Two old-timers live on my block. One is a retired NOPD officer. The other is a retired fireman. They’re from another lifetime, a time when New Orleans was probably just as racy and ritzy as it is now but when life was seen through a strictly black-and-white lens. Or, I should say, a time when life was expected to be seen as such, supposed to be seen as such. 


A few neighbors have hinted to me that the last time a black woman lived on the block — renting out half of a double shotgun, just like my husband and me — she was forced to leave almost immediately, following a rash of unwelcoming incidents at the behest of the officer and fireman. It’s hard to imagine that such a thing happened on my very block, where the alleged perpetrators still live with their families and wave to me each day. 


Of course it’s upsetting to know that just a short time ago I wouldn’t have been able to sleep comfortably in my own neighborhood. But it’s promising to know that I can live here now, without feeling unwelcome or bitter about the bigotry of my neighbors. 
 



The racial dynamics at work on my block seem to resonate with much of what’s happening throughout New Orleans after Katrina. New faces are blending with the old, and while individual and structural racism is still a mighty force to be reckoned with, people do seem to be moving forward, developing racial sensibilities that can help renew and revitalize the city for the 21st century. 
 



The other day I overheard two natives talking over chicory coffee in a local café. I’m pretty sure one said something about her needing to move to the Northshore (for you fellow newcomers, that’s on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain) “to escape all the new people,” those “who are changing the city for the worse and making it less interesting.” Her conversation partner echoed: “I hear ya; don’t know why they wanna come ‘ere anyway and why they say they love it so much … they don’t even know what to love … nothing’s been the same since Katrina.” 
 



They didn’t notice my eavesdropping, and they certainly didn’t sense my desire to interrupt their conversation with a “Hey, that’s not fair! Why can’t you be more open-minded?” 


I simply sat back and listened, saddened to hear of their fading hopes, dismayed by their suspicions of 
outsiders who move here to help rebuild the city and assimilate to the truly unique culture. 

Their conversation made me recall one of my favorite Robert Frost poems, Mending Wall, particularly the lines about the holes found in the neighbors’ fence: 



… The gaps I mean, 


No one has seen them made or heard them made, 


But at spring mending-time we find them there. 

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; 


And on a day we meet to walk the line 


And set the wall between us once again. 


We keep the wall between us as we go… 



…It comes to little more: 


There where it is we do not need the wall: 


He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across 


And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. 


He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’. (9-27)
I’ve always had a certain fondness for this poem and for the way it questions the kinds of customs that divide people and lead to their exclusion of “the other.” Such customs are always difficult to purge once they’re ingrained.
We all have our own personal walls to mend or dismantle. Every day, natives pick up the pieces of Katrina’s aftermath in an effort to construct a new New Orleans, one built inevitably on changing demographics.

Regardless of our reasons for being here, it shouldn’t matter why any of us choose to live in this city. It shouldn’t matter where we come from. What matters is that we all share at least one reason for being here, one reason that ties us together. No matter our race, social status, level of education or birthplace, we’re here because we love the city of New Orleans.
The process of mending should start and end with natives and newcomers alike. If the old cop and the fireman on my block can tear down their walls of prejudice to at least accept the presence of the “other,” I’d like to think that anyone can change, any circumstance can change.
I’d like to think this city can change for the better.