The Canals

When I was growing up, there were open canals everywhere. During big afternoon thunderstorms, they would fill with drain water, sometimes at an alarming rate, washing their ecosystems of larvae, snakes, road debris and trash all the way down to other canals or ditches that presumably dumped them into Lake Pontchartrain. The city was founded on the Mississippi- which is, in its own way, a huge drainage ditch for a lot of the United States. And being a city under water anyway, riding through puddles, seeing cars occasionally floating down the road, those were all things hardly worth noticing. My first "canal" was the one down the center of Mirabeau Avenue. At that time, Mirabeau was a divided street. And a very exciting one. People sped down Mirabeau racing between City Park and Elysian Fields. It was forbidden to cross the street alone. I had no reason to cross completely. The lure was the often swamp- like canal, and its wealth of squiggly water creatures, snakes, dragonflies, water beetles, dead rats, and trash items thrown from passing cars. I cannot remember the actual sights, but I can feel the oppressive summer humidity that came from it. The weedy grasses that grew on the sides of the canal were cut once every two weeks or so by a huge piece of equipment that left the dead grass to compact and decay leading to even more heat being generated. Going to explore was a hot, itchy, sweaty, fascinating and scary thing all at one time. I didn't dare go with my brother or his friends- they would have pushed me into the water. I knew that much. But I could go by myself if I figured no one would miss me for a while. It was a short dash across the street and then a furtive climb down to the gummy mess. My brother had terrorized me with stories of how quick sand would eat you alive with no hope of escape. And I was never too sure what or where the quick sand was, but if it was anywhere real, then it was probably in that muck down in the canal.
My brother was particularly fascinated by Bayou St John. He and a friend found a wooden crate which they put a cardboard box into. When my mother saw them, they explained they had made a boat and were going to put it into Bayou St John. My mother forbade them to do so. And then, an hour later, they had disappeared. No amount of calling or searching produced a sign of either child OR the box. Frantic calls were made to the police and a search was begun. Neighbors walked the streets calling for him. Police searched the banks of all the canals and ditches. Six hours later, driven by hunger probably, my brother and his friend showed up dirty on the front porch. After extensive questioning, they revealed that they thought it was pretty funny to see people running around looking for them. They DID go to Bayou St John, and the "boat" sank before they could get in it. So they wandered about and then hid in a vacant and overgrown lot for hours watching people running around yelling their names. My brother was spanked, thrown in a bathtub, not given dinner and put in his room. All to my delight. Who doesn't like being the kid who looks pretty faultless?

The next canal was the one running on West Esplanade in Metairie. By the time we could hit this canal, we were fully independent with very little parental supervision. We could ride our bikes there, hop off and hide our bikes in the weeds, and use our BB and pellet guns to shoot cans and whatever else was worth shooting. We could catch bugs of interest and put them in jars. We had a game where we would pull weeds that looked like spears out of their casings and throw them at one another. We could be about as free as kids could be. But it didn't last long because subdivisions were rapidly encroaching on the area we used as a playground. This was the best time because we were boys and girls together- before puberty came to change how we saw one another. We were all just friends. We did stuff together, got in trouble together and were all punished together. It was worth it.
Slowly but surely, a lot of those ditches and canals have been covered over. Massive projects laid huge pipes and covered them up.

But I am sorry for the kids who never got to do those things. Sure, we could have died, gotten life threatening infections, been run over, shot our eyes out, whatever the fear was. But we loved it.

