Click play for some mood music
Music: "The Rebirth Marching Jazz Band - When the Saints Go Marching in" Download it HERE.
Note: Five years after Hurricane Katrina, this is my requiem.
Antoine polished his bone, pointed it to the sky and blew.
It had been rough five years since the levees broke and there wasn't a single solitary day that went by that he didn't think about it. Or feel the aftermath. But they say the show -- or parade -- must go on. So Antoine blew as he marched.
The sun was out and it was a gorgeous day. Didn't matter, though. There was always a body somewhere being found in the oddest of places to remind him of that nightmare and these second lines were getting rougher.
But he marched anyway.
Antoine thought of Betsy, Gustov, Ivan and Rita. Yeah, they were rough. They tried to fuck with The Crescent City but it was that bitch Katrina that knocked it straight on its ass and then some with fifty three levee breaches and hundreds of bodies floating. Just floating with rotting faces and missing limbs -- even dogs have to eat after a category five.
He kept marching.
Keeping pace, he figured that the Big Easy must've been born under some bad voodoo. Five years removed from hell and he still can't stop thinking about the carnage in The Super Dome. The toxic FEMA trailers reeking of formaldehyde. The brutality of the police. The displaced families. The schools that were to never reopen. The residents of the lower Ninth Ward and Saint Bernard Parish were either gone or dead.
He marched some more.
Antoine thought of Betsy, Gustov, Ivan and Rita. Yeah, they were rough. They tried to fuck with The Crescent City but it was that bitch Katrina that knocked it straight on its ass and then some with fifty three levee breaches and hundreds of bodies floating. Just floating with rotting faces and missing limbs -- even dogs have to eat after a category five.
He kept marching.
Keeping pace, he figured that the Big Easy must've been born under some bad voodoo. Five years removed from hell and he still can't stop thinking about the carnage in The Super Dome. The toxic FEMA trailers reeking of formaldehyde. The brutality of the police. The displaced families. The schools that were to never reopen. The residents of the lower Ninth Ward and Saint Bernard Parish were either gone or dead.
He marched some more.
He just knew that when those Saints won the Super Bowl that there'd be hell to pay. God wasn't gonna let a good thing happen to that city. And, as always, New Orleans proved itself to be every bit the unlucky soul when their wetlands, marshes and gulf waters were filled with millions of barrels of oil.Antoine looked where the old Magnolia Projects used to stand. During the evacuation many families he knew weren't allowed back into their homes after the floodwater receded because they were closed, condemned and then razed.
And then it finally hit him. New Orleans, the city he was born and bred in, was going to change. What these townhome developers didn't realize, he thought, was that it was that very muck and mire that made the scrappy city what it was. That element gave it its soul.
Staring at the brightly-colored townhouses, Antione stopped blowing, bowed his head and wiped his eyes.
He couldn't march anymore.
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