The Ghosts of New Orleans

The French Quarter

I had always wanted to go to New Orleans. Something about the city is so alluring, the history, the mystery and the magic (which is alive and well in the dark alleys) has beckoned me for years. Now I had the opportunity to spend a week in the French Quarter, where everything happens. This is where The excitement was, and the mystery. This is where the beautiful people congregated and the music never stopped.

I was eager to sit and listen to some good ole' Delta Blues, and I scrolled through venues on my iphone as the bus whisked me from Lois Armstrong to the French Quarter. I marveled at the cemetery as the shuttle carried me deeper into "Nawlins." The colossal mausoleums of polished marble and glass stood in the green fields as beautiful reminders of the delta's unusual perspective on death, and dying. I t was easy to see why ghosts and spirits are so much a part of the New Orleans culture. I commented to the woman seated next to me that it must cost a fortune to die in New Orleans, some of those tombs must have cost more than my first house.

Eventually the bus pulled to it's stop on Bourbon Street. The hotel The door squeaked open and I stepped off with my luggage in the heavy summer air. The street was crawling with people, many of whom had gathered to watch several young men painted white performing a dance in front of my hotel door.

The string of "Gentlemen's Clubs" on
Bourbon Street

But amidst the never ending party, amidst the amazing jazz and dixieland music and incredible food were people lurking and existing invisibly in plain sight. Skeletons peeked at me from dimly lit doorways, and skulls grinned at me from atop of shelves and brass based displays, reminding me again of the preoccupation with death and the spirits.

In the dark, I passed by one of the numerous "gentlemen's" establishments. A scrawny, pony tailed young man in a suit that was much too large for him stood out front, arms folded in front of him and calling out something that was supposed to entice and tantalize passers by (such as myself)to enter his dimly lit hall and experience the fulfillment of their fantasies. His demeanor could not be any more indifferent. As repulsed as I was by him, what I saw next made me feel even worse. I cast a passing glance into the door and my gaze was met by a slender young blonde woman wearing nearly nothing at all. She smiled at me sweetly, but that smile couldn't quite reach her eyes. The same was the case on my way back from the fabulous Redfish Grille, where the calls of two women in fishnets and leather beckoned me with "Hey baby, come play with us," in an enthusiastic tone that their body language simply could not match. I realized then that I had seen my first ghosts in New Orleans.

The Cafe Du Monde

The following day, I had taken a break from the company training I was in town for. I stood at the window of the conference room that looked directly onto Bourbon Street. Two surly looking homeless men, one shirtless and carrying a pit bull draped over his tanned shoulders was arguing with another man who appeared to be in his late forties to early fifties. This man was wearing a bite restraint mask, similar to the one Anthony Hopkins wore as Hannibal Lecter, a leather vest, black furry boy shorts and fishnet stockings. Later that evening I saw a young woman wearing only a bikini bottom and silver body paint. I walked the streets for almost an hour, witnessing the dozens of other assorted "performers," with no skills to appreciate wandering back and forth along Bourbon Street scavenging for tips, all part of the ambiance. All part of the electric atmosphere of this perpetual celebration. 

How had they ended up here? I wondered. How did it come to this for so many?

As I made my way to the incredible Cafe Du Monde I was halted by one of the most beautiful girls I had seen since my arrival. It was impossible to tell her age or nationality. Her skin was as dirty as her dreadlocked hair. She sat alone in a recess on the side of one of the busy streets, her little dog in her lap and a small cardboard sign that read, "Homeless and Hungry. Anything Helps."  I couldn't help staring at this child, whose pierced and dirty face brought out the stunning blue of her eyes, and wonder; "How did so much potential end up here?"

That my friends is the real mystery that I found in the City of New Orleans.

Homeless girl on Bourbon Street

When I looked at the once beautiful women who sold their souls for the entertainment of others who do not even see them as human beings, I grew sad. When I watched men humiliate themselves for a few dollars, I became uncomfortable. When I stared at the young homeless children--many of whom had audacity to match their apathy, my heart broke.

As I have stated, New Orleans is supposed to be full of ghosts and spirits. The city is the final resting place of the famous Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau, and the age and history of the streets hold energy from generations. In spite of the Hoodoo, Voodoo and Conjure, the real ghosts of the City are these invisible souls that people pass by without a second glance, or worse still, look directly at and don't recognize at all as a person.

I wonder how many people who drop dollar bills for women that take their clothes off realize, that those girls were once somebody's baby? They are someone's daughter. Maybe someone's sister. Possibly someone's mother. That guy out on the corner dressing in fishnets and furry shorts was someone's kid. Those punks sitting in the middle of the sidewalk asking for your change or even your cigar... They belonged to someone.

Every one of those characters, strippers, or urchins have needs. They all have wants. It would do many of us to remember that if it may only take one act of misfortune before we ourselves find ourselves there. A good question for all of to ask, is how far would we be willing to go to make ends meet? What would be the price to sell our soul, our dignity?

Remembering how close my family was to losing everything while my oldest child was alive is very real to me. I do not find myself able to pass judgement on those who live in the shadows. I know how close I was to becoming like these men and women. I know that circumstance as much as choice have lead them here.  

On the opposite side of that coin, there is a beauty in New Orleans in that anyone can be anything that they want. Cast your inhibitions aside and start your life over as one of these characters! If that truly makes you happy, then by all means. While I may not respect your choice, I can absolutely respect you for making it. I remember the eyes of the ghosts in the alleys and realize that those who choose freely are the exception, not the rule.

By Friday, I was on a plane with the gentle, hypnotic hum of the jet engines was putting me to sleep. It was difficult to put this week's installment together sitting there on the Tarmac waiting to return to the sunshine state, and my family. 

My family.

How many of those ghosts I left in New Orleans had families?

How many of those families wondered what had ever become of their loved ones?

It isn't just the Big Easy that these specters can be found. They are everywhere, towns big and small. I have seen them in Detroit, Tallahassee, Chicago, San Antonio, Flint and Grand Rapids. I have seen them in Seattle, Orlando and in Los Angeles. I have seen them in Myrtle Beach, Tampa, San Diego and in Reno. They are everywhere.They may not be as "in-your-face" as they are in the town where the party never stops, but they are there. In the same recessed corners of the streets, the shelters, and the bars. What did it take for them to lose their self respect? More importantly, what would it take to get it back? 

The next time you happen to see one of these ghosts, try looking into their eyes. What do you see? If you see anything else but a human being, it simply reinforces the fact that... 

We are still savages.