Cold Spaghetti

Despite my illness, we did manage to take the kids Trick-or-Treating. We went to Georgia and Emmy‘s so that the kids could explore the neighborhood en masse and we had enough support to let me rest if and when needed.

Georgia had a great party with yummy food, including delicious chili, homemade mac-n-cheese, and a movie theatre popcorn popper machine dispensing fresh kernels in red and white stripped bags. The kids took turns filling their assorted trick-or-treat bags with party candy and then putting the candy back in the cauldrons.

We got to spend some quality time with baby Ollie. Emmy kept calling him a little peanut while getting the kids in costume (I got to hold and burp the baby). Then she dressed him in his costume — he really WAS a peanut.

Everyone got in some baby time.

Wittle baby peanut!

Will and Kate stripped their impromptu costumes from the day and donned fresh personae: Will was Mike Wicowski from Monsters, Inc (a CCEX find last fall) and Kate wore her gorgeous red suit, a gift from Randy and Katherine on one of their trips to Taiwan.

Will had the Trick-or-Treat thing down this year. No need to prompt or remind, he knew how to negotiate the door knocking and opening, used the correct parlance for transaction, and held his bag or reached appropriately in the right situations. Kate, on the other hand, preferred to take one piece of candy at a time, bringing it in her tight little fist to the next door, where she would offer the kind Treater a trade: new candy for the warm mushed one in her hand. They would offer to fill her bag with candy if she’d hold it open, to which she’d reply, “no thank you.”

Both kids were pretty much ready to be done with the whole thing after one house, just to go eat what they had collected. It wasn’t until we were done that they realized the power of volume. You could actually see Will’s wheels turning as he understood that longevity of the trick-or-treat was a strategic choice. Whoops. He’s asked if we can count down the days ’til next Halloween ’cause he’s REALLY READY NOW.

Here’s a video of them in costume preparing for the Big Event…

This is a wonderful video clip from the fantastic PBS series “Unnatural Causes… is inequality making us sick?” One of the episodes, “Becoming American” was screened last night at the Ashe Cultural Center. I was one of the panelists that took questions about health inequalities at a community forum last night after the screening.

The website for the series is an incredible resource for anyone interested in income, race, immigration, housing, and the myriad of issues that influence our health. In particular, I liked the suggestions to how individuals can make strides in their own communities toward improving health. As a country, we showed we are ready for change… here are some suggestions on how we can start in our own backyards.

Research has shown that health is more than healthcare, behaviors, and genes—that the social
conditions in which we are born, live and work actually get under the skin as surely as germs
and viruses do. What can we do to help reframe the nation’s debate over health and to address
the root causes of our devastating socio-economic and racial health inequities?

Here are a few ideas you can use to get started and encourage others to become
involved in working towards health equity:

• Identify and connect people interested in the root causes of health inequities.
• Organize a “brown bag” screening to discuss how social conditions—where we
are born, live, work and play—impact health.
• Form a committee to identify assets, programs, or initiatives within your
organization where you can use the series to educate, organize or advocate for
health equity.
• Screen and discuss the series with PTAs, book clubs, neighborhood associations,
churches, tenants groups, racial justice groups, and trade unions.
• Identify three existing struggles in your community that can improve health equity,
e.g., land use, a living wage, paid sick leave, affordable housing mandates, toxic
clean-ups, lead paint removal, etc. How can you become a partner?
• Conduct an audit of health threats and health promoters in your neighborhood.
• Identify and build strategic partnerships with community-based organizations and
organizations in other sectors; link health outcomes to housing, education,
employment, political power and other arenas.
• Form a community-wide health equity coalition.
• Ask your public health department to conduct a Health Impact Assessment (HIA)
on proposed development projects and government initiatives and ordinances.
• Provide local media with facts and resources so they can incorporate a health
equity lens in their reporting; help them identify a message point person to provide
quotes, analysis and additional information.
• Broaden the discussion: look for opportunities to submit op ed articles, letters to
the editor, call in to radio talk shows, and form discussion groups.
• Organize a policy forum to brief officials in government agencies about the social
determinants of health inequities.

Paul came with me to the event last night (he was impressed that I managed to only use the phrase ‘epidemiologic assumption’ once) and regretted not having a video camera there. That can only mean that at some point in the evening, I picked my nose or something.

