For forty dollars you could have bought a ticket to tour seven historical homes owned by rich people this weekend. I volunteered for this project because our team volunteered for it, and then was told that the high cost meant it wouldn't count as ISP, but by then we were all stuck with it.
Rich people can be awfully rude. It's not that their gaze passes over you, comes to you and stops, recognizing you as a person, only to move on. It's more like they've perfected the art of not even registering the presence of those in a lower tax bracket than them. Their eyes pass from wallpaper to drapes as if you're a fixture in the room, a table set between the two.
---
When you stand in the same room for three hours as hundreds of people sift in and out, patterns emerge. Someone says "This room'd keep you awake!" every ten minutes. I was fortunate enough to have a chair in my room that I took advantage of, sure to sit as dignified as possible. This was still not enough for some.
"I see," one said to me as he passed through the room, all the entitlement of an aristocrat. "Sitting." How much contempt can you possibly put into one word spoken to a stranger doing nothing wrong?
And another, skipping hellos: "And what information do you have for me about this room?"
"I'm afraid they didn't tell me much more beyond that it's the guest bedroom for the owner's granddaughters."
"Ah. They already mentioned this. Not very informative; perhaps you'll be fired." There was not a hint of amusement in her voice, and I wore a shit-eating grin all throughout.
People smile if you smile, and continue about their business. Occasionally someone will say hello; once an hour someone will talk to you, as a human might to another human.
---
The walls are a mustard-orange background with magenta toile print, and three triangular scenes repeat all across the wall in thin rosy lines: Tigers stalking through a jungle, people riding elephants, people chasing ostriches. The bedframes match the Indian motif of the wallpaper: headboards upholstered with magenta curves like the dome of the Taj Mahal. Many pillows all embroidered. I hear a lady in the other room say the floors are pickled wood, but it just looks like painted wood to me. The wallpaper continues into the bathroom, and the shower curtain and drapes and the trim of the beds have the same print on them.
The room on the other side of the hall is a living room with beautiful bookshelves. The sea-green walls are shiny, smooth and laquered. There's a sofa and two high-backed chairs surrounding a coffee table, a Persian rug beneath them all leading out to the back deck where a flutist is playing.
A tiny bathroom-- they insist on calling it a "powder room"-- is at the end of the hall, formerly a broom closet. A sharkskin-covered door opens to a dark room, black and red and gold wallpaper in some Asian scene I can't recall. The ceiling makes me think of Escher, since it's cut to accomodate the bottom of the stairs just above.
Each room is unbelievably tall, easily fifteen feet. The doors stop but the walls keeps going. Transom windows perch atop each doorframe, double doors made of tall thin slats of wood built like a drawing of a raft. Random paintings hang upon every wall, no unified style at all. Textured modern art hangs beside realistic oil portraiture, calligraphy and abstract watercolors the next room over. Every room is lavishly decorated and not at all tied to the next, chaotic jumble of pattern and texture and color permeating the whole of the house.
Old rich people get old, but their houses sure are something to aspire to.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Objectively hilarious, subjectively creepy.
Magazine street is lined with antique shops and thrift stores. I must be getting older; my interests have shifted to looking at furniture, imagining what I'd like in the house years distant in my head.
I wandered in an out a few of them, most of them closing by 5pm on Saturday. The last one I had time for was nothing special, and the man running it was in his 50s, unattractive. A bit of a belly, and that bushy backcombed hair that mobsters have in the 80's movies. He was taking a phone call, and spoke each keyword into the receiver three times. "It's in storage, storage, storage. No, you can come get it Tuesday. Tuesday, Tuesday." I took a slow lap around the big store. Compared to the others, not much caught my eye.
As I approached the door he cut the voice on the other end off, said he had a customer, and hung up. He stood right by the door, not quite blocking it but not quite giving me enough space to leave, and he asked if I needed help finding anything, and how long I'd been in New Orleans, a smattering of other questions to make conversation. Almost immediately I started to suspect I was being come on to, and when he'd mentioned a gay bookstore on Frenchman street, mmmmy suspicions were confirmed. I told him that I stumbled upon it and saw the fiction section right up front and had been duped, that I moved a shelf too far and began to realize this was not the kind of bookstore I first thought it was. I left in a hurry.
He talked about his ex-wife briefly and how he'd been caught with another guy while he showed me around the antique store. He said that with all the work we do rebuilding the city, we must get very sore, and that I should come back to his house with him for a massage sometime. I told him my teammates were probably expecting me for dinner about now.
I left almost instantly after he laughed, touched me on the shoulder for just a second-- but still a second too long-- and noted that my Americorps situation sounded like it lacked privacy, that I probably didn't ever find the time to jerk off, and that I must be very horny.
I was out the door in about five seconds or less, a polite goodbye and a swift walk down the block while calling any of my teammates I was out with to find out where they were and tell them about this, the most forward anyone's ever been while hitting on me.
I wandered in an out a few of them, most of them closing by 5pm on Saturday. The last one I had time for was nothing special, and the man running it was in his 50s, unattractive. A bit of a belly, and that bushy backcombed hair that mobsters have in the 80's movies. He was taking a phone call, and spoke each keyword into the receiver three times. "It's in storage, storage, storage. No, you can come get it Tuesday. Tuesday, Tuesday." I took a slow lap around the big store. Compared to the others, not much caught my eye.
