America, You Sexy Bitch

by Meghan McCain, Michael Black

  Mostly though, I do not completely understand the allure and taboo associated with marijuana. The few times I have partaken in smoking pot it has been a mild experience. Yes, it is a substance that will alter your mind frame and judgment, but as someone who is high strung and has a natural tendency to get nauseated, I can see its appeal.

  Michael: We walk along the cobblestone streets of Old Algiers. Glen says he’s started something called the No Nigger Campaign, which is his effort to get people in the black community to stop using that word. I nod. He says it’s damaging to people’s self-esteem and that until black people start respecting themselves, nobody else is going to respect them either.

  He shows us some neighborhood landmarks. “The Mardi Gras floats? This is where they build ’em.” He then points out the invisible line between the black section of the neighborhood and the white.

  “Is it still pretty segregated?” I ask.

  “You know something? Unfortunately, New Orleans is. It’s real fucked up. My girlfriend’s white and what fucks it up is that people are people. They didn’t vote for Obama here,” he says, pointing to the neighborhood around us. “Only in New Orleans,” by which I guess he means the other side of the river.

  We get to his girlfriend’s house, a cheerful little shotgun shack. The house is aligned along a narrow corridor. One room flows into the other: living room to what I guess would be the dining room to the kitchen. The reason it’s hard to tell whether or not it’s supposed to be a dining room is because there’s a punching bag hanging from the ceiling, along with a bunch of other training equipment. It turns out Glen’s girlfriend is a professional boxer named Tiffany Junot. Framed photos of Tiffany line the room. On the floor are a couple of belts, the kind boxers get when they win championships.

  “She keeps her belts on the floor?” I ask.

  “She doesn’t give a shit about those. She’s got a lot more. She could kick my ass.”

  Stephie asks if she’s from New Orleans.

  “Been in this house a hundred and ten years. Her great-great grandfather built it.”

  We talk about music and Glen’s role as himself on the TV show Treme. It turns out Glen is an accomplished musician, a trombonist and vocalist who just scored his first major record deal. He’s just come off the road with his band a few days ago. He mentions that his cousin is Trombone Shorty, and I nod, impressed. When he goes to the bathroom, I ask Meghan who Trombone Shorty is. She says she doesn’t know.

  It turns out we’re the idiots because when I dig around later, I realize Trombone Shorty is one of America’s greatest jazz musicians. New Orleans jazz has a steep learning curve for those of us not cool enough to have cribbed before arrival.

  Glen packs a small bowl with pot. I take a hit. Meghan takes some and then Stephie.

  “You’re SO hard core, Michael,” Meghan says, trying not to cough.

  “I am hard core,” I reply, happy to see her coming back out of her shy shell. She’s been a little moody since our pre-gator health care fight, and I’ve refused to coddle her out of her various snits. I wink at her, encouraging her fun side to come out and play.

  Meghan: Does it cross my mind that entering a stranger’s house and smoking marijuana might not be the smartest thing to do? Yes, of course it does, but I like Glen. In the forty-five minutes that I have known him he is making all of us laugh, showing us around his neighborhood, and opening us up to a side of New Orleans we would not have gotten to experience otherwise. He is also flirting with me and calls me a beautiful woman in front of Michael and Stephie. I like men who confidently flirt with women they have just met. Also, I do not want to seem like the Debbie Downer in this scenario. Michael immediately says yes to smoking a joint with Glen. I don’t know—buy the ticket, take the ride, right?

  As we continue down the cobblestone streets, Glen passes a joint. The thought does occur to me that someone could see us and we could get arrested, though if we went to jail I’m pretty sure it’s Michael who would cry. Just the same, I’m not looking to find out.

  I walk down the road, trying not to trip over my maxi-dress, and hold Glen’s arm for support. Up ahead of us a car honks at Michael, he jumps a little, and a woman yells out of the window, “Stop toking and get out of the road!” I laugh myself in half at the priceless look on Michael’s face, simultaneously freaked out and proud as a peacock.

