Tim wants me to write about resiliency. It makes sense, given we are to be discussing New Orleans. It would actually be a perfect topic, and to prove it I even wrote 2 almost complete vignettes (almost complete means over half written, but no editing, so almost complete is subject to opinion). But as I get to the (relative) end of each, I get frustrated and finger-tied, because I have no idea what I am trying to say and feel like I trying to cram our experience into pants that don’t quite fit (“But, resiliency is such a SEXY topic. C’mon, I know I can fit. Squuuuuuuueeze – SUCK IT IN! Oh, hell, I just broke the zipper).
Day 19 of our trip was spent in New Orleans, at Project Lazarus, an organization that provides services to people with AIDS who can no longer live independently, or whose family can no longer take care of them. The primary purpose of Project Lazarus is to provide continuity of care in a homelike environment. Men and women come to Project Lazarus in various stages of health, and care is individualized according to each person's needs. To date, more than 1000 men and women diagnosed with HIV/AIDS have called Lazarus their home, and many have died at Lazarus.
But I never dropped the keys and everyone responded to every knock.
We were originally planning a “game day” for the residents, complete with bingo and dominos. But, on our day of service, the staff had the opportunity to attend a cultural sensitivity training, so Tim and I signed up to “staff” one of the resident houses. We made rounds every two or so hour, otherwise, we sat in the living room of the dorm style complex, alternately taking turns on our computer, catching up on work and sitting on the couch, watching TV.
Truthfully, I felt lazy.
Shouldn’t we be washing something? Weeding something? Cleaning? Organizing? I was uncomfortable with the idea of a volunteer opportunity that allowed me to read, watch TV, or devote my energy to something external to the project, namely, catching up on emails.
Really, all we had to do was pull our butts out of our seats every 2 hours (we went around every 1.5 hours, just for good measure) and knock on doors. What good were we really doing? I didn’t feel like I was helping anyone. Actually, it felt strangely reminiscent of a lazy weekend day, except, instead of feeling relaxed and enjoying the made for TV movies I was pantomime watching, I was immersed in self loathing that stemmed from my feeling like I was a waste of couch space.
“If it was anyone else, they would have all the residence down here engaged in a game. Everyone would be giggling and having a grand old time, soaking up the togetherness,” I thought. Tim and I have gone round and round on this issue. Tim and I are what you (or, actually, I) would call awkward in comparison to the people you (or, actually, I) would imagine going on this type of journey. We are not those exuberant personalities who immediately win you over with our winning smiles and effervescent laughter. Tim is on the whole pretty quiet (like a really tall church mouse) and only really says what he needs to, which gives what he does say of his own volition a certain weighty importance. I (depending on the situation) like to take cues from the people I interact with, meaning I tend to sit back and wait, cautiously observing for a while (otherwise, I have this really adorable habit of cramming my foot in my mouth up to my knee cap). Therefore, we are not the type to spontaneously arrange a game of charades, or to gain employment as social directors on a cruise ship for that matter. (Not that we have tried, mind you, to get jobs on cruise ships as social directors, but we wouldn’t be able to. It’s just not who we are.)
So there I sat, on the couch, steeping in my feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy as one of the residents strolled through the living room and into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of what looked like iced tea and walked back toward his room, but paused before passing into the hallway.
“Baby, can you do me a favor?” He said in a muted southern drawl. “Can you look in on me more often – maybe once and hour or twice an hour. See, I wasn’t doing so well earlier this week - I was in the hospital, actually. And I want to take a nap, but I am a little afraid. So, can you look in on me a bit more than normal? Thank you, Baby, I sure appreciate it.”
As he ambled back to his room, it struck me that a) I was being too narrow in my definition of “doing something” and b) that this was a place to live, not a place to die. Even though we weren’t really doing much besides making our rounds every so often, knocking on doors and waiting for answers, our mere presence enabled the residents to live how they wanted, to engage in activities they wanted to (like taking a nap), knowing all the while that there was a safety net, that someone would be coming to check on them regularly. And this let them live, and live with a little less fear.
The day passed without incident and with more interaction. After his nap, the aforementioned resident got some lunch in the kitchen and sat with us in the living room, shooting the breeze and giving us advice on things we HAD to see while in New Orleans. A few of the ladies passed through, making chitchat about the lovely weather (and the weather that day was lovely indeed! Bluest of the blue sky and temperatures hovering around 80 degrees! Oooweee!). One resident turned on some dance music in his room, and turned it up really loud, leaving his door open so that everyone on the first floor was invited to his dance party. Friends stopped by to say hello. There was much talk about the (then) upcoming Saints/Vikings game (WHO DAT!). Cigarette chats were had in the courtyard, sitting at one of the umbrella’d wrought iron tables. A short bitch session from a resident who was frustrated that someone kept eating all the food in the building fridge (“I mean, who does the FAT ASS think he is?” said loudly enough that others could hear). Residents signed in and out. Actually, the whole scene was fairly reminiscent of a college dorm.
Another volunteer joined us in the afternoon, bringing his book of US Volleyball Rules and Guidelines (he was a ref). As he settled down to review it, I immediately felt relief, because if he had spontaneously arranged a Yatzee tournament, I would have stabbed myself in the eye. Actually, I probably would have benefited from seeing someone organize something on the fly and getting people really excited about it – this would give us a model to work off in the future. But, all the same, I was happy that I was correct in my assumption that we were there just in case someone needed us, but not to get in the way of the residents and their living.
Tim and I left Project Lazarus, and walked around the French Quarter, taking pictures of architecture (hey, what can I say, I like pictures of doorways to houses I don’t live in), ripping into not one, but two bags of beignets, and starting to sweat because I had been told we were required to get café au lait with our beignets.
You know those resiliency pants? After a day spent with people who are honest about to themselves and realize they can’t do it alone, a bag of beignets, experiencing the NOLA spirit and the clamoring support for the Saints, a café au lait, people watching, and the perfunctory beer sipped while walking down Bourbon St (being able to enjoy an alcoholic libation outside is novel, to say the least, though I was a little disappointed when we got into the bar that said “More beers than you could ever imagine” on the sign. Apparently, I dream really, really big), those pants have actually stretched out a bit. I can get them on and buttoned. But, I can’t make them work with this outfit. I want to, because they are beautifully tailored and perfect for New Orleans. But I can’t figure out how to pair them appropriately and it would be a disservice, dear reader, to both you and me if I were to wear them prematurely, in a mismatched outfit. So I will pack them in our bag, carry them with us, and try them on again.
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