I watched the Superbowl yesterday (including the football part). First time in my life that I cared who won. My husband is from New Orleans. He lived there for the decade of the "Aints," when the New Orleans Saints were far from Superbowl material. By the end of last night's game, his voice was hoarse from cheering.
As with the Yankees (see November's post: Go Yankees!), our kids have been brought on board this football celebration. Penny wore a black T-shirt with the words "Who D@!" to school last week. She learned the corresponding cheer: "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?" And although her dad didn't wake her up for victory this time, she celebrated with him this morning.
Four and a half years ago, the city of New Orleans was underwater. The Saints had never made it to the Superbowl. And it was unclear whether the city would ever recover.
We visited Peter's family in New Orleans in late December. There are signs that the city is flourishing: new restaurants, a revamped school system, street cars running, Audubon Park full of people. We so loved being there that we fantasized about buying a little shotgun house so we could visit more often. And yet, in the months since we left, I have been haunted by memories of our time.
On the last morning in town, we decided to drive over to the Lower Ninth Ward, an area of the city where one of the levees broke. The Lower Ninth Ward was a predominantly African-American neighborhood. It was built on precarious ground, below sea level, and plenty of outsiders have suggested it should not be rebuilt. But the Lower Ninth Ward also had the highest home ownership rate among African Americans in the nation. It was the birthplace of jazz. Culturally, it is a place that matters. Brad Pitt has been involved in its revitalization, as have musicians and Habitat for Humanity. (See "Houses of the Future" for a profile of the architectural progress in New Orleans.) (Also, to read more about New Orleans, Katrina, and the Lower Ninth Ward see Tom Piazza's short book, Why New Orleans Matters, or his novel about Katrina, City of Refuge.)
On our way to see that part of the city, on the morning of January 1st, we were driving along and I said to Peter, "That car is driving way too..."
Crash. We watched the minivan slam into a telephone pole. Smoke rose from the hood. Peter pulled over. "Call 911. If the car catches on fire, drive away." He ran to the scene of the accident, and I dialed. Penny and William began to scream.
As it turned out, the driver of the car was fine. Drunk, but wearing his seatbelt. Peter and a few other men smashed the car's window in order to climb inside and get him out. We drove on a few minutes later, before the emergency vehicles arrived.
When we reached the Lower Ninth Ward, we visited a wasteland with pockets of possibility. Weeds and overgrown lots and, still, the remains of the storm. Houses that bore the marks of search and rescue–the telltale spray-painted X on the front of the house, with symbols to indicate what team had searched the house and what, or who, they had found inside. Every so often a house looked whole. And there were these futuristic dwellings in classic New Orleans colors–tangerine, aquamarine, fuchsia. But the landscape was bleak. No restaurants or stores or schools or churches nearby. Nothing that looked like the building blocks of a community.
And there it is. New Orleans. Vibrant and risky and on the edge. The Saints embodied their city last night, with an on sides kick to start the second half. Risking it all instead of playing it safe. And this time, it paid off. They won.
Mardi Gras is coming in eight days. Fat Tuesday. A day to celebrate life. To eat, drink, and be merry. To dress up and dance and stop working and enjoy. But the next day is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. A day to remember the transience of life, the reality of sin and death, the need for penitence and fasting.
A city of contradictions. Debauchery and piety (note the mascot of the football team). Life and death.
Seven years ago, Peter and I flew to New Orleans just a few days before Mardi Gras. Here's what I wrote about it (from Penelope Ayers: A Memoir):
By the time we approached New Orleans, the plane itself felt like a beer hall with strangers locking arms, swaying in their seats, raising their fists in the air, and singing "When the Saints Go Marching In." Of course, no one knew the verses, so we listened to the chorus again and again: Oh when the saints, go marching in, oh when the saints go marching in, how I want to be in that number, when the saints go marching in. I couldn't help thinking about the words, and I realized that it was a song about going to heaven. Only in New Orleans, I thought, with its peculiar integration of sacred and secular, could a gospel number about judgment day double as the official theme song for a football team, and the unofficial anthem for the city itself.
It's just football. And just one Superbowl. And yet perhaps it is a harbinger. Perhaps New Orleans will follow the Saints' lead. Perhaps the Lower Ninth Ward will become a vibrant cultural center again. Perhaps kids who go to school in the city will graduate and go on to college. And perhaps the rest of us have something to learn from that precarious balance, that willingness to risk everything, that belief that life is worth it.
