In the ten years between 2010 and 2020, the “oldest Black neighborhood in America” went from being roughly 95% Black to being about 55% Black. The white population went from 5% to about 36%.
I am white and my family is old New Orleans French, Spanish and maybe passé blanc Creole but we aren’t entirely sure. In other words, we are like a lot of locals who can trace our roots back a long ways here. So I have stake in the game from one viewpoint- I love my city and have strong feelings about preserving the culture. On the other hand, much of this culture is something that I get to love and respect but not from inside… I enjoy it as a guest even though I am local, because I am not Black and my heritage is local but not the same exact type of local. I think most New Orleanians whose families have been here a long time would understand what I mean.
That being said, there is an old saying that someone coined and put on a t-shirt that I love… “everything you love about New Orleans comes from Black people”. It’s meant to remind the racists and carpetbaggers that they need to take their nonsense elsewhere. Clearly it’s only like 97.8% true… but regardless it is true enough that the things I grew up loving in the French Quarter have diminished over time, but I have found them again in Tremé. However, they are dying off there too.
On this French Quarter Fest Saturday I did not take my usual route to Cabrini park on my Saturday walk. I went instead down Governor Nicholls to Henriette Delille (Mother Henriette Delille pray for us that we may be a holy family) and then wandered my way back to Rampart. I passed St Augustine Church and the Tomb of the Unknown Slave. St Aug is still saying mass in the parish hall. Hey, archdiocese – that’s shameful. Ida was 3 years ago and that parish is over 180 years of the Catholic Black community. Help fix it already. If you can pay the pedophiles’ legal bills, you can help fix that church. Sorry, I digress.
As I walked past the church, and sweet talked the two little squirrels playing in the oak tree outside, I listened to two bike tours and one walking tour pass me. Not one mentioned that church. They talked about the depths of the houses across and didn’t use the term Creole Cottage where it was appropriate. They talked about spiritualism and voodoo but forgot that all of Faubourg Tremé is basically sacred ground as the memorial plaque at the church reminds us. I heard a white voice tell a white story to white tourists in a hurry to get their pink hurricanes and green hand grenades.
I walked back by way of Barracks. There was a reggae band practicing behind a high wood fence near Barracks and Rampart. I found two puppies sitting on a front porch with an older Black lady having her morning coffee in the shade. The street was cool and breezy and I could smell food that clearly wasn’t vegan. This (this small block) was home.
Balance 