by TJ Seitz
The Right way to East Crawfish
Jackie said, “The name of the place we’re going to is called Crawfish Jack’s.”
I replied, “OK, “then let her guide me there.
I think the establishment was located in a predominantly Black neighborhood that was somewhere west of the Garden district.
The area appeared to be well kept, the yards were not littered with garbage, mowed and had tended flowerbeds in some yards but the houses looked tired and in need of cosmetic repair like new roofs, gutters, front porches and paint jobs. Most of the cars parked in the driveways and on the sides of the streets looked like they were in better shape than the houses.
Jackie had me driving in all sorts of directions getting to the address. I was skeptical that she actually knew where we were and that we weren’t lost but kept my mouth shut because I was basically expecting the place to be a restaurant located in a commercial development, not a rundown residential neighborhood.
Eventually she pointed and said, “Stop and park the car over there.”
I got out of the car with Jackie and locked the doors. We were standing in front of a non-descript two-story house that had a front screen door that looked like it was being held together with grey duct tape.
A few other vehicles were parked in the road near us and in a wide gravel lot.
Beyond the large driveway, the location did not look unusually different from any other house in that area. I followed Jackie to the back of the house.
There was a relatively new looking blue Dodge RAM pickup truck with a good sized refrigerated storage container mounted on its flatbed parked on the side of the house. The words “Crawfish Jacks - Calypso Style Cuisine” above a picture of a smiling crayfish with some Chinese looking symbols underneath the crayfish were painted on the side of the cooler facing out. There was a red extension cord running from the back of cooler into a partially opened basement window that also looked like it was being held together with duct tape.
The lawn was mowed, It looked like someone planted various kinds of flowers and herbs along the perimeter of the house and around some of the large oak trees. It smelled like a campfire or cookout was going on nearby.
When we were in the backyard I saw someone tending a fire pit of some sort at the back end of the lot with a big pot of something cooking over it. There was a rusty swing set frame next to the fire with several oversized cooking utensils like a metal slotted spoon and steaming basket hanging from the hooks where the swings used to be. There was also a metal folding table and chair with a portable stereo and can of what looked like Mr. Pibb sitting on it. The radio was tuned into a local Top 40 station.
We walked towards the back porch up a worn set of crooked wooden stairs and through a flimsy screen door that slammed hard behind us . When we walked in someone happily shouted, “Welcome to Crawfish Jack’s. “How can wez helps you?”
That was Jackie’s cue to figure out what to get.
The room was hot and steamy. Two super-sized pots were boiling on stovetops behind the service counter. There was a large sink next to the ranges and more giant cooking utensils hanging from pegs on the wall over the sink.
The room smelled strongly of fish, garlic, onions and jalapeño peppers. I thought to myself, “Blah, I’d eventually puke if I had to smell this place all day long. I like seafood but not that much.”
The walls were painted white and chipped and scratched randomly throughout the room. The floor looked like it was made from a single piece of dated tan-ish vinyl or linoleum material and was scuffed in placed with black skid marks from patron shoes.
Shelves full of canned pickles, jellies, apples, pears, peaches, syrups, soups, mincemeats, salsas and chili sauces lined all four sides of the room. Two waist high tables of artisan corn, white, wheat, whole grain breads, cakes, pies and cookies were positioned on the right and left sides of the room.
A single store clerk appeared to be manning the stoves, taking orders and overseeing a metal cashbox. There was no register. None of the merchandise had prices on it either. I guessed that the shopkeepers probably kept all that information in their head, making it even harder to distinguish if what was going on here was an actual business or just an informal family-neighborhood endeavor.
The shop was being run by a six foot three middle aged shopkeeper wearing a yellow stained white apron with the words ‘Papa Jack’s’ embroidered in red on its front. He had thinning short cropped hair with a trimmed graying beard. He walked with a slight limp.
A much shorter woman who appeared to be Vietnamese was also working in the room cleaning, stocking and straightening up the shelves as needed. She seemed fidgety and never sat still making it difficult to get a good look at her. She had long straight jet black hair and wore an apron similar to the other clerk’s and mumbled to herself a lot in a complaining tone as she performed her duties.
The teenage boy tending fire in back yard also looked Vietnamese. I only saw him from a distance so it was hard to tell what he looked like other than wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans. It seemed unusual to me that they were working in what I assumed to be an African American business and asked Jackie later on about their presence. She told me what she knew.
I assumed that Papa Jack was the person tending the counter. I was wrong. His name is Marshall and the house that the business was being run from was actually owned by his cousin Rena who inherited the home when her first husband died from a heart attack fifteen or so years ago. She’s since remarried and works as a receptionist at a nearby manufacturing facility.
