This I Believe

I am part of a relatively old New Orleans family, but almost every family in New Orleans is old. My mother’s side came from France via Martinique; my father’s from the French speaking part of Belgium. We are Creoles full of Lafaye’s, Drouets, Gagnets, Sougerons, LaStrappes that began life in the New World on the northeast side of Canal St. After growing up in New Orleans, I left for Virginia, Georgia, and Texas, and when the opportunity came to return to my hometown with my wife we lept, despite knowing salaries were low, crime was high, schools were bad, and race relations were pitiful. We lept because all of that was tempered by a high level of music, food, spirit, character, family, and life. I believed then and believe now that New Orleans is Place. As an architect, place-making is paramount, and very few cities or spaces do it well. It takes both deliberation and organic luck. The night before we got pumelled by Hurricane Katrina, I realized through a visceral sadness how much emotional stock rested in my physical built environment. Our homes, holding so much hard work, sweat, life, sentiment are family members. Their drowning is like so many deaths in our ancient families. To make matters worse, we were unable to see the pain except on television. I could not be there to soothe my home in what could be its dying moment. I was not there when it needed me. I was a refugee, while my home sat in the hell that New Orleans was becoming; or worse, it was simply gone. I believed we would return in a few days, maybe a week. Now it looks like some will never get back. My emotions are all over the map: depression, anger, heartbreak, disgust, hope, faith. But, as a perfectly crazy New Orleans gallery owner said on the radio, with an accent that made me teary and homesick, “cities are tough; cities survive.” In the face of all the sadness, like this man, I have to proudly believe that New Orleans cannot be killed, nor can I let her die. Of course she is irrational, excitable, dirty, sexy, slow, beautiful, demented, fanatic, and ritualistic like your favorite alcoholic grandmother. But, what are cities for except to be a Place to house character. And then I realized that it is not only a place’s character, but a place’s characters. Cities don’t become places only through a ripe combination of physical relationships and fabric. To become a place they need the catalyst of human occupation, for better or for worse. The built needs the humane.

When I ran, and others got shoved out, and many others died on the streets, New Orleans lost her spirit. When many of her homes and instutions got taken back into the liminal waters, her bones were broken. And in due time those bones will mend when the spirit returns. The characters will come back and the Cresent City will live on- forever changed, but alive. Like true love, a place will never truly vanish from your heart, as it has deposited both scars and joy. I believe New Orleans will never be the same. I believe New Orleans will never change.