Student Stories: A New Orleans Classroom Chronicle

Salisa came to visit us in class last week. She was scheduled to graduate from Douglass last year, but somehow the scheduling process and transcript transfers left her missing one required class. Many of our students in New Orleans have faced similar problems since the hurricane. From missing course transcripts and botched schedules to lost scores on the state’s graduation exam, these young people continue to be pounded by the aftermath of Katrina.

This brief narrative she wrote last year gives a glimpse of the strong will she developed from her parents. She’s taking her last high school class now, and she will graduate in May.

Not The White One
Salisa Johnson

I was 8 years old turning 9 in a couple of days, and I saw this “My Size Doll” commercial, and I ran to tell my mom. But by the time she came the commercial had ended. My mother and I went to Toys R’ Us, and they only had white dolls. Hearing “I’m not buying that White doll,” I screamed to the top of my lungs. I scratched, punched and kicked to get this doll. But it didn’t work.

The next day I told my daddy about the doll. So we went to Wal-Mart. They only had White dolls, but my dad still bought me the My Size Doll I wanted.

I was worried that my mom wouldn’t let me keep the doll. So when I got home I opened my pack of crayons and colored the forehead, the front of the arms, and the front of the legs brown. When my mother came home, she saw me playing with the doll. I was relieved that she was too tired to bother me about the doll. Later that night I fell asleep next to my newly tanned friend.

The next morning when I woke up my doll should have been next to me. I started searching high and low until my oldest sister said, “Mama threw it away.” My mother had broken the arms and the legs and put the pieces in the trash outside. I cried and cried, because that’s what I really wanted. The next morning was my birthday, and I received a Black “Walk With Me Doll” named Rita and a Black “My Size Doll” named Nune. I didn’t hold a grudge about my murdered doll. After all I was only 9 years old.

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Today Gabrielle Turner joined other SAC staff members in a featured presentation at the national convention of the Association of Teacher Educators. Gabrielle has been working as a student and staff member of SAC for over seven years, and she is planning to enroll in the Master of Arts in Teaching program at Emory University next fall.

We also want to give a special thanks to the Georgia Association of Teacher Educators, which has been a good friend and supporter of Students at the Center since Hurricane Katrina and with whom we shared the panel at today’s presentation, where we agreed that teachers in training and teachers in general needed the sense of history and mission that Gabrielle expressed today, the roots of which are described in her essay, “Ordinary Hero.”

Ordinary Hero
Gabrielle Turner

"Every time I'd hear his voice I'd run to the television and plop down in front of it. I would take in every word he said. Dr. King was mesmerizing. I didn't always understand what was going on. I knew it was big, important, and exciting. I knew I wanted to be a part of what was going on.

"One cold morning I got up early, threw on some jeans, and caught the Desire bus to Canal Street. I knew that there was a boycott on Canal. There were hundreds of people standing on the neutral ground. I wandered through the crowds and listened to the conversations. I got more excited as the minutes passed. Someone wanted a break. A man beckoned for a replacement. I found myself in the picket lines."

These are the words of my mother. She was taking part in a movement for equality and job opportunities. She was barely out of high school. They were picketing because African Americans could spend their money in stores and restaurants but couldn't sit and have a meal in them. They had menial jobs that paid next to nothing.

My grandfather had one of the better jobs a black man could have in the sixties. He was a postal worker. He watched white men who were often less qualified and equally educated pass him by as they moved up the pay scale. The only difference was that he was black.

A year later my mother found herself at Loyola University. This university was private, prestigious, and practically all white. She later got a good job with the government. These opportunities are what the civil rights workers were working for.

"One morning I walked in my Sociology class late. No one had noticed that I had just arrived. Everyone's focus was on the television. I didn't know what was going on. On television there was a crowd of black men protesting. I soon learned that the police were trying to shut down a program that was led by the Black Panthers in the Desire Project. A young white student turned with his face six inches from mine. He confronted me, saying 'if these men were at work this wouldn't be going on.’ I was the only black person in the class, and I was from the Desire Project. Everyone began to demand explanations and make accusations against the protesters. I looked up at the teacher for her to rescue me. She stood at the front of the class with her arms folded and a strange smile on her face. Finally, class ended, and everyone left. I stayed behind in the quiet lonely classroom and cried. I was so upset I went back home."

I could hear in my mom’s voice when she was telling me this story that she was hurt and angry. My mom is a very strong person. But a person can only take so much. My mom was very courageous to have been the only black in the class. I know my mother, and even though this was a hard situation to deal with, she wasn't going to let it stop her from doing what she had to do. The incident in the classroom was only the beginning of an unforgettable experience that affected the rest of her life. She finished the story, telling me what happened later that day.

"To make things worse I was about a half a mile from home. On the way home, I was met by a police roadblock. The police said I couldn't take my car any further. I had to walk home. I grabbed my bag and walked six blocks in deep thought. When I reached the grassy courtyard outside of our building, I heard a swishing noise in the grass. I looked down to see a white police officer looking at me from behind an outstretched rifle. He looked at me and then looked away giving me permission to go on. I was incredulous, furious, but for some reason not afraid. I was too angry to be afraid. I walked in my house to the hushed voices of my family telling me to get down because the police were everywhere. The same event that was on the television in the class had escalated.''

Later that night, my mom joined hundreds of protesters on the streets outside the Panther building. She said she had mixed feelings. She really didn't support the Black Panthers because of their talk of violence and hatred. They were one of those groups that thought Dr. King’s way would never work. But the anger from the experience earlier that day and the sight of tanks, assault weapons, and enough policemen to fight a small war swayed her sympathies.

She is like so many other ordinary people who got caught up in the civil rights movement. She joined in with other unknown heroes and helped out. Today we all reap the benefits.

I am truly grateful for my mother. I think I am the kind of person I am because of her. I am not afraid to take a stand for the things I believe. In my own quiet way, I fight against those things that are wrong.

If no one else sees my mother as a hero, I do.

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Christopher Burton graduated from Douglass in May, 2005. He spent that summer the same way he had spent the two previous summers, working with Students at the Center in writing workshops, video productions, mentoring and teaching younger students in summer camps, and helping us train teachers and develop plans and projects for the next school year.

Chris is a big help in our classes since Katrina. He is not only learning how to teach through direct participation and assistance in our classes but also through his writing and our students’ reactions to those writings. He will start his teaching career keenly aware that knowing his students and responding to their thoughts and experiences is as important as knowing well the content he will teach.

Go to Grandma’s
Christopher Burton

Hey, Mom. I have never written to you before, but I thought I should, so I’m doing it now.

Hey, Mom. Do you remember those days when I was in kindergarten at Nelson? You would come by to pick me up wearing that long dress of yours. How your dress never reflected brilliance, even when the sun was shining full and bright without a cloud in sight. And even though your dress didn’t shine in the sun, that plastic pack of Lance cookies you always brought with you did. You would hold my hand, and we would walk home, just you and I.

Mom, remember the time when my older brother, twin sister, and I came home from school, my older brother having been directed by you to go to grandma’s after school? We found you in the big, brown, lazy-boy recliner with a blanket on your lap and eating Coco Puffs in that distinctive way of yours: spoon pushed down the center of the bowl until you had a spoonful of cereal. I found some of your hair on the floor that day, and I picked it up and rolled it between my fingers, not getting any grease from it. You had told me that your hair was falling out.

Mom, I don’t know if you know this or not, but every time my older brother, twin sister, and I came home to our home and found a note on the door saying “Go to Grandma’s,” my twin sister and I never knew what had happened to you or where you went. But we were always glad when you came back. I know that for some reason every time the note on our door said, “Go to Grandma’s” my siblings and I would walk back down the pissy stairs, and I would think of clean things, of sterile things. I would remember that day when we were in the Desire Projects, and I spied a glimpse of you in your room with a nurse, or I think that’s what she was. The nurse was applying a clear liquid that smelled sort of like rubbing alcohol to a big sore you had on your chest where your breast should have been.

And momma, I was really sad when you didn’t come back a day, a week, or a month later when the note said, “Go to Grandma’s.” By the fall, when school started again at Nelson, we had no more notes on the door, because you were no longer here.

Grandma took me to the first day of first grade.

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For the next week or so we will feature student writings that explore their relationships with their parents. Such writings are an important part of our curriculum for a couple of reasons.

We’ve already introduced Rodneka Shelbia, a former Douglass student and SAC staff member. We’d like to honor the memory of her mother today too. Ms. Mary was a wonderful friend and supporter of our program. She is also one of the many victims of the aftermath of Katrina. She was only in her 40’s when she died of health problems last spring.

“I Ain’t No Little White Girl”
Rodneka Shelbia

“I aint no little white girl,” I thought to myself many days of January 2004, even though a little white girl was all I wanted to be the days of my early childhood years, because that’s what my mama called me. Not because I was light-skinned, had light eyes, a white daddy, but because I had long, bouncy straight hair.

I loved it when she called me her little white girl, and that’s probably why I always kept up my hair and never let it look nappy. Then one day after getting perms after perms, after rollers, curlers, and hot irons, I decided to let my hair grow natural.

I knew it would probably be hard for me socially to walk around my peers with a bush or dreads or anything natural, because that’s just not what my peers were into, and just from observing their conversations you would pick that up. You would find a lot of them saying stuff like “girl I need a perm” and “girl you need to brush up them bebes.”

It never really crossed my mind that it would be hard for me to walk around my mother like that. I thought my mother understood, until the day she was mad enough to put me out when she asked, “Rodneka when you gonna get a perm?” and I replied “never.”

It was always hard for me to explain to my mother why I made this decision, because she always got upset before I could get to explaining. She told me one time that she kept our hair straight, because one day when we were poor somebody said something like “look at Mary’s old nappy-headed children,” and she promised herself she would never let her children walk around looking nappy-headed. I tried to share with her that I am a beautiful young African American girl the way god made me, and I don’t have to constantly change myself to look like somebody else just to be beautiful. But I don’t think she understood.

At school after a while some of my peers started to accept me, and though they had a whole lot of questions and suggestions, I was happy with that. But of course there were those who just couldn’t stand that I chose naturally nappy hair over that permed stuff. To them I tried to explain the same as I did to my mother. “I ain’t no little white girl, I’m beautiful and

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We celebrated Toni Morrison’s birthday today. Students in our classes at both McMain and Douglass are reading Beloved.

Today we feature one of those writings by Vinessia Shelbia, a member of the first graduating class from Douglass after the hurricane. Douglass was the fifth high school Vinessia attended during her four-year high school career. As a ninth-grader, she was in our creative writing class at another public high school in New Orleans, McDonogh 35. And the summer after her 8th grade year, Vinessia attended our summer workshops with her cousin Rodneka.

MY SPECIAL KISS
Vinessia Shelbia

I don’t remember my first kiss. I remember who it came from, but that moment when our lips first touched doesn’t play in my mind. I do remember my very special kiss. It was the beginning of our relationship, when there’s no fighting and that person is always on your mind.

We hadn’t talked the whole morning, I guess because I was having a busy day at school. Usually I would find time to call and sneak in a “what you doing?” or “how your day goin?” But this day I couldn’t find the time.

Not talking to him had me very anxious. 3:00 that evening came, and school was over. I went on with my daily routine, walking and thinking about past conversations that we shared. I got home, put my bags down, and next I picked up the phone. Before it could get to the second ring my momma gave me the news that he had passed around the house looking for me.

When he answered the phone, my first question was “where you at?”

“On my way around there by you.”

I said “okay see you later.” I wanted to hurry off the phone, so I could take off my school uniform and put on some regular clothes. Before I knew it the phone was ringing. I knew it was him, so I didn’t answer because I wasn’t ready. After I spruced myself up, out the door I went.

We stopped at the Chinese place and got something to eat. After we ate we drove to the lake. We stood close to the water, and I felt cold. My eyes rolled up from the water, and the moon looked close enough for me to hold it. For the first time in my life, I saw the moon float on water. It was so beautiful.

I thought about how my world had changed. Down came the tears of joy. He looked in my face and asked why I was crying. I told him I was happy. He kissed me, and I took the place of the moon. I was the one, now floating.

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Many of our students are dealing with friends and family members who are serving out of the country in the U. S. military. Kanisha Daniels, a junior at Douglass High School, wrote this poem as part of her thinking about this international situation that hits close to home for so many of our students.

In this age of high school reform and program development, we still believe that the best teaching involves not just bringing good programs, lessons, and opportunities to students but also building those three dimensions of education out of the lived experiences and writings that students bring to class. That’s why our motto at SAC is “Start with what you know to learn what you don’t know. Start with where you’re at to get to where you want to go.”

Questions For My Grandfather
Kanisha Daniels

The snow on the old pine tree, like an x-ray
searching out some kind of cancer.
And the best I can do is wonder
just exactly what you’d say about it.

I was seven, almost eight, bouncing on a knee.
And if I’d known anything about war not played with
flimsy, dull-edged cards around an old, extended
kitchen table every Sunday or two, I might have asked.

I bet it changed people, war, I mean.
Killing all those mother’s sons.
Shooting sounds like a small town’s fireworks.
And everything I’ve read about.

It’s cold here, and my footprints explode
into this inch or two of snow
and then disappear, lost with each gust of wind.

And if I could, I’d ask him how a kid
no older than me can get sent to hell
and live to talk about it.

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Our course readings are a significant element of the collective discourse through which students write and think about their lives and revise not only their writings but also their thinking.

Rodneka Shelbia, a Douglass student prior to Katrina who has worked on staff with Students at the Center and now attends college, wrote this essay in response to her reading of Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave.”

Plato’s Cave and My Freedom
Rodneka Shelbia

When I was 13 years old, I stumbled into a place with very little air and very little space. I was uncomfortable. I stumbled in this place not knowing what I was getting into, not knowing a way out. This place was a dark, confusing, messed up place. Being in this place was terrifying and painful, full of decisions. This place was a cave, a cave of many emotions.

This cave was a relationship between me, a boy named Tim, and a boy named Rodney. Tim was my boyfriend. Tim and I had a good relationship. We were known as the star couple. We had known each other for about three years, but we were together for about five months. Tim had what I look for in a boyfriend. He attracted me because he was himself. He did not try to be anyone else, and he accepted me for me. He was my 9-10, but we broke up. We broke up over a few words that were passed around and the pressure of Rodney.

Rodney was someone I would call a best friend. Tim, on the other hand, thought Rodney was not just a best friend. He saw Rodney as someone trying to get with someone else’s girlfriend. After Tim and I stopped talking, Rodney and I started talking. Rodney was the type of dude that would do anything to get what he wanted. He was good at his game, cause he got me. We were together for about two weeks, but after those two weeks he lost me. I had to leave him alone. I felt like I was cheating on him, cause I still had love for Tim, which meant Rodney wouldn’t get all I had to offer, maybe not even half.

Now I was hurting, stuck in the middle of a four-wall cave, just confused. On each of the walls there was an engraving that somewhat frightened me. The first wall was engraved, “Rodney,” next “love,” then “Tim,” and last “Decisions.” On the ceiling and base of the cave there were little riddles and clues telling me where the answer lay. There was one in bold print that stood out like none other. It stated, “The answer lies where you stand.” I sat thinking, “What does this mean?” What could I do to help myself, to strengthen myself, to free myself? I soon noticed two rocks next to me. Those rocks were nothing more than my feelings.

The first rock was soft and chalk-like. With this rock in my hands I looked around and repeated three of the clues to myself. 1) The answer lies where you stand. 2) Freedom is the key. 3) “X” out that that won’t help. 1) The answer lies where you stand. 2) Freedom is the key. 3) “X” out.

I thought, “Freedom, freedom is the key. It can open the cave. The rock lies where I stand. The rock can “x” out the words on the cave. I can write freedom on the cave. It just might open.” I was hoping and praying as I got up to try my plan. I got up to the wall, but the rock was so soft it crumbled up as I wrote. I found that the rock didn’t engrave nor write, because the rock was soft and contained no strength, no power, only mixed emotions. It didn’t help me at all.

I sat hopelessly thinking. “What am I going to do now?” I looked at the second rock and thought to myself, “Ain’t no way in hell I’mma get that rock.” So I just sat making excuses. “It’s too far; I can’t walk. It’s too heavy; I’m too weak. It’s in a pile of man-eating creatures; they’ll eat me alive. That junk is gonna hurt. It’ll probably make me look ugly.” Then I thought to myself, “It’s the only way out.” So I walked over there to get the rock, but in the process I suffered. I bled and lost a lot, but I got the rock.

This rock gave me confidence. Every step I took with this rock felt like the hardest step in the world. When I got to the wall, I started to write freedom on it. That was very hard, because my hands were bloody, and the rock was heavy. I had to push the stone in the wall to make the engravings, but the good part about it was that as I engraved I grew stronger. I became more powerful, and my emotions came in line.

When I finished, the cave vanished. I became free. Rodney was gone. Tim was gone. Love was gone. And I was free, oh so free.

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Today’s entry, by Shana O’Connor of McMain Secondary School, again illustrates ways collective discussion in the SAC class leads to deep revision that involves research and rethinking, not just cleaning up language errors or making smoother transitions.

My First Tatoo
Shana O’Connor

In November, 2006, I chose to get my first tattoo. Though I knew that my family wouldn’t necessarily approve of it, I knew it was something I wanted to do. It was a fleur de lis, signifying the rebuilding of New Orleans along with the new life I would begin to live when I graduate from high school. It being in the center of my back symbolizes how much my city means to me. However, the meaning of the fleur de lis has more depth than what I thought.

After discussing this essay in Mr. Randels’ class and hearing Mr. Kalamu state that the fleur de lis was used to brand slaves and to torture enemies, I had to research it more. This is when I found out that the flower was French and was in fact used to brand Spanish slaves. The first thought to enter my head was, “I’m a slave to put a flower that symbolizes something so horrible on me.”

But after realizing that the tattoo wouldn’t go away and having a long conversation with my mother about it, I came to a conclusion: My fleur de lis has a special meaning to me. Part of that meaning is the fact that it can’t be researched, and no matter how hard anyone tries, it can never be defined as I define it. When I see it, I’m reminded of the fun I had that day and the freedom I felt just from getting ink into my skin. When I see the symbol, I’m reminded of the city that care seemed to forget, but having it on me means I can’t ever over look it or be ashamed of where I come from. You see, New Orleans is the center of my life right now. It’s what molded me. So the Fleur de Lis may have signified slavery, but in my eyes it’s the symbol that has set me free.

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As always Marleesa bounded into her SAC English IV class at McMain Secondary School and pleaded to read her new essay to the class. She had interviewed her grandmother as part of our exploration of the intersection between family and civic life. She read an earlier draft of the essay featured in today’s entry.

It was a typical day in our class, with students learning from each other and reflecting on the range of material we have studied in class in light of a new problem posed by a student-written text. We are proud of the way students make their work public in class and then use this collective setting to think more deeply about what they are writing and reading—and then to revise their writings based on these reflections.

“Now I wasn’t no Rosa Parks, but I was Ester Thompson”
Marleesa Thompson

Grandma moved to New Orleans during the prime of the Civil Rights Movements. The year 1960 involved the Carnival Day Blackout, the Dryades Street Boycotts, and the start of sit ins. Naturally when I asked my Grandma about the civil rights movement, I thought that she would have never-ending stories to tell. Unfortunately her reply was, “I wasn’t involved in all that. I worked.”

Knowing that my grandmother wasn’t an active member of the anti-racist movement disappointed me. She came from a small town in Alabama, which was mainly black. My family often jokes about my grandmother being a house slave, meaning she would probably rat out the runaway slaves because of how much she respects whites.

My grandmother has worked for white people since she came to New Orleans. She would watch their children and clean their homes. She was known as Ester, even to the children. It wasn’t until their children had children that she was finally called Ms. Ester. These people grew to love her, but they never looked at her as an equal. She was just a benefit to them. Maybe that’s why my grandmother puts white people on a pedestal. She was so used to looking up at them, because in her mind they stood above her. My grandmother even changed her voice when she talked on the phone with them.

Since I was born, I’ve known these people whom my grandma worked for. I’ve made it my top priority to show my grandma that I am capable of anything their children can do. It wasn’t until Xavier University sent me my scholarship letter, revealing that my college education was paid for, that my grandmother realized the capability of black people. She was overjoyed, because none of the white family’s children received scholarships. Hearing the excitement in her voice when she told her employers brought tears to my eyes.

My grandma had been living in the 1950’s all her life. Now she is finally being released from the firm grip the past held on her.

“Look at me, child,” my Grandma said with sternness in her eyes.

“I’m looking, but I don’t see much of nothing,” I replied smartly. Shoot, all Grandma ever did was work up under them white folks.

“That’s because you’re not looking hard enough,” she said with her hands pulling my face close to hers.

“I know you wondering why I wasn’t involved in the Movement. Baby, I wanted to. Lord knows I did. But I had eight children to raise. I had to make sure that they had a better education than I did. It may have been nothing much to you, but it sure as hell was something to me. I made sure my children went far in life. Now I wasn’t no Rosa Parks, but I was Ester Thompson. You will respect me for that.”

My grandma may have not been what I thought was a leader, but she built a generation of strong black people. Never once did Grandma tell my mother that she shouldn’t go to an all-white nursing school. Never once did she tell my uncle to leave New Orleans for college. Instead, she pushed them further. People like my grandmother were the backbone to the Movement.

“Grandma, I’m sorry I underestimated you. It’s just that they don’t teach that in the schools. They don’t talk about people like you.”

“I know baby. I know.”

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For many families in New Orleans, Mardi Gras is about much more than having a good time or even using the holiday and its industry as leverage for changing laws and customs. For many of us Mardi Gras reminds us of generations of struggle and gratitude and the on-going need for such work today.

On this Mardi Gras day, many families will continue to teach their children and share traditions in intentional and sometimes serendipitous ways, as Demetria White, a 2007 graduate of McMain Secondary School and SAC staff member, describes in today’s student essay.

The Beat Goes On
Demetria White

Flipping through the pages of an old family scrapbook, I see pages filled with past Mardi Gras snapshots. There are old, discolored pictures of Mardi Gras Indians and a section filled with people dressed as clowns. I didn’t know any of these faces and began to wonder why they were in my family’s scrapbook.

Flipping back to the section with the unknown clowns, I asked, “Daddy, who are these people?”

He let out a few chuckles and replied, “This is your family.”

“Okay. . . ,” I said, giving him that tell-me-more look.

“Meat, this was a long time ago, before you were even thought of. One Mardi Gras, me and your momma made those clown suits for all the kids in the family.”

He lifted the plastic cover and removed a few pictures from the pages.

“You see. There is Dexter, Vincent, Nelly, Angel, and Lika. Look, there is Nettie and your momma and Vanessa. That was one of the best Mardi Gras’s ever. Boy, did it take some time to make those suits, but we did it for those children. They loved it. Little L and D clowns walking the streets of New Orleans. . . .”

As my daddy began reminiscing on that Mardi Gras, I began to flip the pages. As I flipped through, my dad abruptly placed his hand on a picture of a man wearing an orange Indian suit. His mouth was wide open like a roaring lion. Both hands were raised, and one foot was lifted. It was sort of scary looking. A sudden outburst came from the left.

“Fi ya ya, who got that fiya. . . Aaaaaaaaa! Wild boy coming through. Make way. Make way.”

My dad began saying these chants and moving his arms like he was at a tribal ceremony.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Girl, that’s me. You can’t tell? I’m wild boy, 7th ward wild boy!”

As he danced and chanted, I laughed hysterically. He really looked like a true Navajo Indian, like he should be dancing around a campfire worshipping Mother Earth. My daddy went on to tell me how he masked for the Downtown Indians with Tootie Montana. He said the most exciting part was roaming the streets of the 7th ward tapping his tambourine and chanting.

As I watched my dad put on his show, I received a small history lesson. I learned that black folks began to mask Indian as a way of honoring folks who were native to the Louisiana and New Orleans area, and in the 18th century assisted enslaved Africans who had escaped and were working as the original freedom fighters, conducting slave revolts and establishing independent black communities and preserving African cultural traditions, all with some assistance from Native Americans.

As my daddy traveled down memory lane, this scrapbook came alive. He brought the pictures to life by telling the stories and reliving every moment.

Looking through the scrapbook with my daddy was very important to me. Even though my pedigree doesn’t trace back to maroon colony leader Juan Malo or the NAACP’s attorney A. P. Tureaud, I realized the importance of Mardi Gras to our family—and the importance of us honoring our ancestors who fought for freedom and those who helped them. It was a beat that could be found in every family member. The excitement, the culture, the atmosphere, everything about Mardi Gras throbs in our souls. The beat is so strong. If you walk past that scrapbook today, you might be able to hear it. “Fi ya ya!”

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Gabrielle Caine, author of today’s selection (second-to-last in this series of blogs) from The Long Ride is another of the resilient students we had the privilege of working with at Douglass after Katrina.

Douglass was the fourth high school for Gabrielle when she joined us last year as an 11th grader. She comes from a long line of resilient New Orleanians who have struggled for basic human rights for generations and even when we’re having fun at carnival time.

All on a Carnival Day
Gabrielle Caine

Carnival is one of my best days. I like the Zulu parade most of all, because they throw the most things. I’m not talking about beads. I’m talking about stuffed animals, baby dolls, make-up kits, and coconuts.

I will never forget about one carnival, the year after Hurricane Katrina, when government officials were saying they may not have a carnival season, because there were not enough people back in the city. When I heard that, I started crying like a big baby. I said, “No one is coming back. I will never see my friends. Carnival is no longer my best day.” I started thinking about all of that.

Then in my writing class I learned about another carnival day that got me thinking even more. It was in the late 1950’s when the city was keeping its Municipal Auditorium segregated. The musicians’ union and some social aid and pleasure clubs decided to follow the suggestion of Leonard Burns, who was a member of the NAACP and the Urban League, and do something about this and all the other government segregation. They formed the United Clubs and used their carnival balls and organizations to raise money for civil rights causes and the United Negro College Fund.

From this start in 1953 to the late 1950’s, the United Clubs became more aggressive as local, state, and federal officials became more extreme in keeping blacks as less than equal citizens. Russell Long, the U. S. Senator from Louisiana, even encouraged white parents to pull their children out of public schools in New Orleans rather than go to black and white integrated schools.

And that’s when the United Clubs did something I’m not sure I’d want to do. They were going to cut out carnival for everyone, blacks and whites. It was going to be a “blackout,” meaning no black musicians or marching clubs or even balls with all the tuxedo rentals and gown and flower purchasing that goes with that.

If I was around in 1957 and 1961 when that happened and they tried to let white folks use Municipal Auditorium without letting blacks in, I probably would have been in jail behind protesting. Or I would have put white make-up on and snuck into the balls. But I love carnival no matter if it’s a ball, a party, or a parade. I’m glad I don’t live in a time when we have to cancel carnival just to get people to act right. But it also makes me wonder if we’re just not paying enough attention to when people treat us bad or if we’re too busy having fun or if we’re just not as unified as the unions, the social aid and pleasure clubs, the carnival organizations, and the civil rights organizations were back then.

Posted by Jim Randels at 1:57 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Today’s excerpt from The Long Ride, Students at the Center’s collection of student writings on the history of civil rights and social justice struggles in New Orleans, continues the theme of teachers seeking quality education and social equality, often in open conflict with their school boards.

The dialogue by Maria Hernandez, which we present below, reflects on a time 70 years ago when black teachers had to find creative and unified ways to communicate with their school board.

Imagined Conversation with Veronica Hill: Charter Member of AFT Local 527
Maria Hernandez

Excuse me. Are you Mrs. Hill?

Yes, I’m Mrs. Hill.

Are you Mrs. Veronica Hill?

What did I just say child? Yes, I’m Veronica Hill.

I’m sorry I was just trying to make sure that you are the right person.

What am I the right person for and who are you?

My name is Maria Hernandez, and I just wanted to know if the rumors were true?

If what rumors are true?

That you broke into a school board meeting back in 1937.

That’s a long story that I’m willing to tell if you’re willing to listen.

Oh, am I willing to listen!

You better come sit down by me, because you’ll be here for a while.

Is it okay that I sit here? And can I ask a few questions as you go?

You can sit where ever you want and ask as many questions as you want as long as you’re listening.

You don’t have to worry about that.

So you know that we broke into the school board meeting, but do you know the history behind that one day.

What history? I thought that you were just acting on a heat of the moment kind of thing like me and my friends usually do.

Well it was something like that, but we never planned to break into the meeting. We just wanted to give them a petition signed by both black and white teachers demanding that whenever white teachers get a pay raise black teachers would get a raise too.

So what you’re saying is that white teachers were actually on your side?

As strange as it sounds, yes many of them were on our side on that issue. Some of them even came with us to the school board meeting.

So how did you decide to break into the meeting?

As I said before we just wanted to give them the petition, but when we got there the doors were locked. That’s when some one noticed that the iron steps of the fire escape were low enough to climb.

Did you have to break a window to get in or was it open?

Actually, neither—the janitor opened the window for us.

When you got into the building, did you make a big commotion and get arrested or something like that?

All we did was push the petition under the door in the room where they were meeting.

Did you ever get any results to your petition?

The very next day.

Really? What happened?

The policy was passed that every time white teachers got a pay raise, black teachers would get the same pay raise.

So what you’re saying is that black and white teachers were getting paid equal salaries?

No, child. You’re not listening. The salaries stayed very unequal, but if a two percent pay raise was given to white teachers, black teachers got it too.

Sounds like you got what you wanted.

You think?

Well, you got the raise that you demanded in the petition.

Yes, you’re right. But we knew we needed more. That was just the start of forming our own union and demanding equal pay. But that’s a story for another day.

Can I come by tomorrow to hear it?

You have a little pushiness to you, don’t you?

I’ve got a lot to learn.

Yes. Come by tomorrow and I’ll tell you about Local 527, Joseph McKelpin, A. P. Tureaud, and all of that.

Thank you.

Posted by Jim Randels at 11:34 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)