“You STINK”, my mother would tell me when I would forget to wash under my armpits when I was a
child. That is the only word in my young vocabulary that I could think of when I encountered the smells
before we reached the bridge that would take my family into New Orleans as a strange odor
crept inside our car. All the windows were down since the weather was wet or humid I later
learned and the humid air flowed in with this peculiar “stink”. I asked my mother what that
smell was because it was something I had not encountered before. As always, her response
was “Ask your father”. Because I was sitting between the two of them, I turned to my father
and without me asking he answered it was the bayou. A bayou is a Franco (Links to an
external site.)-English (Links to an external site.) term for a body of water typically found in
flat, low-lying area, and which contains brackish or smelly water (Links to an external
site.) highly conducive to fish life for which New Orleans is famous for. Just before my family
crossed the bridge into New Orleans, my father stopped the car and we repositioned all of
our sitting arrangements. My mother felt that it kept us kids from getting bored. It landed
me right by the back seat window - my favorite place. As we crossed the bridge, a clean,
crisp odor entered my nose. There was no “stink” at all. My body knew exactly what it was
water – salt water; I could even taste the salt on my tongue. I laid my head on the window
ledge and let those smells wash over me. As they did I began to notice the antique bridge
lights spaced in exact increments on the bridge were beginning to make a rhythm of light as
they passed in singular session overhead. It became so soothing that it lulled me into almost
a trance and I could see the texture of the upholstery on the seat in front of me as it waxed
and waned with the overhead lights. The fibers of the fabric at times felt like they could be
so soft yet at others so harsh. Being dusk, they had a non-descript color. It appeared to me
that they were shades of grey but I knew they were tan with flecks of red being that I have
had this seat plenty of times across the country. In contrast, the only sound I heard was the
deep breathing of my sleeping siblings, a soft murmuring from my parents and the clink,
clink, clink of the car wheels as they hit metal on the bridge expansion. So, begins my new
life in the south.
The first thing you notice about the south is the weather and so it was with me. It is not
possible to describe the contrast of weather in New Orleans as compared to the
Northwest. It is wet but not a northwest soft wet which can chill you to the bone in the
winter. The humidity in the south does not seep into you but lies on your skin, soaking your
clothes from your underwear to your t-shirt. You are wet but still warm even hot depending
on the time of year. Along with the extreme of the humidity is the extremity of the weather
itself. Let it be said, I have as a child have been through many hurricanes where the wind
howls and is strong enough that I thought I could lay on it as I would throw my arms out
and let it push against my young body, a small spec in all of its fury. Being a child there
wasn’t a fear of the storm only the constant conversation around the weather phenomena we
gave a humane name to of “should we evacuate now or ride it out”. A common theme seen
as Hurricane Katrina washed out much of New Orleans. You could see that southern spirit of
steadfastness and faith which I now as an adult believe to be a common trait among all
species but saw firsthand as a child as I watched human beings, animals and nature prepare
for a storm.
I remember clean, freshly ironed sheets emitting a sweet, heady aroma which is what I woke
up to that first morning of arriving in New Orleans. It seems as my sister and brother; I too
had succumbed to the car rhythms and had fallen asleep. I vaguely remember my father
carrying me to my new bed and someone tucking me in and with a faint breath of “there,
there chil”, a sweet sound to my ears. Frieda Boyeau was the owner of that whisper, our new
housekeeper. She was a Louisiana Creole and as such spoke true “Cajun”, a historical
language that evolved from the French, Spanish and African heritage that were New Orleans
first immigrants. It was a soft drawn out language with inflections that led emphasis on
unusual syllables. I became aware immediately that my “northern accent” could not compare
to that southern drawl. However, my accent seemed to delight, confuse and even be a cause
for ridicule bringing up a debate between the elders of which was better the North or the
South. A common argument in the south. Being young, I adapted easily and was soon
ya’alling with the best of them along with the “yes, mam” or “yes, sir” which was a mandatory
address of etiquette for those older than you and at that time it seemed everyone was older.
As I look back it seems ironic but the reverse was true when my family returned years later to
the northwest when the same thing occurred only this time older and wiser rather than just
adapting, I consciously tried to squash my southern accent just to fit in.
This contrast of the south within itself leads me to other memories that from childhood have
shaped my life. One of which was a true contrast of black and white and learning the
meaning of race. People of different color and their status in a community became very
apparent to me and to my family. When we first moved to the south, I was allowed and even
encouraged to play with the “black” children. As I put my arm to one of my black friends to
compare color, as children will do, I once again wanted to adapt to be one of
them. Unfortunately, just as in Frederick Douglass’ essay my mother started out to be kind
and tender-hearted but soon with her own pressure to fit in and be the “southern mistress”,
“she was an apt woman; and a little experience soon demonstrated, to her satisfaction, that
education and slavery were incompatible with each other”[1] (slavery in my case meaning
“black” people) and in the 1960’s this was the atmosphere being contested in the
south. Integration was in order and my mother’s answer to the overall problem after my older
sister’s school was “desegregated” with having one of the first black students was to put her
children into a private catholic school. It was an emotional time as captured by the TimesPicayune[2] especially in pictures. As a small child, I did not understand not only the hierarchy
of class but the reasoning behind it all. Not to mention – the idea of race. From one
moment it was OK to be associated with the blacks of New Orleans including Frieda to the
next that Frieda was a maid and not a friend or my second MaMa. That the children I played
with were no longer welcome.
I am still at times confused. I still shake my head. It makes no sense. Now or then. Even as
a child I knew it was wrong. But these contrast of light and dark are just a few of the aspects
of the south that made up my childhood. There are many more that I am grateful for –
southern hospitality, learning - yes learning - southern charm, traditions, memories that will
be a part of me and make me a unique individual