The Carpet Bagger's Journal — moving from NYC to Mississippi

June 7, 2017

Louisianans Might Be Crazy — But We’re Not Stupid

The state of Louisiana is famous for its eccentrics.  Yes, New York has a glorious history of schizophrenics muttering to themselves in the ATM vestibules and in subway cars, yes. San Francisco practices freak-flag forms of politically inflected mania, but Louisiana, particularly New Orleans, is proud of its deep heritage of lunatics on the loose.

Indeed, the South as a whole does not disown its lunatics but makes room for them at the Easter Brunch table.

“Miz Johnson has her ways,” parents explain to children about the neighbor who stands on her front porch screaming about alien abductions. Boo Radley doesn’t get chased out of town in To Kill  a Mockingbird. He becomes the subject of a small town’s most graphic and gothic legends while he keeps his own crazy counsel.

cray

Miz Johnson has her ways.

In New Orleans in particular, it becomes hard to distinguish the lunatic from the merely fabulous. The people who shout at invisible oppressors, the people who dress like Napoleon and claim his identity are all part of an ecosystem of local color. Far from fleeing the mad neighbor, the people of New Orleans embrace these people as a contribution to tourism. While many people might be diagnosable or diagnosed, the citizens of New Orleans are less interested in what is wrong with the crazy man on the street corner than they are in his ephemeral passage between the frontier of respectable reality and disreputable fantasy. New Orleans has made this transgression into an attraction.

In a red state such as Louisiana, and given all I have said above about local lunacy, it should surprise nobody that the state legislature is considering budget cuts to mental health programs that benefit most particularly the schizophrenic and bipolar. The hope of such programs is to medicate those who may be medicated out of, say, homicidal tendencies.  The state is also trying to limit its highest-in-the-country incarceration rates, so I am assuming that the wisdom of the legislature is not to criminalize the mentally incompetent but to allow them to offer more Jeremiads in Audubon Park to passers by, to take a permanent Mardi Gras vacation from the normative.  Outside the city, I suppose the hope must be that they will create new attractions in swamp country.  Nat Geo’s Swamp People can only attract so many tourists to visit the mosquitoes and alligators of the state’s wetlands, but what if a Fais-do-do — the traditional Cajun dance party popular in many parts of the state — could turn into a Fais-cray-cray? Would tourists from Michigan paddle out in a pirogue to take a look at that, buy local crawfish — for such a festival we could actually stoop perhaps to calling them CRAY fish like the Yankees call them — and support jam-jar bars in the bayou? So a few more people get shot in Baton Rouge by lunatics on the loose — will the police even notice? What could that do for the tourist industry around Louisiana State University campus?

Admittedly, it is cheaper for the state to pay for medication for the seriously mentally ill who have fallen into deep difficulty than to pay to incarcerate murderers or to investigate missing persons — unless you see this as a burgeoning cottage industry that no good capitalist would ever want to regulate with Lithium and the occasional straight jacket. After all, Laissez-faire economics, isn’t that a CAJUN term for making a buck every which way?

It is time for me to stop my “modest proposal” shtick and admit that I think cutting what meager help that exists for the mentally ill is a losing proposition.  It’s crazy. But the Louisiana State Legislature, bless its heart, seems to be willing to sing along with the Louisiana State University Tiger Marching Band’s peppy rendition of the Billy Joel tune:

You may be right. I may be crazy. But it just may be a lunatic you’re looking for.

I for one would be willing to pay a little more in taxes to make sure the dangerously mentally ill got the help they needed, to provide family counseling in under-served communities in the state, to help those of us who do not sublimate our depression and anxiety in writing or jazz to get a therapist.  But then again, like Billy Joel, a New Yorker, I come from a place where it is expected that the mentally ill have more than “their ways,” that they have a counselor as needed. New Yorkers — what did they do after 9/11?  They got everybody who wanted one a therapist for free.  They knew we had all been through a trauma.  What does New York do when it is upset? It talks to somebody about it, seeks help. Louisiana isn’t so sure it needs help. It is willing to live with the crazy within its borders.

storm shelter

The people of Louisiana have been collectively traumatized in recent years by needing to escape storms in shelters like this one.

