Chapter 1: Logan
There’s a lot of ways people could see themselves reflected in New Orleans. One might say the recovery after Katrina reflects their own personal recovery, and the person, like the city, is a phoenix rising from the ashes.
Others might feel connected to the mystical and occult vibe. For those that feel as intimately connected to their soul as their own body, New Orleans chooses them, and until they arrive, they will never feel at home anywhere else. This city is a fertile field from which everything mysterious and unseen they are drawn to springs forth, not in ways they can put into words, but in an inner knowing way. It speaks to the language they are born knowing, one that has no words, and cannot be translated. Those people know that New Orleans is the true "City that Never Sleeps," for even if all its residents went into a slumber, restless souls would still scurry about, looking for the living that feel and sense them. It’s as if there is a giant heart that pulses in the center of the city, seen and heard only by boundless souls, calling them here to play in the shadows and tease the living with their whispers that hit you like a cold breeze. The mystics, psychics, voodoo priestesses, healers and mediums are not afraid of the whispers that come from unseen spirits, but comforted by them, for they’ve known all along this world is made up of far more than the eye can see.
Or maybe it’s the music. Those who have jazz in their blood can see themselves reflected by all around them, the clubs, the street musicians, and the all encompassing jazz vibe you get here. They are the wild, the free, the cool and the loose, riding life’s highs and lows as if they themselves are riding the waves of jazz music. They understand that jazz is the only type of music that reflects in every way the truth that it only seems we have control in this life. We are all, at all times, a breath away from death, and yet the miraculous way things come together day after day, from the smallest molecule in our body to the ever changing seasons, that is jazz. Jazz music hinges so delicately on chaos, and yet at all times, it is cosmos. You can’t teach someone to love jazz in the way you can teach someone to appreciate the structures and nuances of classical music. Jazz is too free, it’s not meant to be studied. It’s meant to be experienced. For those that feel an eternal beat, a constant urge to snap and whistle to the music of life, they feel that they are made of New Orleans, in the same way many feel deeply they are made of star dust. To those rare free birds, New Orleans is star dust, and they gaze in awe at the wonder of this complex city that hums, riffs, thumps, races up the scale and then cruises back down it, and all in synchronicity with their life foce.
For me, I am reflected in the French roots that are in more than just the French Quarter. Even this city’s name was taken from its namesake in France, the city of Orleans. And like the French, we in New Orleans pulse with sexuality and overt pride. We won’t buy into feeling shame over our bodies and desires. And we will never apologize for our city, or exclaim that to be humble is to be virtuous. We don’t proclaim to know everything or be the best, we only know that to be self-effacing is a waste of time and an insult to the precious gift that is life. We embrace who we are, and we are in some ways the glue that brings all the people above together, because we love the whole pie, we cherish each part, the jazz, the occult, the phoenix. No matter how much this city sometimes looks like such a fucking random mess of unrelated parts, we know that for a special few, there is a moment, a split second, when you fall irreversibly in love with this city. It’s like seeing a Jackson Pollock painting in person for the first time. Until you’ve seen that mess of paint towering over you, you can’t even begin to fathom what it will stir in your soul. You can’t even imagine how suddenly you will look up and your mind will go blank and the hairs on the back of your neck will stand up for some reason you can’t explain.
We feel that passion, and we know what the French do - that life isn’t about status or a race to the finish, it’s about how much you dance, how much good wine you enjoy, and how much you love, whole hearted. We know that a glass of wine, a seat in the sun, and a delicious piece of soft cheese is what life is really about. We soak up the pleasures of life as one should. We don’t reach the end of our lives and list our regrets, depressed by all we missed out on. We list our joys, our loves, our heartbreaks, our moments of courage, our moments of failure when we went all in, throwing ourselves at the mercy of this magnificent world. At the end, we think of our smiles and our tears and then we smile and shed more tears because all of it happened.
And despite all this, some of us do secretly, deep down, hate ourselves and feel utter despair in our moments of quiet solitude. But we’ll never, ever admit that self-loathing to you, because we never forget that this life is the only one we’ve got. We will always, above all, proclaim that we belong here as much as any wild flower that brightens a summer field. And if you don’t like that, if you think self-reflection and embracing our truth should trump all, well too fucking bad, because even if we are looking for happiness, we of New Orleans know we’re different, and what we seek isn’t in some Eckart Tolle book or "I Can Do It!" seminar.
We look for happiness as we groove and sway to the saxophone. We look for it in a hug. In a picnic with friends. Or we’re just not looking for it at all, which you probably don’t get, because isn’t the essence of the French to be happy with life? Jesus, this is hard to explain. It’s not even about the happiness. It’s about living, with everything, as it is. It’s about knowing how precious and brilliant it is to feel, even if what you feel is a deep longing, a longing so huge it aches in your soul, to run free like a pack of wild dogs. It’s about grabbing life with both hands and sinking your fingers in so deep it hurts. It’s about feeling the joy and the misery, the ecstasy and the Les Miserables, and not looking back to see if you’re doing it right, but just doing it, all the way.
Maybe it’s all those spirits around, reminding us we too will pass on one day, and to feel and touch and drink and hug and love and make love and make mistakes and everything else you can while you still can. This song ain’t gonna last forever, so tap your toe, hum, sway as you listen to the sounds of the city while on the bus. For fuck’s sake, just do something, and make sure you close your eyes every once in awhile and feel whatever you’re feeling in the deepest marrow of your bones.
But here’s the thing - for those, like me, that are French in ancestry, we are not really French. Nor are we American. We are citizens of New Orleans, and if you think we identify as French, American, Caribbean, Haitian, Southern or some combination of those, then you don’t get it at all. I will tell you again, one last time. We are citizens of New Orleans. No more, no less. And I promise that if you came tomorrow, we’d welcome you with open arms, a warm smile and maybe a story about who we are. We’re genuinely friendly because we’re not in this world to make more walls. We’re here to show you what it’s like to live without them.