In lieu of my comments from last night, I’m listing a few of my thoughts based on the screening, the questions panelists were asked, and my comments…

— We should be very concerned about the mental health of the Latino youth in New Orleans. Statistically, their risks of mental illness far outweighs any other group in the city — and the risk factors we know to trigger illness in this group exist for them here in spades.

— What can we do, as a community, to create public, multiracial spaces?

— How can we advocate for better city transportation?

— What can be done to attract health researchers back to New Orleans?

All of these things are on the radars of the many community activists and organizations that are working to rebuild a better community here… but as anyone who works in community organizing and nonprofits understands, the strides made are more likely baby steps.  Can massive overhauling really occur?

Here is one community project that I think is great example of a fantastic step: The Hollygrove Market.  We have not been able to pick up the weekend box, but just knowing it is there for us and available in a neighborhood where food markets are scarce, makes me feel that maybe it is possible to create a healthy city in the midst of poverty and destruction?

I’ve already made the $11 investment in toilet seat covers for Will’s costume, so it’s too late for this Halloween.  But I am placing our order of four in for Mardi Gras.  I wonder what kind of alterations we’ll have to make for it to fit Kate?

And while we’re on the subject of the minds behind ‘Whip It’… poor Paul!  That fall put some nasty huge bruises on his (ahem) derriere.  Huge, gynormous, brusies.  I’d post a picture, but I figure the hole-in-the-seat-of-his-pants picture was probably pushing it.

New mission: slowly switch out all of his undies to leopard print, to up the entertainment value of future hole-in-pants photos.

(Devo find, h/t to Mighty Goods.)

Despite the 30 minutes spent on the twinspan while an accident was cleared (our best guess), we made it home in a little over 3 hours.  At 4pm, our street looked good, piles of debris in front of those who’d already been industrious enough to clean up a bit.   The plan is to clean up our parts of the street tomorrow… but no new or replacement planting.  Paul went out and took a few photos, but they came out blurry…

We took off the board covering the front door but are not unlatching any of the shudders or removing any of the boards from the other windows.  We are not re-hanging the porch swing or putting up the fern baskets, which are baking in the backyard.  We are not bringing back any of the pots to the stairs.  Inside, the walls of the house are bare because we left the pictures and paintings at my parents house.

All of this non-reparation is because we are concerned that sometime in the next few days we will be headed out again.  IKE, you suck.

Paul turned back on the water heater and gas.  All was fine until we moved to the a/c.  One unit perked right up.  The other… nothing.  Paul crawled around roof and attic, searching for problems until he found that the blower wasn’t spinning up.  We called a repair place and spoke to the technician, who agreed with Paul’s hunting work and said he’d try to come by tomorrow — the fee just for showing up is $99 and it goes up from there.  This could hurt.

Until then, the front of the house is relatively cool and the back is not.  We are all sleeping above the covers and trying to keep things as dark as possible. It’s not like we’ve lived without a/c before; as long as the kids are not whiny over it, we’re totally fine with the heat.  (No, we can’t open the windows… they are sealed shut.)

One perk: since we’d emptied the fridge before we left, I decided to clean it before putting things back inside. I have a special affinity for this machine, since it is a bit of a dinosaur in this town… it’s a PRE-KATRINA fridge.  (I had a bad feeling about Katrina and cleaned out our fridge before we left.)  Behold, our sparkling pre-K and now post-G fridge. 

It is highly unlikely anything in our lives will look so new and shiny for awhile.  We are run-down and beat-up right now, doing our best to keep an eye on the news without tuning in to any turned on weather folk.  Going on what happened last time, I’m surprised that the Governor hasn’t already issued a State of Emergency and started mandatory evacuations.  All that hyper-vigilance over Gustav could really come ’round to bite us all, much sooner than expected…?

Three years plus 2 days ago, I rushed to New Orleans in the dawn of a Saturday morning in my parents truck.  Paul and I loaded it up with our precious things: paintings and figurines made by our grandmothers, our wedding album, photographs taken out of their frames and packed in envelopes, the paint-your-own plate Will had pressed with his then 18-month old hand.  At the time, our preparations were seen as extreme; neighbors strolled over to joke and insist on a drink.  But I had a bad feeling.  We returned to New Orleans almost 3 months later and our lives were forever changed.

