Two and a half years later.

Previously, this blog was titled, "The Life and Times of a Single Gal in Nola."

I no longer live in New Orleans. Austin, TX is now my home. I am no longer in my early twenties. I am now edging toward the end of my twenties. I am older, and maybe only slightly wiser.

I'm single again, and again. But I realize life cannot be compartmentalized into titles. Life is a swiftly flowing river that ebbs and flows with the seasons.

I also want to continue writing again. Two very dear friends are encouraging me to get back on the horse. I am so grateful to have them in my life. Among many others. I am thrilled that I know you, and you, and you, and you, and...etc.

2015 will prove to be quite the year. I hope.

The following may seem self-serving, but it is my hope that others will see themselves in this and will apply this to themselves as well. We all need to take better care of ourselves.

I said I am single. But this is the year I will get married--married to a stressed-out, burned-out 26-year old who is continually confused about where her life is going. Sounds like a catch, eh?

That was sarcasm.

Though, I will be with this person forever and ever. I will never divorce her. That person is me. I vow to marry ME.

In 2015, I vow to get to know myself again. I vow to love myself unconditionally, while still allowing momentary frustration and anger, but allowing for those to be what they are, merely fleeting moments.

I vow to be gentler and kinder to myself. I vow to take care of myself.

I vow to give myself quality time, to be alone and enjoy it without the distractions of technology, or at least, without the distraction of social media. I vow to put my phone down more often. I vow to entertain myself in more varied ways, doing things from which I derive joy, whether it be cooking, baking, writing, reading, doing yoga, taking a bike ride, or breathing in fresh air as I climb a hill. (This is Texas, let's get real--there are no mountains.)

I also vow to give my body the attention it deserves. My body is my home--my forever home. I was born in it and I will die in it. And the best I can live will depend on how well I care for the vehicle that carries my soul. Exercise, better nutrition, and remembering to eat--no more starving this body.

I also vow to take care of the surroundings in which my body lives. Often, my surroundings reflect my state of mind. I am certain if I change my environment purposefully, then my mental health will improve.

I vow to care about my mental health. I will care for my feelings and my mind as much as I care for my body.

I will breathe. I will love.

And none of the above are New Year's resolutions. All the above are vows to myself. I also vow to be OKAY if I have difficulty with maintaining my vows. In order to keep the first two vows,  I have to allow myself room for mistakes and for growth--no more berating myself over mistakes. I must learn how to be okay with things not being perfect.

I also must exercise infinite patience and recognize I am on my own journey and my own timeline. I need to recognize that things will fall into place, and that I am following the path I am meant to lead. I must allow myself time to mourn, to laugh, to feel, to succeed, and to fail.

I take me to be my wedded self, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and cherish forever.

A Year's Worth of Reflections...and Crawfish

(I wrote this last week and never posted, but here goes!):

If you had told me a year ago to this day, while I was moving back to Maryland from Massachussetts, that I would be shelling crawfish up to my ears in my kitchen in Louisiana, I would not have believed you. “Louisiana?” I would have said. “No way would I ever move that far down south!”

Tonight, as I shelled my crawfish, the past year in its entirety kept flashing through my mind, one scene right after the next. I could not help but think how much things have changed in just one, single year of my life. I finished up with my job at an inner-city school, teaching theatre to children, moved back home for the summer, and then had a temporary job as a live-in nanny, made plans to backpack across Europe, and when that fell through, quit my job, fiddled my thumbs for about a week, got a call from AmeriCorps, and then it was “bye Safe North, hello Trepidacious South.” And during the one year, met so many people, made incredible friends, and fell in like/love repeatedly.

When I first zoomed off to Louisiana on only a week’s notice, was I scared? Oh, you betcha. I wondered: “Will I feel comfortable at all? Will I be able to make a home in the South? Can I get over my preconceived notions of what the South is like? And most importantly: “Will I make any friends?”

