By Maurice Carlos Ruffin, Stories of a New Orleans That’s All but Lost

By Maurice Carlos Ruffin, Stories of a New Orleans That’s All but Lost

But the city Ruffin depicts is characterized less by violence than by community, its adaptability in the face of ongoing change. “Ghetto University” thrums with the mordant wit of its narrator, “a Black man with two advanced degrees, who had once lectured at the Sorbonne, who shook hands with Noam Chomsky and Shirin Ebadi, who prefers Enya to Kanye West, and who will never willingly watch a Tyler Perry film,” who now robs tourists in the French Quarter to pay off his debts. Unsure of how to properly intimidate his victims, he calls one of them “whitey,” while noting its anachronism. “There simply isn’t a word equivalent to the N-bomb when you’re trying to make Caucasians feel uncomfortable,” Ruffin writes, “unless you count the most terrifying noun, my skin.” As we eventually discover, the narrator’s wife, a chemist, has also taken to crime to supplement their finances, and marital love is renewed once they discover this commitment to providing for each other.

Ruffin writes with the clipped motion of the best comic books, and the unsparing tenderness of a poet. Readers enamored with the relentless lyricism of his novel may be surprised to find a gentler voice guiding these stories, without judgment. This softness is exactly what binds these patchwork chronicles into a vibrant and true mosaic of a place. I was occasionally disappointed whenever the lives of these characters moved in the expected direction, but who can truly resist the domineering forces pushing our trajectories along their course?

In the closing story, “Before I Let Go,” a lifelong New Orleanian named Gailya is trying to stop the city from repossessing the home that belonged to her grandmother, her mother, and now her. Gailya’s neighborhood, Treme, is facing unstoppable gentrification, and she herself is stretched thin across the gig economy, renting out a room for tourists and moonlighting as a rideshare and delivery driver in between jobs that never seem to pay what she needs to dig herself out of debt. Her life is conditioned for disappointment, and she comes to expect it. A well-paying work opportunity turns out to be a bust; a lover turns out to be a mirage; a white boss turns out to be a racist. But there is joy, too, enough to repel the inner voice saying she should just sell her home to greedy developers, and relocate to Atlanta.

When a group of doe-eyed and irritating white neighbors suggest calling the police on a nearby music teacher who plays a little too loudly, it suddenly strikes her that if the New Orleans she knows is slipping away, it’s her responsibility to hold onto what remains. “Gailya looks at the faces of her new neighbors, most of whom look like people she’s worked for at one point or another,” Ruffin writes. “She knows that if any of her old neighbors were here, they would make them understand. But she realizes it falls on her. It always fell on her, and that if she were gone, nobody would ever come to understand anything at all.” She’s right, the new neighbors don’t understand. How could they, or rather, why would they want to? But the old world is worth preserving, for as long as this newer, crueler world allows.

Source link

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *