Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Brown Skin - India.Arie

Since rhetoric is something I'm passionate about, I really took the story of Althea and Flaxie to heart.  (The poem is below this post.)  Long before enrolling in black women's stories I also had a passion for social issues, especially for racial topics.  (If you don't already know that, hello, nice to meet you.)  Through all my reading, studying, and interviewing, I guess my purpose is to fully comprehend the difference in my life if I were black.
        
Homosexuality had not yet been admitted above a whisper at the time of the story's onset, and black southerners were still oppressed by and large.  In Cheryl Clarke’s story of black love between two women, both masculinity and blackness are as important as the characters themselves, and the anonymous back-drop forces analysis of the time.  The writer leaves the women to interpretation, and the reader draws personal conclusions about the two individuals.

Clarke provides the foundation for the poem in the first four lines.  She sets the opening time, 1943; the occupation, “welder;” the color, “very dark.”  “Very butch” serves to tell readers the point of the poem, and the addition of “very proud” sets the tone.  Both women convince us of their masculinity through their enjoyments of driving, shooting, fishing, and playing poker.  It is understood that Althea is the more dominantly masculine of the two, as she is a welder, she wears suits and ties, and takes Flaxie dancing every weekend.  Flaxie assumes the role of the more feminine of the two, as she “…was careful and faithful, mindful of her Southern upbringing, watchful of her tutored grace…” and did not mind the lesbian slurs “…long as they treated her like a lady…”

Both women remain defiant and proud of one another, their love, and their lifestyle.  The repetition of not caring about what other people thought provides for the conclusion that neither woman was ashamed.  Still, the original descriptions of the women linger.

The curveball of the story comes when Flaxie becomes pregnant, Althea loses her job, and later goes to jail.  While on relief, or welfare, Flaxie visits Althea in jail every week.  This raises many questions, for two women simply cannot produce a baby.  Nonetheless, the women remain one even until the end, when Althea dies in 1970.  Flaxie fights the “proper family” of Althea, which is indicative of Flaxie’s lack of representation as Althea’s spouse.  The family complies, however, which emits a sense of inclusion and that ultimately Althea’s family respected her as the partner.

Masculinity prevails as a main theme in “Of Althea and Flaxie.”  At the open of the poem, the country is in the throws of World War II.  Men were absent from society, which is why Althea’s job as a welder is initially not that off the wall.  One assumption readers may draw is that the war brought the women together.  Flaxie, Southern, graceful, high-cheekboned, dawning a tight dress and high heels fills the role of traditional Southern black women.  Perhaps Althea’s proud demeanor, butch manner, and dark skin attracts Flaxie in her search for the comfort of a man.  Althea remains proud and erect throughout the piece, gay and strong.

Women filled many positions uncharacteristic of them during this time, however Althea remains a welder long after the soldiers return home and back to work.  “In 1950 Althea wore suits and ties,” and bragged about Flaxie to “the boys on her shift.”  Although Flaxie shared “over break” that Althea took her dancing, she brags to “the girls.”  When Althea loses her job, Flaxie seeks government support, as if her job alone would not be able to provide for both women and the baby with whom she was pregnant.

Being set up and sent to jail sounds like more of a common happenstance for men of business, not for black women.  The reader assumes that Althea is involved in some sort of money matter, a sting characteristic of insider dealing between men.  Still, the question of the pregnancy is never again addressed or answered, and the baby is never mentioned again.

Reading this piece, I struggled with Flaxie’s pregnancy.  The possibility of rape crossed my mind, but so did the fact that the women met at a time when men were few and far between.  Despite Flaxie’s pride in her romance with Althea, Clarke describes her as “careful and faithful, mindful of her Southern upbringing, watchful of her tutored grace.”  Such cautious characteristics shake the picture of a well-drawn and loudly proud lesbian, especially in the South.

While the reader is unsure of the exact location of the story, Flaxie being Southern and her mother buried in New Orleans points the setting south.  The only other evidence of setting is provided by the welding job, more common in urban areas.  The fact that Flaxie enjoyed hunting and fishing alludes to country life, but the reader is unable to differentiate whether those hobbies are from “home” or if she continues hunting and fishing as an adult.

