This weekend the NBA All-Star game was hosted in New Orleans. It was a big deal from an economic development perspective - lots of people in town spending money on New Orleans "culture." The opening ceremony for the game last night involved a constructed facade of a French Quarter balcony with staged revelers dancing and having a good time (sans the drunken people falling over), while local artists Trombone Shorty and Kermit Ruffins sang and played their instruments. Something about the whole thing made me squeamish.
According to wikipedia (please pardon my sloppy research methods), the term disneyfication is a neologism that is generally "pejorative, and implies theming, de-differentiation of consumption, merchandising, and emotional labor. It can be used more broadly to describe the processes of stripping a real place or event of its original character and repackaging it in a sanitized format. References to anything negative are removed, and the facts are watered down with the intent of making the subject more pleasant and easily grasped."
I couldn't help but think when watching this spectacle last night that New Orleans has become disneyfied in this way. Many others have noted this about New Orleans culture, observing that it has been happening for about the last 20 years as it has become a more popular tourist destination. It has been the fear of many that the post-Katrina survival of New Orleans would indeed depend on such disneyfication.
Watching Kermit last night made me very sad; his performance was a strange replica of his performances at Vaughan's in the Bywater, a grungy old bar where he is often seen outside making red beans or barbecue before the show. Now, the question I have is this - Is the Kermit on Thursday nights in the Bywater the real New Orleans culture and what was on t.v. the fake, disney version? Not exactly, I suppose. I was happy for Kermit because hopefully he was making some serious money from the NBA gig.
But, one of my issues with the New Orleans "cultcha" generally is that musicians, cooks, etc., the people who contribute so much to what everyone loves about the funky vibe is that they are basically living in poverty. The musicians, in particular, may have a lot of cultural capital and are held in high social esteem, but they can't afford health insurance or to buy a house. And of course, this is all very racialized too. And so many of us contribute to this dynamic. I've only met a couple of people since I've been here who seem to have a problem with any of this; and they're not from New Orleans.
Once when I was watching some Mardi Gras Indian music at the Maple Leaf I had this feeling of voyeurism, of peering into a culture and taking something away that was private. Now, one can argue that those musicians wanted to share their culture, and furthermore they were getting paid for it (what, a $10 cover charge?). Maybe if we paid a lot more for it, it would make more sense; or, maybe culture and the exchange of money shouldn't mix at all. I'm not sure how to resist this exploitation, in this case. For, it appears that supporting the local music scene by going to shows or buying a $15 cd really is the only thing that will save the culture.
So much of our lives is commodofied and it's impossible to fully escape this fact of our existence. But, couldn't our society opt to support these local musicians so that they can have a fair, living wage where they can afford health and comfort? It seems reasonable that there could be a world where culture was valued, supported and subsidized but not commodified.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Tai Chi I Remember
My husband and I have been taking a tai chi class together on Saturday mornings. It is interestingly the first spiritual practice, or frankly any kind of regular organized activity, that we have done together during our time in New Orleans where we both seem to be in agreement on its absolute wonderfulness. Right before we're leaving town, of course.
I practiced tai chi for about a year and a half pretty seriously around 2003-04. My teacher was a Chinese immigrant and graduate student (in what? biochemistry? computer science? economics? I can't remember). He gave me private lessons in exchange for private English lessons. His English was fine but he wanted to refine his pronunciation. He taught me chen-style tai chi which is not commonly taught in the West and is a little less accessible than the more commonly taught yang-style. He and his teacher had been very successful in regional competitions in China. These competitions were called "pushing hands," i.e. simulating the gentle combat of the martial art of tai chi. Drawing from his own cultural tradition, he worked me very hard during those sessions, progressing at a rapid pace with lots of repetition, sweat and difficulty. We met early in the mornings 2 or 3 days a week, practicing on a basketball court at some fraternity house on Tennessee Street in Lawrence, down the hill from the University of Kansas. When we were done we trekked up Mount Oread to my graduate student office digs (my thighs quivering) and we practiced speaking English using a workbook that he had. I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't describe those English sessions as rigorous or difficult as I had described the tai chi lessons.
