niggaz in the hood

Oh. Lord.

So here we are, living amongst the garbage, trying to make do without heat or phone or internet service--I'm slowly spending my life savings at coffee shops just to check my email--and we're adapting the best we can. Just when I think things might be okay, as I'm selling cards and collecting eggs and not getting overwhelmed by depression, I get this slap in the face one morning:

We have friends living a few blocks away from us, across the street from a black woman who's "devacuated" and is back at home. This week, someone not only stole her Christmas lights but smeared dog shit on her car and left her a note saying that half the niggers have left this block--you need to get out too. Or something to that effect.

Now many things pain me about living down South, and I admit that racists live everywhere, but at least where I come from, if you don't like black people, you stay away from them and that's it. With these dogshit-and-scare-note-tactics, however, I feel like I'm trapped in some bad afterschool special on racism. I mean, who does this sort of thing? Was the perpetrator someone who'd lived here before the storm and feeling bold now that there are fewer black people around? Or--and this scares me more--was the perpetrator a newcomer, attracted to the idea of a newer, whiter New Orleans?

Either way, if you are reading this, you feces-fondling facist, please hang yourself from a tree so that the rest of us can get on with recoloring our city. Not that there's any chance of you reading my humble little blog, but you never know. Bob's planning on mounting a surveillance camera, so if you come back, we'll find you and stuff you so full of white-bread-soaked-in-mayo that you'll be puking up white. Afterwards, you'll get to find out how this angry white lady plans to use a flaming cross on your behind.

Yes, yes, I'm trying to learn to be compassionate, etc. and even have compassion for the angry and disillusioned. But really, folks, I've got to stand tough on hate crimes in the hood. And inthe meantime, I'm going to bring our neighbor some flowers.

Speaking of frightening infiltrations, this will be the first Mardi Gras ever to get corporate sponsorship. As down as I am on taking ugly money, Mardi Gras has got to roll. So this year, we'll be wearing Nike shoes to the parades, drinking Bacardi and Coca-Cola, and wearing Pampers so we won't have to use the ad-plastered Port-A-Lets. The upside, though, is the potential for costuming--breasts emblazoned with corporate logos? Buttocks bearing Budweiser branding?

For more enlightened commentary on topics New Orleans, check out my friend Dale's blog, at:

floodandloathing.blogspot.com

And keep an eye out for white supremacists carrying smelly garbage bags....