Racing to the Finish

Easter weekend, New Orleans. Besides all the Passion Week activities and the last minute shopping for white gloves, parasols, and anything pastel, you can expect one thing in New Orleans: the Crescent City Classic. HELL YEAH!!!! I finished it this past Saturday, for the second time! The Classic is the best race in the world, I'm convinced. Starting in Jackson square, it goes up St. Peter, across Canal St., down Poydras, right on Rampart St. across Canal again, left on Esplanade all the way to the end, and into and around City Park, where it ends at Tad Gormley stadium. I always have the best time, well worth any sore thigh muscles or minor blisters that I may nurse afterwards. It's a race that literally anyone can and does do every year. Now, I have to apologize, because at the last minute I chucked my heavy camera in the truck, which may well be the worst mistake ever. There was enough stuff for a photo essay there, so many sights to see, and I wish that I could just post a flickr slideshow and be done with it, but I now have to polish off and use my amazing powers of description, even though we know how many words a picture is worth. So here goes: a mile by mile recount of the race, and the rest of what turned out to be a fantastic, quintessential New Orleans experience...

To the starting line
We started out by waking early, piling in the car, and driving to city park, where the race ends. After stopping by the table for late people to pick up their racing number and having a memorable port-o-potty experience (something I haven't done in years and hope NEVER to repeat, please God), we piled on a good ole RTA (pronounced "Rita") municipal bus, and for the nominal fee of 2$ we were taxied to the starting line. Unfortunately our definition and the driver's definition of the start line were somewhat different, as he dropped us some 10 blocks away. We, smart accomplished women that we are, decided to wait right there and not walk the route backwards, and then forwards again, just to start at the actual starting line. One of the main rules about the Classic is that there really are no rules. So we waited. Besides who wants to miss the rushing wind that signifies the group of professional racers (mostly Kenyans) actually taking the whole thing seriously? Boy, they were a sight! My mom got right beside them as they zoomed past while her friend tried to snap a picture. Of course, she missed the pic because her camera was too slow!

The starting shot... mile 1 begins
Once most of the people running the race went past, we began to see some walkers. That was out cue to slide on in. Mile one was mostly jostling for space. My mom and one of her friends pulled ahead quickly, damn them with their long legs and mobile-hipped strides! That's okay, more time to smile at the first well-wishers camped outside the hotels on Poydras to watch the racers pass. We saw lots of funny people: super tall, super short, super old, super young (even in push strollers), super ugly, super cute, super fat, super skinny. And let's not talk about people who moved strangely -- some runners actually caused me pain to watch. There were also lots of disabled people walking along... the spirit of togetherness that marks New Orleans filled the early morning air.

Mile 2
During mile two, things got interesting. I saw my favorite pizza joint (yay!) but it was closed (boo!). A little old Latina lady, who I nicknamed Tia Rosa, was handcuffed and being led away by a 5 foot black female cop. My mom pulled so far ahead that I attempted a cell phone check; this included me calling her phone and watching her ignore it and ultimately dig around in her fanny pack to pull out her phone. She then proceeded to call someone else!! This let me know that she could not be reached, and I made sure not to let her leave our sight from that point on. A group of people ran while dragging red wagons filled with beer in coolers and a giant subwoofer booming 80's tunes. They were wearing afro wigs and carrying beer cozies. They made quite a convoy. A little boy was crawling under a truck while his dad screamed "come out from there! I think you're freaking people out!" Some marines ran past singing drill songs. I saw lots of people wearing bunny ears and some wore tutus as well. A cop got more than he bargained for when he asked a lady sitting on the side of the road "you okay, ma'am?" While I passed she held forth, embarking on a shrill, whining diatribe about her cruel family which signed her up for the race that seemed to have no end. Poor guy. A cowboy man with a giant ten gallon hat stood on the neutral ground and hula-hooped with a giant rubber ring; must have been 4 or 5 feet in diameter!