One thing, however, that Louisianans know first-hand is the need to handle large community crises.  These normally come to the people of the state in the form of weather. Katrina traumatized all of the Gulf of Mexico.  Last year’s floods displaced many people in the center of the state, people who may not yet have moved back into their homes. The people of Louisiana are possibly crazy, but they’re not stupid. They are not willing to bet against the entirety of the scientific community regarding weather patterns they themselves have just barely survived and declare that climate change just can’t be real. Governor Edwards has repeatedly put out statements about the current Federal government’s proposed cuts to programs needed to mitigate climate change issues in the coast lands of the state. Mayor Landrieu of New Orleans has pledged to meet Paris Accord climate change standards whatever Washington may say. If scientists say we cannot afford to get more than two degrees Celsius hotter on planet Earth, people in Southern Louisiana in particular understand how hot it can get, and the whole community is willing to work to prevent additional disasters being visited upon the state.

In this, I believe I see the outline of a bipartisan state legislature budgetary agreement. Perhaps we could agree that for one year the State of Louisiana could send all its mental health funding to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to treat one person in particular suffering from delusions that are actually hurting the international tourist trade.  This individual believes that the former President was from Kenya, that crowd sizes are not what the rest of us see, that the FBI director told him he wasn’t under investigation and told him this multiple times, that “covfefe” is a word, that he has the best solutions, that he alone can fix the problems of this country, that factual news is fake news, that we aren’t noticing that he is planning  to cut his own taxes at the expense of poor children and the elderly in our state, and that we were glad when he showed up in the flood zone against the governor’s request so that rescuers could continue to get help to people literally stranded on rooftops so that a billionaire could bring us a few hundred dollars’ worth of children’s games.  Some lunatics are too dangerous even for Louisiana, and Louisianans are smart enough to realize that his plans need  to be stopped so that we can continue to live our eccentric lives down here.

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June 26, 2016

Too Hot to Kneel — Southern Heat, Southern Church, and Hellfire

In a marvelous essay recently published by Image, Southern Catholic poet Molly McCully Brown told a story about being in church with the brilliant fiction writer Kate Sparks, and a man commented to them that it was too hot to kneel that day in St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church in Oxford, Mississippi. I believe that too-hot-to-kneel day happened last summer, and this Sunday we are having another day where it’s too hot to kneel.

Old sheldon ChurchChurch in the South can be sweltering, I mention for those of you who stay home on Sundays or attend church up North.  The ladies with the fans in the pews that you see in movies set in small Southern towns, that’s no joke.  While the majority of church vestry committees down here make the purchase of air conditioning a top priority, air conditioners give out, and there are just some days where it doesn’t matter how frigid a blast you get from your HVAC, you find yourself reaching in the freezer for ice cubes to drop into your cleavage.  On such a day, you might try to stay at home and to lower the blinds.  You might keep a cooler of drinks on hand.  You might do as I have done this Sunday, which is to skip church — it was too hot to kneel, too hot to sing, too hot to stand or sit, too hot altogether — and to go to the usually chilly Ole Miss Library, where I am looking for all the references in the Latin Vulgate Bible of Effeminacy.  Why?  It’s a long story, trust me.  You don’t want to know, not even if you are effeminate.  Anyway, it’s too hot to explain.

A friend of mine told me about her strict Southern Baptist upbringing, and her youth pastors decided one summer to teach young people to fear Hell.  They did this by locking them in the church with the air conditioning off and the lights out.  It was too hot to see God, and too late to repent.  She feels traumatized to this day, doesn’t attend church anymore, just in case.  It’s too hot to have flashbacks.

There is hellfire in the Southern sun from late June to late August.  Like Milton’s devils, we cluster in dark corners, glowering.  We are, like them, overwhelmed with ever-burning sulfur, unconsumed.  We can try fanning ourselves, but it seems to fan the flames. Some of us try drinking alcohol, but that pours kerosene on the barbecue that roasts us. The library air conditioner is barely functional.  The third floor is hotter than it is outside.  The second floor seems to be slightly cooled.  The first floor is about as steamy as a shaded patio in swamp country.  It’s too hot to move.