  Michael: We’re all a little buzzed now as Glen tells us about the way Old Algiers was during Katrina.

  “This neighborhood was under chaos because this is the neighborhood where the police committed all the murders,” he says. “They got thirteen police charged for murder. Every fucking case of police misconduct was proven.”

  He tells us where we are standing was entirely underwater up to our waists. All of these proud old houses drowning under the muddy river waters. There are still water marks on some of the houses. You can see where the waters stopped rising, can see how somebody might have needed a boat to navigate, can see how people might have been forced to their roofs. It’s eerie, and yet this neighborhood survived better than others. At least here there are still people on porches. Glen calls to them when we pass. He seems to know them all and they know him.

  We wander over to a concert right on the riverbank, on a big stage ringed by concession stands that sell food and alcohol. There’s an all-female brass band playing and I wonder for a moment about the difficulty of finding female tuba players. Glenn leads us through the patchy grass to the booths selling drink tickets. We buy some drinks for ourselves: water for Stephie, sweet tea for me, Bud Light for Meghan.

  “What do you want, Glen?” she asks.

  “Something hard,” says Glen.

  He seems to know everybody here. Every few feet he introduces us to another friend: musicians, locals like him, people from his block, business people. Lots of handshakes. We meet the leader of the next band about to go on. We walk up the banks of the levee and meet more people up there. Glen wipes his face with a white handkerchief while we walk, sipping a vodka cranberry, shaking hands. He introduces us to Dr. William Jones, recently relocated from Phoenix, proud possessor of a PhD in musical education. He’s around sixty, African American, and talks like a civic booster.

  “There’s nothing like this New Orleans culture,” he says. “The politics out here is great, and now it’s up to all of us to bring our wonderful city back.”

  This surprises me because he is the only person I have ever heard who describes New Orleans politics as “great.” More commonly used words are “corrupt,” “racist,” and “incompetent.” When I come back a little later, Meghan is talking with Dr. Jones.

  “I found a Republican for you,” she says, pointing at him.

  I laugh. A black Republican.

  “I know it’s not fashionable to be a black Republican,” he says, glossing over my skepticism. “But I’m a proud black Republican.” He says his wife gives him a hard time about it, and Stephie asks him why he’s a Republican. He mentions something about Lincoln freeing the slaves, but then says, “But let’s be real: if you want to get ahead, you roll with the big dogs. The Republican Party is the big dogs.”

  “I hear ya,” says Stephie, which I think is her attempt at “being real,” per Dr. Jones’s advice.

  Meghan: Front and center is a series of jazz musicians wearing traditional Mardi Gras Indian costumes. Glen explains to me that during the Civil War, when American Indians helped shield runaway slaves, the two oppressed peoples developed a bond that eventually found colorful outlet in the Mardi Gras tribes. Every year the tribes compete to have the most intricate and beautiful costumes, some weighing as much as 150 pounds and costing thousands of dollars. They are breathtaking. The men wear giant feathered headdresses, derived from the ceremonial attire of many Native American tribes.

  I am somewhat ashamed to admit to Glen that after my times visiting New Orleans, I had never seen a traditional Mardi Gras Indian nor was I aware of the tribes that still exist in New Orleans. G
lenn tells me all about how music runs in his family, being a trombone player, and working on the HBO show Treme.

  Along about this time, we meet Dr. William Jones, who says to me, “We almost made it to the White House.” I smile—I’ve been recognized for all the right reasons, and my prayers for a fellow Republican are answered—he’s also from Arizona, which makes me triply happy.

  However, the look on Glen’s face completely changes, as if the music playing between us stops and there’s only one chair. He looks at Dr. Jones and says, “Are you kidding me? How can you be a Republican? What black man is a Republican?”