Location actually plays a major role in the story, which is why not knowing it is frustrating.  In the South, such loud behavior of homosexuality during the time, and even years later, was not so known.  As forthcoming as the women are about their lesbianism in the poem, I could not help wondering where in the United States at that time such advertised lifestyles were unhidden, unashamed, and un-punishable by the harsh societies of Southern towns.

Author and historian David Cohn wrote of the Mississippi Delta circa 1935, “Change shatters itself on the breast of this society as Pacific breakers upon a South Sea reef.”  Cohn described the South as  “…a land of almost complete detachment.”  This leads the reader to really analyze the setting of this story, because such Southern towns were practically running on the foundations of belief and social decency which dated back to the Antebellum period.  While “…social and political changes seemed to be sweeping across the nation in the wake of World War II…,” David Cohn noted that “…disturbing ideas crawl like flies around the screen of the Delta but they rarely penetrate.”  The presence of disturbance refers to the non-traditional, which is purely the story of Althea and Flaxie.  Still, a Southern town would be impenetrable to the acceptance of an openly gay relationship going dancing every weekend, as Flaxie boasts to the girls on break.  Even more, a Southern town would be impenetrable to such proud black women.

In James C. Cobb’s chapter “A Man’s Life Isn’t Worth a Penny with a Hole in It” of his book The Most Southern Place On Earth: The Mississippi Delta and the Roots of Regional Identity, he discusses the ruthless brutality of whites against blacks following WWII.  During battle, whites and blacks fought as equals, side by side.  This, according to Cobb, is the contributing factor of “…the quickened racial consciousness of blacks and white concerns over the potential aggressiveness of returning black servicemen [which] led to escalating racial violence in the wake of the war.”  Such turbulence in Southern societies is pinpointed by behavior far surpassing the mistreatment of blacks, and “…for a period of several months after the war black men were being killed at the rate of one per week.”    This uprising, Cobb states, is the primitive stage of the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s.  This discussion reiterates that Flaxie’s pregnancy is the product of rape.  The possibility that a white man raped Flaxie is very high, especially with James C. Cobb’s accounts overshadowing.

The dispute of this poem is whether lesbianism or blackness plays the bigger role.  In essence, lesbianism, the taboo, jumps out as the louder stage-setter.  However, given the time, blackness envelopes the poem with an entirely different mood than if the women were white.  According to Richard Dyer, “white is the point from which judgements are made, about normality and abnormality, beauty and ugliness, civilization and barbarity.”  That the story is focused around black women is crucial, as blackness is categorized by abnormal, ugly, and barbaric.  Dyer goes on to say that “whiteness has come to be represented as humanness…”  Parallel to this theory are the role assumptions by white Southern men after WWII as they treated black people as animals, dehumanizing their black neighbors as if they were unruly and the aforementioned barbaric.  The rape of black women by white men was not unheard of during this time.

Cheryl Clarke paints the picture of Althea by first telling readers that she is very dark.  Assuming the poem was read standing alone and without the rest of Cheryl Clarke’s collection, would the reader make a color assumption?  Richard Dyer’s study of whiteness yields that “if white is human, then all else requires qualification: everything else is deviant.”  Dyer explains that whiteness is “unmarked.”  Perhaps the blackness of the poem sets the precedent, and is the key factor for the poem at all.  In such harsh times of social persecution for being black, such pride would have been gutsy.  Clarke’s repetitive lines about the defiance and exuberance of the women on their unhidden relationship may provide the reader with an understanding of motive from them.  Though “neither cared a fig who thought them ‘queer’ or ‘funny,’” it can be deduced that being a black lesbian, a double stab in society’s back, thrilled Althea.  And outright behavior such as wearing suits and ties drew her attention, which is also her motive for taking Flaxie dancing every weekend.

This is where Flaxie’s lines are blurred.  Did her carefulness, faithfulness, and mindfulness of her Southern upbringing cause her to seek the tradition of a man?  When I read this, my first thought was that she had in fact slept with a man out of choice, and that she quickly realized her true love was Althea, as she turns her carefulness, faithfulness, and mindfulness to Althea for the rest of the story.