Pontchartrain beach

If you ask any kid who grew up in NOLA in the 50s/60s,"what did you do for fun?", there would be several things they might say- but going to Pontchartrain Beach would be right up there at the top. There were swimming pools right on the lake front, what seemed like a HUGE roller coaster called the "Zephyr", rides with names like "Wild Maus", a ferris wheel, merry-go-round, a penny arcade, a gondola called the "Sky Ride", mini-golf, and a great hokey Polynesian restaurant called "Bali Ha'i" complete with tiki drinks and fake leis. My favorite was the hall of mirrors.
The best part was that parents saw absolutely no need to supervise their children. Taking a cue from more primitive cultures, parents got hammered at the Bali Ha'i or other places the kids didn't go, or just dropped kids off, while children needed to adhere to the harsher realities of survival of the fittest. If you were stupid enough to get caught in a piece of moving equipment, there were no lawsuits- just a little pity on the part of people that a child was that dumb that they would stick a finger or toe into a device that could remove it. In a world of no seatbelts, no car seats, DDT mosquito foggers and cigarette smoke, well- what was a little unsupervised run around a crowded amusement park. Parents just didn't BELIEVE their children were in constant danger. SO neither did the kids- thus relieving us of any sense of impending doom- just adventure lurking.
We ran like the proverbial- and meant only in the most complimentary way- wild indians. We were immune to the 95 degree heat. We ate snowballs and candy. My first recording was with Brenda at the record booth in the arcade- we sang a lovely version of "playmate, come out and play with me". Kids would go to "the beach" with anyone who would take them along. If someone was going to the beach, they were automatically your best friend.
As to the ACTUAL beach- it had a sandy beach along what was probably some very polluted water. Some kids were so sensitive to the water that if they went on Sunday, they missed school on Monday - held hostage to the bathroom and the pepto bismol bottle. Swim shoes hadn't been invented yet, so we cut our feet on the billions of tiny oyster shell shards. Sunscreen had not been heard of- the most sensitive children had a dab of zinc oxide on their noses- but the rest was left to chance. I burned and peeled. It was not seen as anything particularly dangerous. Just part of the deal. Like going barefoot all summer- a certain number of nails or tacks would find their way into your feet, and the occasional foot peel be done by hot asphalt. It made your feet tougher. If it was a good day, you could do this in just the parking lot at the beach. It just insured a visit to the public health clinic to get yet another tetanus shot. At some point, a bulkhead was built. I don't really know when- but it was a series of little concrete steps. Maybe Katrina took that too.

The park closed after integration- but some of the rides were relocated to Alabama where hurricane Ivan removed them in 2004. And the internet has a lot of archival photos and essays about the amusement park.

It was fun, and it was certainly one of the most common experiences shared by kids in New Orleans. Before parents felt compelled to document on film every breath of their children at the risk of not living their own lives, before laws and lawsuits ruined childhood as an adventurous time, before children were given everything so that nothing is a treat- there was Pontchartrain Beach.

(I refuse to belabor the fact that it was a whites only beach. I just refuse. When you are a child, you are not responsible for social problems. You are merely a child. I had no idea what Lincoln Beach did. I don't know. But this is a story of a white child. Maybe someone will write about their childhood if they are black. I cannot speak for them.)

Early education- in more ways than one

Bienville Elementary School was under construction- almost 50 years to the day later, Katrina would take it out. But it was to be a modern marvel. It is inexplicable why anyone would put a flat roof on anything in NOLA, but flat roof it they did. In a fit of modernism, windows were everywhere. And it was within walking distance of the new house on Mirabeau Avenue. But the problem was it wouldn't quite be open on time for me to start kindergarten there. And the fall back option was always the Catholic School- St Francis Cabrini. My father was Catholic until they refused to bury his generously tithing father in the local churchyard in Mansura LA because he had remarried after the death of his first wife. That infuriated my father. Though I can honestly say that just one generation later, I have no idea where his father is buried. So my father quit the Catholic church. Cold turkey. He threw out the Catholic knick knacks and went full blown Protestant. My mother, a lapsed Methodist, felt that Presbyterianism was the way to go. So I was adopted into the world of Prebyterians. But to get me into Cabrini, my father pulled his Catholicism out of his long lost back pocket, and sent me to the Felliniesque world of the Catholic elementary school in the 1950s. I was awed by the enormous presence of the nuns. I was particularly frightened of their faces- pinched and puffed by the stiff halo of starched linen around their faces. It was highly suggested by other children that the nuns shaved their heads. Their hands were kept hidden when not in use. They wore sturdy black shoes and heavy black stockings even in the oppressive heat and humidity of New Orleans. They didn't look pure- they looked angry. Really angry. I can only recall the extraordinary enthusiasm I had for the concept of kindergarten. Preschool was an unknown in my world. My brother had gone, but somehow I dodged that bullet. By the age of 4, I could go to kindergarten according to the state law. And the enthusiasm in my heart was boundless. I could not imagine a world of other 4 year olds. I could hardly breathe when I tried on my little blue jumper and white princess collared blouse. I was going to bring my lunch- BRING MY LUNCH! Eat with other children. Play with other children. I already could read very well by 4, and I was pretty sure there would be a lot of BOOKS. To this day, it is one of my first memories- that first day at kindergarten.
But it was not to be the idyll of my imagination. The Sister in charge of my class did not like little girls who talked. Now, I'll be the first to admit I talk- A LOT- and I think I'm pretty funny. And I just loved other children. I couldn't learn enough about them. They fascinated me. But the Sister didn't like that either.
And the first time she hit me, I was so confused. I didn't know a lot, but I KNEW I wasn't BAD. My brother was BAD. His friends were BAD. But not me. I liked everybody and everything. And I was FOUR. How bad could I be? I wasn't an arsonist. I never hit anyone. But I was really guilty of talking and smiling. Fortunately for me, one day my mother noticed the bruises on my hands where the ruler had been smacked against them. And she finally ASKED me. I explained it all- but I was upset because it never occured to me that I didn't deserve to be hit. I thought I was BAD and just had never been told it- I thought perhaps I had not understood the definition of the word BAD. Well, my mother yanked me out of St Francis Cabrini and waited until Bienville opened up. I like to embellish the story by saying I was thrown out of kindergarten, because really, that was coming at some point. And while the kindergarten teacher at Bienville was not the greatest, she never hit me- not once. I spent a some quality time in the corner, with no real impact on my behavior, but that's to be expected. I got the lead in the school Easter musical- at the age of 5- which started my love of musical theater- so for that I can thank her. It led to a modest amount of neighborhood fame.
But to the Sisters out there who beat and abused small children in the name of discipline- I hope you get yours. At my age, most of those Sisters are probably long gone or very old now. And I hope they don't look back with pride at the abuse they heaped on very tiny people. Shame on them.