Things haven’t been easy for me over the past week, but oftentimes, when the sky above me seems to fall, I find the ground I am standing on is quite sturdy. I find I have built an incredibly strong foundation of love and friendship. And I realize I find this wherever I go. I found this foundation in Maryland. In Massachussetts. In Washington DC. In Connecticut. And now, finally, Louisiana. And I know no matter where I go in the future, the ground will remain firm beneath my feet, no matter what the sky chooses to do. I will not be Chicken Little and scream, “The sky is falling!” Instead, I will allow the pieces to fall where they may, and if I fall…it’s okay. The ground is there to catch me. If I fall, I will not break.

I suppose my point is, from time to time, I need to remind myself to not be scared of new experiences. Moving here was a huge leap off of a cliff for me. I pretty much ran here blindfolded, and have been reaping rewards ever since.

I am so blessed with all the friends I have made here in New Orleans. This week, I’ve seen a different friend every, single day. And that’s pretty amazing. They’ve provided sympathetic ears, enveloping hugs, and warm words. It is not so much the sights and smells and sounds that I will always think of when I reflect back on my time in New Orleans, or anywhere else, for that matter. For me, it will always be the people. People are the reason I get out of bed every morning. As terrible as humanity is sometimes, it is also wonderful. A double-edged sword, mayhaps, but out of all the terribleness, there arises kindness, and people who shine, and truly make life worth living. I care. Maybe too much, sometimes. But I really, really care. And I love, very deeply. Oh-so-very deeply.

I can be mushy sometimes, I know.

Y’all know what else is mushy? Crawfish, after I try attacking them. Crawfish is very not kosher. I mean, first of all, it’s shellfish, which I realize. And I do realize the irony of my eating shellfish. However, I was raised eating blue crabs, so that doesn’t bother me the slightest. (Proud Marylander here.) What I don’t eat though is pork. For me, that is simply not Kosher! Let me be! Don’t you see? Sam, I cannot eat Green Eggs and Ham!

As I picked my way through the bag of little beady-eyed crawfish, I realized they had been boiled with thick pieces of sausage. So, not only was I eating shellfish; I was eating shellfish boiled with pork, yikes! But I simply looked away and pretended I had never seen any offenders. It sure is difficult being Jewish in New Orleans sometimes! However, I got them at a crawfish boil a good friend of mine invited me to, and if y’all forget about all the pork everywhere, it really is quite like a Jewish holiday. First of all, there is a lot of booze. Therefore, no one looks at you funny if you’re slightly intoxicated. Second of all, there is a lot of food. Therefore, you eat so much, all you want to do is take a long nap afterward. And last, but certainly not least, there is a friend’s mother fussing over you, and forcing food onto you. (Which was simply fantastic.)

L’chaim!

Another good example of the difficulty of being a Jew in the South: during Passover, when I finally read the fine print on the box of matzah I had bought, (the only matzah I was able to find anywhere), I realized, to my absolute dismay, it was labeled, “Not Kosher for Passover.” Oy gevalt. And boy, did I sure schlepp, schlepp, schlepp everywhere to find that matzah. May as well have eaten bread, I suppose.  

There sure are some funny things about living in the South sometimes. But then again, there are funny things everywhere I live. And there are also people everywhere I live, and they, y’all, are who truly make the experience.  

I'm in Love

I am in love. With love, comes certain expectations, and sometimes those expectations are met, and sometimes they are completely shattered. And then there are days that my loved one surprises me wildly, making me feel giddy, and also comforts me, soothing me, making me forget all the days our love was tested and questioned.

No, I am not in love with a person. Nor am I in love with an idea, or in love with love, or the idea of being in love. I am in love with a place, a city I now call home: New Orleans.

As I sit here, in a local café near my site on my lunch break, sipping, (or gulping down, rather), a delicious chai latte, I am comforted and warmed. Warmed by the genuine smile the cashier offers me as I order my drink.

I’ve seen her many times before…I should learn her name.