  I pull Michael into the mix, hopeful that this man can help him see my points of view, and Dr. Jones does a wonderful job of laying out the principals of smaller government and fiscal conservatism. As excited as I am about my ally, it is clear that Glen and Michael are both stuck on the completely unimportant fact that a black man could be supportive of the Republican Party. Putting it mildly, the situation is a little depressing. I don’t know Glen well enough to chastise him, nor do I want to make Dr. Jones any more uncomfortable than he already is. I want to roll my eyes at Michael and yell at him, That’s right, they exist—minorities who are Republicans! Don’t believe everything Keith Olbermann tells you!!

  Instead I take the high road, hiking up my damn maxi-dress and taking Glen to get a piece of fried catfish.

  Michael: Glen returns a few minutes later and explains new New Orleans politics to me.

  “After the storm, the majority of the people that came back were white. This is how we know it’s true. For the first time in forty years, we have a white mayor. Everything’s been black in this city for at least forty-five years. Mayor, police chief.” He goes on a rant about the former mayor, Ray Nagin, who grew up in Treme, the same neighborhood as Glen, the same neighborhood we’re going to later tonight. “He won’t even walk in that neighborhood right now. He’s that uppity.” Yes, Glen uses the U-word.

  The politics are hardcore here at this pleasant jazz festival on the levees holding back the mighty Mississippi. The people wear their politics right on their sleeves, and I can see why. Their town knows the direct effects politics can have on people’s lives. They know every day when they walk down those streets and see the watermarks. Glen’s outrage seems to come from a poisonous gumbo of racial history, political corruption, and centuries of injustice. Right where we’re standing is the site of New Orleans’s first slave market. This is haunted ground. Bad gris-gris.

  Soon the sun is gone and we are too. We board the ferry and cross back across the river. Glen leads us to Treme. It’s one of New Orleans’s oldest neighborhoods, lined with small one-story houses set back from buckled sidewalks and patchy lawns. This was where free blacks came to live early in the city’s history. Now it’s in danger of gentrification.

  When we get out of the cab, Glen points up and down the streets, telling us there used to be bars everywhere where you could go and hear live music. Now there’s just a couple left. We’re standing in front of one of them. A few guys mill outside the door, including an ancient-looking gentleman whose head looks like it was shrunken down from a larger size. He is tall and thin as an oboe. Glen introduces us: “This is Benny, the second-oldest active musician in New Orleans. You playing tonight?”

  “Yes, I am,” says Benny.

  “Benny’s about to beat the shit out of that drum,” says Glen. “You watch.”

  We walk inside. The place is tiny, packed with people of every age and hue. It is the first truly and fully integrated place we have been to the entire trip. Shoved into the corner are eight black musicians warming up, the Treme Brass Band. They only play here once a week, on Wednesdays. Benny shuffles over to join them and straps a big bass drum to his chest. Then they start and it’s 1925. People are on their feet with the first trumpet notes: swinging, shaking, their arms flinging droplets of sweat into the thick air. It feels preposterously good, all of this thrilling music mixed with the booze and the pot. Couples fling their bodies around the cramped dance floor, their limbs blurring into the slinky music. In the back, as promised, Benny beats the shit out of his big bass drum.

  Meghan: Treme is one of the oldest areas of New Orleans; it is an area known for its rich African American and Creole culture along with its brass and jazz music history.

  As we walk through his neighborhood, I jokingly tell Glen he should run for mayor someday, and he sort of half laughs, which in my experience tells me the thought has crossed his mind. In reality, it is people like Glen who should run for higher office: people who know the ins and outs of their city and the people who live in it and maintain a palpable sense of pride for it.

  Each house that Glen points out has a story and a person attached to it, and we barely go ten feet without running into someone he knows. I start to feel giddy and grateful to be able to have such an experience, meet such cool people, and absorb such an interesting side of New Orleans that I most likely never would have without this trip or Glen. I grab his arm and yell, “Take me to some Treme music!”

  Glenn laughs and says, “Follow me, little lady.”

