Pretty lively for a dying city

My friend Charles' observations in the Times Picayune today, reminding me that 2008 is another opportunity to celebrate this city, and embrace the many lessons she offers us.
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Friday, December 28, 2007

C.W. Cannon
Goodbye, 2007. And good riddance. But will you really be gone? After we've had our réveillon suppers and passed out, will we wake up to a new day?

Katrina, many supposed, would be far-ranging enough in destruction to wipe history clean so that New Orleans could finally reinvent itself along lines regarded as more healthy by Yankee values of thrift, hard work and suspicion of sentimentality (evidenced as much in Mississippi and Texas as up north).

Yet Katrina simply deposited another rich and stubborn layer of past atop an already deep trove of, to use the dismissive American term for history, "baggage." In other words, the storm only anchored New Orleans more firmly, not only in history, but in a history haunted by death.

The New Orleanian approach to the past, and to death, is, to put it mildly, unorthodox in America. Outgoing state poet laureate Brenda Marie Osbey has written eloquently on the subject: "Wear the memory of the dead plainly / speak of the dead as though you thought they might hear / live among your dead, whom you have every right to love."

Many dry-eyed American optimists regard such an attitude toward death as unhealthy. Yet one could see it in opposite terms as well.

For example, New Orleanians are routinely disparaged as "delusional" or, "in denial," especially when it comes to the region's physical future. The tone of the July 2007 issue of National Geographic is an apt example, as was Ben C. Toledano's nasty bit of petty vitriol last summer in Commentary, which he cutely termed an "autopsy."

A transplant friend of mine, who still struggles with her choice to stay here, tried to put her finger on that nagging sense that New Orleans isn't a place to build a future. She said she just wasn't sure the city would even be here in a hundred years or so.

Instead of citing coastal restoration hopes, or pointing to the miracles of Dutch flood control, I just flat-out agreed with her. Yes. Of course. The city, in time, will be under the ocean, Atlantis. So will you, darling. In time the sun will supernova and the earth will be destroyed. In time the universe will expand into a dark cold place and the phenomenon of life will be no more. Do you really want to go there?

Maybe a little strategic delusion and denial is the height of rationality. Do you really think that glitzy new condo complex in some exurban boomtown is going to be there forever? Ask a homeowner with negative equity in South Florida or Phoenix. At least when we dress up like kings and queens on Mardi Gras, we don't think we really are kings and queens. Far from being irrational, New Orleanian frivolity in the face of death and decay is actually built on a sober apprehension of reality.

In comparison with other major American cities, New Orleans has been in economic decline for 150 years. Isn't it interesting that all the cherished cultural gifts the city has placed at the feet of the world have arisen during this period of supposed decline? We've been pretty lively for a dying city. Maybe "going down slow" isn't so bad.

After all that dying, we're still here, and, physically, we resemble our youthful self more than any other American city. We've stayed beautiful without plastic surgery, a feat that requires grace, wisdom and, probably, economic underdevelopment. Though they might not admit it, other Americans love us for that.

So I'll stay until I'm neck deep -- at least then I can still sing. Then I'll think about moving to a pseudo-New Orleans in some brand new development somewhere, where death doesn't exist.
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C.W. Cannon teaches English at the University of New Orleans. His e-mail address is cwcannon@uno.edu.

The Woes of Wet Wee Ones

I've never blogged about it, but potty-training my daughter, now 4, is the single most frustrating part of parenting her.

The whole situation is fairly classic: I can recognize our roles even within this situation--she wants control and independence. I'm so fixated on this milestone that it's an easy way for her to express defiance, anger, or the need for attention.

Most days, Ana has at least one accident. While at school, or home. Worse part for me: she doesn't tell anyone. It's the odor that gives her away. She feels ashamed, or lies about it. I either pretend not to notice (and fixate) or get on the soap box.

We threaten diapers. The two times that I've physically disciplined Ana were about potty-ing(both more symbolic than physically painful, but violations of her trust nonetheless, and causes of deep shame for me. This is just that frustrating for me).

She walks to the bathroom in a stupor in the middle of the night. This is how I know she knows how to detect the need to sit on the throne.

I've been doing a little online research lately. This one find had my reeling, and feeling like a total failure. Since I have the time right now, being off work, I've tried a new approach...actually training her with vigor. I had withheld attention about this all because of the obvious power struggle. But I decided to really collaborate with Ana, and let her know that I am trying to help her with this issue, because I know she wants to do better. SHe's been really great about it, and doesn't fight me (as much) when I send her to potty before we go anywhere, when we return, before/after transitions, etc. And in the last 4 days, she's had ZERO accidents! Yay, Ana! THat's great!

Now today she had one, and didn't tell me, and the whole exchange was typical of us: Me trying to help her remove clothes, her moving quickly away, humming or looking away while I change her clothes that I would soon discover is wet. But I felt I responded with more patience than previous: You had an accident? I can tell you feel disappointed. You've been doing so much better with that. You know, I'm proud of you for trying so hard. You're going to mess up sometimes but that doesn't take away all of your hard work. Let's get you in some clean clothes, and how about you tell me next time you slip up, ok?