Papa Jack it turns out is a local Vietnamese fisherman with a name no one around here can pronounce proper. He was a war refuge who immigrated to New Orleans in the early 1970’s with his sister and several of his friends after the Viet Kong destroyed their home village.
Jack is married to Marshall’s sister Ester. Papa Jack is a nickname he acquired over time because everyone just called him Jack initially rather than butcher his real name.
Over the years Jack has fathered lots of children with Ester. When the kids become old enough, Jack has them help with his fishing business rather than pay for unreliable help. The two Vietnamese people I saw were Jack’s sister Tess and her son Ronnie.
Jack helps support members of his wife’s family like Marshall by giving them a portion of his daily catches to eat for meals or sell. The crawfish selling venture took off after Marshall prepared a large batch of seasoned crawfish for a neighborhood boil. Everyone loved the results and word spread fast. Papa Jack was quick to notice a lucrative under the table opportunity to sell his catches and Marshall was recently laid off from a construction job so he needed the work.
Ten years later the idea is still going strong and the customers keep lining up daily. Over time they expanded items being peddled in the makeshift shop floor to include backed and canned goods made by people in the surrounding neighborhood as a means to help support the community.
Marshall also allows people to meet on the property to sell their services and skills (stuff that can’t be displayed on shelves) such as carpentry, plumbing or landscaping, but nothing illegal. If he catches anyone on the property selling drugs or setting up to hurt someone, including prostitution or gambling, he will shoot first and ask questions later.
So far the rules have always been respected. Papa Jack’s Crawfish is so popular that no one wants risk losing the endeavor. The offender would no doubt-ably face unpleasant repercussions from both the neighbors and regular clients.
Also lots of rumors have been passed around over the years about Papa Jack, no one has ever actually seen him on site because he’s too busy with his other business work. He usually has his kids, nieces or nephews make deliveries.
It’s been said that living through the war made him real mean and tough, not a person to fuck with. He knows how to make a body quickly disappear. One tale stated that for punishment he gradually cut a person’s
body parts off while they were alive and made them watch him use the pieces as bait for a special catch of the day. I remember Jackie smiling and commented after she recited that story, “I think neighborhood kids with big imaginations made that one up.”
The storefront was literally built in a neighborhood home’s back porch. I wouldn’t even consider the business a true store.
The simple business model it used was more traditional in nature and less formal. I had a feeling that despite the place’s well received reputation, it didn’t exist anywhere on paper therefore allowing the owners to operate more efficiently because they don’t have to deal with the costs of keeping accurate records, paying taxes and complying with government regulations. Allowing them to pass the savings onto its customers.
From what I witnessed overhead costs were also pretty minimal. The most expensive item they needed to run the joint were probably the large stovetops used to hold the huge pots of water and spices used to boil crawfish in.
Regardless of that I also saw the fire pit in the backyard of the house with a pot being tended so the appliance may be more of a nicety than a necessity in the end.
Watching the business work was interesting too. While Jackie talked to Marshall and placed our order for food I looked around the room and out the screen windows into the back yard. I honestly could not tell if this was a family cookout or a thriving business. People wandered in and out to buy food, drop stuff off and/or just hang out and chat in the few minutes we were there. Tess seemed to be coordinating a lot of those details along with taking care of the shelves.
On top of selling craw fish it looked like people from the surrounding neighborhood or members of the owners family also sold canned and baked goods they made, some looked like they were selling their services too. Through the screen window I overheard a couple men who looked like they were in their forties discuss a deal with an elderly man about fixing his furnace and shook hands on it in exchange for ten of the rabbits he raised.
Jackie ordered a large bag of crawfish for our dinner. It only took a few minutes for our order to be ready and when she had to pay asked me for seven dollars to cover the cost.
I gave her the money and she paid for the food. Marshall thanked us and said good bye. Jackie said, “My mouth is salivating from the smell. I can’t wait to eat.”
On the way to the car Jackie bummed a cigarette off someone hanging out in the backyard. She then lit and smoked it as we drove back to the Hostel. While she smoked she told me again, “God I love boiled crawfish that’s simply spiced with the Holy Trinity basics like peppers, onion and garlic!”
We were back at the Hostel in a few minutes. It was around 6:30PM. Both of us were hungry and wanted to eat. Jackie carried the bag over to an empty picnic table in the backyard area of one of the nearby hostel buildings.
Since we didn’t have paper towels Jackie said that we needed to eat them someplace where we could make a mess. She found a section of the Times-Picayune underneath the bench we were sitting on that someone left there from earlier in the day, spread it out on the table top then dumped the entire bag’s contents onto it.
The crawfish were brightly colored reddish orange with black splotches and looked like baby lobster to me. They were still warm but not so hot they could not be handled with bare hands.
Jackie examined the pile carefully for a few seconds then said “Good. There are none with straight tails.”
I asked, “What’s the difference? They were all prepared together. “
She shook her head and informed, “No, no. Being cooked is not enough. Boiled crawfish with straight tails died before being put in the water and shouldn’t be eaten. They can make you sick.”
I replied, “Oh. I did not know that.”
Jackie added, “Of course not. You’ve never had crawfish before.”
Jackie dug right in after making her comment.
It took me a while to wrap my mind around the concept of eating a crawfish.
Being from New York State I grew up calling them crayfish. They lived in the polluted brown waters of the Barge Canal which ran through the village I grew up in.
As kids we’d poke at them with sticks walking around the rocky exposed banks of the waterway during the months it was drained low. Other times my brother and I would freak our younger siblings out when swimming in ponds by screaming randomly, “Ow! A crayfish just bit my toe!”
Scaring and instigating them to prematurely exit the ponds or creeks we were all swimming in.
A few friends also kept uniquely colored ones as pets in their freshwater aquariums.
Jackie picked one up. Held the body over the lawn, away from her-self, and grabbed each side of the critter. She then twisted the body in a manner that separated the tail from its head.
Juices squirted out all over the grass but missed Jackie and the table. She then slurped the backend of the head portion over the paper and licked her lips afterward commenting, “The juice and guts are the best part. They have lots of flavor. The only sad thing now is that we forgot to get beer to drink with our meal. A good beer compliments all the tastes. Oh well.”
While making her remark Jackie put the drained head portion down and picked up the tail. After peeling a few segments of shell off the backend Jackie then grabbed the meat with two fingers, pinched the fan like part with her other set of fingers and gently pulled all the meat out and popped it into her mouth to eat. She sucked her fingers clean afterward and put both emptied shell pieces into the paper bag before grabbing another crawfish.
Jackie briefly scanned the pile of food and noted, “These are small ones. If they were bigger I’d show you how to get at the claw meat too.
So when are you going to try one?”
I was nowhere near as agile as Jackie when eating. I got a lot more of the juices on my hands and face. I had to peel more of the shell to get at all the meat.
She smirked at my novice crawfish eating skills.
The crustacean smelled and tasted very spicy to me. I liked it. It was simply pleasant and not overpowering just like Jackie assured me earlier.
The flavors complimented each other and no one spice overpowered the other, especially the hot pepper. The whitish tail meat had a consistency on my tongue as I chewed it that seemed like a cross between shrimp and lobster.
The gross looking green goo I sucked from the head was a combination of oily and watery substances. When it was mixed together in my mouth though it took on an interestingly seasoned buttery like flavor from all the spices it was cooked in.
Within a half an hour we were full and finished.
The pile of shell fish on the newspaper was gone and the paper bag was filled with the peeled carcasses.
When we were finished Jackie said, “I have a few more things I need to get done before leaving in the morning. I need to figure out how to make a few phone calls and I forgot to do something downtown last night. I’m OK to do it alone. I still have two or three Trolley rides left on the pass.“
After we agreed to meet on the front porch of the hostel at 8 in the morning she went off to do her own thing leaving me behind to do as I please.
Last Evening in New Orleans
My last evening in the City was significantly less eventful than the previous one but nonetheless still interesting. I wanted to hang out around people and it was too early to go to bed.
I walked to the nearby corner store and bought a six pack of Molson Golden and started drinking it on the front porch of the hostel. It was cold and tasted good on a hot and humid night.
It felt good to relax after a long day of running around town. I sat down in a faded aqua blue green plastic folding chair with a small crack in the left armrest and listened to a group of nearby guests talk while smoking cigarettes and passing around a liter of Smirnoff vodka.
They appeared to be a few years older than me and based on
their accents were obviously not Americans.
I felt right at home sitting on the porch surrounded by all the immediate sights, sounds and smells. Back home, my housemates and friends frequently spent Summer nights on our front porch lounging on a beat up sofa and overstuffed chair someone rescued from a nearby curb. We’d pass many hours getting half drunk, talking about whatever crossed our minds at the moment.
A good natured heated discussion was going on amongst three individuals who turned out to be Romanian, Australian and Ugandan.
The topic of dictatorships was winding down. Despite not wanting to ever live under the rule of one all three agreed that dictatorships were a necessary evil in certain parts of world. They felt that they were needed because those are the only kind of government system that works for people in those regions.
Repression, brute force and fear are the only methods those citizens will respect and submit to when attempting to administer social order. Otherwise chaos will reign because of ancient pissing matches between tribes, families and religious sects that their collective memories refuse to forget. Iraq and the Yugoslavia were two current examples they used to support their stance.
The three men continued justifying their belief by pointing out that most of the world is made up of subsidence farmers and goat herders who can’t read, have limited access to modern technology and to survive must devote most of their waking hours towards taking care of their immediate responsibilities.
These people have never traveled more than a few miles from their birthplace and could care less what kind of government is running their country for the most part because it has little or no effect on their day to day lives. They don’t have time or energy to think too much about ideology and politics when their attention needs to be focused on more important tasks such as feeding, clothing and housing their families.
Also, in then end, their government won’t be there to care for them in old age but their families will. It’s common sense and those kinds of government take advantage of that perpetuated indifference.
At some point, the topic began to move in a different direction.
The concept of poverty was brought up. Each person had a unique view of the subject based on their childhoods and countries of origin.
They also drew me into the conversation by asking me for my opinion.
A scruffy faced person who smelled like spilled bong water and beer anf spoke with an Australian English accent stated, “I believe that poverty in my country is basically reflective of what I’ve seen in most Westernized places like the United States and England.”
The guy looked to be in his late twenties-early thirties, had short brown hair, leather hiking shoes, grey socks that barely covered his ankles, camouflage shorts and a red t-shirt specked with what looked like white paint spots.
He went on to say, “I think that the Australian government does a decent job supporting programs intended for needy people who live in urban areas. However it doesn’t do shit for indigenous peoples who live in rural communities. Their social structures are not the same as city dwellers and most politicians and bureaucrats who manage that system are fucking clueless.”
The Australian justified his sentiments, ”I essentially grew up in a middle class suburb of Melbourne but spent a lot of time as a kid on my grandparent’s sheep ranch in the State of South Australia working side by side with my older brothers, uncles, cousins and local Aborigine farmhands. Those people became some of my best friends at the time and taught me a lot about the native ways of living.
Aborigines who live in the bush don’t necessarily believe in the same things or practice the same behaviors as the Anglo Whites. Their cultures and practices are very different.
It’s very difficult to find common ground where the two sides can actually agree or at least understand each other’s frame of mind because what’s valued by one group is not always embraced by the other. Native homes often don’t have things people who live in more populated areas take for granted like indoor plumbing for toilets and access to fresh water in their homes. Public education and regular employment are two more examples where Whites and the Indigenous peoples don’t see eye to eye on.
Substance abuse is also a problem. It’s no big deal for a man (or woman) to be employed at a stable full time job.
Entire weeks wages (for those who do work) and welfare checks, that White’s assume will be used to pay for housing, food and clothing, are instead pissed away on alcohol, gambling debts and useless luxury items in one afternoon because there are no social repercussions within those communities for those kinds of choices.
Native villages, tribes and their associated ways of life existed thousands of years before the Europeans came to Australia. Aborigines were systematically treated like slaves and over time and the Whites fucked things up so bad over time that many natives forgot their traditional way of life and were forced to become dependent on the government for survival.”
He paused a second to take a swig from the bottle of vodka, swallowed, smiled then continued, “Like Blacks in America, Aborigines are a minority yet they comprise of over twenty percent of Australia’s prison population.
Though I think it has more to do with culture clash today than outright discrimination which was definitely the case in the past. Some of the guys I knew even had a dark sense of humor about their periods of incarceration likening it to a vacation or temporary escape from their community responsibilities calling it something in their native language that translates into a White man world walk about versus the traditional practice they do in the bush. Instead of having to hunt for their food, water and shelter the prison system provides it for them.
To a traditionally minded Aborigine the land, family and community are supposed provided necessities. Not the government. Within their traditions the exchange of gifts was a way to promote goodwill and kinship. Resources like food are supposed to be shared equally with their entire family and community.
Financial literacy is almost nonexistent in remote areas of Australia because people have limited or no access to banks and stores where money can be saved invested or spent. Money is also not necessarily thought of as a resource but is expected to be lent out as needed when someone has a surplus so to avoid that expectation most money received by individuals such as a paycheck or welfare benefit is quickly spent.
Sacred and/or handcrafted items are not the same as money. School is not a building with four walls and books, it’s a camping trip in the bush with family elders who teach you different skills for survival and stories about the history of the area and/or family.”
The man I presumed to be Romanian interrupted the Australian proclaiming in a heavily accented British English, “ My country seemet much better off economically unter te former communist regime but I also suspect tat te same problems were tair beforehant ant were simply swept or hitten ‘unter te carpet’ by the government to height te trut from te masses.
My family ant I always hat teecent clotes, a roof over our het, foot to eat ant access to basic metical care when it was neetet. Yes, our choices were limitet but in my opinion when it comes to physical neets someting is always better tan noting.
I am also appreciative of my government sponsoret formal etucation, tespite all te Marxist iteology tat came along wit it.
My biggest grievance was tat I coult not go anywhere wit my etucation ant life after completing my secontarty etucation. my choices were limitet at te time to two routes; cuts my losses early and stops going to school altogether, accepting a government assignet menial or manual labor job tat tulls a person’s intellect after a few years or to take a risk by attenting university and hopes to impress someone with enough influence along te way tat could recomment me for an appointment at the college or a government agency where toes leanet knowletge and skills coult be properly appliet. If not, ten all attenting more school tuz is telay te i
nevitatle and make you more aware of the significant loss or waste of time in the ent.”
He went on to describe that in the years following Nicolae Ceausescu ousting, things actually got worse for the majority of his family. They were mostly unskilled workers with large families and little or no talents beyond farming who moved to growing cities like Arad or Sibiu hoping to find work to feed themselves and their families. Unfortunately their luck was no better in the cities and many, according to some of the letters he’s received recently from his mother, are considering moving back to their home villages and starting over.
To avoid a life of rural poverty, his parents proactively joined the Communist Party in the mid to late nineteen fifties then moved to Bucharest just before they got married. They fit the quintessential profile of perfect recruits for the expanding cause. Both were young, impressionable and marginally educated peasants.
It was an unconventional thing to do and their families were essentially dumbfounded. The Romanian though seemed to understand and referred to his father as ‘a savvy opportunist.’ In the end both parents just wanted to create a better life, for themselves and their future children and if it meant abandoning the countryside for a factory job and two bedroom flat in a distant city or signing a piece of paper that supported a cause you were indifferent about, so be it.
Afterward his parents for remained politically silent and managed to effectively stay ‘under The Communist Party’s radar.’ On the surface they looked like loyal Party members but within the privacy of their home never indicated what they really believed one way or the other.
Regardless of appearances, their choices allowed the Romanian and his sister the opportunity to attend good schools and a university.
His sibling eventually became a general practitioner, is unmarried and still lives with their parents in Bucharest. He on the other hand had different plans and like his father wanted to do better and knew that remaining in Romania was not an option for him if he wanted a better life.
After receiving a degree in Greek Literature he applied to St Charles University in Prague to study the subject even more in dept. He was granted permission to attend the college, packed his few belongings and moved there with no intention of ever returning to his home country.
He did all this knowing that after he completed his studies in Czechoslovakia that he was going to find a way to get over to West Germany and his eventual freedom. During the mid-eighties he did just that and from Munich found himself a teaching job at a private British boarding school in Hong Kong for two years.
He told us, “I have been wantering from teaching job to teaching job in America and Europe since leaving my homelant and I have serious toubts tat I wills ever go back any time soon. Even after te fall of the communist government because I am still concernt. It is still unstable and tair is little opportunity.
I have no triving tesire to return to Romania to just mingle wit unemployet empty mintet illiterate peasants, miners or assembly line workers who live rural shacks and marginal slums and whose only interests outsite complaining about how bad life is and gossiping amongst themselves are to gets trunk and/or fuck.
I triet many times to talk my elterly parents into leaving Romania and coming to America for a better life but tay are content and have no tesire to leave tair home.”
The Romanian eventually returned to the subject of poverty. Upon commenting about his parents he stated, “Which brings me back to my itea of poverty. I do nots tefine it just as a lack of money but also as ignorance and a lack of access to opportunity.
When peoples to not unterstant tat tay are in control of tair immetiate lives and can make choices to better temselves but to not and remain content with just staying put I tinks tat is a Fate almost worse tan starvation because tat mentality prevents people from blossoming and becoming te most tay are capable of or being the best people tay can be.”
The darker skinned man smiled and laughed deeply at the Romanian’s remarks, and then in a proper sounding yet subtly Africanized dialect of British English introduced himself to me as Pierre and stated that, “We are all talking nonsense. All four of us are all rich in the eyes of my people.”
He then repeated a lyrical sounding adage in another language to the group of us and translated it saying, “Those words roughly mean, ‘You can’t talk to a starving man about philosophy.’ I believe that most people who grow up and live in the Western World, including myself and the Romanian, are clueless when it comes to knowing true poverty and do not fully appreciate what they have.
I consider myself a blessed man. I am treated differently than most people in my country because I’m ethically a Ganda, which is an elite Ugandan tribe.