The things I packed yesterday, on the 3-year memorial of the day Katrina came to New Orleans, were much the same as they were three years ago.  I took the same things from my house, with a little variation.  One less cat.  One additional child.  Same paintings, same figurines, same family photos wedding album.  We took care to back-up our photos, movies, and important papers.  I carefully covered all the paintings we couldn’t take in plastic bags and stored them in closets, took down pictures off the walls, placed vases and boxes inside drawers.  Paul secured the outside.  He had to use leftover pieces of wood from our renovations to cover our front door because the piece he’d used during Katrina is now the base of the Mardi Gras float we made for the Krewe of Abeona parade earlier this year.   That is the spirit of New Orleans: live life to the fullest and enjoy each moment, because you don’t know if you’ll be around for the next party.

For all the loss of innocence, disappointment, frustration, sorrow, and tragedy we felt from Katrina, we gained something, too.  Katrina kept us in New Orleans.  It taught us what it means to love a place, a space, and a community.  It taught us that a group of people with purpose can change each other’s lives and create a better place right in our own backyards.  It taught me, as a health professional who is trained to work in other communities, what it is like to be that ‘other community’.  The destruction of our city highlighted new needs and compelled us to stay and live our lives in this wounded, wonderful place.

What we learn from this coming storm?  Will it miss New Orleans completely, creating an enormous ‘cry wolf’ mentality at future threats?  Will it approach the city and challenge a whole different set of weaknesses not identified during Katrina?  Is history doomed to repeat, or just re-teach the lesson that no amount of planning can fix the vulnerabilities of poverty?

Mostly, I am anxious over the city’s newest population, those whose fears of leaving are much greater than the fears of staying.

As a child, I loved the stories of the old Testament.  There was something epic about the stories of escape, whole populations migrating to live better lives.  Such bravery in the face of threatening enemies and gaping uncertainty struck me as heroic.  Perhaps this is a reason why I am now drawn to work with people who brave the same challenges, those who risk death and uncertainty in ways I cannot personally imagine, in order to make a better life.  Being poor in the United States means a hard life, but being poor in a poor country means that each day is life or death.  A hard life is a better option for many, one that they will gladly take on even if it means living in fear of deportation, separation, and bigotry.  Evacuating a city under threat of a storm is a terrifying option to a family who lives under the radar.  What is worse?  A coming storm, or a uniformed official who may stop them for questions?

I feel guilty for being out of harm’s way with my family.  These are situations where I can be helpful: collecting research data, offering broken translation, mobilizing and organizing.  I worry that the families who are staying and are at risk are the same ones I’ve been working with for three years.  If that is the case, isn’t there something more I can do?

Three years ago, we were filled with uncertainty about our homes and community.  But I know now that I can make these anywhere, and that they will always be there for us in New Orleans.  Today, I worry for the people and things that the disaster committees and planners looked over.  I worry for the lessons that we didn’t learn from last time, when we showed the world what happens when it forgets about the realities of vulnerability, poverty, and race.

My head and heart are mixed and fearful.  I don’t know what to do and am not sure if there is anything I can do.  But wait.  And hope.

Milling about with other parents and friends during our two parent orientations tonight, we had several conversations with people who mentioned an inability to sleep with the looming uncertainty of the storm (possibly? probably?) headed our way. One friend put it best: “I remember what we lost three years ago and I can’t sleep thinking that I might lose it again.”

He didn’t mean stuff.

The threat of the storm has our household on edge. It’s not about stuff, either. For us, it’s not even about loss of employment, since Paul’s job can technically go anywhere. But the fear of uncertainty for community, friends, neighbors (even those anonymous yet familiar faces you see each day in the streets), and for the collective future of the place in which you live — these are also fears that bring insomnia.

It’s not that I am particularly worried about this storm or the damage it will bring. It’s too early for me to feel threatened by that. It’s the uncertainty, the questions, the imaginative ‘what-ifs’ that are based on a nightmare still too real in my memories. This is why New Orleans is acting so early, perhaps so prematurely, to this storm. This is why we are having trouble sleeping.

