we brought Leaf.

I don’t know if you’ve ever felt an urn; a whole body is kind of heavy. It’s about 15 pounds. I got a knapsack, put him in the back, and we all get on. We’re drinking, pounding them down, and we get to the the ferry. I forgot busses can’t go on ferries. I said, “All right, this is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get off, go over to the

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Old Point Bar on the other side of the River, and then we’re gonna catch it back in about an hour.

Drinks on Leaf.” We put tunes on, we’re all telling Leaf stories, and we go back to the ferry.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the back of the ferry. When the engines start, all the seagulls gather around because they think it’s a shrimp boat. Anne Marie, a bartender at the time who had this beautiful operatic voice, started to sing “A Closer Walk With Thee.” Eric, the lawyer who has a humungous opera voice, starts to sing, too. Then everybody starts singing it and the tambourines start hitting it. We brought the tops of over 50 flowers. I took the urn and saved a little bit—he’s still in the bar by the way— but poured him into the river. We poured Dixie beer into the River, too. We caught it on a film, and when we got back, we played the tape over again. I had people who were there say, “Listen, when I die, I want you to throw my funeral.”

232-BIRD There’s so much history about the place. I think it may be, outside of a couple of other really good places in the city, one of the more eclectic places in the city: Black, white, old, young. How can you talk about the place without talking about Bird? You know the story. He was sleeping under the house across the street. He always spoke very loud. After throwing all the other people out, I knew he was next. I caught him in a bathroom smoking a joint and said, “That’s it. You’re out.” Louise—she was from Australia—was one of the main people who instigated in hiring of Bird. Asked me if we should and I said, “Let’s give him a shot.” He became a waiter. I have friends that have spent $40,000 trying to go to rehab to stop druggin and drinkin, and this guy just looked in the mirror and did it. He was the

most phenomenal person. When the place really got on the map, and when you had all the judges and limousines and cabs were pulling up from the Quarter, they don’t ask for me or Jimmy, they ask for Bird. “Where’s Bird?” Oh, he’s over there. Okay. He became– A: One of the icons. I remember a very profound day for me when my car wouldn’t start.

I had a job interview, and I went to Liuzza’s because there would be somebody there to help me. It was three in the afternoon so it was kind of empty. I realized the person who I was gonna ask to borrow a car was Bird, who when I first met him, was literally living under the house.

He gave me his Lincoln. You know, “Bring it back by four cause when I get off I get off.”

B: The irony behind that is one of my friend’s father, Abe Michael, was one of the better football players at LSU, but he also became one of the best doctors around. Toward the end, he didn’t need too much for a car. When he died, the car was there and his son was gonna get rid of it. I said, “Well, anyway, you should sell it to Bird.”

A: That became Bird’s car?

B: And he’s kept it to this day. You get in the car, it’s as clean as it was the first day he got it.

When he started not drugging and drinking, he had a card printed—he was the secretary of transportation. So when we all wanted to go out and get really, really stupid and not hire cabs, we’d get Bird.

A: 232-BIRD. B: Not only did you get a ride, you got entertainment that you couldn’t have ever asked for.

Then, later on at night when you think you’re

Vernon “Bird” Diaz in front of his Lincoln, by Abram Himelstein.

ready to go in, he’d go, “You know, I know this place that’s open.” Man. Then all of a sudden I meet another part of the great society of New Orleans, just somewhere way, way deep where I’d never been. There ain’t too many places in the city I haven’t been.

A: Well, you put me in mind to one other person I can’t leave this interview without talking about. You’re not gonna even remember this, but I used to live with Leaky—Maleika.

A: Okay, so it’s advice you regularly give.

B: You know, after the first two years at Palm Court, we had three busboys. We school them on how to get a checking account, going to school. The second year, I’ll never forget: all three went to college. I tell them all, “This is what you need to do. If you don’t make it then, yeah, come on back then. We’ll elevate you in this business.”

B: Yeah, and I was very jealous of you all cause you all were the best dancers I ever seen.

A: When you first hired Maleika, you told her it was a good place to work for a year, but “then you need to keep going.” As somebody who’s spent their lifetime in a restaurant, why you didn’t want that for Maleika?

B: She was young. I try to tell everybody that.

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want to know where Liuzza’s was because they had heard of it. It’s funny in the ownership, the old lady won’t allow anybody to go upstairs.

There’s times when I swear I see somebody moving around up there, a ghost or something. Billy and Jimmy wanted to put a sports bar up there: Downstairs restaurant, sports bar upstairs with the video poker and maybe some big screen TVs. She won’t lease it. From what I understand, the place is just like it was when the day she walked out with curtains and bedding and dishes.

Ben

Gasper

A: Just never gone back.

Welder & Liuzza’s Mainstay Benjamin Gasper is probably the best storyteller in a city filled with talent. He has a raspy voice earned from cigarettes and tequila, and is known to enjoy both to the fullest. He regularly rocks the cutoffs and cowboy boots, and is very proud of his legs. He is 65 years old, draws Social Security and works on welding projects around the neighborhood. Where there is live jazz or blues, you are likely to find Ben, complaining about how lesser men have girlfriends, so where is his girlfriend?

He lives just two doors down from Liuzza’s, and it is basically an extension of his house. Pre-cell phone, it was a regular thing for Ben to get messages dropped off at the bar. For many people, Ben is the sergeant at arms of Liuzza’s, and it was only right that he be one of its spokespeople. The hardest part of this interview was turning the tape recorder on, as Ben and I are regular backgammon adversaries. Eventually we put the backgammon to the side, and I got Ben to go on the record.

Abram: How did you first start hanging out at Liuzza’s?

B: No. And I would assume that when she passes, the children will get rid of it as quick as they can. But as long as she’s alive, nobody’s going up there.

Mixed?

Ben Gasper, by Abram Himelstein.

B: Yes, I can’t even remember who had it.

A: So what year—more or less—was this?

B: I’m thinking this was like ’94, ’93, somewhere in there. And then two gay guys took over and they weren’t really successful. And then a couple took it, and they liked to fight each other when there wasn’t any other excitement in the bar. She always accused him of cheating. He always accused her of mishandling the money.

After they gave up, Billy and Jimmy took it and that’s when it became a better place to eat. The food was awesome.

Ben: I had a friend who went there. He encouraged me to go and I liked the place. I liked the atmosphere and the people. I met a lot of people, made a lot of friends, so I enjoyed myself and continue to come back. Of course, it was quite different than what it is now.

A: What’s your favorite thing to eat there?

What’s your steady dish?

A: How is it different?

A: To me, Liuzza’s is a part of why that neighborhood was thriving. I don’t think it was one of the main economic engines anymore, but for a while it was.

B: Well, for one, there was a pool table. I enjoyed playing pool, and on Fridays and Saturdays there was a DJ, so you had music.

A: Is that before these owners had it?

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B: Hmm. I guess it’s not my favorite steady dish, but my favorite dish would be the shrimp stew, which I don’t get very often.

B: Definitely. People came from all over to eat there. Somebody would come to town, they’d

B: After I’d been hanging out at Luizza’s for a while, I realized I had been to Liuzza’s before—I just didn’t realize it was the same place. At the time, I lived on the Westbank and my girlfriend took a job bartending at Liuzza’s. It was like 1975, and I didn’t want to go in and cause a racial scene—she was a redneck from Alabama. I would let her off at the corner by the laundromat, she would walk down, and then I would pick her up after her shift in the same place.

A: And it was all a white bar back then?

B: Oh yeah. It was definitely a white establishment along with a lot of other places. So I was in there awhile before I realized that this was the bar that she had worked at. I’ve asked around and nobody seems to remember her from that far back.

A: But during the pool table era— B: Oh no, the pool table, it was multiracial.

A: Do you think Liuzza’s is different than other bars in terms of race stuff?

B: No. It’s just typical New Orleans neighborhood bar. I mean it’s not good or bad racially— it’s just people.

A: I guess when I first went, I found it to be more mixed than most of the neighborhood bars I knew of.

B: Actually when you stop and think about it, it never was very mixed.

A: Maybe half the regulars.

B: There was the family that stayed in nearby, too. They would come in maybe once every two or three weeks and Billy used to call them “the first family of the restaurant” because when he opened, I guess they came and supported him.

Once again, you’re talking about a Creole family that didn’t even look black anyway. It wasn’t overly mixed.

A: So you’d say it’s mostly a white bar? Or you would just say it’s mixed?

B: I’ve never really thought about it cause— A: It’s the home bar.

B: Yeah, it’s the neighborhood bar. Whoever lives in the neighborhood goes and if you don’t have many blacks in the neighborhood, then you don’t have many blacks in the bar.

ers, backgammon, dominoes—everybody in the neighborhood just went every night. It was a friendly place where you felt safe and enjoyed yourself. Hell, I moved to my apartment to be close to Liuzza’s.

A: When I was there, it became like this almost fantasyland for me for awhile.

B: That’s because of people like Maleika. Maleika did four shifts a week and during her four shifts, that’s when it was the most enjoyable.

The place started its downfall when she decided to go to school. She gave up three of her shifts, and she only worked one night a week. And then the bartenders were allowed to use their own discretion about closing. And when they had that freedom, they’d just start closing early. About this time, Pal’s came to be, and people started drifting over to Pal’s because Pal’s was a late night place.

A: I remember that.

B: I remember watching you dance and criticizing you.

A: Do you remember me dancing with Malika or with Shana?

B: Yeah, you danced with Maleika cause Maleika could dance with anyone and make them look good.

A: I taught Maleika to dance for real.

B: I find that hard to believe.

A: Ask her.

B: Because her dancing is totally different from yours.

A: That was the basis of our friendship. We used to go dancing in Iowa City.

A: It’s true. I used to have a lot of late nights there and that’s just not possible anymore.

B: She actually dances. You just stand there and throw your partner around.

A: You thought about it in 1975 when you dropped off your girlfriend.

B: Oh, we used to stay til three, four. Push all the tables in back and just—

A: Show me sometime.

B: Well, in 1975, I had that experience, and in 1993 it wasn’t like that anymore. You know? I can say this much, with a few exceptions, it’s not a place to pick up a lady.

A: Dance.

B: Dance.

B: How you throw your partner around?

A: No, how you recommend?

A: [Laughs] B: There ain’t much available cause it’s just the neighborhood.

Music A: Anything stand out about Liuzza’s for you?

What’s special about that place?

B: I guess the only thing special about it now is that I want it to be special. I’m in the habit of going there. It’s a fast dying habit because they’re not open very much. Kitchen closes at 7:00 and 7:02 they’re out of there.

A: Tell me, what has made it so special over time?

B: Friends and the people who work there. I mean, at one time it was like the neighborhood community center. You’d go and there’d be people playing different games like poker, checkBen Gasper, by Abram Himelstein.

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35

B: Oh, actual foot movement, dance steps.

A: I got some of those. I just don’t be bustin them out in front of anybody.

B: Oh, hell.

A: Well, tell me about the Thursday night music thing.

B: It’s good and bad. Like last Thursday, Johnny had a five or six piece band, and they rocked.

That’s as good as I’ve ever seen or heard him play. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Some nights he doesn’t care to bring all his guys or they’re on other gigs. Sometimes he just uses the Thursday nights thing as a little practice session. It varies.

You know? One of the people I really enjoy who doesn’t come often is Spencer Bourne.

A: Lives across the street?

B: Yeah, Spencer’s awesome. Plays a lot of bridge music, though.

A: What’s bridge music?

B: Bridge music is after you listen to it long enough you get so depressed you go up on the bridge and jump off. He plays a slide guitar with a lot of feeling and emotion—songs like Billy Joe McAllister. You can almost see poor Billy jumping off the bridge. You feel like following him.

A: The old regular crowd comes back for Thursdays?

B: Right. And a lot of newies depending on what band is playing. Last week, I hardly recognized 75 percent of the people there, and it was crowded. When Anders Osborn plays, he has a following. You know? And then sometimes Bruce “Sunpie” Barnes—he has a following, so you see people who you don’t normally see.

A: Well, I’m closing up the interview here. What should the world else know about Liuzza’s?

B: If people want to find me, they can come to Liuzza’s

.

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Top to bottom: Ben outside Liuzza’s on Thursday night; Bruce “Sunpie” Barnes playing at the restaurant, by Abram Himelstein.

Kelly

Sansone

Bartender & Co-curator of Thursday Night Music Kelly behind the bar at Liuzza’s, by Abram Himestein.

Kelly is a neighborhood fixture, often seen on her bicycle or in the sidecar of Johnny’s motorcycle heading down the bayou towards her job behind the bar at Liuzza’s.

Like many New Orleanians, she was born elsewhere, and appreciates New Orleans all the more for having spent time in another place.

The first time I came down to New Orleans was for Jazz Festival, and I was absolutely over the moon about it. I brought cards from the Rainbow. My boss said, “Go see as many bands as you possibly can, give them your cards, and get them to come to Canada to play.”

Despite my wife having worked alongside her for many years, I really didn’t know Kelly well, but I wanted to interview her about the way she has built up Thursday nights at Liuzza’s over the years, and about her commitment to New Orleans music, which is profound.

We went to Tipitina’s the first night and saw the Iguanas. I went up and introduced myself and gave them cards. Three days later, I happened to be at Pat O’Brien’s—which it’s bizarre that we were even there—and the guys from the Iguanas were there.

Abram: All right, Kelly Lafleur Sansone. We’re here to really get to the heart of how we came to be in front of this bar in this day and age. I’m gonna start off by asking how did you get to New Orleans?

Kelly: I worked at a place in Ottawa, Canada called the Rainbow Bistro that was a blues club, but they had a lot of music from New Orleans— roots rock. I worked there for a few years and I loved the music. The owner of the club’s name was Ronnie Knowles. His mother was from Mississippi originally and his father was Canadian who went to school here. Ronnie went back and forth from Canada to New Orleans.

A: Which is bizarre also.

K: All the sudden it starts raining. They all pop up these umbrellas and are holding them over the Canadian girls’ heads. I thought, “Oh, this is nice. I love this place.” Real Southern gentlemen. I’ll never forget that. We became friends.

I went back to Ottawa, and realized how much I love this town.

I met my husband, Johnny, when I came back for Jazz Fest the next year. He was playing at Benny’s Bar on Camp and Valence. Some of the guys from the Iguanas were good friends with Johnny. They’d played in his band years before,

and they wanted me to meet him.

We saw each other throughout that week at different clubs and shows. I called my boss back at the Rainbow and said, “I’ve met this guy, Jumpin’ Johnny Sansone. I think that you should really book this guy in Ottawa.” And he said, “Oh, my God. Definitely.”

I said, “You’ve heard of him? I never have.” And he said, “Yeah, my kids love his CD,” which made me a little nervous because his kids were 12 and six. I booked a Canadian tour for him.

He came up, played, and did very well. I moved here six months later, which is kind of quick in some people’s minds, but— A: Yeah, you’re talking to a man who was engaged before I’d ever kissed my wife.

K: Really?

A: Literally. I proposed via letter and we’d never kissed.

K: Damn.

A: So six months don’t sound that fast to me.

When you know, you know.

K: That’s how I felt.

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Music at Liuzza’s A: So how did you come to Liuzza’s? How did you start working here?

K: Oh, that was many years later. I worked at the Palm Court and Bill Gruber ran the kitchen there. I always, always loved Billy. I worked at the Palm Court for four years, and the first two were fabulous. The last two were horrifying. I finally snapped and left that place. I came over and asked Billy if he had a job for me. He said, “Yeah, two shifts a week, lunch hours.” But then things changed and people came and left. Maleika, who used to work here— A: Maleika Rainbow Knight Simoneaux.

K: She worked here Thursdays. I don’t know who started the music thing.

A: Maleika and Tom Marin.

K: They started doing this jam bluegrass thing and it was great. But it was later because the hours were later then. It would start at 9:00 after the kitchen closed.

A: Maleika loved it, but it was mostly carried by the musicians themselves. Who was that couple?

K: Jeff Burke and Vida Wakeman. And Mike Kerwin plays with them on the road every now and then but he also has his own thing here. That went on for years. I didn’t work Thursdays then because that was Maleika’s thing, but then the storm happened and nothing happened for a long time. I remember coming back from Canada and calling Jimmy to open. He said, “You’re not here. You have no idea.” Tony said, “We’re in the walk-in today and we’re cleaning it out. I’ve got a gas mask on. Would you like some gumbo?” It was horrifying. Hey, Ben.

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Johnny Sansone playing at Liuzza’s, by Abram Himelstein.

Ben: You’ve got an interview?

K: Yeah.

lost everything and Joe was a huge collector of all kinds of 50s, 60s, and 70s furniture that’s very expensive and—

B: Oh, okay. I’m very jealous.

A: Vintage.

A: Ben was the first one I did.

