It's Not Good Enough To Just Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

It's three in the morning and I'm still trying to sort out everything I've experienced during my first day in New Orleans.

I'll confess that whenever I come to the South, I'm very conscious of the fact that slaves once stood on the same ground I happen to be walking on. I got off the plane and was immediately confronted with "Tour a Plantation!" advertisements. I wondered, do they show it all? Do they show the fields and the slave quarters? Do they show whipping posts and slave cemeteries? Do they explicitly discuss slavery on these tours? (I've heard they don't) or is it just a ride through the glory days of the Old South, when everything was much simpler and Negroes knew their place? And is there a moment of silence where we honor the memories of the countless souls that suffered unspeakable horrors?

For me, I see the word "plantation" and I think of whips and chains and scenes that were first visualized for me while watching the mini-series Roots. I think of blood flowing down scarred backs. I think of those backs broken from bending over in cotton fields and hands raw with the pain of picking.

Other people are not thinking of these things. They're thinking of sipping mint juleps on a spacious porch.

And, I wonder, who exactly buys these postcards? I found them in a store a couple of blocks away from my hotel. I don't think black people are the ones trying to hold on to precious memories of "Mammy". To the chagrin of the sales clerk, I snapped photos of Mammy-Ann and her gens de coulers. While I'm marinating on this image, let me go ahead and thank God right now that I still have an aversion to Aunt Jemima pancake mix, Mrs. Butterworth's syrup and Uncle Ben's rice, if only because of the resemblance to images like these.

A walk down Bourbon Street feels a little bit like, bar-bar-strip club-souvenir shop, repeated a dozen times. It feels like a fantasy land for the seven deadly sins. The smell of stale vomit laces the air and absolutely nothing feels forbidden. Oh, and let's not forget the black children out tap-dancing with the crowds of white folks standing around watching. I'm terrible, I know, but I think they're thinking, "Just look at those pickaninnies move!"

Yes, what I saw last night... it's like being Luke Skywalker and going over to the "dark side".

The most puzzling thing for me was that other than cooks in the kitchen and these kids, where are the black people? You know, the ones that probably let Harry Connick Jr. play horsey on their backs and taught him about jazz? Um, I'm in New Orleans and I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. I feel like I see more black folks at home in Los Angeles.

But, not all the black people are gone. All the craziness I saw on a Sunday night on Bourbon Street, and the only person I saw getting arrested was this brotha right here.

I wish I would have snapped photos of all the middle-aged married men getting their freak on while dressed in their Dockers flat-front khakis and polo shirts. I'm sure their wives would love to see images of their "faithful" spouses walking into the strip clubs, wedding rings glinting faintly in the dimness.

If I just stayed here on the edge of the French Quarter, I might start to think that nothing's wrong in this city, that it's back to it's normal self. After all, look at all the people throwing beads off the balconies and letting the good times roll.

Sure, it's fun to do the electric slide in the middle of the street. Yes, I had a great time wearing a cat-mask without anyone batting an eye. But, it's not good enough. It can't stop there. If all the revelers venture beyond hedonism-central, what does the rest of New Orleans look like? And do these people happily tossing beads care or even want to know?

One of my colleagues, James, taught here and yesterday he went to the neighborhood where his school is. Or was. He said it's a ghost town. Hopefully tomorrow I'll get to see some of that for myself.