I knew they were tourists before we climbed inside.  Even with Will boldly clutching the $2.50 for the driver, I was still weighed down with a large tote bag, stroller, and Kate, all in my arms.  If they were from here, I wouldn’t have so much as put one foot onto the unfolded step before someone soundlessly took an object from me to help us on board.  It’s just the way things happen here.

Eventually the kids and I stumbled into the Streetcar and rambled down the isle to an open seat.  Two open seats, actually, as the kids took turns hopping between empty benches on each side of the isle, changing with each stop.  It is July in New Orleans and it is hot: both kids wanted the breeze from the open windows and to be out of the sun.  Their seat experimentation was just them working to find the coolest space available.

“This area doesn’t look like it got hurt by the storm,” the lady in front of me says.  “Oh, right,” her companion incorrectly chimes in, “but the Garden District got it real bad.”  Definitely tourists.  I am about to ask them where they are from, to chat them up and welcome them here, to be that friendly spot of hospitality one expects here for good reason.  But then the stroller I’ve laid beside our seat comes to smack me in the shin; the companion sitting in front of me is pushing it back, away from where one end has rolled into her personal space.  I decide to say nothing, listening instead to the women periodically comment on the “interesting” and “unusual” and occasionally “beautiful” architecture that unfolds before us as we roll along the tracks.

Finally, we turn the corner to Carrollton Avenue, where the Streetcar driver announces: “End of St. Charles, Carrollton Avenue, Camilla Grill!”  Everyone around us gets ready to depart.

One of the women asks, “Isn’t this it?  Camilla Grill?  Is this where we go?”  She is looking around as if her expectations weren’t quite being met.

“I’m not sure.  I guess so.  Everyone else is,” her friend answers.

Then Will, who has been silently looking out the window snaps to attention.  “Get a Cheeseburger.  They’re the best here.”  He says it right to the women, who take a moment to realize from where this sage advice has come.

“Really?” the first woman responds, “cheeseburgers?”

“And a chocolate milkshake,” Will remembers.

“Cheeseburger,” Kate adds.

For a split second I find myself wistfully wanting a third child, one who would pipe up and offer that last bit of important advice, “and get it dressed.”

The last three weeks.

We had a week-long visit from:
Nana. Who brought presents, time, patience, and recipes. The day she left, Kate wandered around calling “Naaaaa-Naaaah, Where ARE youuuuuuu?” (Subtext: “Save me from these crazy people!”)
Having a third adult in the house was a huge relief. It was also well-timed, because the day she left and returned us to a house of two adults, we downloaded a child.

He was thrilled to be spending almost a week away from home, his parents, and his particularly his sister. In Will’s words: “Mommy, I needed a break from that crazy girl. She’s too much for me.” I dropped Will off with my Mom in Gulfport (our half-way meeting place) and he joined Granna and PapPap on a trip to visit my brother and sister-in-law. (My incredible sister-in-law, who by all accounts spent 5 hours a day on the floor re-reading the same books and cards so patiently to the-ever-curious-Will, has posted adorable photos from the trip.)

While Will was away from home for the longest time ever, Paul turned 38 on May 5th. This is remarkable only because I told at least 3 people that he was turning 36. I also wrote that I was 30 on a doctor’s form a few months ago and only realized the mistake because “date of birth” and “today’s date” were close enough together to make me do the math. I’m not forgetting little things, I’m actually forgetting years. It must mean that it’s time for us to have some sort of life crisis.

Also on Cinco de Mayo, our friends Alex and Dawit were married. (The wedding date was chosen because it’s Alex’s birthday, too.) In between a day of picking up tiles, switching cars, dropping off kids, and buying paint, I took photos of the event and you can see them here.

Meanwhile, back at the station, the house continues.

Drywall took a long time. There were delivery problems. Supply problems. And daily layers of drywall dust… dirty, gritty, drywall dust… ALL OVER the bedrooms and hallway each evening to mop, dust, polish, and wash off. And, we’re back to no washer and dryer. Still, the crew (comprised of a husband and wife) did a very good job.

Here’s the site of the future cat-door to Scout’s litter-box “room” under the washer and dryer.
Outside, Paul spent a good 20 hours on the roof over 2 days. It’s done, although these pictures show it as still-in-progress.