The answers to Cheryl Clarke’s poem “Of Althea and Flaxie” may not be written into the story, but through a careful reading between each of her purposefully crafted lines, readers may draw conclusions based on time period, setting, masculinity, and the blackness that uniforms the entire tale.  The point of this short biography of a romance is that pride is crucial in conquering oppression.  Althea and Flaxie were proud in their race, in their romance, in times of severe distress, and in death.

Of Althea and Flaxie

This poem is really special to me.  Cheryl Clarke published it in her book, The Days of Good Looks, along with several other works of prose and poetry.  (I'm really killing my "I hate poetry" mantra.)  This has been my favorite story I've read in my black women's stories class.

Of Althea and Flaxie

In 1943 Althea was a welder
very dark
very butch
and very proud
loved to cook, sew, and drive a car
and did not care who knew she kept company with a woman
who met her every day after work
in a tight dress and high heels
light-skinned and high-cheekboned
who loved to shoot, fish, play poker
and did not give a damn who knew her 'man' was a woman.

Althea was gay and strong in 1945
and could sing a good song
from underneath her welder's mask
and did not care who heard her sing her song to a woman.

Flaxie was careful and faithful
mindful of her Southern upbringing
watchful of her tutored grace
long as they treated her like a lady
she did not give a damn who called her a 'bulldagger.'

In 1950 Althea wore suits and ties
Flaxie's favorite colors were pink and blue
People openly challenged their flamboyance
but neither cared a fig who thought them 'queer' or 'funny.'

When the girls bragged over break of their sundry loves
Flaxie blithely told them her old lady Althea took her dancing
every weekend
and did not give a damn who knew she clung to a woman.

When the boys on her shift complained of their wives,
Althea boasted of how smart her 'stuff' Flaxie was
and did not care who knew she loved the mind of a woman.

In 1955 when Flaxie got pregnant
and Althea lost her job
Flaxie got herself on relief
and did not care how many caseworkers
threatened midnite raids.

Althea was set up and went to jail
for writing numbers in 1958.
Flaxie visited her every week with gifts
and hungered openly for her thru the bars
and did not give a damn who knew she waited for a woman.

When her mother died in 1965 in New Orleans
Flaxie demanded that Althea walk beside her in the funeral
     procession
and did not care how many aunts and uncles knew she
     slept with a woman.

When she died in 1970
Flaxie fought Althea's proper family not to have her laid out
     in lace
and dressed the body herself
and did not care who knew she'd made her way with a woman.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

You're So Vain

          From the early stages of life, males are in a seemingly constant battle for the title of most dominant.  From watermelon seed spitting contests to a “keeping up with the Joneses” mentality, those species with a Y chromosome illustrate competition and the basic need to be dominant in every facet of life.  Dominance perhaps defines harder, better, faster, stronger (thanks Kanye) and men continue proving this through their looking down of women, other cultures, and specifically, other races.  The consensus in the psychology world is that people overcompensate when they lack something else, or fear something.  In “A Man’s Life Isn't Worth A Penny With A Hole In It,” the driving force behind black suppression by whites is solely fear, and the need to protect the white women, who by their own admissions, need protecting.
          After the Delta had been riddled with absences of men-turned-soldiers for a prolonged period of WWII, it saw a different homecoming than when it left.  Suddenly the “comfortable” segregation of such rural “Christian” towns were challenged with FDR’s New Deal, which included the purpose, “bring the South to her knees, and force upon us non-segregation and social and political equality amongst the races."  The diction of this quote by white conservative Walter Sillers, Jr. connotes the attitude of the South at this time, and it is almost as if Sillers is referring to the plague by the use of “force upon us.”  He acts like FDR is handing out diseased blankets to the white southerners, rather than proposing and enacting a morally sound way of life.  Sillers goes on to name white fear “the South’s racial philosophy” and hopes to earn the “sympathy” of then-president Truman.  Again, Frank was not sending them packing with the same fever-infected blankets that were given to the Native Americans in the 1812, which destroyed nearly the entire population.  It seems that the fear in white southern conservatives stems from change.  (Ironically this sad statement remains true today.  Because he’s a Muslim.  Right…)
          The author tactfully infiltrates a smooth insertion of rhetoric by aligning the antithesis of “racial consciousness of blacks” and “white concerns” when referring to the fear of bloodthirsty black war veterans coming home, to terrorize and pillage the small thriving wholesome community.  It is stated that Delta whites “had formed a home guard to protect white women” thus killing off black war men “at the rate of one per week."  Why were the white men, after returning home from fighting alongside their black neighbors, so fearful for their women?  Territory.