You have no idea how hard this script is for me, but when I look in Ana's eyes, I can tell I'm doing the right thing.

It's obvious to me that Ana will grow to be a loving, and successful person. How can I keep myself from focusing on this developmental fumble? There are bound to be so many others, and other situations with graver consequences to battle with as we go. I need to conserve my energy on this. It's just been happening for TWO YEARS.

Best thing about the holiday

Hanging out with old friends in new ways

New toys that help us flex new skills

(Thanks Erin and Chuck)

Seeing familiar family faces

And sharing traditions with new additions (meet little Zoe)

Christmas programs performed by little ones, with super bloopers that make you smile.

Lots of time to suck on kumquats with your neighborhood lion

striking a pose with the family, trying to get the perfect picture...

(The caption was to read Baby it's cold outside but it hasn't been cold all winter!)

And other delights:

• Making sweets and soups with Ana
• Playing this and that with Elliot
• Levee walks with the kids
• dress up theater
• Christmas tree ornaments to add to our story (my absolute favorite gift to get)
• feeling hopeful

Our best to all of you out there. I hope you're enjoying your loved ones.

Christmas Magic

Thanks to Paulette, we started a new tradition this year with Elf on the Shelf.

When Santa left Ana's birthday, a mysterious package was left on our bed. When we opened the box, we were surprised to find an elf, and a story, explaining his presence. This elf was sent by Santa to observe Ana and Elliot's behavior. Each night, he flies to the North Pole and reports to Santa what he sees. Each morning, Ana and Elliot would search the house to find his latest hiding place, careful not to touch him and take his magic.

He was named on his first night by Ana: Chokey.

He didn't do much for behaviors, nor did we emphasize this element of his presence. It was nice just having a piece of Santa around. The magic that was created by the children searching and seeking of him was sweet. I'll certainly miss that special feeling of Christmas. That one can expect magical things to happen. That surprises are a part of the wonder of it all.

When Ana knew that Chokey's last night was upon us (he goes with Santa when he hears the sleigh bells on Christmas Eve), she served him hot tea on his roost, and spent some time with him. I could hear her whispering from the other room. I don't know what she said. I didn't want to interfere.

I'm grateful for this new tradition. And enjoy the challenge of looking for opportunities for everyday magic with my children.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

School Choice

I think we've found it.

I'm hesitant to say, but when I think of what I saw at the International School of Louisiana
the other day, I feel tremendously confident about BOTH Ana and Elliot in that environment.

Diversity in the truest form I've seen. Teachers and Children from farms in El Salvador or Belle Chasse (ah, exotic Belle Chasse) next to Muslim or Asian or New Orleanian kids discussing Sherlock Holmes in Spanish. Having an honest-to-God literary discussion in a language other than their native one, working in cooperative groups, having spirited and lively debates with open and kind teachers. Children of all ability levels in an integrated environment working together and getting the services they need. No special ed classrooms. Because the staff is so diverse, and come from cultures where the children in the class are simply the children in the class, the inclusion wierdness so common in our public school system seemed non-existent. I spoke to the special services coordinator who seems like a fabulous individual, but then again, I had that feeling from every staff person I met or saw in action.

Did I say that it's free too? And that feels absolutely irrelevant. I would certainly pay for my children to be a part of this experience.

I feel fortunate to have worked in several environments where staff work together under a common vision. Not only do I see that at ISL, but I see parents who look like me, who I want to work with to create a place.

I'm still doing my homework. If anything I want options. But it just feels damn comforting to find a solid one.

To Ana, who is 4

Lately, your dad and I keep passing photos of you as a baby back and forth to each other. It's hard to believe that you're turning FOUR. That we're buying you a bicycle for Christmas, that we're talking about "Big School," and that we've had hard conversations about so many things that we'd hoped you'd never know. And in the same silly way my girlfriends and I joke about feeling old at 33, you're still my baby. The road ahead is, God willing, a long and exciting adventure. Each day with you now is a wonderful journey.

You love a good story. It's been a year and a half since I introduced ToraLora to you, and she is the way we talk about love, fear, loss, and friendship. This year, Halloween Monster and Halloween Witch joined our repertoire in a growing pantheon of made-up characters. And now, it's not just a bed-time ritual. Now you ask for "my story" when we get in the car, even for the short ride to school or home. When I don't feel like it, we look at the window for ideas for our stories, and you talk about the process of getting ideas. "Look at that bird right next to the horse. (to yourself) Look for ideas out the window."

Great words you use: Curiousity, dramatically, soonly (my favorite).

You go through periods of requesting scary stories, and sometimes it seems like ToraLora is more Nancy Drew than ordinary girl. But in many ways, she is you, and you are her. I love her, too, and those moments in the dark when your eyes glow like two moons peeking from the edge of your quilt, are precious to me. You are my story.