K: He lost all his tapes and all his music. He’s really devastated, living in a trailer for the last two years working on his house. But anyway, I came home and he said, “You all right?” I went, “No, I really am sad.” And he’s like, “Ah, honey, it’s all right. You’ll be fine.” He’s hugging me and comforting me at my kitchen table and, you

K: So anyway, Jimmy finally let us open up, but it was rough. One day, I went back to my house and I’m just beside myself. I didn’t get water in my house. And Joe Cabral from the Iguanas and his girlfriend Valerie are at my house. They’ve

Heather Booth and the Terranovas, owners of a grocery store near Liuzza’s, at Ben Gaspar’s birthday party, which was held on a Thursday night at Liuzzas, by Abram Himelstein. Everyone was dressed as Ben.

know, he doesn’t have a kitchen table and he’s lost all his shit.

We started doing music here again on Thursdays and Spencer Bohren, who lives three houses away, was interested in doing it and Johnny wanted to do it with him, as well as other musicians that were in town—just mix it up and have somebody new every week and just get things happening. It’s grown into something that’s been a good thing.

Part time community center A: The focus of this book is about a bunch of different places that communities gather. One is a vacant lot where people play horseshoes. When I was asked to do a a chapter, I thought, “Liuzza’s is kind of that community center here.” I mean, some years more than others, and some times more than others. What does it mean to you and what role do you think it plays in people’s lives?

K: It was a gathering place as more and more people came back into the neighborhood and realized that this was something that was gonna be there. Thursday nights they could come and enjoy it—maybe sit in. Different musicians were coming back—not just Johnny and his band, but other musicians that he knew. Their bands play as well.

A: Is Ben making faces behind me?

K: I didn’t even notice.

A: Are people playing on each other’s records that are meeting each other here—is that kind of cross-pollination happening?

K: Oh, yeah, I think so. Definitely. And people who get big paying gigs, that wouldn’t normally do this kind of thing, are just so happy to come and sit in or play for not a lot of money. We pass around the tip jug. It’s the Liuzza’s Tip Jug Concert Series.

Conclusion

A: You know, it’s interesting to me. Billy spent his whole life in restaurants. From my outside perspective, his life looks very rich and wonderful. I don’t know how he feels about it on a day-to-day level, but I have always romanticized his life. My wife worked here for five years and it was a good life. You have clearly made a life for yourself in this world as well. How do you feel about that, and what are pros and what are the cons?

K: I got cars to paint and shit.

K: Well, it’s not a place like Tipitina’s or House of Blues or one of those idiot places where you’re dealing with suits and tourists and fucked up people like that. You’re dealing with neighborhood people, and I run this show.

A: And you work 16 hours a week?

A: Well, help me paint a picture of Liuzza’s.

Tell me in your words.

Ben: I got things to paint.

B: See your husband’s doing his carpentry work.

K: Yeah, he’s at Anders Osborne’s place doing carpentry work. That’s a payoff for Anders helping produce his record.

A: Wow. K: I know, isn’t that great? Have you heard his CD? A: Just the one on the jukebox.

K: Yeah, but the new one?

A: No. K: Oh, I gotta get you a copy of that.

K: Sometimes I’ll pick up another shift if I need a new pair of shoes.

This is what I mean about living in this town.

My husband’s got a song, not to plug him, but it’s Poor Man’s Paradise. That’s what it really is.

You can live so much easier here and not have to work a lot. I like to work on my house. I work on Johnny’s career. That’s our life. This is just side stuff, but it works for us.

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y r r te y b an m Ro

Roman

By terry

Seventh Ward The corner of North Roman & Columbus Terry Joseph was born and raised near the corner of North Roman and Columbus in a double shotgun camelback. He raised six children of his own there, and still lives in the family house. He worked at Coleman Box Company on Jefferson Highway for 20 years until they sold out to Georgia Pacific. He then worked at the Westin Hotel for more than a decade in the maintenance department. Now retired, on any given afternoon and early evening, I can find him sitting outside on his stoop, informally hosting a group of friends.

Pat’s decision to buy the field goes against the trend of abandoned property in the Seventh Ward. Nearby, there are other adjudicated, overgrown lots where ownership is tangled in city bureaucracy. Despite efforts from many neighbors, they remain unclaimed and are often sites of violence. Roman and Columbus is a different story. Any time I walk or drive by, something is going on. Music or Saints football games blare from car stereos, news and cold beer are shared, and a pack of wild chickens are fussed over and fed.

Across the street from his house is a vacant lot owned by another neighbor, Pat O’Brien, but maintained by Terry’s group of friends as a larger gathering spot. Everyone calls it “the field.”

Many of the guys who pass by, making Roman part of their daily routine, grew up together on the surrounding blocks. They experienced the racism of Jim Crow, the complexity of Cre-

ole culture in a country that sees only black and white, the desegregation of New Orleans schools, and the struggles of work and family together.

They know the insides of shotgun doubles and the streetscapes intimately. I was told on first meeting, “We can tell you’re not from round here by the way you say Laharpe.” This street, one block away, was smooth enough for roller skates when they were young. It’s still how they remember it.

Most of them have moved to different parts of the city. It is a common story in the Seventh Ward—the migration to Gentilly, New Orleans East, or the Westbank—and after living in the neighborhood for more than six years, I was curious to know more about it. Many of the guys who hang on North Roman and Columbus still have family in the community, and most still consider it their center of gravity. They watch over the corner, and the youngsters who pass by or play football in the field when horseshoes aren’t being thrown.

I asked Eron Jordan, a student at the high school I teach at and my neighbor, why this corner was important to our part of the Seventh Ward. He said “People don’t care where you come from, they bring everyone together.” In another community, this might sound cliched, but in a city where teenagers are shot down in the streets for stepping on someone else’s territory, it translates into real safety.

—Rachel Breunlin

Roman by Terry photo montage, by Helen Juergens

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site plan “I was born here at 1481 North Roman, next to Terry.

When we were young—three years old—we’d touch hands through the fence. Terry’s the oldest friend in my life. I’ve known him for 66 years. When you say Roman, Roman’s big, yeah! You got a South Roman and a North Roman, but when we say Roman, we mean Roman Street

by Terry. You don’t need no address. After all these years, Terry’s still here.”

– William Barnes

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“It’s the spot where people have parties. You can chill; you’re free to play. It’s big and you can do anything in it: Tackle or touch football, kickball, man on the run. You got grown people over here and if a ball goes in the street, they watch to make sure we don’t get hit by a car. Sometimes they stay in the field and play horseshoes. Sometimes they cut the grass. You can take off your shoes and run around without getting glass in your feet.”

–Krystal and Frank Jordan with their friend, Tirrell Rattle, holding football

North Roman & columbus PLAN

From left: Nicholas “Butter” Cayette, Frank Jordan, George Brown, and Mark Kennedy, by Rachel Breunlin. The boys go to differnt schools, but meet up in the afternoon and on the weekends to play in the field. Considering whether they will know each other as long as the other fellas in the neighborhood, Frank says, “All of us say we’re going to the same college–LSU”; The fellas on the corner of North Roman and Columbus, courtesy of Terry Joseph; Eron Jordan and Edwin Cayette, by Rachel Breunlin. The older brothers of Frank and Butter, are Eron and Edwin are students at John McDonogh Senior High and Warren Easton, respectively. They agree that North Roman is not “about what ward you’re from. They’re willing to accept you for who you are.”

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TERRY

JOSEPH

I lived around the block from Terry for nine months, but didn’t introduce myself until I returned from exile in Houston. November 2005. Most of our neighbors weren’t home yet, and I felt this desperation for signs that the blocks would fill up with families again. At night, I would walk my dog and count the houses with lights on as evidence of how quickly our part of the Seventh Ward was coming back. We’d gotten water in the streets, but many of the houses, raised up, escaped flooding. Decisions to return home were more complicated than just the house, and many remained empty.

After a few weeks, I started to see a group of older men hanging on Roman and Columbus. I introduced myself, and realized this corner had a real presence because of Terry’s house. Over the following months, I’d often end up with a Heineken in my hand talking about the struggles of rebuilding. For awhile, I thought everyone was there because of the trauma of the storm, and the irregular schedules we were all keeping while trying to get things back together. It soon became clear that Terry had been hosting for years, and that I’d just been too busy before Katrina to really notice.

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Terry with his address and phone number book that kept him connected to family and friends after Katrina, by Rachel Breunlin.

Terry: I was born and raised at 1477 North Roman Street. I raised five kids—[laughs]—six kids, with my youngest MiJah—in the same house. I was away 10 years. I came back to this house and here I am now. This is my home. I told my exwife after the storm, “It’s gonna take a bulldozer to get me out of this house.”

My mother was a dressmaker. And my father had three jobs to support us. He played jazz, he fixed radios and TVs, and he worked at I.L. Lyons, a wholesale drug company. I admire him for that.

I’ll tell anybody: “My daddy had three jobs.”

Rachel: What kind of music did he play?

T: Drums. He played for dances.

R: You grew up with a lot of music in your house?

T: Oh yeah. My grandmother had a piano in her living room, and you see them play there. I used to go by my uncle Waldren Joseph’s house. He played trombone and they retired his horn. His horn is sitting in a museum at Preservation Hall.

R: Were there any particular albums that people used to play a lot?

T: My father used to love Ray Charles.

R: Did you hear the story of how they got this house?

T: When they got married, they came into this house and we had just a room, a kitchen, and bath.

You had to go in the yard to brush your teeth, to use the bathroom. I guess I was still in grammar school when my father bought the house, and we renovated it. We used to have wooden steps.

You’d get splinters. We had to scrub them with red bricks. Can you believe that? We’d grind em up. They'd be white, white, white, almost like you!

We had to chop wood for the fireplaces. There’s chimneys on these houses. Y’all got it easy. We went through it hard. When we got a bathtub: Ooooh! [laughs] Taking baths in a tub without warming your water! Everybody was hitting the bathroom.

Terry with his grandfather and sister on North Roman, courtesy of the Joseph family.

How was it different than growing up white or growing up African American?

R: But there aren’t too many clubs around here anymore.

T: That’s what I was: African American. They talk about Creole, I came from a Creole family, but Creole and black, it’s the same to me. They figure cause you’re bright, you’re Creole.

T: I know. If you go on St. Bernard Avenue, you’ll find a few.

R: Do you remember hearing stories about people speaking French?

T: Woody died about three years ago. Joe and Jean musta been closed about five years.

T: It was French, yeah.When we was coming up, they didn't want you to know something, they'd talk that broken Creole.Yep. I remember that.

R: Would you like to see some of the clubs come back?

R: How was this area different from other ones like the Sixth Ward?

T: The Seventh and the Sixth was: They couldn’t come here, we couldn’t go over there without protection. And that’s the way it used to be when we was coming up. But now it’s just like one ward. Just like it changed to Esplanade Ridge. All my life we knew it as the Seventh Ward.

Stopping By R: You left the neighborhood for ten years?

Where were you living?

T: We bought a house on Dreaux Avenue in Gentilly. My family and I were living there: my wife Jody and my five kids.

Seventh Ward R: How would you describe the neighborhood when you were growing up?

T: It’s the same way it is now. They’re tightly knit. And we have love for each other. And this is why you see the barbequing and the different things we do.

R: And how would you describe the people who lived here when you were growing up?

T: It was almost all white. My father bought this house from the white family that stayed next door. They had houses around the corner—they had people with money. And we were poor. It was mostly Creole families that stayed around here.

R: And does your family identify as Creole?

T: I would think so.

R: How would you describe growing up Creole?

R: When did they close down?

T: No, I don’t think so. They gone. They draw the wrong crowd. I’d rather sit on my porch and drink my beer or look at my game than sit in the club.

R: And now people who grew up in the neighborhood that don’t live here anymore come and hang out at your place?

T: Oh yeah. I don’t understand, but that’s the way it is. I mean, they’re all saying how good a guy I am. I had this house rented out before the storm. I was upstairs, but I rented the first floor out cuz it was big— I didn’t need all that. And my tenant had this house real messed up. I mean, holes in all the walls. All my friends pitched in.

Yep. From the floors, the walls, all the painting and all that.

Trust and Safety

R: Did you miss the neighborhood when you were in Gentilly?

R: When you were growing up, did you feel real safe in this area?

T: Yes, I used to come around here. I’d go to church, go see my mama on Virgil, and then come around here. Any way you went you didn’t have to walk too far to go to a club. They had clubs all over! You leave out this one, in the same block, you was in another club. There was Joe and Jean’s HotSpot on Prieur and Lapeyrouse. And they had Woody’s on Prieur on the opposite side of Lapeyrouse. I used to give my birthday parties at either one of them. James Rivers used to play there.

T: Yeah, we used to could sleep with that big door open and just with a screen.You didn’t have to lock your doors. Not when we was coming up.

R: Did they do the Blue Monday?

T: Yeah, Woody would have red beans every Monday and seafood on Fridays. Oh, I was down here every day. Come from work, stop, get me a couple of drinks, and go on in Gentilly. Weekends, you right there.

R: And now? How do you feel about the safety?

T: I’ve got an alarm and when I go to sleep at night, I put that alarm on, I got dead bolts and all that. That’s how I feel. Most of the time I sleep in the front room.

R: How did it go from leaving your doors open to feeling like you need to have bars on the doors and windows?

T: Generation changed. Because me myself, I’m afraid to even drive my car late at night—maybe somebody’s gonna stick a gun at my head. But all the youngsters that’s around here respect me.

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Glenn Doucette, Renald “Dinky” Edwards, Wayne Louviere, and Gregory Hill, by Rachel Breunlin.

R: Do you think that’s the problem with new people moving into the neighborhood, they don’t know the younger people, so there’s some tension there?

T: The main thing, I believe, is respect. You got to give respect to get respect. And that’s the bottom line. I don’t disrespect nobody and I don’t want them to disrespect me.

R: What would you like to see happen in this part of the Seventh Ward?

T: Clean it up and get people in here. I’ll tell you what: If they live in this part, they’re living in a beautiful place.

R: What do you think that we could do better in the neighborhood?

Top to bottom: Winfield Barnes, Glenn Doucette, and Anthony Bougill, by Rachel Breunlin.

T: I would say unite. That’s all we ever did - to be united. From Claiborne to Galvez, people get together, and they got their little groove.

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TONY

MARRERO Tony Marrero is known as the mayor of Roman by Terry. A resident of New Orleans East before the storm, he grew up on North Roman Street and comes back almost every day to visit. A longshoreman, casual fisherman, and street corner philosopher, he often passes out beer and turns up his green truck’s stereo in support of the festive atmosphere.

After meeting Tony, I couldn’t help wishing he still lived on N. Roman. I tried to tell myself that he’s more present in the community than a lot of my neighbors who do live here, but I still wanted to ask him why, with all of the love he has for this part of the city, he didn’t want it to be his home. In asking about it, I had to acknowledge the contradiction of wanting this deep sense of place, while being a transplant myself. Maybe what’s hard about the Seventh Ward is that you see the abandoned houses, boarded up corner stores, and worry that when someone leaves, there won’t be someone to take their place.

Tony: As far as I know, my family’s been in the city all our lives. Grandmother, great-grandmother, they all came from the Seventh Ward. I was born at 1621 North Roman. When we was coming up, they had midwives. The lady would come over from across the street to help, and get you born. They didn’t have a lot of transportation back then to get to the hospital.

Tony feeding the Seventh Ward chickens, by Rachel Breunlin.

We had nine of us counting Mama and Daddy: Two bedrooms, three rooms, and what we used to call a gallery. (It’s a porch in the back.) We had so many of us that my grandmother raised my oldest brother. We had rollaway beds. Me and my brother slept together. My sisters slept together. But I’ll tell you what: With all that, the house was clean as a pin. Mama would clean every day, but general cleaning was every Saturday. You couldn’t go through the front door, you had to go through the back door. If you go through that front door, you’d get a little tap on your hands.

My daddy was a prizefighter. They said he was pretty good, but it’s hard to remember what he did. Back then, there was no big money in prizefighting, so he turned into a butcher. He

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them were just notorious. Really, all of them are dead today. We had some rough people around here. As sweet as it was, that’s how bad it was.

R: How did people perceive the Seventh Ward that didn’t live here?

T: It’s kinda hard for me to elaborate on that because I never looked at it like that. I always went everywhere. I never looked at it like, “This one is this, and that is that.” I always looked at it like, “We’re all God’s children.” I came up with that belief, but other people didn’t believe like that.

Cause I had a little curly hair or something like that, it was a difference. I was picked on until I grew up.

You know, it was a thing I was taught: “He’s black,” or “Hey, that’s a red boy,” or “He’s brown-skinned, he’s dark-skinned.” You know, that was a conflict back then. Today, it still exists but it ain’t as bad as it used to be. People more or less are coming together. The world is learning some things, but it’s not enough to stop what’s going on. That’s my perspective.

Terry Joseph, Louis Cordier, Gregory Hill, and Tony Marrero in front of Terry’s house, by Rachel Breunlin.

was working on Orleans Avenue. On Friday we used to wait for him to bring in fresh cold cuts, cause Mama wouldn’t cook on Friday. No, she wouldn’t cook at all. He’d bring that fresh ham, French bread. We’d make sandwiches. My daddy died when I was eight years old. After that, she just brought us up the best she could.

