Why New Orleans is Home
When people ask me “Where are you from?”, you’d think they’d asked me to solve the mystery of the universe. I stumble; I mumble something to get my bearings. It’s a simple question and I so long to say ‘New Orleans’. Most of the time, I can’t even pronounce it right. New Or lens. Not New Orleans that rhymes with beans, or “N’awlins,” It’s New or lens! Got it? Mispronunciation is a giveaway, but non-New Orleanians are easily taken in. I usually end up with the firm testimony, “My grandfather was born here, so my roots are here.”
But, pressed for details, I will reluctantly admit I was born in Chicago and then as if to further distance myself from that fine city, continue, “and raised in St. Petersburg, Florida.” Now I can’t think of a single thing that St. Petersburg has over Chicago. But things are not what makes that place more of a second home to me although I would NEVER go back there to live. It’s where my Grand-daddy and -mama made a home for me. My mother and father lived in different places when I was a child. I didn’t know them. But I had, and still have, a swarm of aunts, uncles and first and other degrees of cousins, and of course then my grandparents, whom we all called Mama and Daddy. It’s my go-to when lovers leave you or kick you out, or loved ones die, I know somebody loves me home.
I lived in a lot of places before finally returning to the States to live in New York: a few years in different cities in England and Canada.
My mother rarely saw me after my first year of college. I even missed a few annual June Florida family reunions. Most of my college summers were spent away in repertory theatre. I returned to Chicago long enough to repack my bags. My senior year was spent directing, writing and acting in my first study abroad program in and around Coventry Cathedral, England. After a negotiation for a round-trip ticket so that my mother, her mother and her mother’s mother could see me get my piece of paper from Valparaiso University, I returned to England for another two years and only came back across the water because I wanted to be warm. It would be another three years before I would leave Toronto; a cleaner, calmer version of Chicago, but with less character, and face the challenge of living in New York City. I still hadn’t forgiven the United States of Assholes for the war in Viet Nam, but that was where an “aspiring” actor had to be. I got some big parts in small theatre companies, small parts, “there are no small parts,” in larger companies. At least they paid. My big break came with the pregnancy of my son, Mannewell.
I returned and settled down in the city of our births, Chicago. I made a home for him. He was my home. Wherever we were together was home. But children grow up and leave home. And being on your own is like being a nomad. You know you can pick up and leave at any time. So, I returned to the days of nomadic theatre tours off-off, way off-Broadway where home became anywhere I had a script to live in. I didn’t get enough theatre work to pay the bills. I tried administrative work. Companies didn’t understand why I would leave a good paying job to take a part in a classic play or in plays by August Wilson. One company took me back once. My attempt at teaching was a disaster, kids especially adolescents will destroy the soul of a substitute teacher. I settled in for more administrative work.
Then, four years ago, my son and his wife, Jennifer needed me. I had just retired; they were going to have a baby; the twins and older brother were never “half-” and “step-”, but this fourth child would bind them all together. They had me with their plan to go to graduate school. I committed to two years.
I helped to make my son’s home a place where his children knew they were loved and someone would always be home for them until their parents, who had full time jobs in DC, returned from their long commute to Columbia, Maryland. After two years of full-time granny nanny duties, Mannewell, who was just a weekend warrior in the Naval Reserves announced he would be deployed for a year. Jennifer managed to get her master’s degree during that time. I wanted to get mine too. And, as much as I love my grandchildren, I needed to get away, have time to myself, to do something for me.
My son gratefully returned from Djibouti. With my three-year-old grand baby boy, Alexus, now in school, I was free to leave. I miss the constant calls of Mima! Mom? and Mother. But I also missed me. I needed a place of my own, a place I didn’t have to be on constant alert or hide my body parts from tiny little eyes.
My search began. I was fascinated by the architecture, history and happenings in DC, but it was too expensive and maybe just a little too close and accessible to my little and big children; Alexandria, Virginia was just close enough to family and DC, but seemed too congested for a small city; I checked out Charlotte, North Carolina, it didn’t feel right, and it was bad timing visiting just after that racially motivated shooting of the church Bible study group. My family in Florida insisted I at least consider Tampa, nearby to St. Pete. They tried to convince me it was more cosmopolitan than St. Pete, our city across the bay. I flew into the Tampa Airport, enjoyed the family reunion and happily flew out a week later. I saved the best for last. I had a feeling New Orleans would be the place for me. I had visited the city twice before; before and after Katrina. It gave me a sense of belonging both times. Not just because it was the home of my grandfather, my mother’s father whom I’ve never met.
The first visit, my son and I toured the city and enjoyed the music and the food. The second visit I got the people, the richness and uniqueness of the culture and Zydeco music and dance, shrimp and grits, shotgun house, elegantly designed wrought iron gates and balconies, and the feeling that the city somehow needed me.
The last visit in October 2015, I knew my search was over. Walking down a side street towards Magazine, I called my Dad and shouted, “I’m home.” I told him I found the place where I belong; the place where I feel totally free to be me, “I know I can write here.”
Okay, maybe that comment about New Orleans needing me is a bit self-absorbed; maybe it’s more, I know it is – I need New Orleans, where friends have become family, and where there’s something in the air beyond the stench of Bourbon Street that conjures up stories to be told.
My journey continues, but that’s why New Orleans is home.
(photograph Brianna Breaux, 2015)