Warmed by the overstuffed couches and seats. Warmed by being called “Miss” and offered Southern hospitality.  Warmed by the many “y’alls.” Warmed even, by the storm clouds gathering outside in the breezy 70 something degree heat while I sit inside with air conditioning, wearing my sweatshirt emblazoned with the logo, “AmeriCorps.” I wear it with pride. I wear it because I am happy to serve the people here, and help rebuild.

I also love going home. Wanting to go to your own house, and wanting to surround yourself with the people in it is a wonderful feeling. For those who do not know, I moved into a new place with someone I know from Massachusetts. We were both in a social justice theatre troupe together at UMass, and we get along incredibly well. We are both on a mission to be as healthy and environmentally friendly as we can be. We have started a garden, a compost, and we’re trying to make everything , food and cleaning products, from scratch, using organic/fresh ingredients. ‘Tis a good match indeed. Self-sufficiency, here I come!

I have also gotten into yoga, meditating, sweating profusely in 100 degree rooms as I allow my spine to stretch and stretch. Deaf chats and coffee. Running around Audubon Park and on the banks of the growing Mississippi River, inhaling the scent of mud and faint memories of the sea. Biking more because I can no longer afford gas. Beignets and café au laits. Red beans and rice, gumbo, and poboys. Vietnamese poboys, especially. I nearly cried the first time I tried one, tears of gastronomical happiness. Pounds and pounds of crawfish. Local produce everywhere, thanks to fruits and vegetables loving warmth. Little hole in the wall places. Laughing over how every gas station here advertises that they sell THE best fried chicken, fried shrimp, and poboys. Loving the insanity that is New Orleans. Cooking, eating, living, moving. Celebrating things of no consequence to me, celebrating for the sake of celebrating, parades galore.

New Orleans is the perfect rendition of life. It is full of juxtapositions, which make it real and raw.  It is rising out of the flood. It is rising out of its watery past and embracing its watery future. New Orleans composes melodies that are simultaneously ugly and beautiful. There is jazz and blues in smoky, foggy bars where the instrumental notes strain their way through the throngs, and there is also jazz and blues on the streets pushing through the traffic, pushing through gathering crowds, crying, screaming. There is dream song, despair song, love song, hate song, hope song, apathetic song, spirited song, angry song, sentimental song. New Orleans is sad and joyous. It is living, breathing, choking, and dying all at once. There are dying gasps and moans of creation. It is simultaneously urban decay, urban renewal, and urban rebirth. It is clawing out from under layers of dirt and trash, and there is real beauty, if you look for it, emerging from the floods of water, sweat, blood, and tears. There is healing. There is pain. There are fresh and old scars; some of the old scars appear new because they take so long to heal, and some of the new scars appear old because experience heals them quickly. And the true beauty comes from the people within and the rich culture, unlike anywhere else in this country.

It is a little city. A little city with a big heart. A city where I bump into people I wish I hadn’t seen a second time, or hoped to ever see again. It can be awkward. But it can also be wonderful. It is a place where I find friends in the most unexpected places.

It is a city filled with love and pride for its own sake. I have never seen people so devoted to their sense of place. There are so many who are born here, live here, are chased by floods, come running back, live here more, and die here. And so will their children. And their children’s children.

There is magic to New Orleans. Not voo doo magic. That is dead, only a tourist’s pursuit. But real life magic.

And now the heavens have opened up. I can hear and see the rain crashing into the window pane, in a furious rush to get from sky to land.

New Orleans!

