By J’Nelle Holland No one knows when or how New Orleans
got the nickname, “The City That Care Forgot.” Well-documented
research pins the first written acknowledgement on a tourist
brochure produced by the Federal Writer’s Program of 1938. They
seemed confident that this title was traditional. I grew up aware
of it, not knowing what it really meant. As a fourth-generation New
Orleanean, and a 36-year resident of Santa Barbara, I will never be
separate from NOLA — as we affectionately call her. Her decadence
and aliveness lures me from across the country. It’s the sultry
climate, the grand and dilapidated architecture, soulful music, and
addictive food. She’s in my blood, a generational miasma.

With more than 50 family members in close proximity, I fly back
two to three times a year. Last August, my son and I visited my
mother, now 92 years old. There we bonded with cousins in the
typical NOLA way, by going drinking and dancing in the
neighborhood — swinging to the rich tunes of the New Orleans Jazz
Vipers at the Rock ’n’ Bowl. Where else could you experience such
quality musical performance on the same floor as 10 bowling lanes?
My heart was full of pride as I shared my quirky heritage with my

Who could have imagined that 10 days later, the very rooms we’d
slept in would be swamped with murky filth, floating antiques, and
drowned genealogy documents? And these were conditions to be
thankful for. I wept as I watched from afar — the abomination of
flooding, rescues, lack of rescues, and the desperate isolation of
the citizens of NOLA. My heart was unbearably heavy, fearing that
New Orleans would never be the same. In the weeks and months to
follow, the news was even worse. The vastness of the damage and the
hopelessness of recovery were wearily taking its toll on just about

Now that NOLA rarely makes headlines outside the state, many
assume that everything’s back to normal, but it’s not. The
situation is a national problem that’s not going away. I encourage
all my friends to read Bayou Farewell by Mike Tidwell. It’s a
real-life drama of the rapidly disappearing land and culture of
South Louisiana, one that could be saved, if our government

Katrina’s Wake Six months after Katrina I
returned again to NOLA. It was Mardi Gras time and everyone who
once lived there and could possibly make it back did. The overall
feeling was of solidarity, in spite of unbelievable hardships. Last
fall many doubted that there’d be a Mardi Gras. Yet this year’s
celebration was remarkably exuberant — everything that’s good and
bad about Mardi Gras was present. New Orleaneans are fiercely loyal
to our traditions. “Mardi Gras’s in our DNA,” more than one reveler
reminded me.

What Katrina’s wake made visible was what’s really at stake.
It’s not just the physical survival of the landmass known as South
Louisiana that’s in danger, it’s a way of life. New Orleans is not
merely the sum of historical events that have taken place there,
it’s her people who create the living culture. Without them it’s a
city devoid of soul. (Read Why New Orleans Matters by Tom Piazza
and re-learn what “a soul” means.) When people used to ask me where
I’m from and I’d say, “New Orleans,” invariably it brought a smile
to their faces. Now, when I say I’m from New Orleans, most people
express sorrow for the tragedy that recently occurred — the city of
comedy and tragedy.

Yes, it is a tragedy; 300,000 citizens of greater New Orleans
still do not have homes with electricity, water, garbage, or sewer
service. Some have uninhabitable shambles, nothing to come home to.
Some will never make it back. And the city will always have a void
from the loss of them, exemplified by the empty floats in this
year’s parades — tributes to those who perished in the flood.

But the flipside of tragedy is comedy. And probably better than
any others, the citizens of New Orleans know how to laugh at
themselves. This year’s parade floats will go down in history as
the most satirical. Everybody and everything was game. Blanco,
Brown, and Nagin were Category 5 targets. Even President Bush
didn’t escape the wrath of the “Krewe of Chaos,” as the figurehead
of a float mocking disastrous leaders. One float in the “Mid City”
parade commemorated “Refrigerator Heaven,” where everyone’s fridge
went after the EPA’s refrigerator graveyard. Another even poked fun
at looting — with a grocery basket full of TVs, cameras,
etc. — titled “Making Groceries,” the Cajun term for shopping.

Parade floats that had been damaged in the flood were covered
with the same kind of signs that littered the neutral grounds
months earlier, only no sarcasm was spared. One advertised “The
Insurance Adjuster from Hell,” another “The Crust of Society — New
Orleans Mold,” and another demanded that someone remove the city’s
bathtub ring. This year locals in costume took advantage of the
blue tarps to create “FEMA fashions,” or poke fun at the city of
blue roofs floating in muck gumbo. One roaming group of chefs had a
cart called “The Katrina Deli,” serving “Pigs in a Blanco,” “Bush
Baloney Sandwiches,” and “Furniture Upside-Down Cake,” along with
the flagship drink, of course, “The Hurricane.” Creativity was
amply fueled by travesty.

The “Zulu” paraders warmed my heart, because the
African-American population suffered dearly during the flood. In
spite of their hardships they were out in full regalia and more
than generous with their throws. Not everyone knows that Mardi Gras
is a gift for the people, by the people. The city of New Orleans
supplies only police and garbage cleanup. The rest of the party
exists because of valued traditions.

Most people think that Mardi Gras is just debauchery in the
French Quarter, and there’s no denying that some pretty raunchy
sights are there. But unless you’ve lived in this city, you may not
have enjoyed the parades passing through the neighborhoods.

We parked ourselves with friends in front of the now famous
boarded-up business on St. Charles Ave. A hand-painted sign dated
9/2 reads (in part) “Don’t even think of it. I’m inside with a big
dog, an ugly woman, and a claw hammer.” Next panel reads: “9/11
Still here, woman left Fri, cooking up pot of dog gumbo.” Last
panel “Y’all come back. See ya here for Mardi Gras — I’ve got my

It’s not the plastic trinkets they come for; it’s the rash and
foolish merriment. A mass of strangers is jumbled together: Old
people stand in front just to catch a glimpse of their grandkids
marching in a band or dancing the “funky butt” down the street;
little kids ride on shoulders or sit in specially made
ladder-boxes; people stand amid piles of trash, folding chairs, ice
chests, and barbecues. Each time a float comes, a sea of hands goes
up waving, everyone’s screaming, jumping. People see someone they
know on a float and go ballistic, until they receive bundles of
otherwise worthless baubles. People you’ve never met offer you
beads, beer, and food. Jubilant shouts mixed with wild music and
the noise of the tractors that pull the floats is deafening. If
you’ve ever experienced this joy, then you know it’s worth caring

During this window of celebration, troubles are forgotten.
Tragedy is mocked and the spirit of rebirth is extolled. From
devastation, wings begin to sprout. We are celebrants of a cultural

And now, I ask you all to care about New Orleans. Read the books
mentioned in this article. Visit NOLA for Jazz Fest next month,
your summer vacation, or Mardi Gras next year. Order books, art,
music, or any items from local New Orleans businesses. Help bring
misplaced locals back by providing a demand for their unique
culture. Y’all come back now. Ya hear?

FOUR•ONE•ONE Keep a pulse on what’s going on in
New Orleans and surrounds through the Times-Picayune’s Web site,; and Gambit Weekly’s Donate what you can to reputable
organizations like Habitat for Humanity (New Orleans branch) or
directly to local schools and hospitals. Review and sign these
extremely important petitions: •;
; •
. For
more info on these issues, visit,, or


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