The house on Mirabeau Avenue

After Katrina, I tried to find out what happened (physically) to my childhood home. One day I decided simply to enter the address of the property into google- and there it was, a condemned property to be torn down. It had been devastated along with the rest of the houses in the subdivision known as Oak Park. A simple three bedroom, centrally air conditioned house with terrazzo floors was flooded to its rafters and now, ruined and collapsing.
But the house on Mirabeau Avenue was so special to me as a child. It seemed so solid that nothing could take it down. With the world view of a 3-9 year old child, the yard seemed huge. The swing set seemed so far from the family room, though now I am sure I would question my parent's judgment at placing it so close to a plate glass window in the family room. Even the grass seemed tougher. My world was one of bicycles, roller skates, bologna sandwiches on white bread, fireflies, dragonflies, lizards and cats.
Our house was across from a Catholic convent. I could sit on the driveway with one of my cats and watch the nuns come and go in heavy black habits in the dead of summer. I would sit in a crop top and short shorts, or a swim suit, fill up a toy wagon with water and sit in it wondering how they survived in all those clothes. Having had a close call with nuns in kindergarten at St Francis Cabrini, and having been thrown out of St Francis Cabrini at the age of 4 because my mother angrily confronted the nuns for whacking my little kindergarten hands black and blue for talking in class, I had a fearful respect of their presence. I could sit in my wagon, if I was lucky there'd be a popsicle dripping down my hand, and wait for something Godlike to happen across the way. I don't think I ever saw anything more exciting than a station wagon popping out what seemed like an endless supply of sisters. My brother called my past time "penguin watching". God later got him for that by almost removing his knee cap when he grabbed my wagon and turned too close to a car bumper which tried to take off his leg. Oddly, I later dated a guy whose much older sister was a novice at that convent when I was a living across the street. Turns out, she was a pretty nice person. Not the type to try to break the bones in a 4 year old child's hands with a wooden ruler.

The house was only a couple of blocks from Bayou St John and City Park. It would have been an easy walk if I had been adventurous in that direction. But my school and friends were the other direction, so I was never tempted to explore either one of those options on my own. We had a big central alleyway down the middle of the block which allowed for all sorts of cut throughs. And every kid knew the fastest way to go anywhere. And we knew whose mother would give out treats and whose mother would yell and whose mother seemed to just not care what happened in or around her house. And we learned how to stay off the radar. It was just better that way.

My next door neighbor moved in when I was 5. Her name was Brenda and her father was from a small town in Louisiana, with a Cajun accent so thick and antiquated French thrown in to the point that I ceased to listen to him talk. Like the Beverly Hillbillies, they discovered a massive oil supply under their land. They became flooded with money and for reasons I cannot fathom, moved to New Orleans. I was so happy to have a little girl in the neighborhood, having been surrounded by boys most of the time. And Brenda and I were such fast friends until the age of 8, that to this day I wonder where she went and how she is. She had an older sister- something I never had- named Charlene. And Charlene let us watch American Bandstand with her if we didn't talk. It often didn't work out as planned since Brenda talked as much as I did, but with a cajun accent. Her parents gave her incredibly expensive toys and took us to Pontchartrain beach at the drop of a hat. It was my first experience with a child whose parents never said no. And it was great.

I promised myself I would post pictures on this blog. I would have gone so far as to go back to New Orleans to take them. But now there is no point in that.  Everything I knew and most of what I write about is gone. So you'll just have to trust me.