My father was educated in America and now designs bridges and dams for large public works projects throughout Africa and Canada. My mother also attended a university in France but stays home with my widowed grandmother, her mother, takes care of family babies and helps manage household responsibilities in my father’s absence.
Poverty to me means owning only a loin cloth, having no reliable roof to sleep under and not knowing when you will eat your next meal. Even people on the government dole in places like America, Australia and Romania have reliable access to those basic necessities during troubling times. Like I just said, we will never truly understand the concept because we never experienced it as a regular way of life.
If my two grandfathers were not a successful French Expatriate Businessman and a British Officer in the Colonial Army stationed in the Protectorate I suspect that even with my privileged ancestry poverty would have still been my Fate. Instead I was very lucky and allowed access to opportunities most Ugandan’s only dream of.
I am also lighter skinned than most of my countrymen because of my white grandfathers. I easily pass for an Arab or someone from the Mediterranean Sea Region which puts also put me at an advantage socially both inside and outside his homeland.”
Pierre explained, “Because of my parents’ social class, widespread poverty and the violence associated with it, I grew up within white walled heavily protected compounds. I was shielded by my family’s status from the outside world and to humble myself I would sometimes climb an unattended ladder and peer through the barbed wire at an alien world.
When above the barriers I could smell the stench of rotting raw sewage, hear the foreign sounds of life in another reality. I witnessed emaciated beggars; dying, deprived and desperate people who existed on the other side of the three foot thick, spray painted, bullet pocked, and concrete block walls. I saw lepers, elderly women missing limbs and crippled children defecating in the streets. I watched parched men with infected scars on their backs crouch down and drink from green mud puddles, eat garbage then puke afterward.
I had to be extra cautious and not be seen by anyone because if caught, I usually got a good whipping from the head of compound security, who also happened to be my uncle. My parents were deathly afraid that I would make an easy target for a rebel sniper or neighborhood thug.
Regardless of the truth my uncle told me the beating was given because it was rude to stare.
For safety reasons, as a child, I was transported between compounds for school, to visit family and friends in bullet proof cars by armed personnel who worked for my uncle.
I also had regular access to luxuries like electricity, indoor plumbing, air conditioning and television. I was initially sent to good private schools in Uganda and when old enough enrolled in a French Boarding School near Marseilles and then to a university in England where I studied computer programming and engineering.”
He went on to reinforce that he was spared the agony of depravity and hunger associated with much of Uganda and has no desire to ever go back. He believes that his life is now in America now and he is very appreciative.
When it came to my time to speak I remembered the book called The Other America by M
ichael Herrington and a PBS TV Series called Free to Choose narrated by Milton Friedman. I said, “I sometimes wonder if the roots of poverty in America and Western Europe are actually founded on individual choice. There are lots of programs and opportunities available for poor people to improve their lot at any given time. Unfortunately, after multiple generations of families living within its parameters, affected individuals tend forget how to be self-sufficient and in turn become depend on the institutionalized safety net system(s) supported by both society and government. I think those systems by nature recreate the cycle of poverty making it all the more difficult for members of the lower classes to climb the social class ladder.“
I have a feeling that my comments might have surprised them a little coming from someone as young as I was. All three were smiling but there was a long pause after I spoke and they all appeared to be assessing what I just said.
What none of them realized was that my older co-worker conditioned me for these kinds of conversations. Joe was old enough to be my father and he made it a point to play the role of teacher for me, especially on topics related social policy, politics and government.
I don’t know if he did it because he was trying to persuade me into believing his moderately conservative philosophies or that he did or to give us more substantial things to talk about than work gossip or newspaper headlines. I turned out in the end to be more of a libertarian than a Republican which simultaneously annoyed and pleased him, depending on the circumstances we discussed.
Joe helped hone my views by recommending books and TV shows. He’d nag me to watch or read the material then grill me afterward. The hours passed talking with him while working production shift alone in the computer room were then applied later on with my roommates, friends and college professors.
Their silence inspired me to continue and justify my sentiments, “Milton Freidman questioned the need for government to indefinitely take care of people who not have the skills and financial resources to take care of themselves. He thought that the government should instead empower them more aggressively with the training and education required for them to find/acquire good paying jobs that will allow them to take care of themselves and their families without the assistance of government.”
As they continued to listen I added, “Michael Harrington though that there was a culture associated with living in those conditions for long periods of time. Those circumstances cause people to become depressed and unmotivated to better themselves. He also believes that their inability to improve their lot was more of a social or societal problem than an individual issue because the conditions or culture of poverty is not created by just single instances but clusters or groups of those individuals living together and interacting with each other.”
