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*I got a wonderful letter from a reader last week, a New Orleans native. She wrote to tell me how much she appreciated my article about going on tranquilizers (now that’s a REAL old school term!) to deal with my post-Katrina stress syndrome and my delight at the arrival of the National Guard to help bring some stability to this insanity. She even went as far as to post it on the Times Picayune website forum where several locals read it and praised my newbie-on-the-scene-gets-it analysis of life at Ground Zero. At the end of her correspondence, she announced,
“I officially anoint you as a bonifide LOCAL! Heaven knows you earn it every hour of every day!. Congratulations!”
Wow! A local! Let me just tell you, that’s a highly prized, very exclusive, hard to earn title – especially coming from a native! I just passed my one year anniversary – or I should say ‘made’ one year here, as the locals say, and I feel like I went through Dante’s Inferno. You damn right I earned that title! I’m a New Orleanian baby, come hell and high water!
Being a local is earned. But being able to say you’re a native – well, now that’s priceless. And having generations before you come from here? Forgedaboutit. In New Orleans, that’s ‘Imperial’ status. Unfortunately though, there are a few imperialists here who will let you know that, in their book, if you’re not from here, you can just keep it moving...
I was first made aware of the non-native/non-relevant status at a Superbowl party last winter. The host was introducing me to his guests and brought me before a pearls and tweed pants-wearing sister (tweed and pearls at a Superbowl party- I’m not quite sure what was going on there…) So I said in my eager-beaver-Cali-girl way, “Hi! I’m Deborah.” She responded as if I’d just made a flagrant faux pas,
“Last name?”
“Uh…oh...Cotton?” I heard myself ask.
Her eyes veiled over and she dismissed me - albeit politely of course, with a practiced smile. It seemed since I didn’t have an ‘eux’ or ‘aux’ or ‘ette’ at the end of my name, I was of no interest to Ms. La Tweed. I’d never had anyone openly inquire about my people’s name a.k.a. pedigree, and I was so shocked I couldn’t decide whether to gasp or laugh out loud. I walked away instead. But I thought about for days afterwards.
Now don’t get me wrong - the majority of born and bred New Orleanians aren’t discourteous hussies…. But nonetheless, when you’re not from here and you find yourself in a social setting with natives and locals, you invariably feel a sort of clannish vibe just below the surface of it all.
Now, however, there seems to be a new social rule emerging. Now if you’re here and you went through Katrina and more importantly decided to return to New Orleans– well shoot…that’s instant street cred! You’re in! It’s the all-access ghetto pass.
New Orleanians remind me of Jews in this way. I can talk to a Jew forever and receive consistently formal, courteous responses. But if I tell them my mother’s Jewish, jaws drop, followed by, “Well, why didn’t you SAY SO?!?” After which they try to introduce me to their single sons, offer me jobs, bring me noodle kugel, and give me same day doctor appointments. Here in New Orleans, I tell people I’m a journalist and they put me on ‘ignore’. But if I add that I moved here before the hurricane and returned soon afterward and stayed, I’m immediately hustled into the sacred inner circle of Katrina survivors. I’m family, a member of the tribe, patted on my back, and told “welcome into the fold.”
But I’m starting to see that, rather than stripes earned, being a local is really more about a worldview that comes from living in the inverted universe of New Orleans. Sooner or later, after spending too much time here, you begin thinking, acting, and speaking in ways that before would have seemed preposterous to you – or, at the very least, confused. It just sorta sneaks up on you. I recognized just recently the extent of my indoctrination when I ran across an article, originally posted in the Gambit newspaper, about how to tell if you’re a New Orleanian. Native or not, these have now become my truths to
YOU KNOW YOU ARE FROM NEW ORLEANS IF…
Someone says "Magazine" and you think ‘street’ instead of ‘periodical’.
You get on a bus marked "Cemeteries" without a second thought.
You know the Irish Channel is not a Gaelic-language station on cable.
You can cross two lanes of heavy traffic and U-turn through the neutral ground while avoiding two joggers and a streetcar, then fit into the oncoming traffic flow without ever touching the brake.
The major topics of conversation when you go out to eat are restaurant meals that you have had in the past and restaurant meals that you plan to have in the future.
You not only think the colors purple, green and gold look good together, but you would also consider eating something that was those colors.
You know the definition of "dressed" means lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise.
You think `drinking water' when you look at the Mississippi River.
The white stuff on your face really is powdered sugar.
You know that a po-boy is not a guy who has no money, but a great-tasting sandwich on French bread.
The four seasons of your year are crawfish, shrimp, crab and ‘erster’.
You refer to any strawberry soda as "Red Drink", as in “Let me have a red drink to go with my po' boy."
You visit another city and they "claim" to have Cajun food -- but you know better.
You don’t worry when you see ships riding higher in the river than your house.
You hear the word ‘zink’ and think ‘place to wash your dishes’ rather than ‘vitamin supplement’.
You have a parade ladder in your storage.
You know that the two speeds in this city are "slow" and "stop".