Last week I had a chance to drop in on a symposium at Loyola University titled “What is New Orleans?” When the issue of how to revive public housing came up, a man from the audience stepped to the microphone and cautiously asked why the city should strive to welcome back “those people” who are displaced, those who once occupied the projects and other decaying parts of the city. Perhaps his query had another meaning, but he seemed to indicate that because “those people” were directly responsible for endemic issues of high crime and poverty, they shouldn’t be allowed to return home to hinder new growth and development. He seemed to indicate a line of thought that I fear resonates with many others, namely that, in essence, the city should forget about the forgotten and rebuild without them.
How exactly is it possible to redefine and rebuild a city without its natives? How is it possible to rebuild without the legacies that constitute a community’s very foundation? How is it possible to preserve the great cultural paradigm that is New Orleans without vestiges of its past?
Of course the ongoing discussion of New Orleans’ recovery should revolve around certain key issues: coastal restoration, flood defense, green building, corporate reinvestment, eradication of political corruption and so forth. But at this point in a protracted recovery process, is there still a commitment to include displaced New Orleanians in the new New Orleans?
Since my first days as a resident of this city, I’ve heard people denounce the national perception of New Orleans as a kitschy cesspool that’s sliding toward Disneyfication. In the next breath they also say it’s great to have so many newcomers in the city to revive its spirit. Both are obviously true, but, again, how do the forgotten natives fit into this renewal?
As a non-native, I feel almost obligated to ask these questions.
At the symposium, Tulane urban geographer Richard Campanella presented his research findings that suggest the city is less native than it’s ever been, that despite the increasing population, a high percentage of natives have not returned.
This is promising news from an economic standpoint, as the city is significantly more diverse, more mobile, more decentralized and less parochial. But what about the city’s cultural foundations, “those people” whose ancestors carved out the ironwork that adorns city dwellings; whose ancestors passed down traditions of jazz funerals and ethnic cuisine; who steered thriving communities of musicians, artisans and craftsmen?
Nowadays when I drive through Tremé or other areas flagged with attendant social issues (crime, economic disenfranchisement, underachieving schools, etc.), I can’t help but think it’s a half-portrait of what it used to be. There’s something missing, elements amiss.
Granted, there’s no panacea for what ails New Orleans, and perhaps no one can outline a principled plan for tackling all these issues. And it seems easy enough to say that certain people, “those people,” should be excluded from any such plan. But this is their home. And this is where they belong, more so than me or any other newcomer for that matter.
Somehow I feel complicit in this problem: As long as I volunteer, pay taxes and contribute to the city’s favorable social fabric, I help rebuild the city. But this is my own false narrative and yours, as well.