However, yesterday, New Orleans was in a bad mood and didn’t treat me well. I was so incredibly angry by something I do not often approach up north. Down here, racism, sexism, homophobia, audism, and plain ignorance are blatant and in your face. There is no subtlety, there is no mask. It is real. It is real in the north too, all too real, but all the “isms” try to be clever. They try to pretend they do not exist. They are polite and fake. The “isms” talk behind your back. Here, there is no shame. There is no hiding. Or maybe it WAS more prevalent and I merely wasn’t listening before. In the South, I hear it clanging loudly. Being Deaf doesn’t impede me from hearing intolerance. I get disappointed. I get frustrated. I get angry. I nearly cried from rage. I had to leave work early, drive home, and decompress. You do not even need to know the details. The story is the same. The story is always the same. Just different words. And the story of intolerance has been repeated since the beginning of history through billions of mouths and actions. I need to grow thicker skin, I know. As long as I surround myself by like-minded people, I will be okay. I do not understand though, how people who have faced oppression can then oppress other minority groups. As someone who identifies with various groups, I would never, ever wish my feelings of oppression upon another human being.

I have learned I cannot change someone’s way of thinking if they are not open to it. There is nothing I can say. I can say my words again and again, but it is like talking to a wall. I can use the strongest arguments and the best logic, but it will all be a waste of breath. It has been deeply ingrained in some people, and I have to accept that others are different. That does not mean they are right, but it means we have to coexist peacefully. They will only learn about their own ignorance if they are willing to listen with an open heart. I say heart because I know from experience you do not need to listen with your ears. Just your heart and your mind.

Despite all of its faults, I still dearly love New Orleans. That’s true love. Sometimes I’m incredibly disappointed, but other times I am so enveloped in pure joy. With that being said, I am staying here for another year. I need to foster my young love with New Orleans. It is a tiny sapling and needs a chance to grow. It is a very new relationship. I have stepped off of the harbor and am diving into the sea that is New Orleans. I find that I have been growing and changing. And the person I am turning into is someone I like and appreciate. That is a sign of a healthy relationship. Goodness knows, it’s high time I’ve known love like this. It’s mutually beneficial. And when I'm done with my GED teaching here, I will start a theatre internship, finally pursuing my passion, doing what I love, which is so, so important.

And today was better. I wanted to hug a student. She cannot read well, and she barely knows her times table, but my God, she is so determined to try. She cried tears of happiness when we told her we could help her. She smiles every time I tell her she has gotten an answer correct. I can see her inhale the air, and instead of her lungs filling up with oxygen, her body fills up completely with immense pride. She glows with happiness. I wish I could bottle up her feelings and share it with the rest of the world. It’s contagious.

“God Bless New Orleans.”—seen on a billboard everyday on my way to work

I Could Get Used to This-Part One

Another Sno-ball from Hansen's. The sno-ball season is ending, and I have managed to pack in three trips total during the dwindling, haggard end of summer, which is walking away like a tired, old dog, slow, but still quite present.

The line today seemed to stretch out into infinity, due to the staff drawing out their time, knowing today was the final day, the last mile, extending each customer's visit by making conversation. I allowed the wait to be one of meditation; a long moment to stand in the sun and let the warmth awash my body, thankful I live in such warm climes. However, by the time I got to the front about half an hour later, I definitely needed to cool down, and I wistfully began thinking of fall...how the leaves change color and the air begins to cool down, harkening the call for jackets...how the crisp smell of autumn is searing, and how the air is tinged with a sort of smokiness.

This feeling didn't last long, mind you. I ordered a "Hot Rod" this time, (a sno-ball with a scoop of ice cream in the middle.) Nothing was "hot" about it. I loved how the vanilla ice cream provided a brief relief from the searing, icy cold of the chocolate snow. "What do they put in these things?" I wondered. "Fairy dust?" It still made me ridiculously happy and cold inside. I felt the coldness emanating through my core out to my pores, turning me into a human icicle. 

I could get used to this.

I find it odd, yet delightfully amusing, how many storefronts advertise, "Prepare for fall!" "Fall is here!" and how there are Halloween decorations everywhere. New Orleanians take Halloween very seriously, but I have not even begun to think of my costume yet. How can I, when the sun is shining brightly outside, and the greenery refuses to quit? It is not fall. Not even close. It will still be in the 70's through November, not that I mind this at all. What will Thanksgiving be like without bitter cold? What will my birthday be like? Will I actually be able to do something outside on December 18th for a change?