          A crucial aspect of dominance is territory.  The white men had served in their country’s war as patriotic citizens (albeit, against some of their own free wills since there was actually a draft…) and upon returning home, felt entitled to the land that they fought for in that most primitive of ways.  Presumably, a soldier from Mississippi in the throws of World War II reflected on his home as a mere Utopia compared to the horrifically dire straits of warfare.  It is no wonder that upon returning home, this white southern God-fearing man felt that he deserved to have things just the way he wanted: the way things had always been.  The fear of inconsistency within a small town in Mississippi points straight to the black man.

          The black soldiers of the second world war probably felt the same sense of entitlement, and perhaps this is the root of the civil movement surge post-war.  Did he not fight in the same war?  Carry the same gun?  Experience the same terror?  Maybe plan to own a shrimpin’ boat with a best good friend?  These men longed to express their own exuberance for their country, rather than suppressing their pride under the watchful eye of an overseer.

          The white men, having experienced the war firsthand themselves, realized the prevalence of primal qualities that become illuminated as a man murders another man.  It really is an animalistic sense of violence to take someone’s life into your own hands, and dispose of it.  Perhaps this contributed to the slew of violent acts following the war, though there was violence prior.  One makes the assumption that white men took these instincts into consideration and asserted them on the black soldiers.  The southern white feeling towards blacks had always been that they were lower than whites, that they were possibly less man, less human.  What is less than human?  Animal.  Perhaps the white men developed the idea that the same masculine instincts brought out in themselves during the war had a far more impacting effect of the black men.  This, they feared, would be the end of traditional southern whiteness.

          When a severe beating is the reprimand for requesting a receipt, fear is at an all-time peak.  (At Popeye’s, if the customer fails to receive a receipt, the meal is free!)  On one hand, the two white men guilty of this disgusting portrayal of sheer dominance were prolonging the tradition of “respect” which blacks were required to show whites.  This was the generation of grandkids and great-grandkids of the antebellum period, when black people were subservient to even Bozo Barrett, the six-year-old white boy who frequently took off running stark naked through the cotton fields shooting a cap gun.  What a slap in the face to an established, honest black citizen.  On the other hand, (sorry for keeping your hand there so long) this black tenant farmer simply asking for his water bill receipt is not reported to be out of line in the sentence citing such event.  How shocking the circumstances under which he was emasculated: a citizen bothering to keep up with his own finances.

          Let’s compare the two archetypes of men in this time: the black man and the white man.  The black man, as shown in the instance of the receipt beating, is not reported for “back-talking” or issuing violence in any way.  The black men featured in this writing are proud, docile, and silently strong, while the white men maintain the “aggressiveness” of their actions.  The white man continuously exudes anger and unrest, committing erratic violent behavior.  When a fourteen-year-old vivacious black boy appeared in Mississippi, and ultimately wound up viciously murdered, it became clear that white men had been shaken up by such an “unruly” person who confidently took on the qualities of what a white fourteen-year-old should possess, according to the white men. 
 
          Through this piece, the John Grisham novel A Time to Kill comes to mind, as Samuel L. Jackson’s character retreats to his primal need to protect his family, exclusively and most importantly, his little girl.  The opposition is the group of white men portrayed as rednecks, belonging to the KKK, and treating the black people like varmints from the onset of the movie.  In a profound example of dominance, Jackson’s character takes the law into his own hands after years and generations of knowing that justice would not be activated in such a horrible case.  Throughout this article are several examples of white men eluding any sort of sentencing.  In the novel, Jackson’s young white lawyer learns the value of male dominance, uniform to every race.  As a result, he ultimately sees Jackson’s character as a father, a husband, a working man, a Christian man, and as a citizen, just as he sees himself.