I can't say I loved doing tai chi at that time though I continued to do it because I always loved how I felt, i.e. as if I was floating on air. This was a good way for a graduate student (well, for anyone) to feel. And then one day, I just didn't show up anymore. I always hoped he thought of my final inconsiderate behavior as some American cultural problem (lazy, selfish, rude, issues with closure) rather than something personal about me.
Our class now is held above Fair Grinds coffeehouse (and across the street at the park on nice days). My previous teacher never explained anything; I just followed what he did and repeated it over and over. Our teacher here is amazing, to say the least. I appreciate her explanations and her gentle, meditative approach. It is so much fun and a joy to be there with other people, especially my partner.
I feel like the memories of my tai chi days of yore are in my body. I also have a similar sense when I do sitting meditation and haven't done it in a while, being able to tap into the "letting go" muscle. (I used to flex this muscle on a more regular basis during my more serious zen practice days.) At any rate, doing tai chi as serious meditative practice seems to have some interesting transformative possibilities.
I practiced tai chi for about a year and a half pretty seriously around 2003-04. My teacher was a Chinese immigrant and graduate student (in what? biochemistry? computer science? economics? I can't remember). He gave me private lessons in exchange for private English lessons. His English was fine but he wanted to refine his pronunciation. He taught me chen-style tai chi which is not commonly taught in the West and is a little less accessible than the more commonly taught yang-style. He and his teacher had been very successful in regional competitions in China. These competitions were called "pushing hands," i.e. simulating the gentle combat of the martial art of tai chi. Drawing from his own cultural tradition, he worked me very hard during those sessions, progressing at a rapid pace with lots of repetition, sweat and difficulty. We met early in the mornings 2 or 3 days a week, practicing on a basketball court at some fraternity house on Tennessee Street in Lawrence, down the hill from the University of Kansas. When we were done we trekked up Mount Oread to my graduate student office digs (my thighs quivering) and we practiced speaking English using a workbook that he had. I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't describe those English sessions as rigorous or difficult as I had described the tai chi lessons.
I can't say I loved doing tai chi at that time though I continued to do it because I always loved how I felt, i.e. as if I was floating on air. This was a good way for a graduate student (well, for anyone) to feel. And then one day, I just didn't show up anymore. I always hoped he thought of my final inconsiderate behavior as some American cultural problem (lazy, selfish, rude, issues with closure) rather than something personal about me.
Our class now is held above Fair Grinds coffeehouse (and across the street at the park on nice days). My previous teacher never explained anything; I just followed what he did and repeated it over and over. Our teacher here is amazing, to say the least. I appreciate her explanations and her gentle, meditative approach. It is so much fun and a joy to be there with other people, especially my partner.
I feel like the memories of my tai chi days of yore are in my body. I also have a similar sense when I do sitting meditation and haven't done it in a while, being able to tap into the "letting go" muscle. (I used to flex this muscle on a more regular basis during my more serious zen practice days.) At any rate, doing tai chi as serious meditative practice seems to have some interesting transformative possibilities.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Poem - I Dreamed of a Tsunami
Last night I dreamed of a huge wave
Preceded by visits from my mother and Barack Obama
In a parking garage where I had stood in line for jury duty
Still cleaning up the old flood waters with a broom and hose
The candidate checking on my neighborhood's progress
When I saw it coming, everyone had gone and I was all alone
Its huge inevitability was shocking but not surprising
As it came towards me, it picked me up
Oh, How a tiny kitten must feel when lifted by a 6 foot man!
As I swiftly rose into the air, everything stopped
(And the roof of the parking garage just got higher and higher
or else no longer existed)
I knew what would happen next if I didn't wake up -
Crashing to my death on the concrete ocean floor
Preceded by visits from my mother and Barack Obama
In a parking garage where I had stood in line for jury duty
Still cleaning up the old flood waters with a broom and hose
The candidate checking on my neighborhood's progress
When I saw it coming, everyone had gone and I was all alone
Its huge inevitability was shocking but not surprising
As it came towards me, it picked me up
Oh, How a tiny kitten must feel when lifted by a 6 foot man!
