Walking the streetcar tracks feels like a step between two worlds. Balancing on the track like I did when I was six and took gymnastics, step by step, I shift my weight toe heel toe heel like that dance we learned in sixth grade (toe heel toe heel rock step), but now I am sixteen, and sixth grade and six-years-old isn’t that far behind me but it feels like I’m nearing a point where I should edge my place into the world.
Anonymity is impossible here; all the schools are connected, and my mother is always calling out to someone whenever we walk down the street. When I was younger there was always someone watching; the city was my nanny, and crime stats and politicians were just words in the newspapers I made paper mache hearts out of. New Orleans makes me claustrophobic. Pinched down into words, I guess I look pretty bleak, I haven’t done much to help out after Katrina and I’m not exactly scooping oil out of the Gulf, and this city is already filled with so many heroes, so many names to live up to, musicians, artists, writers, politicians, war heroes and civil rights activists, it’s scary walking this streetcar track because of the options it presents. New Orleans is filled with so many more opportunities than every other city, even the dust it is made of seems to call at me to live up to my name and my city. The fine dirt that laces the sidewalks. The sand kicked up by hundreds of feet at Jazz fest. The mud rising over the heel of my foot as I stand barefoot in Audubon Park. The slick grime in between the cobblestones on St Joseph’s street downtown. The dry crusted dirt on Mardi Gras beads left on the streets for three days. The specks that cover the lens of a tourist’s camera. Stained glass windows with spider web dust and dirt lace lines. All made of the same stuff coating the same city like a glaze; it is a part of the whole.
Growing up in New Orleans is standing at the end of the streetcar tracks, looking forward and seeing a million directions to go in, and I become New Orleans in my choice.
- Ruthie, age 16