T: The boundaries are from Claiborne to Gentily to Esplanade to St. Bernard. [To one of the fellas] Look in the alley, they’ve got some Heinekens in there, bring it up.

Rachel: What was she like when you were growing up?

R: How is this area different than the other side of A.P. Tureaud?

T: We’d be playing outside and Mama’d say, “Come on in, eat, dinner’s ready,” and we would say, “What’d you got to eat, Mama?” She’d say, “I got grits,” and we’d say, “Aah, grits again?”

But she used to psyche us up and put food coloring in it. She’d say, “But today I got yellow grits.”

And then we’d be, “Yeah, yeah, yellow grits!”

And break into a trot to go inside and eat. But it kept us strong.

T: A.P. Tureaud used to be London Avenue; that was the Seventh Ward too. They was Creoles like we are, and they were part of the same system. We are a mix of black, Spanish, Indian, white. It’s just a mixture, and here we are. That’s the cards that were dealt to you. And those are good people. I mean, Creoles really built the city. You’ve got carpenters, electricians, plumbers. It’s like a class of people. Although we’re black—the city’s Black—it’s a difference. We couldn’t live in a different ward. Not back then.

The wards were different.

My mama still lives in the neighborhood, she’s 88. She’s still getting around today. She can’t get around as good as she could. You’ll walk her with your hand, and she’ll squeeze your hand to death. She’s strong as a bull, but she has a fear of falling.

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R: What would you say are the boundaries of this part of the Seventh Ward?

You know, every neighborhood has their good and bad. We had our gangsters and all. Some of

R: What were the white folks like back then?

T: The white folks were rough. We couldn’t go in the store. If a white person owned the store, you had a window in the back you had to go to.

If you go in that store, they’ll run you: “What you doing in here? Get em out of here, get em out of here.” We couldn’t travel. We couldn’t go to things like the lakefront. They’d run us, that’s how prejudice it was back then. It still exists today, but not as bad. I mean it’s wide open. People are coming together a little better.

It has changed, but everything else has changed a lot. The drugs have moved in and it is really rough now. The Seventh Ward is like almost the heart of the crime in the city. Even with the hurricane, it was like a cleansing to clean it out. The more and more people coming back, the drugs is coming back, and it’s gonna be the same way it was before.

New Orleans East R: When did you move out of the Seventh Ward?

T: I moved out of the Seventh Ward about nine years now. But it’s like I never moved because

I’m here every day. I bought a house on Chef Highway, and a block off of Bullard. Just wanted a little more space. But when I leave, I always come back.

R: What draws you back to the Seventh Ward all the time?

T: I don’t know, maybe I’m hoodoo. Like I said, I was born in a house in the middle of the block and the regulars, you know, just the people I was raised with, we all meet up for some reason.

We always come back. And here we are. This is home.

When they have events around town, we’ll all get together, like Old School in the Park. 102.9 was giving it, and we’d get together. Willy, Gregory, Glenn, and I call everybody up and get the menu together.

R: I come from a part of the world where people are moving and never coming back to the places they grew up. I’m probably one of them.

You know, I’m more committed to the Seventh Ward than I am to the place I grew up. Why do you think in this part y’all coming back and being together?

T: We all homegrown. Even in California, I was homesick. I did what I had to do there, but after a while, I wanted to end up back in New Orleans, in the Seventh Ward. I moved out of the Seventh Ward, but every day I’m here. You can always find us on Columbus and Roman.

Whether we’re throwing horseshoes, we might be hitting the golf balls on the lot, or cooking, or playing basketball or football, yeah. We got my little roosters running out there and I’m feeding them. We all try to stick together. And after all is said and done after the hurricane, we right back home.

R: Do you ever think about buying a house in the Seventh Ward again?

T: Yeah, I think about it, I think about it.

R: What would it take to get you to buy a house here?

Katy Green (middle with Glenn Green and Renald “Dinky” Edwards, resident “chickenologist”) says her decision to buy a house in the neighborhood was confirmed when she drove past the corner and the fellas waved to her. After Katrina, she volunteered for the Red Cross, and asked them to help distribute supplies because they knew everyone in the neighborhood.

In the process, she says, “they became my extended family.”

it, I looked at a few of them, but…

R: You don’t want to live in a shotgun?

T: No, I don’t want to. No privacy. If I have the family, they’ve got to come through the whole house to get to the restroom in the back. I’d like a house where you can get to the restroom without disturbing anybody. It’s really inconvenient, but a shotgun really brings the family together.

You learn patience because this one’s gonna come through, that one’s gonna come through, and you’re going to live like that. In other words, it’s not a selfishness thing. You can’t live in a shotgun and be selfish, it won’t work. If I had to do it all over again, I’d do it the same way.

T: Well, I was born in a shotgun house. It would have to be a house where I could do something with it and I could drive my car to the backyard.

Other than that, I wouldn’t buy. I thought about

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GREGORY

HILL

More than forty years after Gregory Hill moved out of the Seventh Ward, he still comes back to the spot where he was raised. A big talker, during our first conversation, he reported, “I been told I’m a social butterfly.

Some dude at work told me one time, ‘Yeah you can talk. I think you hold a conversation with the devil.’”

He has tremendous love for the Seventh Ward, but is honest about living in a city divided up by color. In the 1950s and 60s, the neighborhood was home to kids who had to tackle the racism and colorism of their community. Equal in the world of play, but deemed different in corner stores, public transportation, and schools, they were left to figure out their own bonds.

I always appreciate his honesty around race—not in the abstract, but in the way it is actually lived, and how it impacts relationships. Every neighborhood has to struggle with it. On Roman by Terry, the hospitality is extended to all visitors, while the realities of sharing space aren’t romanticized.

Gregory: This is my hood. I was raised here.

I came home from the hospital to my grandmother’s house on 1481 Roman, next to Terry.

The Seventh Ward had all the happenings. You would come from across the river to come over here. See a fella from the Seventh Ward, you’d give that respect and they respected you. I’d say, “Good evening.” I’d say, “Good night.” If you practice that, it comes natural.

My grandmother, Aurelia, was a Toregano.

She was a strong woman. She did it all for her family. My grandfather was a Barnes. He was a red-complected man and he came from up around Lafayette. He was a baker. He was baking until he died, just like they were together, till death do them part. They generated the family of Barnes. How many were there? Thirteen children. My mother, Leah, was the oldest girl. I grew up with my grandmother, my grandfather, and my cousins Elwood and Larry. A bunch of people thought we were brothers.

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Gregory Hill, by Rachel Breunlin.

My grandmother wanted you to get an education. That was the main thing. She said, “I’ll give you my things. Just go to school and get an education.” My grandfather strived on that. I think all his sisters was teachers. I didn’t have a father figure. I think he was married when he dated my mama. My mother was eighteen years old when she had me. It took a toll on me not having that man around, but I grew up to be, I think, a very nice person.

North Roman Oh, it was a hell of a neighborhood. A lot of things have changed because a lot of people have gone. We would sit out in the summer time as late as 12 o’clock—not just one family, but people all the way up and down the block. You can see a little bit of it now. You still have people left that are out and about. This was something you seen every day. People sitting in this block, some here, some down that way. This block was always people: the 1400 block.

We used to have a supper on this block. You brought the table, the tablecloth, you got your tub, you got a big block of ice and you made good money. A lot of times, too, you had a sup-

per because you had somebody in the family was in trouble, and you didn’t have the money to get him out or get a lawyer to do all that. Ours would always sell out. On Fridays we had fish.

Peas, potato salad, bread, and dessert. Saturdays you had gumbo, cawain, fried chicken, fish if you had any left—most of that was gone. You’d play the jukebox, you’d dance.

We played a lot of ball in the street. I’ve seen them swim in the gutters outside. Looking for that rain in the summertime and take a shower, you know? We didn’t turn the water plugs on the fire hydrants like kids now. The streets changed when they took the gutters out and came with the blacktops.

We used to call Kerlerec between Roman and Derbigny “Ghost City.” They had big old tall oak trees. In the wintertime, it would start getting dark at five. You didn’t go over there on to Kerlerec Street. We’d go down to Ghost City and build tents, like we were Boy Scouts. We built a little fire and we sitting in the tent parching acorns. We worried about the Gown Man; we didn’t know who he was.

the street used to cross over. I seen that right here. I rode on the back of the bus. You couldn’t sit on the front of the bus for quite a time. They had a place on Esplanade and Galvez and you had to be served through the window. You couldn’t go in. Our friend used to want to go in there.

He would go with my uncle cause they thought they was white.

had value. You could take a quarter, buy you a cold drink, some zu-zus, and had change.

I remember going around to Mule’s for sandwiches and Fats Domino would come through there. He would sit there and eat his sandwich.

A lot of my knowledge is street knowledge. I come up with some fellas that went to the Marine Corps. I thought that was a big thing to get a draft card during the Vietnam War. They give you the privilege of going in the draft, and that’s all we wanted to do. I went up, but they didn’t take me.

R: Tony said he’d come in his pink Lincoln with gold rims.

G: Yeah, he was famous. He was good. They also had the Wonderful Boys Club, which is just down the street. They weren’t as big as the Autocrat.

R: Did you ever go to the Autocrat or any of those clubs?

Gregory and Renald “Dinky” Edwards playing horseshoes,

by Rachel Breunlin.

Trouble A mother can only raise you for so long. Then you get up in the age and you start doing things like you shouldn’t do. A heart can’t control that.

I got put out at Corpus Christi, the Catholic school, cause of my cousins. There was nothing that we could do about it. We had to go to Valena C. Jones, and from there I went to McDonogh 42. At that time, all them was white schools, before they give it to us. They had to give it to the black kids. Segregation was cancelled when I was out of school.

G: Yeah. They say they were color-struck down there, too. You hear me? If you were darker than a bag, you couldn’t go in the Autocrat. These people, if you went to the nice neighborhoods, they thought they were white. I mean, all the people thought they were white. Until you tell them you’re family. You could be brown-skinned and didn’t have that hair.

We didn’t travel too much. We’d go up to Canal Street, but other than that, this was all that we really needed. Down on the corner, we had a football team sponsored by the fella who ran the grocery store. The Italians had all of this.

Every corner was run by every kind. We’d support them. Quarter, penny, nickel: All of that

R: What’s a zu-zu?

G: Oh, you know, like cookies and potato chips.

They changed it to munchies.

Moving out

R: How old were you when you moved out of the neighborhood?

G: Twenty-one. The landlord asked my grandmother for the house. My mother said she got tired of her mother moving and she purchased a nice little house in the Sixth Ward. My grandmother stayed on one side, my mother stayed on the other.

I got my own house when I started focusing up more into life. Before Katrina, I’d been across that river over twenty years. Over here in the Seventh Ward, you are closer together than over there. You know, there’s a space between your neighbors. Over here, you know your neighbors. Over there, people they like to stay to themselves.

Rachel: I come from the North and even though there wasn’t official segregation, neighborhoods were very segregated. In the South, you had official segregation, but then you also had people living fairly close to each other even though there were all these rules about separation and, you know, all this racism. I was wondering if you could talk a little bit about what that was like? To be living near people, but to be told y’all aren’t supposed to communicate.

G: I’m old enough to where, believe it or not, you couldn’t walk on the same side with a white.

I seen a few little old white ladies coming down Frank Jordan playing football in the field, by Rachel Breunlin.

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joy

e r a u q s n w to

JOYTOWN

SQUARe

Seventh Ward 1200 St. Anthony Street

Joytown Square Barbershop & Beauty Salon sits on the corner of St. Anthony and St. Claude Avenue. It’s an unusual corner in the neighborhood, a landmark of the Seventh Ward known for its wide wraparound balcony that hangs over the sidewalk. The building has the benefit of a high profile near these busy streets while still maintaining the intimacy found on the sidestreets.

Owned by Willie Adams, this two-story green building with dark shutters is a hub of the Seventh Ward. Inside, boys, grown men, and grandfathers sit in church pews waiting for the services of three barbers: Nat Williams, Mike Butler, and Tyrone Motin. Misty Jenkins’ station is in the front where the barbers are, and in the next

room, Jackie Alford and Carolyn Youngblood style hair, and work on Jackie’s Mardi Gras Indian suit between customers.

The barbershop and beauty salon is known as one of the great epicenters of oral culture—the swapping of stories, jokes, experience, and wisdom. When the movie Barbershop was released, the Times-Picayune came to talk with the barbers at Joytown about their own experiences. How do you cultivate this kind of place? How do you attract people across “the generations”? How do you stay grounded in one building yet become a place where people keep coming back—no matter where they lay their heads? Nat said a movie

can’t do justice to the richness, “It’s like taking a picture. If you catch someone off guard, you can capture their emotion, but if you try to recreate it through a pose, you’ll lose something.” Keeping this in mind, I still hope some of the sense of family, style, and neighborhood commitment that go into making this corner so special comes through in the photographs and interviews that follow.

— Rachel Breunlin

tage, by Emilie Taylor.

Joy tow n Square photo mon

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site plan “Joytown Square sits in the front of the Seventh Ward and on the edge of Marigny. We’re under the same historical landmark commission as the French Quarter.

Standing on this corner, you would think, possibly, that you were on St. Claude, but the address is 1200 St. Anthony. The building faces diagonal at the point of both streets. You won’t understand unless you see it.

Another thing different about this spot: where St. Anthony splits St. Claude coming from downtown, the street becomes McShane Place for one block. It was named after an ice cream parlor family that used to be on that block— Brocato’s. A lot of folks don’t know about that.”

– Willie Adams, Owner

“When we moved to this location, we called it Joytown Square because it sits on the corner. It’s one block away from the Faubourg Marigny. You’ve got the St. Claude, Desire, and Franklin bus stops. It’s what you call a prime location—in the heart of the city, an easy location.

The house was built in the 1800s. It’s an old structure.

They say that African Americans built most of the housing in the city, and they might have built this one, too. I used to be a pile driver and worked on the foundations of buildings. Just like with the upbringing of a person, if you have a strong foundation, no matter what you go through, you have something to come back to. Hurricanes Betsy, Hazel, and Katrina have come through and the building is still standing. It’ll last generations and generations.”

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– Nat Williams, Barber

B

joytown square PLAN

D

C A

A. Men’s barber area B. Church pews [waiting area] C. Women’s beauty salon D. Women’s hair drier chairs

0

5‘

10‘

25‘

N

The front room of Joytown Square; Nat Williams’ paintings of Joytown and of a jazz funeral, by Helen Juergens. Ella Benson under the hairdryer, by Rachel Breunlin.

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NAT

WILLIAMS

Barber & Artist

I met Nat at one of the first Porch Seventh Ward Cultural Organization meetings at Willie Birch’s studio. It was in January of 2006. Although our neighborhood wasn’t flooded, many residents felt like we should organize ourselves to build on the strengths of the community. Nat came in after working late at the barbershop and offered to spread the word. A well-known painter, Nat keeps his studio at the barbershop, and many of his paintings of New Orleans brass bands, jazz funerals, baptisms, and second lines hang on the wall. His shelves are brimming with books on Creole architecture, the art of Picasso and Van Gogh, the history of Native Americans and slavery in the United States. On different visits, I’ve looked through Debra Willis’ Reflections in Black, jazz photography

by Herman Leonard, and books on American roots music and dreadlocks. Through the wide range of people who sit in his chair, he weaves news of the Porch with the other events going on in the neighborhood. Sometimes when I check messages on my phone, there’ll be one from Nat letting me know Kermit Ruffins is playing on St. Bernard, there’s an Indian practice at the Next Stop, there’s an art exhibit at the African American museum, or he has a reference of someone else who would be good for an interview.

Rachel: Will you tell us how you came to work in the barbershop?

Nat: It was in 1983. I happened to be passing by House of Joy Barber and Beauty Salon at 1923 Claiborne, and I happened to see one of my friends that I grew up with in the neighborhood by the name of Willie Adams. I stopped to talk to him. He said this was his shop.

Wille and I both grew up cutting hair and he was telling me that if I wanted to, I could come work in his shop. I told him I was doing construction.

He said, “Well, you could come when you get off from work.” Every day when I would get off from work, I would stop by the shop and run into people that knew me from in the neighborhood.

They would tell me they knew I could cut hair.

It was like, “Come on and cut my hair.” I didn’t have any tools, so Willie told me that I could

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use some of his. After a while, I started buying barber tools and started going to school.

Customer: I came down here. I’m from up North. As you see, I’m dirty. I’m doing demolition. I needed a haircut though.

N: So what are we doing?

C: Fade.

N: All right. Close? It’s already close, so.

C: You know, a tight fade.

N: I’m talkin about the rest of the hair. The hair’s receding?

C: I’m going bald.

N: Right. So the closer you cut it, the less you see it.

C: Cool. Well, cut it close.

R: What were the other things you were doing?

N: I was doing pile driving. I was also an artist.

While I was in Greece, I started learning how to draw in detail. I also went to France and Spain while I was overseas with the United States Navy.