As I approached the door he cut the voice on the other end off, said he had a customer, and hung up. He stood right by the door, not quite blocking it but not quite giving me enough space to leave, and he asked if I needed help finding anything, and how long I'd been in New Orleans, a smattering of other questions to make conversation. Almost immediately I started to suspect I was being come on to, and when he'd mentioned a gay bookstore on Frenchman street, mmmmy suspicions were confirmed. I told him that I stumbled upon it and saw the fiction section right up front and had been duped, that I moved a shelf too far and began to realize this was not the kind of bookstore I first thought it was. I left in a hurry.
He talked about his ex-wife briefly and how he'd been caught with another guy while he showed me around the antique store. He said that with all the work we do rebuilding the city, we must get very sore, and that I should come back to his house with him for a massage sometime. I told him my teammates were probably expecting me for dinner about now.
I left almost instantly after he laughed, touched me on the shoulder for just a second-- but still a second too long-- and noted that my Americorps situation sounded like it lacked privacy, that I probably didn't ever find the time to jerk off, and that I must be very horny.
I was out the door in about five seconds or less, a polite goodbye and a swift walk down the block while calling any of my teammates I was out with to find out where they were and tell them about this, the most forward anyone's ever been while hitting on me.
Friday, December 12, 2008
The first set of last days.
Yesterday it snowed, a once-every-four-years occurrence in New Orleans. We were going to work in a house with the all the back walls torn off, utterly stripped-- a deconstruction project, salvaging the house for wood. 45 minutes in we were reassigned. We worked in a house with no heat, and I painted trim and watched a bifold closet door get installed in one room and watched kitchen cabinets get installed in the other. Another instance of there being more hands than work, which makes for a slow day.
I spent my last day of work today canvassing neighborhoods, surveying and passing out fliers for Rebuilding Together. They gave us a map of a few city blocks, with the lots' boundaries outlined. We looked at the houses and decided if they were completed, rebuilding, blighted, or a vacant lot. Some houses look fine on the outside and are really fucked up on the inside, or completely gutted. A lot of these are bank-owned. A whole lot of the houses have been completely abandoned; not many people really want to rebuild this area. The completed houses look lovely, but are still sad spectacles alongside ten unhouses. We finished at about one p.m., and I worked on a frame for a trash can as part of the extra hours I have to do.
We played football today, three injuries in fifteen minutes. Garrett elbowed solidly in the nose, myself tripped and sent tumbling to land on a metal water bottle marking an end zone, and Aaron hit in the face, contact knocked out. Huge dent in the water bottle; my hip is killing me whenever I move. Fuck football, I never get hurt when I just go for a run.
---
Since I've come here, I've done a variety of things:
Replace broken window panes
Intall curtainrods
Lay grout and tile
Repair holes in wood and drywall
Lay bamboo flooring
Cut and lay baseboard
Paint, paint, paint, interior and exterior
If one were to distill the experience into the moments of good, strong work, I would tell you it was immensely enjoyable. Especially lately, now that all of this garbage has passed, it's been very fun. Disappointed to leave New Orleans behind with so little exploration, so little time spent seeing the things to see.
But when you hand me a rag, though, and tell me to wipe a floor, get the dust out from between the bamboo boards because we don't use brooms, to get on my hands and knees with a wet rag because we don't use mops. When you hand me a paint brush and tell me to touch up spots smaller than a fingernail on the underside of an overhand of a roof in the backyard two stories up. When you have me standing around doing absolutely nothing for an hour because you've got too many people in one place. This is when I'm upset. It's a great program, and it's great work. I just wish there was more of it.
---
My brother wrote a book. It is a novel set in his D&D world, I'm sad that I have to wait two weeks after its finish before I can read it, and that by the time I get my hands on a copy, a dozen other people will already have finished it. I am excited to read tales of a place I wish was my home, in the comfort of my home.
I spent my last day of work today canvassing neighborhoods, surveying and passing out fliers for Rebuilding Together. They gave us a map of a few city blocks, with the lots' boundaries outlined. We looked at the houses and decided if they were completed, rebuilding, blighted, or a vacant lot. Some houses look fine on the outside and are really fucked up on the inside, or completely gutted. A lot of these are bank-owned. A whole lot of the houses have been completely abandoned; not many people really want to rebuild this area. The completed houses look lovely, but are still sad spectacles alongside ten unhouses. We finished at about one p.m., and I worked on a frame for a trash can as part of the extra hours I have to do.
We played football today, three injuries in fifteen minutes. Garrett elbowed solidly in the nose, myself tripped and sent tumbling to land on a metal water bottle marking an end zone, and Aaron hit in the face, contact knocked out. Huge dent in the water bottle; my hip is killing me whenever I move. Fuck football, I never get hurt when I just go for a run.
---
Since I've come here, I've done a variety of things:
Replace broken window panes
Intall curtainrods
Lay grout and tile
Repair holes in wood and drywall
Lay bamboo flooring
Cut and lay baseboard
Paint, paint, paint, interior and exterior
If one were to distill the experience into the moments of good, strong work, I would tell you it was immensely enjoyable. Especially lately, now that all of this garbage has passed, it's been very fun. Disappointed to leave New Orleans behind with so little exploration, so little time spent seeing the things to see.
But when you hand me a rag, though, and tell me to wipe a floor, get the dust out from between the bamboo boards because we don't use brooms, to get on my hands and knees with a wet rag because we don't use mops. When you hand me a paint brush and tell me to touch up spots smaller than a fingernail on the underside of an overhand of a roof in the backyard two stories up. When you have me standing around doing absolutely nothing for an hour because you've got too many people in one place. This is when I'm upset. It's a great program, and it's great work. I just wish there was more of it.
---
My brother wrote a book. It is a novel set in his D&D world, I'm sad that I have to wait two weeks after its finish before I can read it, and that by the time I get my hands on a copy, a dozen other people will already have finished it. I am excited to read tales of a place I wish was my home, in the comfort of my home.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Saved for Obama. Or your mother.
So since my last entry I've made my blog invite-only thanks to a long procession of drama.
I have 4 hours of extra instruction I have to do for running by myself Thanksgiving weekend. I was given (and accepted) the option to write a rebuttal, which I emailed to the unit leader. He won't be back in office until the 15th.
I have 12 hours of extra instruction and a $25 fine for an alcohol offense. Anyone who knows me (which is all of you, now that things are private) know that this is not at all the sort of thing that I would ordinarily be involved with. But because we have retardedly strict rules, the one sip I had in the housing is severely punished, while the teammates who stumbled in drunk that night but had nothing in the house itself are fine. Originally I was also told I wasn't a firefighter for spike round two-- effectively giving me a six-week delay on firefighting-- but this was rescinded.
They dismissed us from the over-the-phone disciplinary hearing in tiers-- the unpunished (Chris, Garrett, and Andrea), the "lightly punished" (Wendy and I), and the severely punished (Will, Aaron, Jeremy, and Haley). They were given 12 hours, $100 fines, and were kicked off of firefighting. Carmella, for being gone all weekend and playing dumb about the party, got only one punishment: not being a firefighting team leader for spike round two. This punishment was rescinded. I guess she got the displeasure of being chewed out, but I'll take that over a fine any day. I stormed out, angry I was punished so harshly, despite it being a first offense, despite my being the only sober person all weekend. I knocked over a ladder accidentally and was called back in, chastized by Barbara Lane, Region Director for my anger management problem and my authority issues. Great, now I'm a belligerent crazy person too. When I found out they broke up our team just after this, I ducked in the room where Carmella was on the phone with Barbara and Kevin Rumery and said, "I quit." We stared at each other silently for a few moments, and I walked out.
A half-hour later I changed my mind. She said it was too late; they bought a bus ticket and I was expected in Denver and was leaving tomorrow morning at 8:30am. I called Kevin, told him I changed my mind. He called Barbara and she said I could stay, but only if I paid the $150 ticket. Sigh. I agree, and Kevin hints that one of the reasons it went through so quickly may have been that Carmella was not sad to see me go. Surprise surprise.
---
Fortunately Garrett, Will, Aaron and I made $230 in two days-- almost as much as I make in a month, now-- campaigning for Joseph Cao, congressman in an election delayed by Hurricane Rita. The democratic incumbent was caught with $90,000 in bribery money in his freezer and so a hard push was made to get him out of office. Apparently the election was narrowly won, and some of the districts we campaigned in were battleground districts that had huge jumps in voting just after my teammates and I worked them. Cool sensation, that your actions might have decided an election.
We learned of the job from our co-workers at Rebuilding Together. We worked three hours Friday night and made $50, went home and slept 5 hours and woke up at 3am. Chris joined us and we got back to the barbershop the campaign operated out of by 4am to work seventeen more hours and make $180. Like the twist ending of the movie, as we walk in to get our paychecks at the end of the night Saturday, in walks Kristen Palmer.
This lady, she runs the program we work for, Rebuilding Together New Orleans. She's on the board for the Preservation Resource Center, one of the power players in rebuilding the city. She is our boss's boss's boss. It does not get higher up than her. She gave us a really neat presentation on architecture in New Orleans when we first got here. We were a little surprised to see her, and a little afraid. But she walks in and hugs Wilma, this pleasant Southern lady who's been sending us driving 170 miles and walking god knows how many throughout the day. They insist we come to the party tonight. "Thanks For Volunteers Party," Wilma insists. "It's bad luck to say 'victory party.'" Given that she was about the nicest boss I've ever had and she paid for our lunch at an excellent, huge Chinese food/sushi/dessert buffet, and she says the party has free booze, we're considering. But we're getting tired. We decline.
On the drive home we change our mind. We hoped for an even $200 for Saturday and decided to make up for our lost money in alcohol. We get to the place for the party, the Palace Cafe, and it's a three-story, very classy restaurant downtown. Everyone's in suits, everyone's older than us. We're in our Joseph Gao t-shirts we've been wearing for two days. We are clearly underdressed. We move quickly to the small bar, the waiter in a dress shirt and bow tie. He has red and white wine and some bottled import beer. I opt for the red wine as Kristin comes over, dressed in earth tones, a 20's style flapper hat the same brown as her sweater and a cream shawl draped over her shoulders. "We feel out of place. Underdressed," I tell her.
"Don't be ridiculous, we need people like you here. Look at me, I'm underdressed too," she says earnestly. I don't buy it, she looks great. "This stuff doesn't get done without you guys, and you've got that hardworking look going on. It's fine," she insists. She's just a little drunk, she smiles and winks at me. The other guys are pretty quiet, slip off to drink. I finish my first glass of wine and grab another and Kristin continues to make conversation.
"I'm out of my element, I'm serious. I've never been to one of these high-class things with all these big names. All I know about this, I've picked up in the last two days," I tell her. She's happy to help. She starts pointing people out, leaning in and talking right into my ear over all the crowd-rabble. I have a hard time remembering the names, but one of the first people she points at is a guy with a huge nose and a little chin, balding. She says his name and says, "Fucking icon in this city-- Ugly as sin, though. His wife over there," she points, "She's a classy lady, always dressed to the nines." I remember Will, I think, mentioning that Kristin's apparently kind of a name in this city too, and I move to flatter. "From what I hear, you're kind of a fucking icon here too," I say. It works. She smiles, acts dismissive, but still elaborates. "I ran for office, but I didn't win-- it was a black neighborhood, but I came way closer than any white candidate ever did, because of my work, because they know me, and I help those communities out."
A Vietnamese man in a polo I remember from the barbershop approaches, thanks me for my work. It's Joseph Cao's brother from Texas, and he and Kristin talk about disaster non-profits and their lack of funding thanks to presidential decrees. She talks about her programs, and introduces me again, mentions that I'm volunteering for her. She gives another wink. "I worked seventeen hours campaigning today," I say with a grin. It becomes my standard opening line for the rest of the night. "I'm working for Rebuilding Together, but I'm part of Americorps." I explain Americorps briefly, and throw in that Bush wanted to cut our program completely but instead gave us a quarter our usual budget. Already I find myself playing the game, and Kristin's smiling away.
When the conversation ends Kristin says, "Almost everyone here's a Republican. Fuck the Republicans, but you've gotta play the game, you know? The budget's going to come up and now he's going to mention us when he talks to his brother, and that's that. It's all about these little connections--" Someone walks within earshot and she instantly conjures an easy smile and a greeting like that you'd give a close friend. "If you go to the dark side and go corporate it's even worse, the schmoozing you have to do. At least I still have my integrity," she assures me.
A few people talk to her, one of her standard lines is "Our kids should be carpooling together," and I stand peripheral, quickly learning my role: working boy accessory. She works people over well, and I'm having fun watching, participating. The wine helps, I'm smiling an earnest-looking smile, and I'm learning a lot about the secret charms and deals that go on here. She's a little drunker as the night goes on, and when the bar closes at 11:30 she says "What? Fuck this, that means it's time to go! Where's Wilma?"
We find her and she's drunk too, she hugs me and thanks me and introduces me to still more people. "Don't listen to Kristin," she says seriously. "You've done more for rebuilding the city this night than you could ever do in any of the rest of your time here." Kristin feigns upset and waves it off. "Not if we don't work to keep him here, we won't. He barely won, even in spite of Jefferson's garbage. Do you have a ride home?" She asks me. I'm really curious to see what they plan on getting up to for the rest of the night, but I tell her I do. She walks toward my team, all drinking together at a table in the back, thanks them for their work, says goodbye to me. I grin at them. I'm happy I've had a wildly entertaining night learning about political maneuverings. They're happy they've gotten free drinks. I realize that as far as I'm concerned, they've completely missed the point of the evening.
---
Last night I worked in a community center. Unable to help myself, the first thing I did was peruse the free bookshelf. Almost took a children's book on the myth of Cadmus, founder of Thebes. Some of us wrapped presents. Tuesday nights they serve free meals to the communities and we helped prepare it-- sort of. The cook was utterly self-sufficient and hilariously, charmingly rural. Talked about hating his time in the army and being drunk literally every day of his two years there Insisted he could cook perfect rice. We ended up serving the meals to sad-looking people. Undercooked, wet rice. Gravy with bits of hamburger broken up in it. Corn. I was very hungry until I actually ate it, and then realized I could barely get it down. The chocolate brownie mix with dried cherries and a powdered-sugar-based glazing made it tolerable.
I couldn't decide if it was hopeful or depressing. Some of the people who came for dinner just loved that a place like that existed, where they could get donated clothes, books, toys for their kids. Others never looked up from the floor, never said a word, battered clothing.
---
I haven't run in five days and I'd really like to soon. This is my last weekend in New Orleans and I still haven't eaten at Cafe du Monde, haven't eaten alligator, haven't taken pictures of the old mausoleums or the collapsing houses covered in ivy. I still feel like I didn't get enough time to see New Orleans the way I'd like to have seen New Orleans. In five days I leave for Denver again. In eleven I'll be home and I'll get to see my family again (I'm excited to go home; I miss them). In fifteen days I'll see Kat again, whereupon I will be even further delighted. Right now, I have a lot of happy things to look forward to, and even though I was pretty angry and upset last week, I realize that I'm pretty happy right now.
I have 4 hours of extra instruction I have to do for running by myself Thanksgiving weekend. I was given (and accepted) the option to write a rebuttal, which I emailed to the unit leader. He won't be back in office until the 15th.
I have 12 hours of extra instruction and a $25 fine for an alcohol offense. Anyone who knows me (which is all of you, now that things are private) know that this is not at all the sort of thing that I would ordinarily be involved with. But because we have retardedly strict rules, the one sip I had in the housing is severely punished, while the teammates who stumbled in drunk that night but had nothing in the house itself are fine. Originally I was also told I wasn't a firefighter for spike round two-- effectively giving me a six-week delay on firefighting-- but this was rescinded.
They dismissed us from the over-the-phone disciplinary hearing in tiers-- the unpunished (Chris, Garrett, and Andrea), the "lightly punished" (Wendy and I), and the severely punished (Will, Aaron, Jeremy, and Haley). They were given 12 hours, $100 fines, and were kicked off of firefighting. Carmella, for being gone all weekend and playing dumb about the party, got only one punishment: not being a firefighting team leader for spike round two. This punishment was rescinded. I guess she got the displeasure of being chewed out, but I'll take that over a fine any day. I stormed out, angry I was punished so harshly, despite it being a first offense, despite my being the only sober person all weekend. I knocked over a ladder accidentally and was called back in, chastized by Barbara Lane, Region Director for my anger management problem and my authority issues. Great, now I'm a belligerent crazy person too. When I found out they broke up our team just after this, I ducked in the room where Carmella was on the phone with Barbara and Kevin Rumery and said, "I quit." We stared at each other silently for a few moments, and I walked out.
A half-hour later I changed my mind. She said it was too late; they bought a bus ticket and I was expected in Denver and was leaving tomorrow morning at 8:30am. I called Kevin, told him I changed my mind. He called Barbara and she said I could stay, but only if I paid the $150 ticket. Sigh. I agree, and Kevin hints that one of the reasons it went through so quickly may have been that Carmella was not sad to see me go. Surprise surprise.
---
Fortunately Garrett, Will, Aaron and I made $230 in two days-- almost as much as I make in a month, now-- campaigning for Joseph Cao, congressman in an election delayed by Hurricane Rita. The democratic incumbent was caught with $90,000 in bribery money in his freezer and so a hard push was made to get him out of office. Apparently the election was narrowly won, and some of the districts we campaigned in were battleground districts that had huge jumps in voting just after my teammates and I worked them. Cool sensation, that your actions might have decided an election.
We learned of the job from our co-workers at Rebuilding Together. We worked three hours Friday night and made $50, went home and slept 5 hours and woke up at 3am. Chris joined us and we got back to the barbershop the campaign operated out of by 4am to work seventeen more hours and make $180. Like the twist ending of the movie, as we walk in to get our paychecks at the end of the night Saturday, in walks Kristen Palmer.
This lady, she runs the program we work for, Rebuilding Together New Orleans. She's on the board for the Preservation Resource Center, one of the power players in rebuilding the city. She is our boss's boss's boss. It does not get higher up than her. She gave us a really neat presentation on architecture in New Orleans when we first got here. We were a little surprised to see her, and a little afraid. But she walks in and hugs Wilma, this pleasant Southern lady who's been sending us driving 170 miles and walking god knows how many throughout the day. They insist we come to the party tonight. "Thanks For Volunteers Party," Wilma insists. "It's bad luck to say 'victory party.'" Given that she was about the nicest boss I've ever had and she paid for our lunch at an excellent, huge Chinese food/sushi/dessert buffet, and she says the party has free booze, we're considering. But we're getting tired. We decline.
On the drive home we change our mind. We hoped for an even $200 for Saturday and decided to make up for our lost money in alcohol. We get to the place for the party, the Palace Cafe, and it's a three-story, very classy restaurant downtown. Everyone's in suits, everyone's older than us. We're in our Joseph Gao t-shirts we've been wearing for two days. We are clearly underdressed. We move quickly to the small bar, the waiter in a dress shirt and bow tie. He has red and white wine and some bottled import beer. I opt for the red wine as Kristin comes over, dressed in earth tones, a 20's style flapper hat the same brown as her sweater and a cream shawl draped over her shoulders. "We feel out of place. Underdressed," I tell her.
"Don't be ridiculous, we need people like you here. Look at me, I'm underdressed too," she says earnestly. I don't buy it, she looks great. "This stuff doesn't get done without you guys, and you've got that hardworking look going on. It's fine," she insists. She's just a little drunk, she smiles and winks at me. The other guys are pretty quiet, slip off to drink. I finish my first glass of wine and grab another and Kristin continues to make conversation.
"I'm out of my element, I'm serious. I've never been to one of these high-class things with all these big names. All I know about this, I've picked up in the last two days," I tell her. She's happy to help. She starts pointing people out, leaning in and talking right into my ear over all the crowd-rabble. I have a hard time remembering the names, but one of the first people she points at is a guy with a huge nose and a little chin, balding. She says his name and says, "Fucking icon in this city-- Ugly as sin, though. His wife over there," she points, "She's a classy lady, always dressed to the nines." I remember Will, I think, mentioning that Kristin's apparently kind of a name in this city too, and I move to flatter. "From what I hear, you're kind of a fucking icon here too," I say. It works. She smiles, acts dismissive, but still elaborates. "I ran for office, but I didn't win-- it was a black neighborhood, but I came way closer than any white candidate ever did, because of my work, because they know me, and I help those communities out."
A Vietnamese man in a polo I remember from the barbershop approaches, thanks me for my work. It's Joseph Cao's brother from Texas, and he and Kristin talk about disaster non-profits and their lack of funding thanks to presidential decrees. She talks about her programs, and introduces me again, mentions that I'm volunteering for her. She gives another wink. "I worked seventeen hours campaigning today," I say with a grin. It becomes my standard opening line for the rest of the night. "I'm working for Rebuilding Together, but I'm part of Americorps." I explain Americorps briefly, and throw in that Bush wanted to cut our program completely but instead gave us a quarter our usual budget. Already I find myself playing the game, and Kristin's smiling away.
When the conversation ends Kristin says, "Almost everyone here's a Republican. Fuck the Republicans, but you've gotta play the game, you know? The budget's going to come up and now he's going to mention us when he talks to his brother, and that's that. It's all about these little connections--" Someone walks within earshot and she instantly conjures an easy smile and a greeting like that you'd give a close friend. "If you go to the dark side and go corporate it's even worse, the schmoozing you have to do. At least I still have my integrity," she assures me.
A few people talk to her, one of her standard lines is "Our kids should be carpooling together," and I stand peripheral, quickly learning my role: working boy accessory. She works people over well, and I'm having fun watching, participating. The wine helps, I'm smiling an earnest-looking smile, and I'm learning a lot about the secret charms and deals that go on here. She's a little drunker as the night goes on, and when the bar closes at 11:30 she says "What? Fuck this, that means it's time to go! Where's Wilma?"
We find her and she's drunk too, she hugs me and thanks me and introduces me to still more people. "Don't listen to Kristin," she says seriously. "You've done more for rebuilding the city this night than you could ever do in any of the rest of your time here." Kristin feigns upset and waves it off. "Not if we don't work to keep him here, we won't. He barely won, even in spite of Jefferson's garbage. Do you have a ride home?" She asks me. I'm really curious to see what they plan on getting up to for the rest of the night, but I tell her I do. She walks toward my team, all drinking together at a table in the back, thanks them for their work, says goodbye to me. I grin at them. I'm happy I've had a wildly entertaining night learning about political maneuverings. They're happy they've gotten free drinks. I realize that as far as I'm concerned, they've completely missed the point of the evening.
---
Last night I worked in a community center. Unable to help myself, the first thing I did was peruse the free bookshelf. Almost took a children's book on the myth of Cadmus, founder of Thebes. Some of us wrapped presents. Tuesday nights they serve free meals to the communities and we helped prepare it-- sort of. The cook was utterly self-sufficient and hilariously, charmingly rural. Talked about hating his time in the army and being drunk literally every day of his two years there Insisted he could cook perfect rice. We ended up serving the meals to sad-looking people. Undercooked, wet rice. Gravy with bits of hamburger broken up in it. Corn. I was very hungry until I actually ate it, and then realized I could barely get it down. The chocolate brownie mix with dried cherries and a powdered-sugar-based glazing made it tolerable.
I couldn't decide if it was hopeful or depressing. Some of the people who came for dinner just loved that a place like that existed, where they could get donated clothes, books, toys for their kids. Others never looked up from the floor, never said a word, battered clothing.
---
I haven't run in five days and I'd really like to soon. This is my last weekend in New Orleans and I still haven't eaten at Cafe du Monde, haven't eaten alligator, haven't taken pictures of the old mausoleums or the collapsing houses covered in ivy. I still feel like I didn't get enough time to see New Orleans the way I'd like to have seen New Orleans. In five days I leave for Denver again. In eleven I'll be home and I'll get to see my family again (I'm excited to go home; I miss them). In fifteen days I'll see Kat again, whereupon I will be even further delighted. Right now, I have a lot of happy things to look forward to, and even though I was pretty angry and upset last week, I realize that I'm pretty happy right now.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Pale Blue Eyes.
The computer at my house (I am careful to use the word "house" and not the word "home;" they have very different connotations) is a public computer. Some people have laptops; I did not wish to inconvenience them with borrowing theirs when this perfectly serviceable one is available to me. I am using it even now.
But after the incredibly lengthy lecture I received from Carmella last night, I'm not so sure I ever care to again. It turns out that Carmella goes through the history of this computer periodically "because it's not ours," in case we're using it for anything subversive. What she's looking for, exactly, I'm not sure-- but in the process she apparently found this, and told me it was incredibly rude to her and my team members. Hi, Carmella.
When Carmella gets mad, she adopts a tone and body language that could be a cousin to sarcasm. First she told me that she saw me running on Decatur, and that she was going to write me up and that I have to do four hours of additional learning.
Then she told me that "By the way, I read your blog, and you even talk about your running there, and you say some pretty rude stuff in there." She said it's going to alienate me from people with how rude I am, and that she sent it to Kevin Rumery, earth unit leader-- as if it were worth the effort for him to read. This was the exact moment it started to feel like an interrogation; I a suspect, my journal submitted to headquarters as evidence. Hi, Kevin.
The subtext to the blog discussion was that I shouldn't be allowed to say anything negative in my blog about anyone and that if I do then I shouldn't have it, or why can't I just make it private. I said that it was a sort of release for me, and that it was for my friends and family back home to read, not my team members; I have no intention of changing my tone. Nobody is making you read this but yourself. This is no smoking gun; I am not actually stupid enough to post anything I know will get me in tangible trouble-- or apparently not. I thought running would be forgivable compared to the massive amounts of drinking that took place this weekend, but as far as I know, I'm the only one to receive a punishment yet. (The truth of the matter is that in this place, I am being polite-- I know better than to post my angriest and most frustrated opinions where anyone can see them. You are viewing, have always been viewing, my thoughts in moderation.)
Then she told me that I was a terrible worker last week and that she saw me taking frequent breaks, standing around doing nothing. She had the audacity to say that the group would have actually gotten more work done if I hadn't been there; that someone more productive would have been able to use the ladder I was on. I reminded her that I was sick last week, and that I was doing the best I could. She told me that if I was sick I should just call off for the day rather than waste everyone's time. I told her I'd rather do some work than no work at all, and that the idea that I was actually making less work happen with my presence was ridiculous.
After the speech about how I was going to alienate my teammates, she asked me to tell her everything about who drank, how much, and when, perhaps failing to miss the point that this would be the most self-damning thing I could do if people found out I did it.
Then she asked me what my problem was with Haley; that I said some pretty rude things about her. I went through my blog in my head, recounting. I knew I hadn't said anything that rude about her. It was all informative. I cannot change what she does or says. I do not make these things up; I simply write them as they happen. Certainly I interject a frustrated comment here or there, but this is only natural: It is a frustrating situation, putting me in a frustrated mood.
"You snapped at her when she wanted to help you with the turkey on Thanksgiving--"
Irked. "Carmella, you haven't seen me snap at someone yet."
She pauses. "Still, you were awfully curt with her."
I like to do things myself. I didn't need help with the turkey, and I didn't want help with the turkey. And then I recalled a brief team meeting shortly after I put the turkey in the oven: Carmella said we needed to be patient with one another because the kitchen was going to be busy and to try not to raise our voices at one another. At the time I felt like this was directed specifically at me, but then I remembered Joseph periodically scolding: "You always think everything is about you and it's not." I am sometimes paranoid, but I am also still calculating, analyzing; it turns out that yes, it is about me a lot of the time.
Next, talking about her. She was very mad I called her a boozer, angrily asked why I would say that. I told her her teammates last year said she used to drink in spike housing and the firefighting house all the time, and that some people saw her carrying around drinks downtown. "You weren't there last year, and apparently they never talked about second, third, or fourth round, all of team leader training. But I'm a boozer because I was carrying one drink. You're judging me on one drink." She settled with, "Last year was last year and this year was this year and they're two completely different things in my mind."
She wanted to know how I felt about her, and I gave her my honest answer: I think she is a nice girl, and I've had some good times with her, but I think she is unnecessarily ironclad with the rules because of past misgivings, and she's trying to overcompensate for them. That she is keeping an incredibly tight grip on the team because she doesn't want to be punished if we do something wrong.
Then we talked about me, which basically amounted to: What is your problem? Do you even want to be on this team? Is this going to be an issue come firefighting? On firefighting we'll be even closer, have less time to ourselves, and you can't have any issues with anyone when you're working that close to them (a silly notion, getting along perfectly with every co-worker). I told her I can separate my frustrations with co-workers from my work ethic, and that I am perfectly capable of keeping my head down and getting through the job. She said this was no way to go through a year, and if I'm not happy with things now and I'm not happy when we get to firefighting, then what? And I told her I'd quit, and I told her I am not a happy person, and I started to tear up.
She said she'd picked everyone on this team for a reason and we work well together and that I shouldn't just quit if something can be done to make it work, and a blurry, lengthy rambling about my discontent, depression. She asked if I wanted to talk to someone about it, Jamie Brennan in Denver or the Gulf Coast lady whose name I can't remember, both Americorps human resource psychiatrist people. I think it's awkward to talk to someone who barely knows anything about me about my problems, and I told her as much-- that there's something to be said for shutting up and dealing with it.
Kat told me I should talk to one of them, though, and she's probably the only one who could actually convince me it's worth doing, so I guess I will. But first I have to write a rebuttal to this running offense, and tomorrow we've got some team Kevin-yells-at-us-over-the-speakerphone-of-Carmella's-cell-phone disciplinary hearing.
Some people work very hard
But still they never get it right
Well I'm beginning to see the light
But after the incredibly lengthy lecture I received from Carmella last night, I'm not so sure I ever care to again. It turns out that Carmella goes through the history of this computer periodically "because it's not ours," in case we're using it for anything subversive. What she's looking for, exactly, I'm not sure-- but in the process she apparently found this, and told me it was incredibly rude to her and my team members. Hi, Carmella.
When Carmella gets mad, she adopts a tone and body language that could be a cousin to sarcasm. First she told me that she saw me running on Decatur, and that she was going to write me up and that I have to do four hours of additional learning.
Then she told me that "By the way, I read your blog, and you even talk about your running there, and you say some pretty rude stuff in there." She said it's going to alienate me from people with how rude I am, and that she sent it to Kevin Rumery, earth unit leader-- as if it were worth the effort for him to read. This was the exact moment it started to feel like an interrogation; I a suspect, my journal submitted to headquarters as evidence. Hi, Kevin.
The subtext to the blog discussion was that I shouldn't be allowed to say anything negative in my blog about anyone and that if I do then I shouldn't have it, or why can't I just make it private. I said that it was a sort of release for me, and that it was for my friends and family back home to read, not my team members; I have no intention of changing my tone. Nobody is making you read this but yourself. This is no smoking gun; I am not actually stupid enough to post anything I know will get me in tangible trouble-- or apparently not. I thought running would be forgivable compared to the massive amounts of drinking that took place this weekend, but as far as I know, I'm the only one to receive a punishment yet. (The truth of the matter is that in this place, I am being polite-- I know better than to post my angriest and most frustrated opinions where anyone can see them. You are viewing, have always been viewing, my thoughts in moderation.)
Then she told me that I was a terrible worker last week and that she saw me taking frequent breaks, standing around doing nothing. She had the audacity to say that the group would have actually gotten more work done if I hadn't been there; that someone more productive would have been able to use the ladder I was on. I reminded her that I was sick last week, and that I was doing the best I could. She told me that if I was sick I should just call off for the day rather than waste everyone's time. I told her I'd rather do some work than no work at all, and that the idea that I was actually making less work happen with my presence was ridiculous.
After the speech about how I was going to alienate my teammates, she asked me to tell her everything about who drank, how much, and when, perhaps failing to miss the point that this would be the most self-damning thing I could do if people found out I did it.
Then she asked me what my problem was with Haley; that I said some pretty rude things about her. I went through my blog in my head, recounting. I knew I hadn't said anything that rude about her. It was all informative. I cannot change what she does or says. I do not make these things up; I simply write them as they happen. Certainly I interject a frustrated comment here or there, but this is only natural: It is a frustrating situation, putting me in a frustrated mood.
"You snapped at her when she wanted to help you with the turkey on Thanksgiving--"
Irked. "Carmella, you haven't seen me snap at someone yet."
She pauses. "Still, you were awfully curt with her."
I like to do things myself. I didn't need help with the turkey, and I didn't want help with the turkey. And then I recalled a brief team meeting shortly after I put the turkey in the oven: Carmella said we needed to be patient with one another because the kitchen was going to be busy and to try not to raise our voices at one another. At the time I felt like this was directed specifically at me, but then I remembered Joseph periodically scolding: "You always think everything is about you and it's not." I am sometimes paranoid, but I am also still calculating, analyzing; it turns out that yes, it is about me a lot of the time.
Next, talking about her. She was very mad I called her a boozer, angrily asked why I would say that. I told her her teammates last year said she used to drink in spike housing and the firefighting house all the time, and that some people saw her carrying around drinks downtown. "You weren't there last year, and apparently they never talked about second, third, or fourth round, all of team leader training. But I'm a boozer because I was carrying one drink. You're judging me on one drink." She settled with, "Last year was last year and this year was this year and they're two completely different things in my mind."
She wanted to know how I felt about her, and I gave her my honest answer: I think she is a nice girl, and I've had some good times with her, but I think she is unnecessarily ironclad with the rules because of past misgivings, and she's trying to overcompensate for them. That she is keeping an incredibly tight grip on the team because she doesn't want to be punished if we do something wrong.
Then we talked about me, which basically amounted to: What is your problem? Do you even want to be on this team? Is this going to be an issue come firefighting? On firefighting we'll be even closer, have less time to ourselves, and you can't have any issues with anyone when you're working that close to them (a silly notion, getting along perfectly with every co-worker). I told her I can separate my frustrations with co-workers from my work ethic, and that I am perfectly capable of keeping my head down and getting through the job. She said this was no way to go through a year, and if I'm not happy with things now and I'm not happy when we get to firefighting, then what? And I told her I'd quit, and I told her I am not a happy person, and I started to tear up.
She said she'd picked everyone on this team for a reason and we work well together and that I shouldn't just quit if something can be done to make it work, and a blurry, lengthy rambling about my discontent, depression. She asked if I wanted to talk to someone about it, Jamie Brennan in Denver or the Gulf Coast lady whose name I can't remember, both Americorps human resource psychiatrist people. I think it's awkward to talk to someone who barely knows anything about me about my problems, and I told her as much-- that there's something to be said for shutting up and dealing with it.
Kat told me I should talk to one of them, though, and she's probably the only one who could actually convince me it's worth doing, so I guess I will. But first I have to write a rebuttal to this running offense, and tomorrow we've got some team Kevin-yells-at-us-over-the-speakerphone-of-Carmella's-cell-phone disciplinary hearing.
Some people work very hard
But still they never get it right
Well I'm beginning to see the light
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