I then recalled, “Edward Banfield believed that throwing all the resources in the world at the problem of poverty (social services, law enforcement, and education) would not make a difference as long as there was a significant amount of poor people living in close proximity of each other because of the culture or way of life associated with those kinds of living conditions.
In one of his books I read he noted that during one of his studies that poor people, even when given the opportunity to better their lives (jobs, better homes, money) still often chose to return to what they know and the associated behaviors.
He also noted that the lower class could be split into two categories. One form are the younger people who are in the beginning stages of their adult lives and learning though trial and error how to acquire a good job and properly manage their personal lives. With time though they will usually rise up the social class ladder and better themselves leaving that lifestyle behind. Handicapped and elderly could also be included in this type of class because their lack of financial resources (fixed income or inability to work a good job) is all that impedes them not negative behaviors.
The other group however remains a permanent fixture and has no intention of bettering themselves or their families. For whatever reasons they chose to not work, live in slums, commit crimes, are sexually promiscuous and don’t value a formal education.”
I concluded with, “The more I read and learn about poverty in America the more I begin to believe that the only cure for poverty is to separate poor people/families from each other and force them to live amongst a majority of people who do not promote the culture of poverty caused by lots of poor people living together in close quarters. I also noted that I’m torn by that idea too because it’s not a very ethical method and essentially a form of discrimination.”
The three men seemed pretty impressed when I finished supporting my stance.
The Romanian asked, “You actually know who Miltons Freetman is and reat his writtings?”
The Australian inquired, Are you attending university and if so what subject?”
I answered, “I’m just finishing up a BA in writing. I’ve been attending college part time and working full time for six or seven years now. I have a hard time staying focused and like to learn about lots of subjects so it took me a while to choose a major.”
The Romanian laughed and said, “Tat explains tings. You also work and to not just go to school full time. You have some practice experience beyont your het shovet up your ass and fillet with big taughts”
The Ugandan questioned, “What is your job title?
I told him, “I’m a computer technician for local schools.”
He smiled and replied, “I understand that kind of work.”
The Romanian them bellowed and started, “He’s a fletgling technocrat! Even better than a worker who writes!. You’ll make a great censor after you gratuate!”
The Australian interrupted and told me, “Ignore the Romanian. He’s had a lot to drink and refuses to believe that the American government does not employ official censors except maybe during times of war.”
His slightly slurred speech gave me the impression that he too was half in the sack.
The Romanian then retorted, “What better place to prepare a future government official but in a school where first impressions are made and young minds are moldet!”
It was obvious to me at that point the Romanian was pretty drunk and now looking to argue rather than pleasantly debate. The Ugandan and I changed the subject to computers. The other two men quickly lost interest and said that they were going for a walk to the corner store to get cigarettes.
Before the two men left I asked to take a few pictures of the group so I had something to remember them by and this part of my trip to New Orleans. I snapped at least five pictures of everyone but because of the lighting they did not really turn out very well which I would not know until weeks later when I returned home and had them developed.
I talked with the Ugandan until about 11:00PM. It turns out he knew someone who was also attending the college I was studying at. The person was a second or third cousin of his and thinking of becoming a Roman Catholic priest. I did not know that and thought he was just another foreign student taking one of the religious studies classes required by the college for graduation. I ended our conversation at that point noting that I needed to be up early in the morning to head back home. Within minutes I was in bed and sound asleep.
Homeward Bound
I woke up the next morning around quarter to six and lay on my bunk dozing in and out of sleep for an hour or so before dragging my ass out of bed to shower and pack my stuff up. By 7AM I was checked out and waiting on the front porch for Jackie, wondering if she was actually going to take me up on my offer to drive her to her Grandmother’s in Ohio.
After waiting fifteen minutes I started walking towards my car to leave. I figured Jackie changed her mind and didn’t want to go now. As I walked down the stairs I heard, “Good Morning TJ. Sorry I’m late. There was a line in the girl’s dorm for the shower and my watch was off a few minutes. I hope you weren’t planning on leaving without
me.”
When we got into the car I asked, “Do you want to go get breakfast before leaving the City?”
She said, “Yes, Definitely. I’m hungry. There’s a Burger King nearby and I have a coupon for free French toast sticks with the purchase of a coffee.”
Jackie directed me me to the restaurant. Based on yesterday’s fiasco at a fast food restaurant I asked, “Do you want to go through the drive throw or order inside?
She replied, “Either way is fine but I would rather go inside so I can go to the bathroom.”
I parked the car and went inside. She pulled the coupon from her purse and handed it to me. I examined it. It was not expired. We went inside and I walked up to the counter to order, while she made a beeline for the ladies room.