C: I’m not goin’ that bald, am I? N: Yeah. It’s real thin. When I cut it down, its gonna look like you’re not goin bald at all.

R: Will you tell us about this neighborhood?

N: Well, it’s more or less a cultural neighborhood.

They’ve got a lot of second line bands that pass through here and parades and clubs. Like our shop, we’ve been in business about 25 years.

We’ve been at this location going on 17 years.

I grew up in this neighborhood. I was born in the Sixth Ward on 828 North Roman. We stayed there for a few years, then we moved to 3609 Abundance Street in the Desire Project. I moved out in 1959, and moved to 1729 North Villere, which is located in the Seventh Ward. You know, most of the people in our neighborhood was Christian people that believed in going to

“The man with the spiritual touch”: Nat Williams at Joytown Square, by Rachel Breunlin.

church. And long as people had Christ in they life, we didn’t have all the bother that we have nowadays. Since then, times have changed, and I guess until we all look back to Christ, it’s probably gonna be the same.

R: How would you describe the role of a barbershop like this in the neighborhood?

N: Well, right now, business is better than it’s ever been. A barbershop is full of laughs, full of jokes, people being friendly. Some people are just to themselves, but our shop is known for joking and laughing. Even those that don’t know people, they get in here clownin around with one another. You also have your little hustlers that come through that might have something that they might wanna show you. People that have they own business: entrepreneurs passing by selling pies, clothes, or whatever else they have.

Most of the time, the barbershop is like a nightclub. Most of the people have personal problems, and they feel as though if they come into a barbershop, they could get therapy with it. They open up things that they wouldn’t even

work?” Sometimes I be here, sometimes I don’t.

It encourages me to strive to do better.

R: And what do you see the role of art being in revitalizing the neighborhood?

N: Art is always a role in probably anything you do in life, because anything you do that have beauty in it will enhance it. Just like if you had a house and if you took an old house and you just look at it from a raw form, and then when you start adding to the house, it’s gonna beautify it. We need to educate young people on what art is all about. Educate them on what beauty’s all about. And when a person’s educated, they can appreciate what’s being done. But when you understand what’s all put into what you do, then you could understand. [To customer] Did you want a part? Where you want the part at?

C: Just, you know, hook me up.

[Nat completes haircut] Photograph by Rachel Breunlin.

talk to everybody about. They’ll open up to us.

We’re like psychiatrists. It’s like a father or a mother away from home.

young people doing things that are positive, it inspires you because you see that that kid done grew up and made somethin out of himself.

They have people who just enjoy being around here cause you can learn a lot by being in a barbershop.

If you just sit back and just pay attention to what people are saying or what people are going through. You have some of everybody come through here. You know, you got preachers, you got doctors, you got lawyers, you got prostitutes, you got drug addicts, you got hustlers. They feel at home when they’re in a barber shop. It’s like they take off their titles and they just be themselves when they’re in a barber shop, you know. We call it being real.

R: And Nat, we talked about the role of art in your barbershop. Is that something that makes your space really—

R: It’s a democratic space.

N: Right. And sometimes barbershops are like churches, too, because you’ll hear something that a person’s talking about and it’ll more or less give you inspiration. To be truthful, right before y’all came in here, they had a little guy whose hair I used to cut when he was like one year old. Now he’s 18. He moved on with his life and set up a carwash in Texas. When you hear

N: This is part of art. It’s a sculpture I just did.

C: I look younger, too.

N: Since we’ve been here, I done started a gallery and it’s called Nat Williams Art with a View.

R: How did people respond to it in the barbershop and how did you get involved with it?

N: Sometimes when I’m not cutting hair, I’m doing my art. It looks like when I start painting, that’s when customers come in. It’s like a magnet, you know.

R: What made you decide to have your art in the barbershop?

N: Well, a lot of times people come, it’s entertainment. You know, when you come in here, you see art and it’s eye catching and it helps beautify the place. When they see art, they be like, “All the work, that’s nice. Who did the

Nat’s paints, by Rachel Breunlin.

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MIKE

BUTLER

Barber

Mike Butler's station is right next to Nat Williams. A former client of Nat’s, he took a job at Joytown Square in 1994. He explains thar the owner, Willie Adams, “was very knowledgeable about the beauty thing. When I first started I really didn’t know a whole lot. I just got into school and came here. I never worked in another shop."

His clients come from all over the city to talk politics and get a haircut. "We have a lot of crooked politicians.

They’re supposed to work for us but it’s the other way around. Looks like we work for them. They aren’t being honest with us. Some people might be in it for the right reasons, but in the end they look like they wind up corrupted. No one really cares about us. We on our own."

That sense of being locked out is left behing—at least temporarily—at Joytown Square.

Hanging around the barbershop, I met one of Mike's clients, Nathan Major, who explained he comes once a week on his way home to Harvey. The neighborhood told him about Joytown Square and Mike. "Everybody in the Seventh Ward had been coming here from childhood. Got the youngsters coming in after school, all of them. They get old, they still come. They got good barbers in here. I came here to give Mike a try. He cut me up and I liked it."

Shintia: What made you become a barber?

M: I was sitting here waiting to get a haircut.

My barber, Nat, was late and they had a lot of people waiting. So I decided that I could make that money if he didn’t want to make it. I went to school and started cutting hair.

S: From that one experience it just made you—?

M: I just made a decision. I just got laid off from my job and I was tired of depending on someone else to keep me with a job. I decided to do my own thing. Be in control of my own destiny.

S: Did you have any experience with cutting hair before doing that?

M: No experience.

S: How did you get the job?

Mike Butler at Joytown Square, by Rachel Breunlin.

M: I been knowing these people. I used to come and get my hair cut and I decided to go to school. The guy told me, “You could come work in here.” I got my license and I called him up one day and told him that I got my license.

S: What is hard about working here?

M: Nothing. Ain’t nothing hard about working here.

S: How would you describe the Joytown Square?

M: It’s a nice atmosphere. This the first job I ever had in my whole life that I didn’t have a problem with waking up and coming to. All my other jobs I was like, “Oh Lord, I got to go to work.” But I get up and eat breakfast and can’t wait. I know I’m going to make money and have fun.

S: A lot of people can’t say that.

M: I enjoy my job. I wouldn’t trade it.

S: You said that you like waking up and coming here. What about working here makes you feel like that?

M: I’m a people person. I love to talk; it’s a pleasure. You can learn a lot just from regular talk.

S: What do you think a barbershop’s role in the community is?

M: It’s a social thing. You learn a lot. I rememFront to back: Tryone Fox, Colby Carraby, and Cole Carraby waiting for Mike to cut their hair, by Rachel Breunlin.

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ber as a kid going to sit in the barber shop. I used to love to sit down and listen to the old men. I try to pass on my knowledge the same way they passed it on to me. It’s real important. Some people come in here and don’t even get a haircut.

S: So do you feel like a role model in a sense?

M: A lot of ways I do. A lot of times I talk to the youngsters that come in here about the drugs and the dos and don’ts. I can tell them that drug thing ain’t no good.

S: Do you live in this area?

M: No, I live in the Gentilly area, by Brother Martin. This part of the Seventh Ward need a lot of work. It’s an area that’s struggling but it’s possible for it to come back. They have a lot of good people in the area. It’s just a lot of poor, good people. You don’t have a lot of home owners. That’s another thing I try to talk to the young guys about: Keeping their credit straight to become home owners. With renting, it’s like putting your money in a black hole. You never see it. Buying a house, that’s equity you’re building and something that you can pass on to your offspring.

S: Who are your customers that come in here?

M: I got doctors, I got lawyers, I got police. I deal with some of everybody in life.

S: Is it mostly your age group or younger?

M: I got both. I got some youngsters and I got some older people. I think my oldest customer might be about 80 years old and I think my youngest is a year old.

M: Not the retarded ones like Barry. I’m guessing the ones we have the same things in common: to talk about politics. I love to talk about politics.

S: What’s the most popular style in haircuts?

M: Right now I would probably say the Taper Fade. Some of the older barbers might call it something else. It’s a fade just at the bottom and just on the temples.

S: Is that what Barry’s getting right now?

M: No. he’s getting one length. I think what the older people call an Ivy League.

S: How do you think the different styles in haircuts changed over time since you’ve been a barber?

M: The hairstyles are some of the same stuff that they did before I was born. They go out of style, then after while somebody tries it and it looks good on them. It’s a cycle, it repeats itself.

S: You think the flat top is going to come back?

M: It could come back. One of my customers gets a flat top. He’s a older cat. He’s about 55 years old. I got a couple of them still do the flat top even though it’s out of style. It’s easy to say no right now because it’s not happening, but look what’s happening with the Mohawk.

Who would have thought somebody would have a Mohawk?

S: Do you think that different haircuts show different characteristics of the person or their personality?

M: I wouldn’t say that. Some people might read something in it; I don’t.

S: What kind of style do you have?

M: I cut mine all off.

S: Who cuts your hair?

M: Me. I use two mirrors.

S: What do you look for in another barber who you may let cut your hair?

M: I’m looking at how he cuts his customers and how clean his utensils and tools are. I want him to do me the way I do my customers.

S: He’s a good barber?

Barry: Yeah.

S: What do you have to say about that?

M: I guess I’m only as good as my customers think I am.

S: What are some of your favorite memories of working here?

M: I think watching the Mike Tyson fight against Holyfield; he bit his ear. We had so much fun even though I lost a hundred dollars.

S: What do you think people should know about Joytown Square?

M: That we strive for perfection and we aim to please. We’re going give you a good haircut, give you what you paid for.

S: The customer that’s 80, how long has he been coming to you?

M: He just started coming to me since the storm. I guess his barber probably left the area.

A lot of customers get somebody to cut their hair til their barber come back. I got some of other people’s customers.

S: What type of customer is your favorite?

M: I mean, well, my favorite customers would be ...

Customer: Me. Augustine Omigus waiting, by Rachel Breunlin.

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Jackie

Alford

Cosmetologist & Queen of Black Feathers Mardi Gras Indian Tribe

Jackie styling Gladys Roberts’ hair, by Rachel Breunlin.

I’m sitting in the back of Joytown Square. Jackie is holding court with a group of ladies, styling hair and swapping stories about raising boys. A friend sits in one of the pews that Joytown Square inherited from Willie’s church, and lays out the facts: “Boys are what you let them be. They’re gonna do what you teach them. I’m a real neat freak, so they drive me. They clean their own room and guess what? I’m not doing it. ‘Pick it up!’”

tribe. She sews in the Seventh Ward style—three-dimensional—and works on this year’s suit when she’s in between clients.

Agreement travels the room, and Jackie comments on the importance of high standards. “I tell these girls, ‘You so impressed with a 50 dollar pair of jeans? Come see their room, see how they live.’”

R: What made your parents move to New Orleans?

An older woman sighs as she talks about her grandson, “He don’t want to wash his tennis.” Her friend reminds her, “There ain’t no want. That’s what I tell them.”

Jackie sends her customer to sit under the drier, turns off the TV and says she’s almost ready for the interview. A single mom with three kids, she owns a house in New Orleans East that she just finished rebuilding.

Since 1994, she’s been driving in every day to do hair in the Seventh Ward. She says, “I could have done hair in the East, but my love is in the hood.” In 2000, she became Queen of the Black Feathers Mardi Gras Indian

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Rachel: Okay, let’s start with where you grew up.

Jackie: I’m originally from Columbia, Mississippi. I moved here when I was five years old.

J: When they were living in Mississippi, it was like still in slavery days. They were staying on the land with my grandmother and she had like 15 kids. They wanted to come down here and better their life. I grew up in the Sixth Ward in a two-bedroom apartment on Derbigny with my mom and dad, two brothers, and my two sisters. In those days, it was real hard. When I was young, every summer we had to go to the country and pick cucumbers and watermelons and shell peas—then come back here by my mom and them.

In the Sixth Ward, the second lines always came

by Charbonnet Labot Funeral Home, and the very first time I was allowed to go out and see a second line, it was for a guy who belonged to the second line band. He was in the casket, and they were second lining. They opened the casket, and they actually put him on their shoulders. And I grew up thinking that dead men could walk and second line.

My parents bought a house in the Lower Ninth Ward. My brothers were like 16 and 17, and the first time in their entire life they got caught up in a little trouble—never been in jail in their life, had good grades. It was during voting time for mayor and they were made an example.

Right now they’re in Angola doing triple life.

My brothers have been in jail 22 years. We go see them every year. That made my family real close: my sisters, my dad and mom, and me.

R: Oh, I’m really sorry.

J: It’s okay. Sometimes when you pray and ask God to look after them it happens this way, because all their friends are deceased. At least we can go talk to them and hold them.

Mindy Jenkins laughing with her clients (in mirror); Carolyn Youngblood styling Karonda Williams’ hair, by Rachel Breunlin.

Starting Out I graduated from high school in the Sixth Ward, and my mama told me I had to get a job. She did hair when I was small, but never went to school for it. She always wanted me to do hair, but I wanted to do my own thing. I thought I wanted me to be a nurse. When I practiced taking the blood out and passed out, I knew that wasn’t for me.

I switched to beauty school. One of the teachers, Mrs. Stevenson, used to be so mean to me. I really didn’t think she liked me. I didn’t want to do the mannequin head and she was on me. I didn’t know I was gifted until I went to Atlanta and won a trophy. I could just look at a person’s hair—touch it and feel it—and actually do it. That’s how my son is. He’s an artist. He draws how he feels— his expressions—and it’s beautiful.

My first job was across the canal in the hood at Bo’s Barbershop on Claiborne. Bo let me work there about a year. So what happened, I caught the flu and I was out one day. On the corner there was a barroom, and our barbershop was on the opposite corner. They had a fight out there, and

a guy was shot. Why, the bullet went through the window and into the wall at my station. If I had been standing there, it would have killed me. Yes. I moved out of there and to a beauty salon on this side of the canal.

I was working in Jack’s Barbershop for six or seven years. Mr. Jack, he was a real good person. He took sick. He knew he was dying and had to close his shop down. When Mr. Jack told us we had to find somewhere else to go, that’s what made me come here—I needed to stay in the same main area. I was known as “Jackie on St. Claude.” I wanted to stay in a school area, near a bus line, so kids in the hood could actually walk to you.

I knew about Joytown Square from a girl, Tanya, who used to work at the House of Joy while I was in beauty school. I used to come by and show her my mannequin, and she’d say, “You’re getting real good.” She was real proud of me. I also knew Nat from beauty school. I was the baby of the class. I came over and said, “Hey Nat, I want to work over here.” He said, “Sure you can.”

When I came in here, I met Carolyn and Misty.

They were real nice to me, but they didn’t know I already had a clientele. The first day they were like, “If things aren’t busy, you have to answer the phone.” First day I kept saying, “Joytown Square, Joytown Square.” See that second day, I didn’t have to answer the phone no more. All my customers came over here. We just made it like a home. We made more business for the barbers because all my girls had kids. The kids went to them, so we still showed them love. Nat has gone into his painting and my son admires him.

Family R: How would you describe Joytown Square for folk who have never been here?

J: You could be depressed. Come in here, we will liven you up. Sometimes I have customers that will come up in here, and they don’t need to get their hair done, they just need a friendly voice. Here, you’re a cosmetologist, a counselor, and a parent. We’re not even kin, but everybody down here is my cousin or my auntie. They’re more of our family than our actual family, because I’m with them nine hours a day, five days a week. To lose somebody here, it’s deep.

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Mindy styling her sister Trenice’s hair while Mike Butler takes a break, by Rachel Breunlin.

R: What do you think the differences are between the beauty salon and barbershop?

my mouth to deliver: Your love is not worth dying. Love yourself first.

J: They ain’t no different than us. They talk and they’re messy just like us. Sometimes they’re quiet and try to be nosey and hear what the women be saying. And sometimes we’ll be quiet and want to hear what they’re saying! They’re like brothers. If we need them to come by our house and fix stuff, they’ll be there. And then you’re safe. I feel like I’m safe because the barbers are in front.

I’m real with the girls that come in. We talk about sex. I have condoms. I ask them to be safe.

They’re not shy: “J, the new condoms come in?”

“Yes.” That’s why we have them.

R: I used to work at the women’s center at the University of New Orleans, and I loved that female space—there’s all kinds of stuff you deal with as a woman, and just listening to y’all’s conversation about how to raise your boys up reminded me of the women’s wisdom that gets passed around. Could you talk about that a bit?

J: Things that get passed around are men problems. A lot of men’s problem. I actually had girls talk about suicide. They be in love so deep, but that’s when God comes in. He put the words in

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You don’t have to be dressed up. You can come in here in your house slippers. You don’t have to come in here sharp like you ballin. You can come here comfortable. It’s family. You get your hair done and when I see you on the street, you look good.

Everybody don’t have money. When we were raised up, we didn’t have much, but we had love, and that’s the most important thing. You don’t have to be greedy, and I was taught that. Every morning I wake up, I always say a prayer. You don’t pray to God when it’s bad. You thank him for each and everyday. Hey, it’s hard out there.