The Pre-School Times

To my knowledge, in New Orleans in the early 1950s, there wasn't much day care. What we had was a maid. Everyone I knew had a maid- some once every two weeks, but some every day. It was the way many black women made money. I remember our maids, but not their names. I don't remember them doing anything but cleaning and sometimes, baby sitting. I do remember that the house was always VERY clean when they left. And they wore a uniform and were always friendly to me. I probably talked their ears off.  My father's entire work staff at his car repair business and service station were all black men- men who worked for that business for 30 years and retired from it. But as a general rule, if my mother went somewhere, I went with her. At least once a month, on a Thursday morning, I would get dressed in a frilly outfit, put on a pair of patent leather shoes, and white gloves, and go with my mother to the area known as "downtown". We would go to Maison Blanche and to Godchaux's, and my mother would shop, and I would look at everyone's shoes because that is mostly what I can remember seeing- legs with thick stockings and sturdy heeled shoes. We would eat lunch at the counter, my mother silent (probably because of her substantial undergarments) and me talking endlessly, and it was wonderful. I do remember one incident when I went to the water fountain at Maison Blanche, and before I could take a sip of water, a stranger pulled me away and pushed me into my mother's jurisdiction. I burst into tears, because it was confusing to be touched by a stranger. My mother was angry for a moment, but she looked down at me and said that I was not allowed to drink from the colored's water fountain, I had to drink from the one for the white people. Who knew? I certainly didn't. The maid at our house drank out of our glasses, used our bathroom, and was allowed to give me a bath. Why in the world was the water different in those fountains? I never made that mistake again, but I never understood it either. Not because I was precociously aware of race, but because I was mystified as to its purpose. New Orleans, no matter what anyone says, was a very integrated city for its time. Witness the incredible number of biracial, if not more white than black, citizens that are there. I knew black people who were so white that it was not clear as to why they were considered to be black. Many with blue or green eyes. I had friends who lived next door to blacks. But there were none in Bienville Elementary School when I got there. Not one. None at the local Presbyterian Church on Elysian Fields. I grew up belonging to Metairie Country Club- where my father played golf and gin rummy, and my mother, once in a great while, played canasta and looked over the jalousied porch windows to make sure I wasn't drowned- and it was white also. I never gave much thought as to what the black people did when they went home at the end of the day. Did they go play golf or go out to eat at places like Mandina's- was there a separate city for them, separate restaurants, separate car dealers, separate beauty parlors? Did they go to their own Morrison's cafeteria or Chris steak house?? Did their dead lie in caskets at Jacob Schoen Funeral Home, while the children played on the huge front lawn while the adults cried or laughed? I just didn't know and I think I was just too young to think the world had to be a different way. I have a picture of myself on a big stuffed zebra- life size- at the Audubon Zoo- and everyone around me is white. I don't know if it is because there were so many more white people in New Orleans in 1955, or if the zoo did not admit blacks every day. Someone other than me, with more time and resources, could look that up. Maybe someone all ready has. But in about 1953, when I was 3 or so, the house on Benefit street was marked for destruction to put a highway through, and we moved to a house on Mirabeau Avenue, where I would live until I entered the fifth grade. And it was white there, too.

A new home- June 1950

I was brought to a new home in June of 1950. I was six months old, totally normal, happy and always smiling. It was assumed I was illegitimate, but 40 years later, when my search for my birth family concluded, I found out that my parents were married at the time of my surrender, and they went on to have 2 more children. The assumption that I was illegitimate colored the opinions of most of the people who knew I was adopted. Of course, one look at me in the family pictures, and it is pretty clear I am the odd one out. Why anyone blames a baby for their legitimacy is beyond me. While I am glad I was conceived, I certainly had no say so in how or where or when it would have happened. It turned out that my adoptive mother would always resent me anyway so what difference would it make? But, the reality is, had I not been adopted, I would never have had the wonderful experience of being born in New Orleans and have the ability to lay claim to being a native. Unlike my friends who went back in NOLA for generations, I was a relative newbie. And I would not trade that for the world.
The house that I first lived in was on Benefit Street. The house was claimed and torn down to make way for the new interstate highway I-10. So all there is left is a picture or two. In those pictures, the house is white, and is wooden rather than brick with a lovely screened porch. It has a charming kitchen and lovely, large windows. But there was no way to stay in it, so my new parents went looking for a house, and they found it later, on Mirabeau Avenue. If you search the Mirabeau address today, the house has been condemned for Katrina damage. Thus a pattern develops of houses I have lived in being damaged or destroyed by hurricanes. Another thing that added adventure to living in NOLA.
I honestly have no memory of the Benefit house- in fact, I think I made it for a year or so? But it is a shame to see that classic little bungalow and know that it is gone. Funny thing is, it was doomed from the first day it was built because if I-10 hadn't gotten it, Katrina would have. 

