So I’m walking last night on Magazine with a bottle of wine in my hand. These two guys pass me, one White with long flowing ponytail, one Black with cute dreadlocks – although I’ve sworn off dreadlocked men…they’re like kryptonite to me. After they passed me, one called out, “Nothing better on a night like tonight than a pretty lady in a dress carrying a bottle of wine!” I turned to flash my winning smile and – lo and behold, it wasn’t the brother but ‘The Other’ that threw me the action.
I am sincerely tripping on the amount of play White men throw at me here in New Orleans. Never in all my cumulative years and several cities of residence have White men been so forward in their overtures towards me as here in New Orleans, proving once again her compulsive drive to do everything the opposite of everybody else.
Which reminds me of a funny story. Some months ago, I actually slipped and caught a little jungle fever myself. Now anyone who knows me knows my lust and devotion to big Black brothers. Crossing over, especially here in New Orleans where I moved to increase my chances of getting clubbed over the head by James Evans, seemed downright crazy in my mind. But this White man, a really good guy who I enjoyed hanging out with, came out of the blue with this I-gotta-have-you campaign so strong… So I thought, well…why the heck not. For awhile, right?
We had a great time for a couple of months. Then…southern reality stepped in and cleared that fog.
I’ll call him Matt. We’d been dating for two months when Matt insisted that I attend these Mardi Gras parties with him, the family tradition/been attending all his life/and his folks are going to be there too – kind of Mardi Gras parties. Now, I REALLY wasn’t trying to meet parents and all, especially since he’d already told me how his grandparents liberally salt the dinner table talk with the ‘N’ word. So even if his parent’s had moved to Berkeley, studied MindSpring backwards and forth, and done all the healing inner racism work in the world, I knew seeing this Black girl with a wild afro and big behind on the arm of their son would be a serious jolt to the system. And right now, I’m just not up for that whole ‘being a catalyst for someone else’s change’.
But…when you care about someone, what are you gonna do – not go to the Mardi Gras party?
The first party we attended went off without a hitch. Matt’s mom and I actually hit it off – she’s one of those spicy ladies like myself, so we were laughing and hamming it up the whole day. It went so well in fact, Matt began introducing me to all 500 party-goers as ‘my girlfriend Deb’.
Oh God – what is he doing?!? I am trying to enjoy my first Mardi Gras as a New Orleans resident - I don’t want my memories of it tarnished by frozen racist smiles! But, much to my surprise, everyone took it in stride. The first night.
The next day, fresh on the heels of success, Matt squires me to the second Mardi Gras parties at one of those fancy St. Charles mansions. His Aunt Helene runs up to us as we arrived, breathlessly giddy, and says, “Guess what? We got grandma and grandpa to come to the party – their first Mardi Gras party in 30 years!”
And Year One of Matt dating his first Black woman. How convenient.
His grandfather’s racist radar must have felt me in his grandson’s orbit and he wasn’t going to let that go down without some input.
On first look, Matt held it together. We walked straight in the house and right up to the grandparents. I dropped his hand – no point in setting it off from the gate. He introduced me to his grandparents, who were all southern charm and manners. So much so, I thought, ‘Oh – maybe these are his ‘other’ grandparents. Not the ‘N’ word pawpaw and g-maw.
After which, Matt goes to pour his first in a long series of bourbon shots. And I moved into a false comfort zone, inspired by his grandparent’s southern comfort, that things would be fine, at least for the night.
That evening, I stood atop a ladder on the lawn with hundreds of others watching Endymion’s beautiful floats caterpillaring down St. Charles. The lights were gold and candy colored and we all were into our cups and crammed full of food and dammit – we survived Katrina and we’re here, having Mardi Gras! I turned, holding a handful of beads, smiling at the party-goers behind me, and crossed onto a red laser beam shooting from grandpa’s eyes aimed directly at me. For an 80 year old man who can barely get out of his chair without assistance, his hatred of Black folk was fully thriving and healthy – and concentrated on me. I’d never seen that kind of overt hatred racism face to face like that before. It was almost interesting, from a writer/artist perspective. But also deadly. Like a poisonous snake who you don’t stick around for.
Matt and I parted ways soon after that night. I just couldn’t get out of my mind the look on his grandfather’s face. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t quite the aphrodisiac for me. It was ancient, old school racism. And that’s one battle amongst many here in New Orleans that I’m taking a pass on.
So now, when I encounter White men here flirting shamelessly with me, I smile but I don’t touch. Now, that’s not to say if the Most High sent me a White soul mate, I’d send him back. But if he’s the one coming, he’s really going to need to stop off and get that club from James.
Or how else would I recognize him?
Deborah Cotton is a freelance journalist and public speaker based in New Orleans, covering on-the-ground stories of the city’s recovery and chronicling the rebuilding efforts of the historic Ninth Ward. She can be reached at Deborah.cotton@gmail.com.
* From now until May 20th, check out Deborah Cotton’s daily Election/Jazz Fest coverage of New Orleans on her AOL Black Voices blog ‘The Second Line’ at http://blackvoices.aol.com