R: Do you have any particular memories you want to share, from working in the same place

for a long time? The most fulfilling?

J: Like the most emotional?

R: Yeah, the things that are the most heartfelt about your years here.

J: Like I said, we are family. When Tanya passed, it was a very touching situation. I do a lot of young girls and lately, all their brothers have been killed. I have been going to so many funerals every weekend. A lot of things like— you know.

[Sigh & a long pause] I had a bad divorce, and it was so bad that he actually came here to kill me. We never kept secrets here. I had told the guys in the front that things weren’t going right. I was being stalked.

I try to teach young girls: You can’t hide that. If I hid it, and acted like everything was perfect, and he came in here, they wouldn’t think anything of it.

He walked in and said, “I have a gun. I need you

to come outside.” I wouldn’t leave. One of the girls called 911 and the police came in five minutes and arrested him. Afterwards, they used to walk me to my car. We’ve been through so much emotional private things. I don’t even think I could go to another beauty salon and feel comfortable.

Just like when I was in Shreveport after Katrina.

I lost everything, and when I went in the shop, I said, “I don’t have my license, but I’m gifted and I need a job.” They said, “Well, how are you going to get a clientele?” I said, “With God and these hands if you give me a week.” The lady said, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you four free weeks.” When I left, I showed her love back.

After that fifth week, I had a clientele. It was a nice place. It was peaceful. Music playing, but it wasn’t Joytown. You just did your job and went home. See here, you want to come to work cause it’s fun. When I walk through the door, they miss me. If I don’t be here, they say, “Where she at?”

They look for me. They look for the things I’m going to say. When I came home, I missed them, too. I didn’t know I was going to miss them like I missed them. I was ready to come back home.

Here. Joytown.

Queen My brother-in-law is a Flagboy for Black Feather. By me always hanging around them, going to Indian practice, and sewing for them, they decided they wanted me to be their queen. They look at how you sew, and if your suit is good, they’ll respect you. I’ve been down with them since 2000. They call me Black Queen. Even though I’m from the Ninth Ward, and they say I’m a traitor— R: I was going to ask you about that…

J: Yeah, Ninth Ward sews flat. I sew three dimension. Everybody have their own style. I stay in the Seventh Ward and sew three dimension.

Once you get into being an Indian, it’s unreal.

It’s like a Holy Spirit come over you. When you’re dealing with Indian, you have to think of your theme, and everything gradually comes to you. Like this year I’m going to be eagles. I’m going to have them sitting on the mountains with the clouds in the back and the water stream. It’s going to look real. You put your own colors of

Jackie as the Queen of Black Feathers, 2002, courtesy of Jackie Alford.

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63

beads, your own decorations of how you like it. They look for how many beads you use, and that’s how you get respect.

R: This is your third?

J: Yeah. In 2002, I was the three deadliest species: Snakes, scorpions, and black widow spiders. I was on a desert island in the sand, and creatures were stuck on cactus. Anyone of them bite you, you die.

R: Dangerous.

J: Yeah, I was dangerous. And when I first started sewing, my very first suit was baby fish coming out of the water—you could see the water splashing.

R: How many Mardi Gras Indian queens do you think there are?

J: Most of the time, you don’t really have too many queens. Sometime you’ll have little girls, but as far as women—to estimate, I might meet 10. No more than 12 queens a year.

R: Do you feel like the dancing is different for the women?

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J: Really, the queens don’t supposed to dance.

Your chief dances, the spyboy, but the queen is supposed to look pretty. Queens are supposed to look beautiful behind their chief. You’re not a man, but youngsters come up trying to change everything, and that’s how it be.

Pretty R: I’m thinking about this idea of pretty—you know, as queen of Black Feathers, you work all year for it, and on the day to day you’re making everyone beautiful as well.

J: Well, see. A lot of people do hair for the money. Don’t get me wrong: The money is good. But this is my hobby. When I put a smile on their face, it does something to me. For some reason, I conquered what I needed to do. I made somebody else look good. I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get old. They told me I’m gonna come in here in a wheelchair and they’re gonna sit between my legs and still let me do their hair.

Sometimes we tell jokes: “Girl, if you die before us”—I don’t know why they think I’m gonna live forever—“I am jumpin in that coffin! I’m gonna bring two combs and the scissors. You got to do my hair!”

Top to bottom: Jackie styling hair; Jackie’s beadwork; Ella Marie Benson looking for hair styles; Carolyn sewing; Jackie and Ella discussing possibilities, by Rachel Breunlin.

Sometimes it’s a big responsibility. So many young girls look up to me as a mother figure.

They need me and I need them. I can’t save the whole world, but the ones I can save, I’m going to do my damnedest. I’m a single parent, too.

I have two boys, and one daughter. Nasheka’s got her EMS license and is going to school for nursing. My 17-year-old, Rico, is the artist.

That 13-year-old, Rahim, is the baby. Long hair, pretty boy. He’s athletic. I put my foot down because I’m not going to let the streets get them. I’m gonna fight til I die.

R: They’ve got to be proud of you being a queen.

J: They love my suits. It’s a time thing, because I be inside a lot. When you’re sewing, that is your life: I come home, I clean up, I cook, and get directly doing my Indian suit. I call them and ask them to help me bead. I sew here, too, when I’m not busy.

R: And Carolyn helps you?

J: I’m very picky about my stuff. By me being picky, it has to be perfect. Carolyn knows what I want, and she’s real good at it. She helps me out. My customers who are under the dryer for an hour, they put the beads on the wire for my sewing. I’m really dedicated. Most of the time, I’d rather sew it myself so that when I put my suit on, I can feel it. I can walk with my head up. They’re going to respect my suit. Once you play that Indian music—“I’m the queen. I’m the prettiesr queen you ever seen.” I’m gonna bring it to them.

Above: Carolyn and Jackie working on Jackie’s 2008 Mardi Gras Indian suit, by Rachel Breunlin.

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mimi’s in the marigny

MIMI’S

IN THE MARIGNY

Faubourg Marigny 2601 Royal Street

Mimi’s in the Marigny, a late 19th century homestead bank building, grandly towers over the intersection of Franklin and Royal with an elegance that sets the corner bar apart in a city of neighborhood pubs. Mimi insists the building is much of what makes her bar so special with its iron galleries, French doors, arched windows, and exposed brick, but I also attribute the refreshing ambience of this neighborhood bar to Mimi’s accommodating sense of hospitality and the intriguing array of Marigny and Bywater residents that work and gather there. Mimi patiently waited for the right space and neighbor-

hood to set up her business, but once she opened the doors to her two-tiered corner bar in the fall of 2002, she committed herself to the social life of the Marigny and Bywater in such an involved way that I always feel like Mimi’s has had a much longer life.

The bar is a featured stop in a number of parade events, like the 6t’9 Halloween parade, the Downtown Irish Club Saint Patrick’s parade, Saint Ann’s Mardi Gras day parade, and Mimi’s own Krewe T’ Skrew parade (started with friend Chris Rudge). Mimi’s is a real community hot

spot for neighborhood and citywide art events from book readings to movie filmings to art shows. Mimi also considers her bar to be a civic center and resource for her neighbors, and she enthusiastically hosts events that concern local planning and safety issues, as well as neighborhood council meetings. Serving her neighbors so practically and devotedly, Mimi has created a true neighborhood saloon that stylistically suits the Marigny with its funky sophistication.

—Bethany Rogers

Mimi’s photo montage, by Emilie Taylor.

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site plan “The building is over 130 years old and it’s a character in and of itself. It needs constant attention. Part of what makes it unique is all the windows. You don’t feel like you’re tucked in a hole like other barrooms. It has a really open feel and you can see up and down the street and check out everything that’s happening. We’re right in the middle of the Marigny and connected to everything that’s going on. I live two blocks from Mimi’s and it takes me twenty minutes to get to work, because of all the people I run into on my way here.”

— Daphne Loney, Mimi’s Manager, Art Instructor, and Artist

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“I think the attraction is the feeling of the place. The building has so much to do with it. Truly. The windows downstairs with arches. The balconies. The French doors. The brick. I love the wood and iron. The openness. The light.”

— Mimi Dykes, Owner

C

mimi’s PLAN

B

D

A

E

F

Ground level

Upper level

D. Upstairs bar & dining area E. Lounge/dancefloor F. Balcony

0

5‘

10‘

25‘

N

A. Downstairs bar B. Billiard area C. Kitchen

From left: Entrance to Mimi’s, by Nicolas Kern; the downstairs bar, by Helen Juergens; the Ninth Ward marching band on the same bar, by Nicolas Kern; downstairs seating, by Helen Juergens.

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MIMI

DYKES

Proprietor of Mimi’s Co-founder Krewe T’ Skrew Mimi Dykes in action, by Nicolas Kern.

The dynamic Mimi Dykes is a woman of several incarnations. With a Master’s in Equestrian Arts, Mimi rode polo ponies and fox hunters for a stretch before diving into the service industry. Her service work was followed by a 15-year stint as an actress and then a return jump back to the horse world. Ultimately she was led back to her childhood home, New Orleans, to be close to her dear friend and mentor, her grandmother May Dykes, who worked for the Red Cross for over 30 years. As the Marigny’s Mimi, I’ve watched her jump over tables, rearrange furniture, and personally wait on customers all in one hostess move, calling upon residual skills from all of her former professional lives.

Mimi’s professional and personal circuit has led to a sassy and hands-on hospitality that accommodates an eclectic clientele and defines her bar’s appeal.

Mimi: It took me several years to find a spot.

Everybody kept asking my partners and myself, “So when is Mimi’s going to open?” I was determined: I wanted a local neighborhood bar, I wanted to support a certain neighborhood, and I just wouldn’t settle. We saw several locations from Midcity to Uptown to Downtown and I kept saying, “Nope.” And finally….

B: What do you think attracts people to Mimi’s?

M: It’s a combination. It’s the feeling of the place

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and the people that work here and the care that’s given. I was a little nervous, I will say, about the first year. I wanted the local neighborhood place, because those are the people that support you when it’s not Mardi Gras, it’s not Jazz Fest.

But I’m kind of surprised about the people that actually travel to come here. I’m still a little in awe when somebody says, “Yeah, I live way Uptown.” “And you came here?” I’m still so impressed and honored when they come. Every time.

B: Describe the kind of crowd that hangs out at the bar.

M: We get out-of-town visitors, as well as people from the neighborhood, and during school we’ll sometimes get some college students, but mostly it’s varied. Another thing that I really like is that we get “I’m just 21” to “I’m 78.” I love that. I might be wrong, but I feel like everybody mixes well. Downstairs we might have a different vibe than up, so that helps in making people comfortable. Very eclectic and different people.

And, I will say, the people that work here are stellar. I am super lucky.

B: Tell me about the people that work at the bar.

M: Almost everyone who works here actually lives in the neighborhood. Rob, my head bartender, lives just around the corner. He used to work at the House of Blues for years and is a true pro. Rob brought over Sierra Kirk and she lives in the hood. Sarah Smith helps manage the bar and she books all the great jazz and music we have here. She also designs and makes clothes, and I consider Sarah and Sierra to be style queens of the universe.

Jo Starns also has a creative flair. She’s a hair stylist and also works here and a couple other spots in town. She has an over-work ethic, like Daphne Loney, my main manager. Daphne also bartends here, teaches art at Delgado—she has a Masters in Sculpting, and shows her artwork all over town, including a show we had here of her work a few months back. Everybody is creative and innovative and fabulous. I like everybody’s style. I never wanted to be that kind of a place where “you have to wear this.” Nah. If you want your rings in your nose, you just wear them.

B: And you got a kitchen thing going on, too?

M: Oh yeah, we’ve got great food. Joaquin Rhodas started the kitchen and came up with our tasty tapas menu. He lives in Chicago now,

Left to right: 6t’9 heading to Mimi’s in 2007, by Devin Meyers, Fotos for Humanity.

but he’s still the Business Management Expert and still our concept man. Joaquin brought in Heathcliffe Hailey to be our Executive Chef.

Heathcliffe is another great cook and he’s managed to put a real creative spin on our menu since he came back. He actually worked for us before the storm. Both guys are wonderful gentlemen and amazing cooks.

B: Tell me about some special events that happen here, something that’s not your ordinary night at Mimi’s.

M: Well, we’ve had poetry readings by a local poet. We’ve had short film screenings here and we’ve even had movies filmed in the bar and a number of movie “wrap” parties thrown here.

I’ve had a book reading here by a gentleman who lives down the street. It’s called The King of Cups.

His name is James Quina, and it’s about the last plague that hit New Orleans and these three orphans. We had pre-hurricane tango dancing lessons every Wednesday night. That became very popular. We would clear out everything and they’d play music. There were some great dancers.

We’ve had a fashion show. There are two gals that are fashion designers, and twice we’ve

had a fashion show for them. We’ve had a jewelry show. We also display the work of local visual artists—sculptors, painters, and photographers—in our space upstairs, and we usually have a new show every month That’s why I like being a neighborhood place. It supports the people and what they’re doing, what they enjoy.

The people that work here came and said, “You know what, I just want to get open again. I want our community space back.” And that’s exactly what it is, even now, everybody comes and says, “What’s going on? How are you doing? Do you need a roofer? What else do you need?”

B: Tell me about Mimi’s after the storm. You guys got up and running pretty quick after Katrina, right?

M: We still have a lot of patchwork to do, but we were really lucky. We didn’t have standing water.

The Washington National Guard, who was staying at NOCCA, were the first contingency that was here. They would patrol around and make sure everybody was OK. I was so amazed, because they came in full uniform and helped us pull our nasty refrigerators out of here, lowered them down over the balcony, and then helped us clean up and get back up and running. Can you imagine? I’m still just very emotional talking about it. I’m also still in touch with the second in command. He was Captain Tom Winecoop.

He actually took a little vacation to come back and help. They even took up a collection when they were all getting shipped out and passed it on. I passed it on to the people that work here.

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CHRIS

RUDGE

Proprietor of Bacchanal Co-founder of Krewe T’ Skrew Chris Rudge is a dedicated Mimi’s patron and the owner of Bacchanal in the Bywater. Chris has worked in the service industry “as far back as I can remember” and was introduced to his passion for wine as a bartender at Marisol’s in the French Quarter. He is a Florida transplant who has found his New Orleans niche, providing downtown with fine, affordable wine from his charming Poland Avenue shop.

Mimi first introduced to me to Chris and Bacchanal over an afternoon bottle of wine and hors d’oeuvres, and I continue to enjoy Chris’ wine selection and the tucked in and enchanted feel of his rear courtyard, especially on Sundays evenings when he offers live music and gourmet munching for his customers. Chris and Mimi have separately told me they consider themselves to be business partners, bringing lively customer traffic to the Bywater and Marigny neighborhoods in tandem.

But they also have been inspired to step out of their

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Chris Rudge in front of his wine board, by Bethany Rogers.

working relationship into a bigger social collaboration by putting on the annual Krewe T’ Skrew parade, the Bywater/Marigny’s own musically-stacked and costumed Mardi Gras bar hop.

Chris: We organized a Mardi Gras krewe this year—the Krewe T’ Skrew. After Mardi Gras three years ago, I was hanging out, having a tequila with Mimi, and we were like, “You know what, we should start a Mardi Gras krewe that hits all the bars in the neighborhood.” We thought it should start here at Bacchanal and end at Mimi’s, because there’s so many places to hit around this neighborhood and a lot of people don’t realize how many cool spots there are to go have a drink in the Bywater/Marigny.

When we got back after the storm, I was like, “We gotta do it this year.” We started having weekly planning meetings, where we sat down and drank

lots of tequila and came up with the name and everything we were going to do.

It’s been all local bands. We have a second line band leading the parade. Martin Kruche leads it. My friend Scott Johnson, an old friend from Tallahassee who used to live around the corner, came up with the idea of the float with the rock ‘n roll bands. That first year we had Ray Borva and the White Bitch to start—they do noise as well as some pretty heavy guitar stuff. And then we had my friend Joel, who also lives in the neighborhood, playing second; he’s more punk rock style.

And then we had the band Three Legged Dog who are hard core Southern rock from around here. We finished with the Morning 40 Federation, which is an institution here. It was a total neighborhood parade.

In 2007, we had Broken Smokes, which is a

Left to right: Mimi (right) and other Krewe T’ Skrew revelers; Krewe T’ Skrew parade, by Nicolas Kern.

groovy rock ‘n’ roll band in the neighborhood.

We had Three Legged Dog. Jimmy, a guy from the neighborhood, got together with some friends to make up Jimmy’s Blues Band, and then we ended with Morning 40 again.

I modeled the parade after the Krewe of Cork, which is the French Quarter version. That’s Patrick Van Hoorebeek at the Bistro at Maison de Ville. He organized Krewe of Cork many years ago. It’s a bar hop, but it’s also a different sort of thing. People pay dues just to join the thing. But I wanted to do it free. The Bywater is like that, whatever you want to drink, buy it. We stop at 13 bars, including Bacchanal and Mimi’s. We get all costumed up and hit the streets. It brings the neighborhood together in a really cool way. Each bar does different things; they all have different sorts of atmospheres. They are really happy to have us, so that’s cool.