          The white men of the Mississippi Delta basically use the need to protect their women as a vehicle for outright racism.  Most instances of violence in this piece stem from a simple talking to of a woman by a black man.  After all, the white southern woman was one of the last remaining artifacts of the antebellum period, subservient, lovely, and merely a support system for any crazy moonshine-fueled idea her husband might concoct.  (One might also speculate that men, in another attempt to be dominant, instinctively feel required to act on any such reporting of an encounter with a black man by his wife because he feels leaned upon, and what man doesn't like being the hero?)

          This piece is a sad portrait of a time, and an even more horrifying glance of humanity and the necessity of men to feel like they have conquered something.  To have territory is to have dominance, and to have dominance is to have the crown.  Still, there are no kings in the Mississippi Delta.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Fast As You Can

Trying to write this while some idiot behind me in the library is probably watching March Madness on his laptop and definitely cheering...

I have a severe case of writer's block right now.  Yesterday on my way back from Florida, I delivered a speech to my dashboard on the separatist mindset of Alabama's campus.  Right now the fact that I didn't record it or write it down is killing me, and my dashboard isn't releasing any information at this time.  (Typical German.)  (I drive a Jetta.)  (My Jetta's name is Gretta.)  (Now I'm just passing the time writing in asides.)  (Hi.)  Anyway it was about how this campus is fighting the wrong war, a war amongst its student groups and organizations rather than bombing the big issue: it's 2011 and Black students are still being called the N word.

Being a Greek, (as in KD) (as if the Greeks would admit my Irish Catholic complexion) (hi) I have the perfect lookout on the varying perspectives of my peers.  Because one moron shouted the N word at a Black grad student, all people affiliated with any sort of "row" not on the crew team have been labelled as racists.  Woah woah woah, of course there are Greek racists.  I actually succumbed to a Facebook commet fight with this girl and her definitely-going-to-hell friend named Christian who definitely has a boob job (AH) because of the nastiest things I've ever read coming from their accounts.  (I know, I know, grow up.)

But right now my school isn't tackling the main issue, and instead they're forming alliances and plotting and framing and I just know they have a bunker somewhere.  The other day, there was an opinion article in the CW about the proclamation of an alliance between the Jewish students and the Black students.  (Get Whitey?)  While I'm glad Oprah and Barbra Steisand are pals, I'd like to think they are for any reason besides one politically calculated.  Alliances are good, but what about us?  (At least give me the password...)

Seriously though, where are we going to end up if this war is fought with alliances and sweeping generalizations and trench warfare?  (Ok, maybe not trench warfare.)  Our students need to stop hiding behind a t-shirt and a 15-dollar entrance fee for moral tranquility and a voice.  Calling yourself a Christian doesn't exempt you from being a racist.  (Sadly.)  (I don't think that's WJWD.)  (Digression ah)

Instead of allies and axis powers, we should be a league of nations.  We should stand together like that old Coca-Cola commerical.  (Hell, we should drink more Coke.)  Without absolute action, this campus will never see a fulfillment of the racist-free prophecy.  I'm talking a mandatory class on Social Identity, or Culture Ethics, or even just a social commentary class.  And not for freshmen, or even for sophomores.  When you're a freshman, you know everything.  When you're a sophomore, you're an asshole because you're slowly beginning to realize you don't know jack shit and you're bitter about that.  (It's ok, you know a few things.)  When you're a junior, you're in college.  You go through an identity crisis almost daily, and you become a big nerd about your major.  (When you're a senior, you still might have hope, but you're probably already becoming the arrogant post-grad you're doomed to be, unless you're going to grad school...but that's another day.)

ANYWAY, my point is that something needs to happen to universally shape our pupils (hehe no, not our eyes!!) and change the way we shuffle across the quad.  We need to stop jumping in the backgrounds of group pictures to be included in a group-think.  We need to stop forming alliances and instead fight the enemy, the racism itself.

We need to get really ambiguous and use rhetoric like our country does, and name this thing War on Separatism.  (like War on Drugs, War on Terror.)  (Ok, I'm sorry, but you can't just pick a bad thing and start a war with it.)  (If I did that, I'd be in like 9 wars right now.)  (War on Bad Drivers.)  (War on Cheese That Goes Bad.)  (War on Shitty Tippers.)  (War on Duke Fan Behind Me.)  (War on Lisps That Aren't Funny.)  (War on #Winning.)  (War on Icky Bugs!!)  (War on Toothpaste Mislabeled As Gel.)  (War on Clouds.)  See?  Now I'm psychotic.  (Come on though, the gel gets me every single time.)  (HATE that stuff.)