The building was located on an intersection near what looked like several houses converted to office buildings. It was first thing in the morning so the inside was clean and Jackie and I were the only customers inside. There were several cars lined up at the drive through window. It smelled like coffee and fried food.
I ordered two breakfast sandwiches, an order of hash browns and a large Coke for myself and a large coffee and French toast sticks for Jackie, all to go. While the clerks were preparing our order Jackie appeared and shouted, “Please remember honey NOT syrup to dip my sticks in! The syrup here gives me bad gas!”
I asked for honey and the server made a weird face after hearing Jackie then gave me three small containers of it.
I then turned around to ask Jackie what she wanted in her coffee, I noticed she was randomly grabbing item off the condiments counter and putting them in her handbag. The employees did not seem to care. She turned around and told me, “Three creams and one sugar please.”
I repeated her request to the cashier as he was getting the drinks ready.
After paying for the meal we got back into the car and started driving again. A freeway exist was just several blocks to the East of us. Once on the highway I inquired “Just how much crap from the restaurant did you actually put in your purse?”
As we ate and drove on the interstate leading out of New Orleans Jackie answered my question and showed me the spoils of her efforts. Three rolls of toilet paper, a huge wad of Kleenex, a dozen or more tampons and pads(she has a special key to unlock dispensers), 3 small (former ) shampoo samplers filled with pink hand soap from a sink dispenser, napkins, straws, a few plastic forks, spoons and knives and handfuls of salt, pepper, relish, mustard and ketchup packets. I now knew why she liked the unusually shaped purse and wondered if it was magic because it seemed to have no limits as to what could be stored inside.
She commented, “I love this shoulder bag. The small white flower patterns printed on the cloth are so pretty. I think it’s homemade because it looks like it was cut and hand stitched by someone who’s just learning to sew. Kirkey gave it me a couple years ago for a birthday present. I like that it holds so much but does not feel bulky or heavy. You never know when you or someone else might need something. I stock up on little stuff that’s free when I can. Burger King certainly won’t miss it.”
Jackie turned on the radio after she finished eating and just listened quietly to the music for a while. She also rubbed some of the medicated cream she was given yesterday for her itching on her arms, legs and belly. She had used up half the tube already.
My plan was to basically go back the way I came. As I got closer to Ohio though I would then follow the signs directing drivers to Cincinnati and let Jackie take over from there.
Just as we were getting ready to cross over from Louisiana into Mississippi the clouds in the sky quickly thickened and turned dark green. I observed, “It looks like we are driving towards a bad thunderstorm.”
Jackie nodded her head in agreement and said, “You may need to pull over in a few minutes while it passes over us if the rain comes down too hard to see through.”
It started raining harder and harder as we got closer to the storm. What Jackie said was correct. Diving became hazardous. We and several other cars had to pull over while the sudden torrential downpour passed over. It also hailed for a minute but the ice pellets were not that big. Jackie then pointed to the west and told me “It’s worse looking over there. I wonder if there’s a tornado?”.
Within seven or eight minutes the storm has passed, we had left Louisiana and the sun was shining brightly again.
Radio stations became difficult to tune into after a while so Jackie stopped trying to change channels and took a cassette tape from her purse and put it in the car player. She proclaimed, “I made this tape myself. It holds a lot of meaning for me.”
I thought it would be a mixed tape of lots of different tracks. It turned out that there was only one tune on the entire cassette that she recorded over and over again from the radio. The song was “Run Away Train” by Soul Asylum.
As the music played in the background she ruffled through her bag looking for a cigarette and lighter. A piece of scrap paper with handwriting and scribbles fell out on the floor. She asked, “Do you mind if I smoke in your car?”
I said, “No, as long as you open the window and flick your ashes out it”
I then pointed out the paper on the floor and inquired, “What’s that?”
Jackie picked it up and told me, “It’s a poem I’ve been working on for a few months now.”
I smiled and asked her, “Tell me more. Can you recite it to me and explain it? I’ve been taking a lot of English classes at college lately. I enjoy literature and writing. “
She hesitated a moment, considered the request then proceeded to unfold the paper and read her poem;
I am bound by a curse
That controls my reality
Victimized by Fate
Making life a series of misunderstandings
Based on what outsiders say and want to believe
I wish those people would just stop launching their warships
And search for the truth
Instead of trying to rescuing me
I know it’s not pretty
Though their lies are no better
They cut even deeper wounds than my inner pain
Regretfully
I have no choice but to fulfill my Destiny
While others keep walking in their never-ending circles
The infighting continues
Ignoring my feelings
Accepting fiction as fact
Calling my tears sadness
Instead of frustration
Mislabeling my unconditional love as infatuation