There’s definitely reciprocity in the neighborhood. I send people to other neighborhood businesses, and they send them to me. This is our hood. I like it here. The people that are attracted to this part of town are more artsy. They have a different walk of life—a very slow, relaxed walk of life. You’ve got people from all sorts of economic levels, as well as people who were born and raised in New Orleans.We also have lots of transplants here—me being one of them. Some people are die hard go to Vaughn’s every day.

Some people are die hard go to Bacchanal every day. Some people are die hard go to Mimi’s. But it’s cool, cause even though you may have your favorite place, you can still go to all the other ones.

They’re all close together and you don’t have to drive. Angela, a friend who works at Mimi’s, put it best. She calls Mimi’s and Bacchanal her bookends of the neighborhood. If I start walking

right now, I can be at Mimi’s in 20 minutes and in between there’s 12 other bars. Whatever scene you’re looking for, if you like funky, you can definitely find it in the Bywater/Marigny.

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MELISSA

WEBER

DJ Soul Sister

DJ Soul Sister portrait, by B Fresh.

DJ Soul Sister is a New Orleans native who still lives in the 17th ward where she grew up listening to rare funk, disco, soul, and early hip hop on New Orleans radio stations likeWAIL 105 FM,WYLD 98.5 FM, and WTUL. Like many, I first knew DJ Soul Sister through her Saturday nightWWOZ radio show, a niche program she has developed over the years that delivers deep funk and rare grooves to her listening audience. When Soul Sister created her Soul Power show in the mid 90s, she was the youngest volunteer DJ at the station at age 19.

Over the last several years, I’ve been able to enjoy the Soul Sister’s blossoming career as a live DJ, first with her more underground parties at venues like the old Leo’s in the Bywater and now her popular and regular gigs at Mimi’s–the Saturday “Hustle!” and mellow Sunday night “Unwind” parties.

Recently, Soul Sister has collected a number of awards and significant media attention, including being voted Gambit Weekly’s Best of New Orleans “Favorite DJ” and being featured in the hip hop and record collecting magazine, Wax Poetics. Both were opportunities for Soul Sister to make her stand for underground culture and the healing power of good music in post-Katrina New Orleans.

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Soul Sister: Well, I’ll start by saying that the parties at Mimi’s are completely like magic. I could not have predicted how amazing they are or the fact that it’s people of all different types coming together and partying and dancing.

When I was younger, a TV child, I used to love old sitcoms like Sanford and Son, Good Times, and The Jeffersons. Good Times always struck me because they were supposed to be really poor and depressed, but whenever they had some sort of a celebration—a party—they would really throw down. They had balloons and decorations and food and crazy music, and everybody was partying. I used to say, “When I grow up, I’m going to have parties just like the Good Times parties.” That is exactly what these Mimi’s parties are. Every week. When I throw these parties it’s more than me just showing up to DJ. I am bringing a party scene with a brand, complete with specially designed flyers, the right lighting, the right volume and acoustics. Even the start time—11 pm on the dot every week. All of these things are very conscious on my part. The energy of the people

brings about the music and that’s the energy I want to give back.

The parties started off being a neighborhood thing, and now people come from all over. I’ve had people from Brooklyn. There was someone from Cleveland at my party last night. People from all over the country come down. It’s interesting DJing in the Marigny and the Bywater. I’m from Uptown, but people always ask me if I’m from the Marigny or the Bywater. I have been adopted as a Marigny-ite and the people in the Marigny are free spirits. Those are the people that came out when I started DJing at Leo’s in the Bywater. Fun and crazy people and that’s who I am, too. I fit right in. That’s the nature of the neighborhood and the people at Mimi’s in general. My night is not so much a neighborhood thing anymore, but it is definitely colored by the neighborhood, because it is such a free place where you have black, white, gay, straight, intellectuals, and party people. Sometimes people are like, “What’s your crowd like?” I can’t tell you.

You just never know. And I love that.

The underlying thing in everything that I do is it has to be fun. I’m doing more than DJing. I’m creating. For me personally, I feel like I’m helping people, because this music is music that saved my life. My music comes from the stuff that I grew up on—funk music, hip-hop, R&B. When things were hard, when I was by myself, this was the music.You can’t listen to these songs and feel any sort of sadness. After awhile, I started realizing that all of my favorite hip-hop songs were basically samples of this older music. I would just discover and want to learn more about the original funk music, and realzied how much of it there is. And, because I love it so much, that led to me wanting to share the music with others.

Before the storm, the main reasons I DJed live were: one, to represent women DJs, and, two, to represent the type of music that I’m presenting because people want an alternative, to showcase that music. After the storm, I went to New York and LA. I DJed there and thought I wouldn’t ever come back. But New Orleans is home—I missed it so much. On top of that, all these people kept calling me from New Orleans and saying, “When are you coming back? We need you to do a party now.” When I came back, I felt like DJing was a healing thing for people; it was very spiritual for me. It’s more than a DJ gig, it’s a whole release and happiness.

Top to bottom: DJ Soul Sister at the turntables, by Zack Smith; a Saturday night Hustle! party at Mimi’s, by Otis Shipman.

bands, so it’s about representing for underground culture. It wasn’t until I went to New York and LA that I felt like I’m part of something bigger than just the DJs in New Orleans. And hopefully I am bringing that kind of energy to the forefront here at home.

I believe in underground culture in New Orleans. When I was in New York and LA after Katrina, I really loved the fact that there was DJ culture. Everything here is kind of biased, even in live music. In the live music scenes you hear about brass bands and funk and jazz. You don’t hear about the punk rock bands, even the reggae

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THE HOUSE of

DANCE & FEATHERS Lower Ninth Ward 1317 Tupelo Street

From Tupelo Street in the Lower Ninth Ward, you can see the tin roof of the House of Dance & Feathers. It’s tucked behind a newly painted white house that belongs to Ronald W. Lewis and his wife, Charlotte. Its resurrection was the labor of love of a wide network of people from New Orleans and around the country. Ronald started the museum, dedicated to the culture of Mardi Gras Indians, social and pleasure clubs, and musicians of the neighborhood before Hurricane Katrina. Its early beginnings were in a

shed in his backyard; its function was a place where young people could come to learn about the culture of their community.

I met Ronald at a conference in November 2005.

In exile in Thibodeaux, Louisiana, he was on a mission to help rebuild his family’s home, and to participate in the resurrection of his community. The Lower Nine had become a symbol for the city’s devastation—small wooden houses overtaken by the force of water, families trapped

the collective effort. Since its completion, Ronald continues to keep the doors of the museum open, and the people of the Lower Nine continue the slow rebuild. —Rachel Breunlin Visits to the House of Dance & Feathers are by appointment only. Please contact Ronald W. Lewis at 504957-2678.

of DANCE

& FEATHE

RS

In the summer of 2006, Project Locus, a nonprofit design/build architecture organization, rebuilt his home and museum. Students from Kansas State University and others from around the country came to New Orleans to help. In the process, they became close not just with Ronald’s family, but with the other neighbors who had returned home. Academics, journalists, photographers, architects, and social justice organizations visited, wrote about, and celebrated

The House

of Dance an

d Feat her ph

oto montage

s, by Emil ie

the House

on rooftops, loved ones lost without goodbyes.

Later, the media turned it into a symbol for poverty and neglect, a misrepresentation that Lower Nine residents resist. Since the storm, people visiting New Orleans drive to the neighborhood to see what remains. One of the first people to return, Ronald has risen to the challenge of speaking out, challenging the stereotypes, educating people about his culture, and bridging the divides between black and white, resident and visitor, volunteer and survivor.

Taylor.

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site plan “I’m interested in Southern vernacular architecture and I’m kind of driven by those messy relationships between things—where the guy picks the stick up off the side of the road to fix his window and it becomes a part of his house. It wasn’t about making some nice clean modernist deal that you find a lot in many design/build programs. The idea was just to come in there and do something that fit.

Even something that looked like it had been there for a long time.”

—Patrick Rhodes, second from left

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“The building has started to have the feel of the person. You take a house or a building, and you turn that building into the image of you. This is what I’m doing with the new House of Dance & Feathers— I’m building it in an image of me, and my way of thinking.”

—Ronald W. Lewis, left, talking about his collection

E

the house of dance & feathers PLAN D

F

B

A

C

A. Exhibition area B. Raised deck C. Storage D. Lawn E. Ramp F. Lewis residence

0

5‘

10‘

25‘

From left: Grand opening, by Jason Fedak; Rachad Lewis, courtesy of the House of Dance & Feathers; Ronald leading a tour through the museum, by Patrick Rhodes; Ronald and his wife Charlotte at the Big Nine parade, courtesy of the House of Dance & Feathers.

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Ronald W. Lewis with the Gatekeeper’s Staff, by Aubrey Edwards.

go visit my brothers and sister just a few blocks away. Now they’re miles away.

The Culture of the Lower Ninth Ward This neighborhood was one of the later parts of New Orleans to be developed. In later years, the expansion went as far as New Orleans East, but all that was part of the Ninth Ward at one time.

Growing up as a child, the Lower Ninth Ward was a rural part of the city. People had chicken and ducks, and a couple of people had pigs.

We always did have green space through the drainage canals. In those drainage canals, we crawfished, crabbed, and fished. And once we crossed Florida Avenue, the marshlands were right there.

Ronald W.

LEWIS

Director of the House of Dance & Feathers, President of the Big Nine Social and Pleasure Club, and Community Activst I first met Ronald W. Lewis while leading a tour of flooded neighborhoods during a conference called ReInhabiting NOLA. My friend Helen Regis and I were directing a tour about the physical and cultural geography of the city for both out of towners and New Orleanians, and asked residents to add their own input when we came to a part of the city they knew well. On St. Charles Avenue, Ronald asked to speak. I handed over the microphone and he explained he had worked as a streetcar repairman for many years before retiring in 2002. He passed around a photo album of pictures that he took during his evacuation to Thibideaux, Louisiana and said he would like to show the group his house and museum in the Lower Ninth Ward. We told the bus driver to make a detour and found our lumbering way to the House of Dance & Feathers. More than a year later, I interviewed Ronald in his newly constructed museum while neighbors used his electrical outlets to work on their own homes.

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Rachel: I was hoping we could talk a little bit about the history of the Lower Ninth Ward and your family’s history in the community.

Ronald: Well, my family was living Uptown.

That was before I was born, and they bought some land down here in the Lower Ninth Ward at 1911 Deslonde Street. They built our family home in the mid 40s, and I was born in 1951.

Since that time, our family has been one of the anchors in the Ninth Ward.

Before I was born, my mother married Mr. Irvine Dickerson. He worked at American Sugar Refinery. My mom was a housekeeper and did days work. We just lived a very, very simple life in that little house at 1911 Deslonde Street. Our world was built around that. I have several other brothers and sisters that are older than what I am. My oldest sister is 70 years old, and we maintained that family bond around this way of life. The most hurting thing is now my older brothers and sisters have to come visit me in the city of New Orleans. When I retired from the Transit Authority in 2002, I used to be able to

We was a rich culture being a working class community. Most of our parents and uncles and cousins, they were hardworking men. They were primarily longshoremen, and then other crafts that followed that. We wasn’t embedded in the cultural life of music, Mardi Gras Indians, and second-line parades. But as I grew up, we started to get involved. The people in the Lower Ninth Ward were truly involved in the musical history of the city. Since I created the House of Dance & Feathers, I like to tell the story of the role that our people played in building our musical history.

Rachel: Do you want to talk a little bit about that history?

Ronald: Well, that history starts with the great Fats Domino. He was from the Lower Ninth Ward, and still has a residence down here. There’s just generations of people that come out of this community, including Al “Carnival Time” Johnson. Out of my wife’s family came the Hill/Lastie/Andrews family, which included the various Lastie brothers, their sisters Debbie and Betty Ann Lastie and their offspring, which is Joseph Lastie Junior, the drummer at Preservation Hall, and Hirlin Riley, who’s the drummer for Wynton Marsalis at Lincoln Center. Betty Ann Lastie had a grandson, Joseph “Shotgun Joe” Williams, who played trombone for the Hot 8 Brass Band, and the other grandson, Iran Williams, plays for the Free Agents Brass Band.

Rachel: What is the history of social and pleasure clubs in the Ninth Ward?

Ronald: One of the most original clubs that came out of the Ninth Ward area was the Ninth Ward Rulers in the Upper Ninth Ward.

And from the Ninth Ward Rulers out came the original Double Nine Social and Pleasure Club with Big June, Henry Fagin, and all of them. But those were organizations that didn’t sustain. I was a member of the Original Double Nine of the Lower Ninth Ward from 1992 to 1994. I left that organization and formed the Big Nine Social and Pleasure Club. Then came Nine Times and the CTC (Cross The Canal).

Running a social and pleasure club is a monumental task. You have to have durability, and you have to be good at decision and policy making in order for it to be successful.

I surrounded myself with a group of good people in the beginning, which was Robert Stark, my business manager; Peter Alexander, our treasurer and one of our designers; Big Chief Edgar Jacobs, parade coordinator; Ricky Gettridge, former vice president; Ronaldo Gettridge, and Reginald Jones, Kenny “Scooter” Turner, and Melvin Davis. It’s that nucleus that kept it going.

to be part of this that there was no way I could tell them, “No, you can’t be part of this.” I wanted everybody to feel a part so when they went back to the places of unknown they could say, “I represented my community to the highest level.”

Rachel: You were mentioning this the other day that masking as an Indian was a way of representing the community and your participation in it.

But it took so much time, and was such a major commitment, that you decided to move on, still representing in different kinds of ways.

Ronald: As a Mardi Gras Indian, you commit your earlier life trying to prove to others in the culture that you can do this and get it done in a timely fashion. They have an honorary position in Mardi Gras Indians called Council Chief. Even though I never was a chief, when we organized the Chocktaw Hunters in 1990, they felt that my input into the tribe was significant and they give me this honorary title of Council Chief. I collaborated with the Big Chief Edgar Jacobs on operations of the tribe.

But as you grow, you move on, and the size of your family increases, economics change. I said, “Okay. I can make a Mardi Gras Indian costume, but I want to educate the world about our great culture and how we do this, and why we are so successful at it even though the economics say we ain’t supposed to be.”

Building The House of Dance & Feathers The House of Dance & Feathers was created in a strange way. I was still working at the time, and I was still working on my Mardi Gras Indian costumes for the Chocktaw Hunters.

I had feathers everywhere and memorabilias all over the house, and I came home one day and everything was in my backyard. My loving wife, Charlotte H. Lewis, got tired of seeing all that and she put it out. I moved it into the building at the back of my house, which was a shed. I renovated it into a building and started putting up my various artifacts and memorabilias, and the children in the community started calling it a museum. So I gave it a name, “The House

We have had very good parades over the years, but to gather out people from near and far to come back and represent this community the way we did December 17th of 2006 is second to none. If we don’t never accomplish that goal again, we put out the message: The people in the Lower Ninth Ward are here to stay, that their spirit, their heart, is into our community.

Rachel: How many people came from out of town that were club members?

Ronald: I couldn’t really tell you because the core members were here, and then everybody else whose soul is attached to this community begged to be part of this, so it wasn’t a Big Nine event; it was a Lower Ninth Ward people community event.

RacheI: You had people who hadn’t paraded with you before?

Ronald: Had never paraded, but felt so obligated

Musicians of the Lower Ninth Ward on display at the House of Dance & Feathers, by Rachel Breunlin.

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of Dance and Feathers,” which means second lining and Mardi Gras Indians.

Before Katrina it didn’t have much attention other than the people in the neighborhood.

Since Katrina, with Project Locus and the students from Kansas State University, I had an opportunity to create a new building and a new image and invite the world to come see it.

Rachel: What was it like to be working all summer in the crazy heat?

Ronald: Being a streetcar repairman in the city of New Orleans, that wasn’t no problem for me. Now, dealing with the volume of people was something else. Besides acclimating myself to the young people who worked on the site, it was the constant flow of visitors that I had to extend myself to. I survived, but in the end I went down like the Titanic because I was physically and mentally through. But I had a family that I had to get back home, grandchildren to bring back to the place that was most familiar to them. That was my goal.

Now I’m feeling much better, and am feeling stronger. People tell me I look better, and that’s good cause I only have one person. I put my family first, then New Orleans second.

Above left: The House of Dance & Feathers before the storm, courtesy of the museum; disaster tourism in the Lower Ninth Ward in the spring of 2006, by Rachel Breunlin. Above right: Ronald’s business card caked in mud from the flood, by Rachel Breunlin.

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I applaud those young people for the vision that they had, working six days a week sometimes as much as 12 hours. Their resilience was second to none. They weren’t getting no college credits, no stipends or nothing else, but they was committed to rebuilding a person’s life and family.

Rachel: The students really seem to love not just this project, but the whole community.

that would go to the race tracks in Harrisburg, Donaldsonville, or wherever else they felt that they wanted to go, to carry on the badge of honor of the Lower Ninth Ward because this is where they came from.

He saw what was going on down here by my house and wanted to be a part of this. He interacted with the students. They knew that a Friday or Saturday night through the summer they could go down there by Yacky’s house and enjoy some great hospitality and cooking of the Lower Ninth Ward.

Rachel: Since you’ve reopened, there’s been so many groups that have come through. People come to the Lower Ninth Ward for the disaster tour—they go and see all the flooded houses— but there really isn’t a lot that’s fully functioning again to give a sense of what the community was like. The House of Dance & Feathers has served the role as— Ronald: As a beacon light for the community.

As a ship travels through the fog, there’s that light that guides them to safety. This is what the House of Dance & Feathers is; it’s a beacon light of our community where people can come here, stop and talk about whatever. I done turned into a psychologist, counselor, and everything else.

I don’t have no problem with that because we need motivators in this community to guide us through the fog.

Inside the House of Dance & Feathers, by Patrick Rhodes.

They felt really proud to be a part of it.

Ronald: Yeah. The media can influence people in a positive way and a negative way. They had people under the impression that we were the most ignorant batch of people in the city of New Orleans. We was the most violent people in the city of New Orleans. It took people to come here and really see that was wrong. We are loving, caring people. Yes, we have the social ills of any urban city, but it’s limited.

Rachel: Do you want to talk a little bit about the barbeques?

Ronald: Charles Napoleon, who we call Yacky— I’m married to his mother’s first cousin—loves cars. He’s an excellent auto mechanic, and he built his legacy on racecars. From building street machines, he elevated to building cars for the racetrack, and built his allegiance of followers, including all his cousins—which were many. On any given Sunday, they would have an entourage

First, we seen the families with the little children on Tupelo. Now we seeing the teenagers. That’s heartfelt to see these young people back; the flow of the traffic to unfold. You know that in the Lower Ninth Ward and St. Bernard Parish (which is our next door neighbor), people are rebuilding their lives and making a statement through their physical actions that they’re not going to let nothing stand in their way.

I became a messenger for my community through all these various news medias that wanted to know about the Lower Ninth Ward, and how it was before Katrina and after Katrina. I have the opportunity to let people know, “Hey, we’re coming back.” We survived this 40 years ago in 1965 with Hurricane Betsy. It’s just a more

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modern time, just a different situation.

Rachel: What are people’s reactions to coming to the museum? What are the kinds of things they say?

Ronald: It’s a feeling of happiness that someone is being able to tell our story of our community.

We rebuilt our lives after Betsy and had gotten into a comfort zone again before Katrina. It is hard to do it again, but people have the courage.

Everybody wants to donate. Everybody want to contribute something to this because they say, “Ronald, this is a good thing and keep up the good work.” I’m saying, “Well, my work is for y’all. It’s not for Ronald Lewis. It’s for my community that I love the most, that I spent my entire 55 years of my life in.”

The Collection Rachel: You were talking the other day about deciding to have mostly photographs rather than the parading and Mardi Gras regalia.

Ronald: I want to reach in a different direction because my friend Sylvester Francis has a great museum in the Backstreet Culture Museum with all elaborate costumes. By being in the hub of New Orleans in Tremé, he has a lot of artifacts that I feel is second to none. Not an attempt to duplicate what he’s done, I moved more in the direction of the photographers and telling my story through the eyes of the lens. Let that be the message. My own photographs have been amassed with a ten-dollar camera.

But this is me—the collection of artifacts and various conversation pieces that make the House of Dance and Feathers what it is. From the section about the students leaving some of their personal items here to the Mardi Gras Indian beadwork that I done that evacuated with me to an umbrella that was part of the 2006 parade of the Big Nine Social and Pleasure Club to the banner of the original Double Nine Social and Pleasure Club that rose up out the ashes of Sonny’s Bar, this building is a building of many stories.

A young man named Germaine, who is in Georgia now, is an active member of the CTC. We have

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a very close relationship, and he donated some memorabilia to me before Katrina that I lost. We reconnected recently, and I was telling him that I don’t have nothing from the organization. He told me, “I think I have a few pieces,” and he shipped those pieces to me so I could continue highlighting their history, too.

It’s more than the costumes and parading in the streets. I have a section called, “The Katrina Story, by Ronald W. Lewis” that tells about what happened to us, and it’s important for that story to continue being told. When our president had his state of the union address in 2007, our great city of New Orleans was left out. That’s why it’s us, the people of New Orleans, who have to bring back New Orleans through our resilience and our love for our culture. We’re not going nowhere, and we’re going to continue doing what we’re doing.

Rachel: Are there other things about this space that you’d like people to know about?

Ronald: It’s a hub of our culture in the Lower Ninth Ward. Even though we have a Holy Cross District, the Lower Ninth Ward as a whole community has no such thing as a Culture Communication Center. So here it is: The House of

Top to bottom: Big Chief Edgar Jacobs and Robert Starks, photograph donated to Ronald’s collection by Andy Levin; Ronald holding one of the Mardi Gras Indian patches he sewed for the Chocktaw Hunters, by Devin Meyers of Fotos for Humanity.

Dance & Feathers welcomes everyone to hear about this true and rich culture of the Lower Ninth Ward and the people down here who have some resilience that’s second to none. They lost everything twice in a lifetime, but are still here to say, “We’re going to move forward.”

PATRICK

RHODES

Architect for the House of Dance & Feathers Director of Project Locus Patrick Rhodes is an intense man. It comes through in this photograph, taken at a time when all of his focus was on rebuilding the museum and Ronald’s home in a summer. It was the largest project that he had ever undertaken with his nonprofit architecture firm Project Locus. But he’s also a great storyteller, and situates his work within a larger movement for community-based architecture, which has made a significant impact on the conversations and practices around rebuilding the city.

I first met Patrick at a Design/Build summit he had co-organized in Arkansas after the storm. We had just finished the ReInhabiting NOLA conference and wanted to talk with architecture schools about helping with some building projects. The New Orleans delegation suggested a number of projects that architects could get involved in, including the House of Dance & Feathers.

The name is evocative and captured the imagination of the group. Patrick and his collegue Larry Bowne said they would take on the project with the help of my husband, Dan Etheridge, and Tulane’s City Center. Four months later, Patrick moved into our house in the Seventh Ward for the summer. Every day, he drove down to the Lower Nine in a yellow pickup truck to work on one of the first houses in the neighborhood to be renovated after the storm. Intending to stay just a few months, he ended up taking a teaching position at Tulane University’s School of Architecture, and living at Yacky’s house for the fall semester of 2006.

Rachel: Maybe we’ll just begin by talking about Project Locus?

Patrick: I was in architecture school at the University of Florida. It was 1996, right before I graduated. My whole experience up to that point with architecture was learning about architects like Thom Mayne and Frank Gehry—people that did houses for rich clients and big public buildings.

The last lecture of the spring was given by a guy

Patrick Rhodes and Ronald W. Lewis, by Aubrey Edwards.

named Sam Mockbee. He was from about three hours from where I grew up on the Red Neck Riviera. He talked with a really thick southern accent, had a big beard, and he was showing homes—beautiful homes—that his students had built for people who couldn’t afford it. Basically working in one of the poorest counties in the country. For him, it was what life was all about, and he was joyful about it. I remember thinking, “That that’s the guy I want to be.”

I was accepted into a graduate school in Los Angeles, and when I got out to Southern California Institute of Architecture in the fall, I saw Sam Mockbee was going to do a design/build with students. I was running all over school trying to find the studio and when I saw him down at the end of this really long hallway, I screamed out, “Mr. Mockbee!” He turned around. He came up and smiled, shook my hand. He said, “Son, I know you must be from the South calling me Mr. Mockbee.”

From then on it was all about what can I build and trying to figure out how to do it for people.

I started Project Locus as a nonprofit organization to do this kind of work—it’s possible because

of an incredible group of people that I’ve worked with over the years in Los Angeles, Baltimore, Kansas, and now New Orleans.

The Road to New Orleans I had been thinking about applying for teaching jobs. It was really a shot in the dark for me, but I was offered a job teaching at Kansas State University. I moved to Manhattan, Kansas, and the hurricane hit maybe four or five days later. My friend Garryn was calling me up and telling me he was going to rent a van, drive down to New Orleans and pick people up. I grew up four hours east of here in Fort Walton Beach. We used to come over here a lot when I was going to University of Florida, and I love this town. I’m teaching, I’m around students, they’re paying me to do work like this, and I feel more confident in my ability to make a contribution to the recovery.

I wrote a call to action about what we should be doing as the community of architects to help out in New Orleans. I didn’t know what it was going to be yet, but we needed to get together and talk about making something happen quick.

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Ronald and Charlotte with Kansas State students looking over designs for their house and the museum, by Eric Wittman.

I only sent it to 30 people I knew from the nonprofit world and a group of my friends. One of those guys put that on a listserv and I started getting emails from people like the Kansas City Design Center. Dan, who was organizing the ReInhabiting NOLA conference, called me while I was walking to rent a movie one night. He invited me to the conference, and said a group of people from it would come to the summit I was co-organizing in Arkansas for the architects.

I went to observe, but Dan was pushing. He really thought we would be a great help. Then the next month we had the Arkansas meeting where you and Dan presented about New Orleans neighborhoods and possible rebuilding projects.

One of them was Ronald’s House of Dance & Feathers. My friend Larry Bowne and I were both interested in the museum. Maybe it was the name—it just jumps out at you right away.

Maybe it was the idea of a museum. Every architect wants to design a museum, a big church, or something like that. But those are the big projects to get the big commissions.

Larry and I had a cheeseburger on the road home, and he convinced me to do it. Right af-

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ter we ate, I called Dan and told him, “We’re going to do that project.” I wanted to get it before anybody else did.

I went back to K State, and we started writing a proposal. We used a lot of the information in the Neighborhood Story Project books. Our first idea was that we were going to do this thing in two weeks during the winter intersession for $13,000. At that time, we weren’t going to do the house. We were just going to do the museum, and I don’t know what we were thinking.

It didn’t work out because the architecture department said no. Larry was like, “Well, I guess that’s it,” because he had to teach study abroad in Italy the next semester. I said, “No, Larry, I’m going to do this. I have a nonprofit, Project Locus.” He’s like, “Yeah, we can do it that way.”

Designing the House of Dance & Feathers I made arrangements to come down here and meet with Dan and Ronald. We went out to Thibodaux, where Ronald had evacuated. When I walked in the door, met his wife Minnie, I was like, “Wow, we have to build their house.” I was

nervous because this was a really big project now.

It was going to take all summer, and we had no money. One thing Ronald actually said during the meeting was, “The House of Dance & Feathers is my future, but my home is my life.”

I asked Ronald, “Do you have anything that I can look at that would describe to me what it is that you did there? Any photographs? Anything?”

He said, “Yeah.” He went in the back room and comes out with three big suitcases. He started pulling out all this stuff and it was beautiful. We watched some of the old tapes of second line parades. I was thinking, “I’m a young guy. I’m not even a registered architect, and I’m sitting there with this stuff that looks to me like there should be somebody from the Smithsonian here looking at this.” It’s not just some guy that decided to make some patches. It represents 200 years of a culture. People did this on their own. Now that I’m down here, I can see how rich it is and how structured it is, and how embedded it is in everyday life. It’s kind of fitting and funny that the Smithsonian is now involved with Ronald’s collection.

Back at K State, I started working on this spring break trip trying to get people down here and

The house and museum in progress, by Caitlin Heckathorn.

get the site ready—finish demolition and in between we could be looking for funding, which actually happened. It was that month the University of Montana kids came down with an environmental studies professor named Tom Roy and he was psyched about the whole thing. He was a guy in the beginning that was thinking that New Orleans should not be rebuilt. Then he went back to Montana and went full steam trying to find us money.

A few weeks later, Dan called me. Later, he said there was dead silence on the other end when he told me Tom has raised the money from the Charles Engelhardt Foundation. First, I was really shocked that we’d gotten a check for $50,000.

Second, it was sinking in that now I had to do it.

It would be the biggest project I’d even done on my own without the support of my home institution. I would be building a house and a museum in three months with people I didn’t even know who they were going to be yet.

Over spring break, we did a lot of demolition work. We did the design work out at the FEMA camp in Algiers in preparation for a barbeque at Ronald’s house that would be like a community meeting and design review. Everybody did

all their drawings and sketches on trace paper, but one of the students, Brian, actually made a sketch up model on his computer, which was animated. It was still getting dark pretty early, and the whole idea was that we gotta get out there so we can do the design review while there’s still light.

We had to pin up for the design review. It was getting dark, and we were at the back of Ronald’s beat up, old gutted house. We just taped the sketches up with duct tape, had our flashlights that we got at the dollar store, and everybody crowded around. Some people say that was the best design review they’ve ever been to.

It actually gave me an idea. I said, “I think we should not do it while it’s light out. I don’t want to rush the dinner. I think we should have it in the dark by flashlight.” It makes a statement that there’s no power out here.

I remember taking my students out after that and telling them it was my dream come true.

That night was the way I picture design/build to be. Sam Mockbee’s vision of what a studio is all about: Bringing people in to talk to other people, having community with those people, and doing things so you gain an understanding of who people are on both sides of the fence.

We got out to the site. Here’s a place we’d been for five days now and hadn’t seen anybody but Ronald and us and you could hear crickets because, at the time, nobody was in the Ninth Ward. This guy pulled up with this barbeque grill on a trailer. He was like the Soup Nazi.

You could not get behind the trailer. You had to stay in line. We could not ask him for anything, or you weren’t eating. It was really good food.

All of a sudden there were 80 people out there.

Like Ronald says, as soon as somebody finds out they’re cooking BBQ wings in the Ninth Ward, you have people.

R: I’ve always enjoyed you talking about the character of the museum and how that fits into the culture of the Ninth Ward and just the character of New Orleans.

P: All I had to go on was what I knew about New Orleans and what I knew about the South.

We looked at shotgun homes. We looked at Creole cottages. But we didn’t try to make it look like traditional New Orleans architecture. The funny thing was, when we came up with this

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don’t know. We have to see what it looks like when it’s done. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

Yacky and his friends used to sit down towards the end of the block on the neutral ground in the evening. We started going down there a little bit after we’d kick off work to hang out.

R: There’s hardly anyone else down there. Was it just Ronald’s and Yacky’s house on Tupelo Street at that time?

Rebuilding the Lewis house, summer 2006, by Caitlin Heckathorn.

bay structure, Ronald was one of the first guys to say, “This really looks like a Creole cottage.”

It reminded him of back in Thibodaux, which I thought was awesome. We had done this thing that he felt like he could relate to.

The Lower Nine

The idea was to do something small— simple—that didn’t take away from what was going on around it. But we had to elevate it out of the private realm. We had to make it a public building in some way. We used the roof to express that idea. The roof is the only thing that you really look at. It’s got this big rolling curve and it’s flowing above the building. Everything had to be flexible programmatically and pragmatically, but it came about with this idea of separation and undulation and turbulence. This idea of floating. We wanted to relate it to the idea of water and what the water did.

P: Well, it’s funny because it’s gotten mythological. It’s like South Central LA or Sandtown in Baltimore—any of these neighborhoods in the big decaying cities that you’re told not to go into because the people there are dark-skinned and they’re going to hurt you if they see you. When I got a job offer from Tulane at the end of the summer, Ronald was really happy. He told me, “You can’t live anywhere else. You gotta live here.”

For eight months, I lived right down the street from the project.

I like everything to be loose and just grow organically. The process is not a building process.

It’s a social one, and the building grew out of that in a lot of ways. It looks exactly like the drawings, but it doesn’t feel like those drawings. The drawings are two-dimensional, cold and sterile, but the building itself jumps out.

P: It took Yacky a while to work up to coming down and hanging out. He’s a really great guy.He fixed all of our cars that summer. I didn’t even know he was doing it, but he was fixing people’s cars for nothing. He would come by and say, “I don’t understand it. I don’t know what you’re building.” We explained it to him. He’d say, “I

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R: With that in mind, tell me about your experience working and living in the Lower Ninth Ward.

R: Will you talk a little bit about the barbeques at Yacky’s?

P: Pretty much. They started cooking chicken and we’d have beer. Then they started teaching us how to play dominoes. Then it became a thing. Every other night we were there hanging out with these guys, and Yacky started to like it a lot. He got very close to a lot of the students and a lot of my students didn’t want to leave. I didn’t know what was going to happen to Brian. He was becoming less and less a Kansan everyday and more a member of the Lower Ninth Ward, which was awesome. He was talking more. He had an attitude, and he was a really good dominoes player. There were little rivalries that were building up between teams.

For me, that’s the summer. We came down to build that building, but I don’t really remember it. I remember the relationships with people on the site and people down and across the street.

R: As an architect, how do you feel about Tupelo Street and the character of that part of town?

