NOLA

I returned from another trip to New Orleans early on Sunday morning. As I stepped off the bus I felt something new that I had not felt in the past two trips...accomplishment. I didn't feel the aches and pains of sadness nor the regret of being in Chicago (well, except for the weather). I felt that I came back with more of myself this time.
The week was turned upside down by the Norov virus and many other events, but I found that all the craziness just made me work harder. Over 4 days I helped build planters, planted trees and flowers, painted a bathroom, built toys, and built a gazebo. I went there to start a job and I came back with it finished. I guess I feel a sense of closure. I am not sure when the next time I will be back in NOLA, but I know that this journey I shared with the city is continuing on to other places.
I will always love the city, the people, and the culture. They have transformed my life and I hope that I have transformed something in return.

This poem was written from my friend Nate, who I met on the trip this year. He has a way with words and describes my experiences with New Orleans perfectly.

Citizen

know that the streets are you
the weeds and the dogwood
is where we come from
water and soot
to cradle you, wrap you
up in some construction

let’s make a monument tonight
let’s take handfuls of what organs we have left
and offer them up to the sky
muddied up and water logged
like the tears I wish I’d cried

you can’t translate the language
of flooded houses
because their lungs are full
gap-mouthed, water-tongued
rain buckets

this’ll help you find the ghosts
in the back of your throat
scratching around trying to cough
themselves out in your blood

“this’s the tree where they
used to lynch us” he says

these streets are you

“this’s the corner where
Jazz was born”

“and these are the water marks”

they’re dirty worn car crash baskets
and they are you.
they are family. with their lives
cupped in knap sacks and they are you

we are all Jazz and we are all blue
your mother is actually made of brass
all she needs is a kiss

we were born from river ripples
to overcome this
with mallet melted to hand
like bone to socket

washed up with
the boat moss,
culture founded from loss
sticks to your ribs
demanding not to be forgotten

it is not a limb, but a heart
therefore it cannot be amputated
or otherwise parted with

New Orleans is no bullshit
she’ll suck you in and keep
you for generations

feel your roots sink
through the pavement
wrap yourself in the weather
like a blanket

met a boy with a bat
jumped in, in an attempt
to save him
but I was months late
and his swing was brazen
come meet your skeletons
America

they’re licking their chops in
your back yard,
dangling drinking gourds
like props
catching starlight
in their skinny arms