January 10th - Nola Favela

My post-Christmas/New Years holiday flight landed in
the middle of the swamp. Safe and sound.
As I exited the airport, I walked into the same
temperature as Connecticut, about mid 60s, only this
felt more like a sauna: wet. A bathtub.
Regardless, it felt good to be back, even if I was
over dressed and sweating in the sweltering mugginess.
I hailed my favorite cab company, United Cab, and as I
settled in for the long fifteen minute ride to my
house asked the cabbie what I thought would be a
simple question, one with the typical humdrum polite
response of "nothing much":
“So, anything interesting happen in New Orleans the
past two weeks?”
He kind of made a bazaar nasal noise, a combination of
a snicker and a flabbergasted sigh.
“Well, the usual. 12th night was Saturday, so the
carnival season has kicked off and, well, I heard
that, well…”
He kind of awkwardly paused and then continued,
“There’s talk of Marshall law being installed and a
curfew of 2am because of all the crime that occurred
last week”
I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.
Really? That bad, that much worse than New Orleans
usually is?
“Well, its New Orleans. We’ve always had crime, and I
guess it was a lot in a short period, but I don’t
understand what all the big fuss is about,” he said
I found out what the big fuss was about when I greeted
our editing assistant the next morning at work.
“Hey Charlie Brown, how was your holiday?”
“Christmas was fine, but last week was rough”
I figured he meant because of New Years and hangovers,
too much inhaled, ingested and imbibed.
“You party too hard?”
“No. There were 14 murders here last week alone and
two of them were friends of mine”

(Here’s an article from the Times Picayune. The woman
who was killed, the filmmaker, was Charlie Browns
friend, her husband is still in the hospital:
http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/frontpage/index.ssf?/base/news-19/116823919315260.xml&coll=1)

This is not what I’m used to hearing.

I don’t live in a Favela somewhere in Brazil; I’m not
in Darfur fearful of the janjaweed; I’m not even in
the best slum in Baghdad. I’m in America damn it (and
not even in the South Bronx! Or Compton!) this is not
supposed to be what I hear first thing on a Monday
morning; this is not supposed to be my friends’
experiences. I guess I’m wrong and I do live in
America. This is America. Is this America?
I’m used to Connecticut’s suburbs and New York City,
neither, of which are America.
Although, I’m guessing the feeling that pervades every
pothole in NOLA is that of NYC in the late 70s and
early 80s, (or heck even the 1830s, although I’m
thinking that areas of New Orleans would make 5 Points
look like a paradise playground for dandies), one of
tired fear and despair, defeat and weary. But I’m in
the film business, I could be over dramatizing, at
least I hoped I was.
I decided to do a little research and see.
There has been an average of one murder per day in New
Orleans post-Katrina. For a town that has lost 2/3 of
its citizens, giving us a population a little under
200,000 that average is staggering. Mayor Nagin has
now officially come out (there was a report today,
Jan. 10th on CNN) and said he would put more police on
the street.
New Orleans already has the most concentrated amount
of police (not just NOPD, but National Guard, etc.)
per person of any city in the United States, post
Katrina.
Where are they? Everywhere.
But they’re busting college students as they walk out
of bars after being in them for only five minutes and
beating (8 or so cops I believe) human rights
advocates who they mistake for a pickpocket (not even
a mugger!)
The need for more police is not the issue. Where the
police are and what they do is.
My first or second week here (will have to check back
into my diary, before Thanksgiving) I watched a man
from my boss’ office window beat a woman (his
girlfriend/wife/lover I don’t know) while a toddler
watched.
He was in his FEMA trailer, but it was a warm day and
he left the door open so we could see what he was
doing. No one wanted to do anything. The locals told
me that the cops wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t believe
it, so I called the police.
Firstly, the dispatcher was an idiot and couldn’t get
the address I was giving her correct, it took me four
to five explanations, or variations of saying the same
thing before she understood. She then hung up on me.
NYC cops keep you on the phone until they have
dispatched an officer, in case they have more
questions.
Second, in their defense the cops showed up within 2
minutes, but they almost went the wrong way (after I
gave them specific cross streets, latitudinal
directions and description of inside of trailer as
well as the man doing the beating)
They then almost approached the wrong guy (saying you
see a black man wearing long white t-shirt and baggy
light jeans in NOLA is like saying you see a tall
blond man in black when in Finland). After chatting
with the suspect a little while, they walked away,
talked to the first guy they almost approached (by
accident) briefly.
They then went back to the suspects trailer, did some
sort of handshake/handslap with him, laughed, and
left. Apparently they knew him. The locals in the
office suspect he’s either a cop himself or an
informant. The cops that approached the trailer were
too lackadaisical and too familiar with him. They
didn’t even attempt to peer around him into the open
trailer door that the suspect half blocked with his
body.
A week before Xmas break we heard him beating her
again.
No one called the police this time.
This is the only city I’ve ever been to where I am NOT
happy to see the police when they roll down my street.
I don’t trust any of them.
Fixing the corruption of the cops that exist, before
putting more of them out there, might be a better plan
for stopping crime in New Orleans. They need to fire
all of them and start over. But that’s just my
opinion.

“Welcome back, Naomi”, New Orleans shouted, “here’s
hoping you make it to your 30th birthday. A fortnight
and counting.”

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday and Joyful New
Year.
To happier diary entries to come.
Much love,
Naomi