I could get used to this.

Yesterday, I finally fixed up my bike, (that's right, I can handle a wrench! Who knew?), and I rode through Audubon Park. The trees swayed gracefully overhead, and I sped past other bikers and walkers, gleeful of seeing a palate of greens and blues and browns collide and swirl past my view. Manmade lakes dotted the terrain, and gazebos held lovers holding hands. I momentarily wondered if I'd ever get to do the same. 

I pushed along and arrived at the Fly, a beautiful area of Audubon park, near the zoo, where people play frisbee and walk their dogs, and college students play loud music and drink beer. I wasn't paying any attention to the clutter of sound and action. My attention was robbed by the beautiful vistas of the Big Muddy, the Mississippi River. The river pulsed slowly along, the current looking strong, and certain.

Again, I marveled over my good fortune of living so close to water. I need to live near water. Sometimes I wonder if instead of blood coursing through my veins, I have river water, and sea water, and waters of the estuaries giving me life. (For those of you who don't know, I attended a maritime studies program almost two years ago, and that's when I really gained an appreciation for water. http://ireadlips.blogspot.com/?spref=fb)

Something about water just hypnotizes us, and has a strong hold on us. We have always relied on water for transportation and sustenance. Rivers and seas gave birth to ancient civilizations, and even today, population density is highest in areas close to water. And if we trace back even further, the seas gave birth to humanity, a cesspool of atoms, coming together to form single cells, and then multi-celled organisms, which came crawling out, gasping onto land.

I sailed by the Mississippi on my bike, wishing I could dive in, and jump onto a steam boat. I wished I could travel back in time, and team up with Davy Crockett, and work on a keelboat. Ah, how I love living near water!

I could get used to this.

Sno-Ball, Nectar of the Gods

I have a new bible. And I am now a follower of the Good Book. HALLELUJAH. I have discovered religion. And it comes in the form of food.

The Good Book is called "Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table," by G-d, AKA Sara Roahen. It shall hereafter be referred to as "Gumbo Tales."

Each chapter goes into intense, mind-blowing detail describing each kind of New Orleans food I must try. As a D.C. native, and as an extremely health-conscious eater, merely reading some of the descriptions gives me heart palpitations. Since many foods are loaded with butter, fat, salt, and grease, it is hard for a faux-tarian, (a fake vegetarian), to come to terms with living in a state that is the fifth most obese state in the country. Yoinks.

I must admit, I read this book during slow hours at work, and I have to have snacks on hand because each word sends me into the fiery throes of hunger, and I cannot get the taste of the imagined foods out of my head. I don't deal well with being hungry. At all. I am a Mama Bear to my stomach.

However, I am determined to not let all these factors foil me. I have made it my mission to devour the epicurean delights of New Orleans in MODERATION. But, it'll still prove to be an exciting gastronomical adventure!

Yesterday was my first real day trying out one of the religious precepts. New Orleans is known for sno-balls. That's right, not snoWballs. But sno-balls. And they're not the gritty, teeth breaking ice chips we're used to. They're soft shaven ice which melts the instant it hits your tongue, just like real snow, mmm. It's the perfect cure to a hot September day. (Yeah, that's right, September and still almost in the 90s. I knew my photosynthetic body moved here for a reason. I even have a tan! Anyway, I am grossly digressing.)

Roahen mentioned a wonderful iconic sno-ball stand called Hansen's Sno-Blitz. It's been around for 72 years. And what do you know, it happened to be on my street! But she cautioned it usually closes around labor day. I lamented my terrible fortune, cursing the fact I moved here in the fall and not the summer. However, the other day, I drove down Tchoupitoulas Street on my way home from work, and lo and behold, I saw a long line of people outside of...Hansen's! My stomach convulsed with joy, and I craved a sno-ball, even though I had never had one.