1950 No Longer an Orphan

This is the story I was told all of my life. My father, known as Joe to everyone though it wasn't his name, owned a service station and garage on St Charles Avenue. He was really successful and very proud of his business. Joe was what we now call a "cajun", having come from Mansura, Louisiana to New Orleans after he graduated from high school when he was 16. Joe had an uncanny knack for numbers- faster than an adding machine for sure. His first job was being the conductor for the St Charles Avenue street car. He fell in love with the city of New Orleans. And who didn't back then? He lived in an apartment with a cousin, who, according to Joe, smoked weed and did nothing and went home after a year due to homesickness. When Joe went into engine repair, he found a second love. And combining the two, he opened his own business and had 6 employees. People loved and trusted him. At Christmas, he received lavish gifts from the people who patronized his business. They would get their cars picked up and delivered washed, cleaned and repaired. Doctors, lawyers, financiers all used the Gulf Service garage. Joe started a savings and loan company and put himself on their board of directors. He had everything except the one thing he really wanted- children. His wife, Evelyn, was barren. There was no other word. Her ovaries were removed at the age of 20 due to a "mass"- probably a cyst of some sort. It destroyed her reproductive life. Due to poor birth control for the rest of the population, there was no shortage of white infants up for adoption in the 1940s to the 1960s. First, Joe and Evelyn got a tiny, sick, impetigo covered baby named Stephen from the Protestant Home in New Orleans. Evelyn didn't want a sickly child, but the folks at the Protestant Home, once they found out Evelyn was a nurse, begged Evelyn to take the infant and save his life. They were ill quipped at the Home to care for this frail life and they told Evelyn and Joe that they were this baby's only chance. In 1947, they took Stephen and made him well- but it was arduous and expensive and time consuming. Evelyn never did describe it as a labor of love. She felt guilt the rest of her life that Stephen had learning disabilities and temper issues. So, in May of 1950, when an administrator from the Volunteers of America while picking up his car from Joe, overheard Joe say he wished he had a daughter to add to the family-well, it was just what the administrator needed to hear. He told Joe about this baby girl, all ready almost 6 months old, who stayed in the nursery at the VOA. He described her as adorable- and told Joe- take a break, come with me and see this little girl. Which Joe did. The child he saw (of course it was me) he described as fair with rosy cheeks and bright, shiny light hazel eyes who laughed and smiled at everyone. Joe said that when he said hello and smiled at me, I reached up with my arms and then laid my head on his shoulder. He was sunk. He said he wanted me, but he had to call Evelyn. Evelyn did not share his enthusiasm. She described herself as tired, tired of taking care of a sick child, tired of the work and tired of not having time to continue to pursue her career as a nurse anesthetist. In fairness, she enjoyed her work. In fact, she had been a single woman and a working woman until her 30s. Now to have to take care of kids- kids that really weren't hers- well, she was not happy. But my father begged her- and he brought her to see me. Since I was small, but very healthy at that point, and obviously smart, she relented. Though years later, when I asked her why she was always so unhappy with me and so, well, mean, she would reply "I never wanted to have a second child. Stephen was enough. But your father just wouldn't leave it alone". (Don't feel sorry, here- at least I didn't go to an orphanage!) At six months of age, within a week of potentially being transferred to St Elizabeth's or some other orphanage, Joe and Evelyn went to the office of the lawyer downtown who handled adoptions. They signed the papers, and I became Lynn, and my life was now theirs to do with as they pleased. It is telling that adoption papers were then filed in the notarial archives of the City of New Orleans- under chattel. I had been transferred in the same fashion as a car, or boat, or, in the not so distant past- a slave. Property. The thing about adoption is that it is based in fraud. The belief that any child can be your child because of a piece of paper. While it is certainly true that biological children can be hated and abused and used by a parent, there is something about DNA that will make other relatives stand up and take care of the child. But in adoption, that child belongs to no one. Some adoptions are wonderful. But I have to say that the vast majority of adoptees that I dealt with in my life are not happy about their adoption and not happy about the loss of a birth mother. Though it is wise to never go there if you are adopted- because it happened the way it did and you cannot change it.  But we can deal with that later. Right now, the happy part of the story is that a baby didn't go to an orphanage and a man who wanted a daughter, got one.