Now that it’s done, I’m thinking we may finally be able to remove the ever-present can of Goo Gone from our shower?
We discovered that Kate can work the garden hose. WATCH OUT.
Note that Will’s head is soaking wet. Coincidence with that last picture? I think not.
Kate also discovered an obsessive love of ice. Workers (read: Daddy) must carefully guard their precious cups ice water, lest it be plundered by the Sweet Pea with the dirty hands.
Also: Kate loves Crabby Jack. Oysters. Shrimp. And duck. (Domilise’s for Roast Beef, though, of course.)
Kate turned 2 and got presents. Including ELMO UNDERWEAR from Gwen & Co. Here she is, putting on Every Single Pair.
And dancing.
My Fellowship Year officially began with our Orientation Retreat. At first it was going to be an overnight event, but it was shortened to a Really Long Day in Baton Rouge. Who knew the LSU campus was so darn pretty??? The group is inspiring and interesting; I left the day feeling an unexpected excitement for the coming year. We did a variety of team-building exercises, including ropes. I surprised myself by having fun, and realizing that my recently-developed fear of heights is more extreme than I thought. I was Very Impressed with the folks that climbed the 60 foot pole, stood up, and jumped for the trapeze. Here’s Jonathan, the only one to touch the bar, in one of my favorite pictures from the day:
This one of Kemi is probably my favorite:
Meanwhile, back at the station, drywall finished. Tile started.
Tomorrow, the base of the washer/dryer platform will be grouted and trimmed… so we’re hoping to have these back by Wednesday?Paul ALMOST finished the plumbing today while I wrangled kids and house. The tub plumbing is hooked up and tested perfectly. The ONE LEAK in his intricate shower plumbing? It wasn’t from a failed joint… it was a failed PIPE.
The darn elbow had a crack and hole. When Paul went to Lowe’s to get another elbow, he came home with the wrong kind. When he went back to trade, they were closed. As was Home Depot. Plumbing to Paul is like Cryptonite to Superman. Utterly defeated and forced to wait until the morning… because, after all, tomorrow is another day.

I will burn for all eternity for this.   Burn burn burn.   The devil made me do it.

Friday evening, we headed out into the fray early (or so we thought)… and were on the neutral ground by 4:45. Apparently, every person with a ladder within a 300 mile radius had been there sooner and set up their ladders supplied with taser devices to ensure on one infringe upon the PUBLIC space surrounding their ladder by several feet. Some even set up huge caution tape lines. One of the best parts about Mardi Gras is the camaraderie in the lines; folks sharing food, throws, and jokes.
Luckily, Ana spotted us crawling up and down Napoleon and we joined her and their friends, who had the good sense to bring several chairs. Ana (above) settled into our ladder seat with Will. After a few minutes, though, Will flipped out over being up in the ladder (as would be a theme for the rest of the holiday). His spirit was bolstered, however, when he discovered the delights of Doritos in a bag shared by Emmy. It was love at first sight; Will hasn’t quite been the same since.

In the meantime, as dusk settled in, I went to town trying out different techniques to capture the floats as the riders took their places, prepped their throws, and night began to fall. Normally, this would be a flash situation: I increased shutter speed, increased ISO, and played around with exposure to get these shots.
In my opinion, Hermes has the most beautiful floats. The parade “starts” a few blocks from where we were, so we sat at in the staging area of the parade. It was a great place to start the night. Watching them slowly light up as the sun set was almost magical.

(Note: see the caution tape below? For some reason, this seemed endemic this Mardi Gras. What is up, people?)

Ana stayed up on high (that girl is afraid of NOTHING) and chatted to me while I snapped away.
She even offered me a few of her wake-me-up-with-a-bang! flavored Zapp’s chips. That’s Ana, keeping the NOLA Mardi Gras spirit alive!

Hermes was the only parade we saw. At the start of D’Etat (always one of our favorites), it became clear that Kate *had a diaper*. It could not be fixed… the girl was a mess from head to toe. Will was still being freaked out by everything (the flambeau, usually a favorite, was freaking him out, too), and it was getting colder and later. We went home. It had been a big day. It was a good idea; we were much better positioned for Saturday. (Except for Kate, who we realized was unequivocally ill.) Will and I were the only ones to attend parades on Saturday.