Ugh I'm praying this will manifest into some sort of column.  Suddenly writing for public consumption has me freaked out and doubting that anyone will catch on to my humor.  ("But I thought you guys were in on it!")  Also, I need to stop doing these little asides.  This isn't bloody Shakespeare.  (But I have always wanted to say that.)  (really?)

blahblahblah

Sunday, March 6, 2011


Just StumbledUpon this brilliant piece of modern-day literature.  I love the entanglement of classic prose with new-age wit and humility.  The writer is Rosemarie Uquico.
"Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes."

Money Can't Buy It

Restaurants are to people in the 80s what theatre was to people in the 60s.  This iconic statement wrung true in 1989 Manhattan, wherein When Harry Met Sally was written.  The statement wrings true today in New Orleans, a city which continuously equates the virtue of consumption to the Ten Commandments, the Seven Sacraments, and two types of Saints.  From eating and drinking to listening and seeing, the Crescent City holds that consumption of any kind be an art form.  The spices of a roux and the instant groove reaction to a corner trumpet comprise a synchronized feeling throughout the city’s residents and passersby.  Such synchronism only synthesizes the feeling, the mindset, the place that is The Big Easy.
The tastes of New Orleans operate around the river, the lake, and the parade routes.  Growing up and becoming acclimated to such a place means knowing how to peel crawfish, it means staying loyal to “the best” snowball stand, it means being able to recite your order at Schaeffer’s without hesitation.  In a domain where food is a staple, residents find solace in the hours spent at a restaurant with family, who may or may not be blood-related.  The idea of transferring the drawn-out table talk of home to the atmosphere of a restaurant leaves no element with the sitter, for memorable meals ending after ten is frequent.  It is no surprise that natives flock to restaurants in the event of a birthday, an anniversary, a promotion, a Thursday, just as generations prior flocked to the theatre.  But beyond the boot-shaped borders lies a disappointing reality for patrons of great restaurants and food aficionados alike: what was once the theatrical restaurant is now a convenient inconvenience.
Beyond the comforts of Louisiana, the restaurant is a catalyst for complaints, for write-offs; for the ugliest moments in humanity, only equivalent to the episodic hell of a DMV or a freshly landed plane.  Gone are the days of celebratory glass clinks and enthusiastic “of course” responses to the fateful dessert menu.  The get-in, get-the-hell-out mantra of foreign dining results in New Orleanians vowing to never eat out again.  And by out, they mean outside of those boot-shaped borders.
So common are the gripes of a drawn-out meal, so typical the rants to managers about being in a hurry that the restaurant now stands as the last resort.  Naturally, the hours-long dinner is not assumed every night; New Orleans contains members and teammates and deadlines as well.  However, the magic of such an occasion as dining out is diminished among Americans.  No longer do they flock to fine dine in their best clothes and in their best spirits. 
And to their greatest demise, people outside Louisiana are devoid of a generational theatre.  Quite ironic is this predicament, as most visitors to the Crescent City brag about the hospitality, the attention, and the affection of their servers.  While the rest of the country scrambles for decent food in most of its landlocked territory, New Orleans continues to genuflect before its theatre of cuisine as it follows the Ten Commandments, respects the Seven Sacraments, and prays to Saint Louis and Drew Brees.  Salud!

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

The Colonel

Carolyn Forche is one of my favorite poets.

A) I hate poetry
2) Carolyn Forche is a reporter

This is her artistic perspective on an interview she did with an El Salvadoran military officer in 1978.

What you have heard is true. I was in his house. 
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His 
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the 
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol 
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on 
its black cord over the house. On the television 
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles 
were embedded in the walls around the house to 
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his 
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings 
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of 
lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for 
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, 
salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed 
the country. There was a brief commercial in 
Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was 
some talk of how difficult it had become to govern. 
The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel 
told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the 
table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say 
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to 
bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on 
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There 
is no other way to say this. He took one of them in 
his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a 
water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of 
fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, 
tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He 
swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held 
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your 
poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor 
caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on 
the floor were pressed to the ground. 

May 1978

Free - Phish