  Within a few minutes we are outside a small building that looks like a reconstructed house that is painted bright yellow, with the words THE CANDLELIGHT LOUNGE printed on the side. We walk inside and it is the way I imagine what walking into a speakeasy from the quiet outside world of Prohibition must have been like. Loud brass music is playing from a group of musicians surrounding a giant drum with the words TREME BRASS BAND stamped on it; people are dancing, sitting, tapping their feet, and drinking. There’s a haze in the air and kinetic energy that is instantly appealing.

  The entire place is filled wall to wall with people. Twinkling lights surround the bar and fall from the ceiling. Not one person looks like they aren’t enjoying themselves. I grab Michael by the neck and yell over the music, “Goddamn it, I love this city!”

  “I know!” he yells back. We push our way over to the incredibly crowded, sweaty bar where Glen is holding court. After we get our drinks, Michael and Stephie start dancing. A random elderly man dances with me, and we all start getting down. Someone hands Michael a colorful umbrella. Stephie is unleashed.

  At some point a woman approaches me and says, “You’re Meghan McCain, right?”

  “Yep,” I say. “I’m drunk, so please don’t ask me anything too crazy because I’m painfully honest when I’m sober, let alone drunk.”

  “Oh, I just want to know why you’re hanging out with the guy from Kids in the Hall,” she yells over the music.

  I smile and practically strain my voice, it’s so loud in here. “Actually, he was on The State, which is by far a superior comedy show. Fuck Kids in the Hall.” I have never seen the show Kids in the Hall, but I feel the need to defend Michael and The State. I know enough about Michael at this point that asking Michael about his time on Kids in the Hall will illicit a similar reaction to asking me how I feel about my father choosing Sarah Palin as his running mate will do.

  I realize that yelling “Fuck Kids in the Hall!” is probably a signal that I need a little air, so I politely excuse myself. I can outdrink most people, but I can really outdrink Michael and Stephie and I need to pace myself, as I am likely three or four drinks in the lead.

  Michael: The band finally takes a break, and I step out with Stephie for some air, although the torpid night offers little relief from the heat. Meghan is already out there, sitting on the low concrete wall lining the sidewalk outside the bar. People are cooking food in big smokers in the open air: red beans, rice, chicken. A woman is standing in the middle of the road in a tight top and tight pants, yelling at somebody: Glen.

  “I am Treme,” she yells over and over at him. “Motherfucker, I AM TREME!” Glen waves his hand in her direction, unconcerned. Meghan says they’ve been going at it like this for several minutes. I notice that the yelling woman is not wearing shoes. She moves towards Glen, confronting him: “I ain’t addicted to nuthin’. Never have been. And neve
r will be. Not even Treme.”

  Meghan, Stephie, and I watch, mouths agape, as the woman unravels there in the middle of the street. Glen keeps his back to her.

  “You ain’t gonna fuck with me,” she says.

  Glen claps his hands together and keeps repeating, “We got this! We got THIS! Thanks to Trombone Shorty, we got this. All of this. And we gonna be here forever.”

  Glen tells us later he’s been involved in a property dispute with this woman and her family. I don’t understand the details but it seems to boil down to an accusation Glen made against them about their taking advantage of people living in the neighborhood with the purpose of using a city program to buy their homes at under-market values and then sell them to more well-heeled investors, white investors, who want to gentrify Treme. Trombone Shorty, who has become a worldwide sensation with his Billboard-topping jazz album, Backatown, has likewise been buying up properties in the area in an effort to slow down or stop gentrification. It’s a conflict about money and the soul of the neighborhood.

  “We got this,” Glen keeps saying. “This” for him means more than a few crumbling houses in Treme. It’s an entire history, a way of being he is fighting to preserve. He says, “The musicians that played in my neighborhood, they brought me out of the womb.” I think he means it literally. This neighborhood, and the people in it, are his blood.

  One of those people is Willis, a tall and gangly young guy in whose beat-up Buick we find ourselves a few minutes later. “His grandfather Charles Johnson was one of the greatest clarinetists that ever lived,” Glen tells us by way of introduction.