A week ago today, a group of Kentucky friends descended upon the great city of New Orleans. For the following four days, the eleven of us were Total Tourists. (Particularly my children, who could not be persuaded to remove their Minnie Mouse hats, tie-dyed T-shirts, tube socks and tennis shoes.) I’m talking cameras, backpacks, the works. We rode in a wagon behind Sugar Daddy the Horse touring the French Quarter. (“Mama, what’s a Sugar Daddy?”) We swallowed chargrilled oysters at Acme, muffelatas at Central Grocery, crab cheesecake at Palace Cafe. We climbed Oaks at City Park, fed alligators on a Swamp Tour, danced on Royal to Smoking Time Jazz Club. We strolled Audobon Park, rode the Street Car, ate King Cake at Mardi Gras World. We devoured in excess of 40 powdered sugar covered beignets at Café DuMonde. We even let the kids buy balloon animals from Checkers the Clown on Jackson Square. (A treat we’d previously refused the Bug and the Pea so many times, they dared not ask with company in town.)
“Where are you from?” asked Checkers.
“KENTUCKY!” the audience answered, in unison.
“Well, she’s from here,” added my friend, M.H.R., pointing toward me. Checkers raised an eyebrow.
“But I just moved here! I’m practically a tourist too.” I spoke in my defense. (Checkers answered, “Geez, well I’m from Nancy, that’s my Mom.”)
In retrospect, my reply must have appeared I was denying ties with New Orleans. Quite the opposite! I merely desired to be respectful. Being “from” New Orleans is nothing short of a badge of honor. A badge proudly worn by natives. Although I’ve established residency here, I cannot accurately claim I am “from” here. This local/native conundrum is a fascinating thought to ponder.
Before the move, I conferred with another NOLA transplant, L.G. on the phone. A sweet gal who grew up within an hour’s drive of where I lived in Kentucky. She told me how she’d been living in New Orleans over half her life, and how she hoped she would never leave. Her genuine love for the city was, and is, contagious. In fact, I’m quite sure the story of her son upon the shoulders of her husband during a Mardi Gras parade “sealed the deal” as far as my vote to go ahead with our family’s move. Yet, she wasn’t pulling any punches, she vividly described two hurricane evacuations. The first, during Katrina, with her infant daughter in tow. The second, during Gustav, nine months pregnant with her son, scheduled to deliver any moment. She made it safely to Baton Rouge, where her son was born.
“So,” she concluded, “Our daughter is the only one of us who is a native New Orleanean.”
“But, your son has lived here all his life, and you guys have lived here most of your life,” I said.
“True, but he was born in Baton Rouge.”
“But then you came right back to New Orleans,” I stated. (I mean SERIOUSLY, we’re just talking a matter of days or weeks, right?)
“True, but he was born in Baton Rouge.” Sweet, sweet L.G. persisted.
I had to smile, and still do when I remember our seemingly nonsensical circular debate. I smile now, because I UNDERSTAND. I see exactly what she means. Around here, if you were born in New Orleans… specifically the Orleans Parish… only then may you claim “native” status. Otherwise, you are welcome to love and adore the city, but you ain’t native, that’s for darn sure. (“Who’s your Mom? Where did you go to school? No, not college, high school?”)
This afternoon I strolled along the Mississippi, listening to live jazz musicians and enjoying my first Spinach & Crawfish Boat. I was speaking with a new friend, whom I had just been introduced to. He pointed out all of the “must see” events within The French Quarter Festival. (Or perhaps I should say, the “must eat” stations, as he was quite the Sensei when it came to selecting culinary extravaganzas, but I digress.) He had been to the festival each year since it’s conception, and multitudes of different festivals before that, dating back to when he was a child.
“Oh, you must be a native!” I exclaimed.
“No, no, I was born about 45 minutes away from New Orleans. But I always wanted to live here. So after college, I went to graduate school here, and then moved. But, I’m not from here,” he corrected.
I mentioned I found the conundrum fascinating. He replied we ought to start a support group. For folks like us, transplanted to the Crescent City at some point after birth (and often after high school…gasp). For folks who fell head over heels in love with everything that is New Orleans…the food, the music, the people, the spirit…and desire to claim the city as their own. A kind of club, for those Not Of New Orleans.
The NONO Club. And we could be the charter members.
So the next time I find myself in the French Quarter, (dusting off excess powdered sugar from the Mardi Gras beads dangling around my neck as I stow away my camera in a fanny-pack so I can flag down Sugar Daddy for a tour) I’ll look up ol’ Checkers the Clown.
And when he asks where I’m from, I will proudly reply: “I’m from Cindy, she’s my Mom.”