You are willful and independent. You negotiate, or attempt to negotiate, most everything.

Me: We're leaving in 5 minutes.

You: No. 6 minutes.

Me: (raised eyebrow, teacher look).
You: Mama, can we please leave in 6 minutes?
Me: Ok.

We joke that you'll one day be a negotiator for the UN. Or a lawyer. Truth is, all I want is for you to be happy. Right now, your happiness is greatly defined by getting your way. And you work to understand the world by putting things into discrete categories: right/wrong, my fault/your fault, yes/no. When I explain something that doesn't fit into either, I'm met with thoughtful silence. Like learning about how mean people were usually treated badly themselves, or never knew love.

You are adventurous, and sometimes fearless. You climb trees and monkey bars relentlessly. The couch is your jungle gym. The neighbors raise eyebrows at your crepe myrtle climbing, but you have yet to fall, and are so skillful dad is threatening to build a loft in the Japanese Magnolia in the back yard.

You are competitive. And you love being "the rotten egg." You believe that the first one there gets the unique privilege. If anyone else is the rotten egg you get mad.

And while you're all over the place pushing the limits, you heed my warnings about what's safe and not. I simply say "Parking Lot" and you put your hand on the car, and in my hand and slow down. "Street" has the same effect. I hope my neuroses about this doesn't make you into an anxious adult. But I don't think so. I think you trust that I have your best interests in mind. Like when you tell Tita that what is on TV at her house isn't appropriate for you. It amazes me, and her that you are as interested in protecting yourself as we are.

You rarely play with toys, and prefer to explore everyday objects or create elaborate imaginary worlds. Among your top favorites these days are tent houses from pieces of fabric which you fill with pillows and collected items from around the house. I love looking though these baskets to see what you've assembled: a snowman sock, a mismatched earring, a roll of tape, a CD cover, a pink wig. You are content to do this on your own, although Elliot loves hiding, and will often conspire with you in your hideaway world for quite some time.

One of my favorite things to do with you is cook. You love trying to cut and peel vegetables, and are an excellent egg-cracker. Making stock for soup and baking cakes are some of our best moments. You love to eat the batter, and raw noodles, or take a mouthful of brocolli, or uncleaned carrots, and like any good chef, you're eating while you're making. You and Tita make baleadas on Saturday morning, and bring them over to us after your sleep overs. I'm glad that you're learning how to make those delicious tortillas directly from the source.

You have tremendous compassion for others. You ask about people who are homeless and hungry, or who lose their pets and loved ones. You willingly give old toys and books to those who don't have what we do. I'm tremendously proud of your caring that inspired our Heifer fundraiser.

We brought the caterpillars home over Thanksgiving and watched one take it's first flight. We watched it a little too long, and saw a bird come take a bite, and take off a wing. You wanted to call the police and the vet. After we tried tending to the butterfly for the rest of the day, we let it out. I closed the door. I couldn't bear to watch another National Geographic moment. Days later, she returned (or never left?), and you held her on your finger and let her crawl on you for an hour. We tried feeding it sweet fruits. At some point, the butterfly struggled a great deal, then became still, and lifeless. Elliot grabbed at it, and you ran to me with this horrified look on your face. I held the monarch and announced it dead, and asked you if you wanted to kiss it goodbye. As soon as your lips touched it's wings, it opened them again! It was magical, and we all thought you quite powerful at that moment, as did you. You're bonded to that butterfly now. And are so gentle and concerned about how she grows.

Today, you gave me a necklace you made at Tita's house. It has each of our names on it. You love to string things, and make collage, and PAINT. Your graphic depiction has recently exploded and you're drawing suns, flowers, hearts, people (body-less, with wide eyes and long legs), and your name in a nice neat line. I feel like we'll be lost in all the paper of yours that I want to save.

Elliot is now your best friend. He's grown up too (and is overdue his birthday letter), and his defiant insistence has gained him some credibility in your book, it seems. You and he can play together for hours happily. As long as you aren't building something, or playing with something that's just too good to share. It amazes me how readily you DO share with him...your popsicle, or purse, or tent, or game. In the last week, you've taken turns comforting each other during massive meltdowns. And succeeded in calming the other. Something I couldn't do, despite my efforts. You hold hands in the car. You ask him to use lefty, and ask him what the kitty says. You are his cheerleader, and look out for him when he's getting into a bad situation. Sometimes, you prod us into moving a little quicker...Mom, Elliot's fussing to get out of his crib. I think he's ready to get out. I never imagined the joy I'd feel watching the two of your together. You are an amazing sister to him at only four. That seems like when the role would be the hardest, but you relish it, because you love him so.

You tell me you love me throughout the day. You fill my pockets with treasures: rocks, loose beads, smooth stones, pieces of string or branch, flowering weeds. I know that you are always thinking of me, and it fills my heart, because I, my dear, am ever thinking of you. I am grateful of the opportunity to watch your imagination at work, and enjoy the spirited and loving person you are. And I'm so proud of you. Happy Birthday, Ana! I love you.