As I swiftly rose into the air, everything stopped
(And the roof of the parking garage just got higher and higher
or else no longer existed)
I knew what would happen next if I didn't wake up -
Crashing to my death on the concrete ocean floor
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Calas at the Old Coffee Pot
Today I had breakfast at the Old Coffee Pot in the French Quarter, a little hole in the wall restaurant on St. Peter that I had passed by before but never knew what it was about. I met my book editor there who was in town for a conference. Because New Orleans is not a big breakfast town, I had to do a little research to figure out a unique place to take him in that part of the city. The service was unsurprisingly odd - we stood in the entryway about 10-15 minutes after they were scheduled to open and were told they weren't ready for us yet; they never quite internalized the idea that I wanted to drink decaf coffee; after the meal was over, they had our credit card for about 30 minutes (doing some internet shopping in the backroom?), citing machine problems, and we eventually had to get up and go pay in cash.
But, that's just one of those New Orleans things that we all get used to. Today, for example, we had no water at our house for most of the day. I looked down the street and there was massive amounts of water gushing out of the fire hydrant. There had been a small lake down in that direction for the last week or two; standing, fetid water is one of the great joys of New Orleans living (how come they don't mention that in the glossy New Orleans magazine that showcases the fancy uptown homes?). A year or so ago it was determined that there were so many leaks in the pipes in the New Orleans water system infrastructure that it was leaking the same amount of water as was actually getting to people. Anyway, we have water again, and one doesn't tend to inquire further into such injustices.
So, back to the restaurant and my inspiration for this post - calas rice cakes! I didn't know they even existed. But, they date back to the nineteenth century and they used to be sold by African American women in the streets of the French Quarter. Creole women were known to shout: "Belles calas, toutes chaudes!" (Calas, nice and hot!) This sweet creole dish is a deep-fried fritter made of rice, flour, sugar, spices and pecans. Mine were served with powdered sugar; they were incredibly rich and I couldn't finish them. Eating them was kind of an otherworldly experience. I hesitate to go here, but I must say that they put beignets to shame!
Calas rice cakes at the Old Coffee Pot - a jewel in the lotus.
Tomorrow morning - jury duty at the Orleans Parish Criminal Court! Tales to come...
But, that's just one of those New Orleans things that we all get used to. Today, for example, we had no water at our house for most of the day. I looked down the street and there was massive amounts of water gushing out of the fire hydrant. There had been a small lake down in that direction for the last week or two; standing, fetid water is one of the great joys of New Orleans living (how come they don't mention that in the glossy New Orleans magazine that showcases the fancy uptown homes?). A year or so ago it was determined that there were so many leaks in the pipes in the New Orleans water system infrastructure that it was leaking the same amount of water as was actually getting to people. Anyway, we have water again, and one doesn't tend to inquire further into such injustices.
So, back to the restaurant and my inspiration for this post - calas rice cakes! I didn't know they even existed. But, they date back to the nineteenth century and they used to be sold by African American women in the streets of the French Quarter. Creole women were known to shout: "Belles calas, toutes chaudes!" (Calas, nice and hot!) This sweet creole dish is a deep-fried fritter made of rice, flour, sugar, spices and pecans. Mine were served with powdered sugar; they were incredibly rich and I couldn't finish them. Eating them was kind of an otherworldly experience. I hesitate to go here, but I must say that they put beignets to shame!
Calas rice cakes at the Old Coffee Pot - a jewel in the lotus.
Tomorrow morning - jury duty at the Orleans Parish Criminal Court! Tales to come...