P: It’s not Uptown. It’s not the French Quarter.

It’s not the architecture that people would generally think about when they think about New Orleans. There are a few examples of the shotgun house, but most of the housing stock is like 1950s or 1960s: post-World War II ranch homes that you find any place, really.

One thing that makes it different than a lot of places you go is that it has one of the highest rates of black home ownership in the country.

And the fact that everybody knows everybody.

There’s a kind of psychological landscape that’s

created out of the fact that you know who’s across the street. You know who’s down the street. Everybody knows what everybody’s doing. It reminded me of going to my grandparents’ house when I was a kid.

Those guys take care of me. They take care of each other for as much as they’ve been through.

They’ve always gone through. I feel really comfortable there. Everybody says it’s one of the most devastated places in the city, and still looks the same as it did, but I feel like it’s my buffer zone to everything else—all the Starbucks and jogging shorts and stuff that you find on the other side of town.

R: Can we talk about all the different people that came to that work site?

P: We wanted it to be a catalyst. Ronald said, “People will drive by and they’ll see what we’re doing. Once they see someone has started, they’re going to want to rebuild.” You never know how that stuff’s going to work out. But, man, every day there’d be people driving by.

They would stop, honk and holler, and be like, “Where you at Mr. Lewis?”

There were a few people that came and told Ronald they were going to be moving back now that they saw what we were doing. Really, the house, more than the museum even. At Thanksgiving, there was a group of kids that drove by from a university. I was sitting with my back to the street and Yacky said, “Hey, you know these guys?” They were looking for the House of Dance & Feathers, although they asked for the Mardi Gras museum. It’s gotten out there.

R: One of the neighbors gave you the tin for the roof?

P: The tin looked beautiful, man. Those are the kind of things I’m talking about. The tin for the roof. We were at one of Yacky’s barbeques, and Yacky’s brother Poly was like, “My house is going to be torn down in a couple of weeks and I have a shed in the back. You can have as much of the tin off that shed as you want. It’s two years

Charles “Yacky” Napoleon, Ronald Lewis, and Sarah Gamble at Ronald’s house, by Caitlin Heckathorn.

old.” It fit exactly. We took off exactly what we needed for the museum.

R: What is it like to go into the museum now that’s Ronald’s set up?

P: Well, it’s his building now. For three months you live in a place—you spend 12 hours a day on a job site in a house roaming around, doing your thing. That house was my house. That museum was my museum. It was my project, and Ronald was there too, so it was our project, but I owned it just as much as Ronald did. I had to because I had to get it done. And then you give the keys to them. For the first few weeks I was over there a lot, still walking in whenever I wanted to. Then I realized that it’s not really my place anymore.

would do. I wouldn’t have asked him to put the tables where he put them, but it all makes perfect sense. You couldn’t draw it any better than it is. He does his thing, and it’s a total marriage between building and client. I think he really likes it, and he doesn’t have to explain it. He doesn’t even have to talk about it. It’s part of what he’s doing.

He’s doing things there that I never thought you

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Mimi and Elyonda in Yacky’s trailer in the Lower Ninth Ward, by Rachel Breunlin.

Demetrius

“mimi” alexander & Rebuilding in the Lower Ninth Ward

napoleon

Throughout the summer of 2006, there was only a handful of people back on Tupelo Street. The grass was high and the mosquitoes were vicious. Doused in bug spray, they lit up a grill and barbequed after long days of working on their houses. In the darkness, with generators and FEMA trailers for light, they recreated—if only for a few hours a day—some of the comfort that had been found in the close-knit community before Katrina. I always felt privileged to be invited.

tional Guard, planning commissions, and Road Home would make it for Lower Ninth Ward residents to feel like they were included in the rebuilding of the city.

Two of the people who made that feeling possible were Mimi and Yonda. They were staying a block from Ronald’s in a trailer next to Yonda’s brother Yacky’s house. Before the storm, Mimi helped Ronald set up his Jazz Fest exhibitions, but after Katrina, he had his hands full as a contractor—working on “everyone else’s house but my own.” He fell in love with Yonda before the storm, and through his travels in exile, he found his way to her in Atlanta. They came back to their community knowing they’d have to be prepared for a long struggle to rebuild the bricks and mortar. What they hadn’t anticipated was how hard the police, the Na-

M: [Laughter] It don’t bother me. They help me air my views, and at times, my disgust with the city. Even if I don’t see it written or published anywhere, at least I had time to vent. But this gonna be a lifetime of venting. Serious.

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Elyonda

Mimi: So what do you want to hear? Where do you want me to start? I’ve had about 50 interviews.

Rachel: Thanks for doing another one.

Yonda: Because the longer it takes to rebuild, the more disgusted you get with seeing your surroundings.

M: My dad is 77 years old. My mom just made 76, but she keeps saying 75. She’s tryin to take

a year off. [Laughter] But even with their age, FEMA still has them waiting. My mom’s patient: “I’m gonna call. You have to give them time.”

Well, how much time do they need?

Rachel: Have y’all lived in the Lower Ninth your whole lives?

M: Yeah. My dad worked for the city; he was over the Waste Management. My mom was a nurse for a while before I was born, but after me, she was a homemaker. They bought a house at 1315 St. Maurice that I tore down.

R: How does that feel to have to do that?

M: To be honest, it feels good. The house is 162 years old, so it really feels good. I wish I could have just remodeled it, but it’s time for some new things.

R: What about you, Yonda?

Y: I was born at 1420 Tupelo Street. I lived there til I was 12, and then we moved in the 2600 block of Duberall. Before the storm, I was living with my mother, Alice Napoleon, at 6320 Villere Street.

R: I’d love for you to talk about the Lower Ninth Ward, and this area in particular, before the storm.

M: Well, before the storm, it was a populated community. Tupelo was a whole. I done ate in just about every house on Tupelo and slept in just about every house. Before the storm, it was like one big family. We had our ups and downs in the neighborhood. It was more due to city officials than the people themselves before the storm.

I’ve always liked to get out traveling. I never just stay in my neighborhood. I be all over the city. I know a lot of people living over here in this Ninth Ward that never been to Canal Street. And they have people in the Seventh Ward who’ve never been cross the canal. Nobody would really come over here. The only way you get someone to come over here is if they know you. Or they met a girl out at a club.

Y: Eighty-five percent of the people in the Lower Ninth Ward were homeowners, and people didn’t just get by down here. They lived well.

Because most of the people down in this area were middle income. Very few people were getting assistance. A lot of people worked two jobs like me.

M: And I’m a contractor. Just boring contractor. I fix everybody else’s house but mine. That’s a shame. Since the storm, everybody’s stressed out. People don’t know really which way to turn.

It’s just stressful. Check this out. Give me half of what they sent to Iraq only once, and I can’t tell you exactly how many houses I can fix, but I make a lot of my neighbors real damn happy. I can rebuild Tupelo.

R: Some people say before the storm that the Ninth Ward was like the country.

The North Claiborne bridge, extending over the Industrial Canal, acts as a gateway to and from the Lower Ninth Ward, by Rachel Breunlin.

brotherhood. Yeah, because everybody knew everybody, and you could walk everywhere.

M: It was definitely like the country. I still go hunting right here across the canal. They have the swamps right back there, so you can still go shoot you some coons, some rabbits, some ducks.

Y: They have wild hogs and everything.

M: Yeah, they have wild hogs back there, so you have to be careful.

Y: I remember crabbing and fishing.

M: And they have some big alligators back there.

Y: Oh, I never saw alligators.

M: See, you shoulda came hunting with me.

Y: No, thank you. [Laughter]

M: It was.

M: We had crawfish, crabs.

Y: I think they refer to it like that because of the

Y: Turtles. I remember Yacky and me used to

come home, and my mom would fuss about those turtles.

M: They had a lot of cottonmouth. They had snakes in the canal.

Loss and Slow Recovery Y: Tell her how long you stayed when Katrina hit.

M: Well, I’m hardheaded, so I made sure my mom and dad was gone, and I stayed in the Lower Ninth because I knew some of my neighbors couldn’t leave. I wouldn’t do it again. I got to see the water coming up the street from the first start of it. I thought they was shooting a movie until water hit on Tupelo and Claiborne, and I knew it was no longer a movie shot. I almost drowned five times, to make a long story short.

It was the worst thing you would ever wanna see, and the worst part of it wasn’t the water.

It was when I started my generator and went outside with the light. Everybody was scream-

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Tupelo Street in January 2008, by Rachel Breunlin

ing for help. I couldn’t help no one else. I had 20 people in the house beside myself, and I almost drowned five times getting them in there, so I couldn’t help nobody else. That was the worst part of the whole ordeal until I made it from over here, leaving in my stolen vehicle. I was turned around by Jefferson Parish’s finest. They turned me around on the bridge. I decided to go on the other side and go up the wrong way. We were shot at.

R: Considering everything people have gone through—both with the storm and the government’s response—are people wondering whether to reinvest in this part of town?

M: Well, me, I would reinvest. I would advise anybody to either come home or sell their house to somebody who’s gonna do something with it.

If you’re scared to come home, stay where you’re at, but sell the house; sell the grounds.

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R: It makes it hard for the people who are trying to rebuild here. It’s hard to be one of the only ones back.You know, someone has to do it first, but—

came to my mind was like, “What the hell did Ronald Lewis pull off now?”

M: During the summertime, I really enjoyed it.

It was peaceful.

M: “What did he say to get that done? I would like to get that done.”

Y: Yeah, they had other people around to keep your mind off it.

R: I haven’t spent a huge amount of time down here, but I know that a large part of having the kids do that construction project this summer— and the success of that—was based on you and Yonda and Yacky really opening your hearts and what was left of your homes…

M: Pat was doing Ronald Lewis’ museum. We would cook for them, and we had a good time just about every weekend, or sometimes even in the middle of the week.

R: What did you think when Patrick showed up?

Y: “Who is this guy?”

M: When I first saw Patrick, the first thing that

Y: “What did he tell those people?”

M: Well, I’m gonna tell you. I appreciate what they did for Ronald Lewis. It’s not often you can find someone to come down and do anything at all for a person, especially if they’re not getting paid. So that makes a big difference. Every time I was off, I would cook. I would barbeque. When we first started giving barbeques, a lot of our

Sitting on the step of Mimi’s mother’s demolished house on St. Maurice Street. They plan on rebuilding. Photographs by Patrick Rhodes.

neighbors was coming home just because they heard we was out on the weekend. They would pass by and come all the way from Texas just to come get some barbeque.

Community Museum R: What do you think about the museum? How did kids and people use it before the storm?

M: Before the museum, it was a barbershop—a place we had to play dominoes.

Y: Mostly everybody in the neighborhood would be in there.

M: Yeah, it was like the whole neighborhood.

Nobody had to hang out nowhere else. You can sit there and get a haircut, drink your beer, the music on. So it was like our own little private bar.

And then Ronald started bringin his stuff in.

Y: He started collecting stuff. At first it was small, and then it grew to be a big area, so he needed more of his space.

M: He finally got it set up the way he wanted to. I used to even help him design his fans and umbrellas. And then we started going back and forth to the Jazz Fest. Every year you have to do something new, so we was always designing something for the Jazz Fest or somethin for a second line. It could be somebody else’s parade. We were trying to go look at what they have and go home and design something else that look better than theirs.

We always were working.

Y: Designing or sometimes you might help with some feathers or something.

R: How’d you get involved with the designing?

M: Well, they have a person who I feel should be called Big Chief Joe. His name is Joe Scott.

I’ve been knowing him since I was real young, and I used to help him out every now and then.

He used to live in a big house right cross from Louis Armstrong Elementary. I knew it better as McDonogh 19. He’s a real good guy, and he done sewed for just about every Indian.

Y: In the background.

Y: It’s nice, the finished product, but the person who do the sewing, they put in the most work cause you have to take every little bead and put it on the needle and sew it. That’s the person who really—

M: Yeah, I stay to the background.

M: He make it really come to life.

R: Have you been involved with any of the Indians or social and pleasure clubs?

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R: And he was like your mentor?

M: Yeah, you can say that.

M: Yeah, I have to get the house on St. Maurice back up and running first.

R: What role would you like to see the museum play now that it’s open?

Y: Our plan is to get that house together and make it a rental.

Y: The museum is supposed to get publicity for the Lower Ninth Ward, and if we can get one person to come back and rebuild a museum, and he thinks of the Ninth Ward as a beautiful place, others may come back and rebuild. Everybody says that the Ninth Ward was structurally a bad place and everything. Already you have a few young people back who don’t have nothin to do. It’s just environment. Environment is everything.

M: Some affordable rentals.

M: And it’s hard to take people out the environment. It’s really hard. So you have to add something to the environment. I just hope he can really get something done in the neighborhood with the museum.

Y: Yeah, that’s the stepping-stone of it. A lot of people think it’s just so horrible down here, but they don’t realize that the majority of the people out of state are tryin to come home. They want to come home.

Where is the larger commitment?

M: I would hate to just give up on New Orleans, but I’m getting sick and tired of city government. I’m a taxpayer. I was called a refugee.

We’re supposed to be in civil days and times.

Everybody’s supposed to have respect for everybody. There is no respect here. They need to take Kathleen Blanco out, give her a good spanking, Ray Nagin, give him a good spanking, and they need to just to tie George W. Bush down to the bed and give him a good ol fashioned whuppin.

R: Are you guys talking about moving out of the Lower Ninth Ward?

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Y: Affordable housing to allow people to come back, and then we move on from there.

R: Are you gonna stay in the city?

M: No. Y: Yeah.

M: Nope. Know why? Since the storm, the main thing is, I don’t see where my tax money goes in this city.

Y: Right. Before the storm, we didn’t have decent streets. We don’t have decent schools. We get bogus tickets for nothing.

M: The police target working class people. I’m a young black man coming home from work. You gotta deal with roadblocks coming into the Ninth Ward. You say it’s not that I’m black, so what did you stop me for? I never get an answer. They’ll tell me to go ahead before they answer me.

R: Will you guys stay in this area if you move out of the city?

Y: He’s country, and I’m city.

M: I want to move in St. Bernard Parish.

Y: I can deal with that. St. Bernard is rebuilding, and St. Bernard was tiny compared to New Orleans. They have the CBD already rebuilt.

That’s pretty. That’s beautiful.

M: I’m trying to see if we could get everybody to pass a vote and make this part of the Lower Ninth Ward St. Bernard Parish.

NOMINATION FORM

Help us recognize important everyday monuments and gathering places in your neighborhood!

Cornerstones is a documentary and advocacy project for the architecturally, culturally, historically, and socially important places of New Orleans’ neighborhoods. Please help us expand our efforts to comprehensively document the city’s significant neighborhood places and outdoor spaces by nominating a place you feel is important to your community or the city-at-large. Nominations will be included in our Cornerstones registry, a public database and webpage (www.cornerstonesproject.org) that will broaden our record of citywide landmarks and call attention to overlooked or threatened places in post-Katrina New Orleans. Feel free to be mainstream or offbeat in your choice of a special neighborhood place—consider churches, museums, corner stores, murals, snow cone shops, dance halls, parks, etc.—and be as detailed as you like in describing the important place of your choice.

Name of public place: Address/Location (Please be specific. If place no longer exists, list where it was located): New Orleans Neighborhood: Why does your place deserve to be nominated? Explain in detail why this place is important, such as how it tells an important story from history, houses cultural activities and traditions, serves as an important space for socializing, or enhances the beauty or artistic character of your neighborhood (attach additional sheets if needed).

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Please include any details about the site or physical features of the place. Also, are you aware of any physical damage or plans that threaten the future of the place? (Please attach additional sheets if needed.)

CONTACT INFORMATION Your Name: Phone number: Email: Are you aware of other individuals or organizations that may have more information about the place you nominated?

Please include any contact information below.

For some of these sites, more detailed research will be conducted. Would you will be willing to be interviewed and share more knowledge about the place you nominated?

These questions are OPTIONAL and help determine who has responded to this survey: Age: Cultural background: Neighborhood you lived in before Katrina: Neighborhood or city you live in now:

Thank you for your nomination. By completing this form, you are giving Cornerstones permission to publish your comments in the public registry and other promotional and educational materials. Cornerstones reserves the right to determine if a nomination is not suitable for publication.

The Cornerstones project is possible because of an ongoing partnership with Tulane University’s City Center (http://www.tcc.org), the urban design and public outreach arm of the School of Architecture. Cornerstones has also partnered with the Neighborhood Story Project, a community documentary project—www.neighborhoodstoryproject.org—to develop our publications and research design. This nomination form and the overall Cornerstones project are modeled on the work of Place Matters, a nonprofit that advocates for places in New York City that preserve history and sustain culture. More information on that project can be found at www.placematters.net.

PLEASE MAIL NOMINATION FORMS TO: Tulane City Center | Attention: Cornerstones | Richardson Memorial Hall | 6823 St. Charles |New Orleans, LA | 70118 FOR MORE INFORMATION, PLEASE CONTACT: bethany@cornerstonesproject.org