I squint down on the Latin words on the page — molles, mollis, effeminati — the effeminate consonants seem to sweat ink on the page. In many cities, there is a parade today, and people are sweating glitter.  I am just sweating sweat.  It’s too hot to translate Latin.  It’s too hot to dance Latin dances.  It’s too hot to be in Hell, on Earth, or for all I know in Heaven. I fan myself with a paperback.  I drink some Diet Coke.  I stretch my legs, but it’s too hot to stretch.  I would type more here, but it’s too hot to type.

Lord Jesus, fix the air conditioner in every church in every small Southern town so that we can kneel or take a nap on the pew bench until this steamy season subsides.  I repent in this dark Southern Baptist Hell-simulation.  I repent of my absence from church, of my sweat beads on this Bible. I repent of my consuming of high-calorie foods and of taking so long to write a dissertation. I repent of my skin still being on the meat of my body, not yet simmered off like stewed chicken thigh off a bone. Mea culpa. Mea Culpa. Mea maxima culpa. The heat gives no absolution.  It just lingers like a malevolent spirit in the dusty room of books. It swirls around my legs like an unfed cat, but I can’t find the can opener. It creeps down the back of my neck like a feeling of foreboding. It abides like the smell of cigars in a humidor, only I smell dusty books ever so slightly mildewed and a few sweaty male graduate students who need a shower. It’s too hot to complain.

I would wish you all a cool evening, but it’s too hot to wish. I would wish you an end to global warming, but it’s too hot to globalize.  Instead, I write you mint.  I write you Michigan mid-winter for five minutes. I write you a cold plunge from the edge of this hot sauna.  I write you a breeze, one that lifts the pages of the Latin Vulgate so that they blur into a crenelated fan, a breeze that clears the air and beckons a deep breath, that clears the head and makes the Latin declensions easy and even the condemned effeminate Roman robust.

 

 

March 11, 2015

The Catastrophic, Horrible, Atrocious Blizzard of Lafayette County of 2015 — or How the South Really Freaks Out When It Snows

When tornadoes happen in the South, my students remain stoic throughout.  One day, there were five tornado warning sirens at the University of Mississippi, and each time, I cowered in fear, but my Southern students asked to work through class even though I wanted to hide under the desk.  Southerners are brave where I see the finger of God in the form of a funnel cloud squashing us all like sinful bugs.  I respect them in such moments.

But God forbid a half an inch of ice forms anywhere.  The Confederacy loses its mind.

Yankee progressives like me shake their heads when Southern politicians deny global warming by bringing a snowball into the Capitol Building, as one man did earlier this year.  However, this is not the only form of political climate denial going on down South. While this winter was harder for every part of the country than usual, every year in Mississippi and Alabama, there are some days where ice covers the roads.  This is an annual phenomenon, almost without exception.  But the Southerners, who hate taxes, refuse to pay for municipal salt trucks and snow plows because they are in denial about their annual necessity if businesses and schools are to stay open.  I won’t insult Southerners by suggesting that they deliberately do this to get more days off. I don’t think Southerners are lazy, even though I have never seen a New York minute down here.  It’s perhaps that snow is too scary, like the volcanic ash of Pompeii, to contemplate ahead of time.

And maybe my ice skating lessons as a child pay off annually, but it’s like Southerners have never learned to balance on their feet on a slippery surface, even though pageant hopefuls teeter on vertiginous heels, and boys who attend football camp learn to weave between defensive linemen while cradling a ball.  They fall down easily. They don’t know how to steer cars in snow, either.  It’s too scary to correct when the surface is even a little slick.

So this year, the South canceled a week of school and shut businesses, too, for ice that could have been salted away, for snow that might have been plowed. Everybody built a snowman. One guy in my neighborhood got arrested because he knocked down a bunch of snowmen with his truck.  It might have also have had something to do with his level of intoxication, but I prefer to consider this an ineffectual application of antifreeze to the circumstances, a well-intentioned but flawed plan to find a practical solution to the frigid times.  At least he wasn’t cowering in a corner.

I find the Southerners are able to laugh at their comparative ineptitude in this climate. There are cute videos online about the excessive panic that ensues when it freezes over, but the South isn’t Hell freezing over.  It’s not even a form of purgatory. There isn’t anything to fear but fear itself, I say, but the South seems to reason, knowing I am quoting that New Dealer FDR, that such a remark must be untrustworthy. There are no salt trucks planned for next year. That would be socialism.

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