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Mardi Gras, the Muses, and Desire
Friday night I attended the best parade of the entire carnival season - Muses. Scheduled to run its uptown route the previous night, but postponed due to rain, Muses was the last krewe of the night, and it was well worth the wait. The Muses krewe is all-female and is named after the Greek goddesses, who inspired artists, philosophers, poets and musicians. The nine muses, incidentally, are also the inspiration for corresponding street names in the city - Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania. Friday night, the krewe of Muses parade had beautiful lighted butterflies, roller derby girls, and Elvises on scooters.
The first thing I notice when arriving on the neutral ground searching for a place in the crowd is that I immediately find my mind in a state of wanting. I want those throws. I jump in front of others to get them; I feel jealous of people who get the really good throws (in Muses, it's the coveted glitter shoes). I immediately realized that I have an incredible opportunity to pay attention to this state, one that is not unfamiliar to me. In this case, an entire space, indeed the entire Carnival season, is set aside to experience constant desire (and to act on it). "Throw me something, mister," is the phrase said by many an adult and child alike throughout Mardi Gras (in the case of Muses, it's "throw me something, sister!"). People leave these parades with bags full of beads, lighted trinkets, stuffed animals, and plastic cups. This American version of Mardi Gras, a holiday tradition that dates back to Medieval times (some attribute a pre-Christian version of it to 5000 years ago to the ancient Greeks), emphasizes what seems to be something basically human - greed, gluttony, revelry, bacchanalian celebration. It's food, drink, and fun.
Just to completely experience this state with full attention is clarifying. I notice how I don't want good and pleasurable experiences to stop. I want more! Spiritual teachers have tended to emphasize the use of painful experiences and the accompanying suffering as a departure point for learning about the human mind. But, pleasure, desire, or any state, can be a powerful opening.
I think it's pretty easy to be critical of the indulgence of Mardi Gras, from the perspective of a Protestant upbringing, or pick any ideology that tends to denigrate gratification of the flesh and self-indulgence (and there is also the racist/classist/sexist element of Mardi Gras to be critiqued, which I also hope to write about soon).
But, what follows Mardi Gras? The Lenten season, of course. The Lenten season is a time for reflection and temperence, the other side of the pendulum. Unfortunately, I think many people miss this point, but nonetheless the opportunity is there to understand this great dynamic of existence - winter and spring, life and death. It's all okay; to everything there is a season.
The first thing I notice when arriving on the neutral ground searching for a place in the crowd is that I immediately find my mind in a state of wanting. I want those throws. I jump in front of others to get them; I feel jealous of people who get the really good throws (in Muses, it's the coveted glitter shoes). I immediately realized that I have an incredible opportunity to pay attention to this state, one that is not unfamiliar to me. In this case, an entire space, indeed the entire Carnival season, is set aside to experience constant desire (and to act on it). "Throw me something, mister," is the phrase said by many an adult and child alike throughout Mardi Gras (in the case of Muses, it's "throw me something, sister!"). People leave these parades with bags full of beads, lighted trinkets, stuffed animals, and plastic cups. This American version of Mardi Gras, a holiday tradition that dates back to Medieval times (some attribute a pre-Christian version of it to 5000 years ago to the ancient Greeks), emphasizes what seems to be something basically human - greed, gluttony, revelry, bacchanalian celebration. It's food, drink, and fun.
Just to completely experience this state with full attention is clarifying. I notice how I don't want good and pleasurable experiences to stop. I want more! Spiritual teachers have tended to emphasize the use of painful experiences and the accompanying suffering as a departure point for learning about the human mind. But, pleasure, desire, or any state, can be a powerful opening.
I think it's pretty easy to be critical of the indulgence of Mardi Gras, from the perspective of a Protestant upbringing, or pick any ideology that tends to denigrate gratification of the flesh and self-indulgence (and there is also the racist/classist/sexist element of Mardi Gras to be critiqued, which I also hope to write about soon).
But, what follows Mardi Gras? The Lenten season, of course. The Lenten season is a time for reflection and temperence, the other side of the pendulum. Unfortunately, I think many people miss this point, but nonetheless the opportunity is there to understand this great dynamic of existence - winter and spring, life and death. It's all okay; to everything there is a season.
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