Yesterday was Saturday, and I didn't have much to do. Breakfast was dissatisfying. I had a banana. and a really mealy peach. Ew. And there was no bread left. Nor milk. And I was feeling rather lazy. Eventually, lunch time rolled around, and I was in the midst of running some errands. I passed by Hansen's, and with my blood sugar dropping dangerously low, I made a frantic U-turn and parked on a side street. My hand shaking, cash tightly gripped in my pocket, I joined the line spilling out of the entryway. "SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR," my brain screamed. "NEED...SUGAR...NOW." The walls were covered in history. I amused myself by looking at all the photographs of happy, smiling customers, some of which looked dated back to the 1940's. I wanted so badly to be one of those happy, smiling customers. The line inched along. My stomach gurgled. "It's okay, tummy. Not much longer now," my brain whispered to my stomach, trying to console it like a mother would a child.

Screaming, sugar-rushed kids ran past me, their faces coated in homemade syrup of all colors. The size of the sno-ball intimidated me somewhat, and they haphazardly sloshed with each child's jump or skip.

Roahen mentioned something called a "Junior Atomic." I was quite intrigued. I needed to eat what she ate. Nectar of the Gods. So finally, I approached the counter and blurted out, "Junior Atomic, please!" The two people working at the counter looked at me questionably. Their eyes widened, and then they smiled approvingly. "You know it's a process, right?" said the cashier. "Um, okay!" I squeaked, my stomach knotting up with nervousness. I handed over my cash, and watched as they made it. Ice, syrup, more ice, syrup, more ice, syrup, condensed milk, crushed pineapple, marshmallow, (spelled marshmellow on their menu), a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and a cherry to top it all off. It was HUMONGOUS. It was what Frankenstein would have pieced together if he had been experimenting with sno-balls and not dead bodies.

"Holy mother of Roahen," I thought. "What have I gotten myself into??"

"What IS that?" asked a customer standing next to me.

"Uh, the Junior Atomic, I haven't had lunch..." I mumbled.

"WOW!" was all she had to say.

Everyone stared as the young man handed me my Junior Atomic. I'm quite positive they were thinking: "How can someone so small eat something so large?" The cherry precariously balanced on top of the ice-cream, threatening to fall off at the slightest provocation. "Quick! Eat it! And the marshmallow is about to fall off! You better lick it off!" said the cashier. I did as I was told, and they burst into laughter and applause. I think they knew it was my first time. And I suppose they had expected I would just order a regular sno-ball. Don't underestimate me!

I hurried away from the throngs of people. I felt really self-conscious about eating it...people kept stopping me and asking me what it was. I finally got to the privacy of the shade by my car.

I bit into it, still nervous about whether or not I had just wasted six dollars. How on earth would I ever finish swimming across this sea of ice and sugar? However, I was hit by a wall of wondrous flavors. The crushed pineapple danced beautifully with the marshmallow, and the ice cream, and the shaved ice. I wondered if I had died and gone to heaven. I closed my eyes. I could barely handle it. It was so strong, so beautiful, composing a melodious sugary symphony on my tongue. And the stickiness of the marshmallow hardened. It was like eating caramel. I felt so happy to be alive and my heart sang with each bite.

My brain buzzed gleefully. The most sugar I ever have in one day usually might be my one scoop of sugar in my coffee in the morning. Boy, oh boy. I felt like running 100 miles. I wanted to scream and jump and leap for joy. It was only due to societal constraints that I instead resigned quietly and drove back home in my car, smiling and feeling drunk. My body shook for a good hour afterward. My hands refused to steady themselves.

That night, I ingested a fried oyster poboy, complete with airy french bread and dressed with tomato, lettuce, pickle, and butter. Yup, you read that right. Butter. It was also quite delicious. Although, I'm not sure anything will ever equal the joy of eating a Hansen's Junior Atomic. I have vowed to myself that I will not get it again until next summer though.

Now, to find a gym...