Mile 3
Down Esplanade. This is a great, historic street with some of the finest homes in the city. I was all agog, especially because lately I have been fixated on purchasing a home in New Orleans for my very own, and I'd love it to be one of these (that being said, I have 25$ to my name as write this). It's impressive that I didn't bust my skull, since I barely looked where I was going. During this leg, my feet began to burn, my socks were too thin, but like I said before, blisters don't matter. People stood their balconies and waved. The smell of breakfast filled the air. Some sat on chairs facing the street and sprayed racers with refreshing water from their garden hoses, a much appreciated impromptu community service project. A bunch of old rockers, including one Steven Tyler lookalike, threw Mardi Gras beads. We also passed the first of the "free beer" stands. There were as many of those as there were water stations. A big brass band played classic New Orleans songs like "When the Saints Come Marchin' In" under the I-10 overpass. There is also a big donut shop on Esplanade and Broad. We didn't stop for donuts (like we've done in years past), but we did use that point to regroup and catch up to one another.

Mile 4
At this point, the end of Esplanade is near... but the sights don't stop. A man set up a huge sound system on his porch, blaring Creedance Clearwater Revival, and shaking his arthritic hips. A group dressed in band uniform tops, hats, and matching boxers gave out free hot dogs. More free beer stands. We passed a huge DJ station playing 70's funk. A group of people wearing crab hats got pissed when people keep calling them crawfish. The colorfully decorated Hare Krishna house is always a favorite sight. Most times they come outside and dance and chant with tambourines. I guess we were too early in the race this year. Lots of hot guys without shirts.

Mile 5
By mile five, you are entering City Park. You may think it's over, but WRONG! There's still 1.2 miles to go. By this time, the banana that I'd had for breakfast had evaporated in my stomach, causing a headache. Also, the blister on my right foot had made my acquaintance. But...City Park is beautiful in the spring, and there was a delightful breeze to stir the air and take down the heat. We passed the playgrounds and oak trees that I played in during my childhood, as well at the New Orleans museum of art.

Mile 6
This mile isn't about anything but finishing. That and reading the funny t-shirts that people wear and chatting with your friends and random acquaintances. Some memorable slogans:
Angola: A Gated Community
In My Heart I'm Kenyan
I Can Rest When I'm Dead
In It to Win It
There's a place where the ground is painted and 3 photographers sit on a giant scaffold and take pictures of everyone. It looks like the finish line. Syke! You have .2 miles to go!

The Finish Line
This is the best part. This is where you pass go and collect 200$!! Into the stadium to get your gift bag, free t-shirt, and all the free food (tasty) you can eat! Drink all the water, gatorade, beer, and smoothie king you can handle! Stuff your guts with fresh fruit, chee wees, jambalaya, red beans, etc! There's also a huge concert in the middle of the stadium with lots of people dancing and eating. Just a great big group of merrymakers. It needs to be seen to be believed, like most parties in New Orleans.

After the race, we don't race home. We go to whole foods and use that healthy momentum to shop for overpriced but sustainable goods. Riding high on that feeling, we cruise down Magazine Street and hit the Lakefront for lunch. Sitting out on the deck at Landry's, we watch the sailboats, seadoos, and jetskis at play while gorging ourselves on seafood etc and laughing until our sides hurt as much as our knees and legs!

Still not done. We go to Metairie and hit Shoenami, then finish up at Morning Call, a beignet house established in 1870. White powdered sugar dusting my body like sand from the sandman, I doze with my mouth open the whole way home to the Coast. Good thing I didn't drive.

Sigh... there's no place like home. Can't wait to reclaim it permanently.


On another note entirely, Christos Anasti (Christ is Risen)! Happy Resurrection Sunday! Remember that IT IS FINISHED. In today's sermon, I learned that when Jesus said this, He was speaking of His suffering, service, and His gift of salvation. We are now equipped with every tool and have been given every gift we need to complete the race that is life because of Jesus's victory over sin and its death sentence. And as I keep reminding myself, this race is not given to the swift... but to he (or she) that endureth. He is risen!
Post Theme: Da Funk by Daft Punk

Celebrity Deathmatch: Racism vs. Feminism

Ferrara can't help herself; she's tangled in the clotheslines of bitter, vintage feminism, baby boomer era deep-seated racial resentment, and the White man's business-as-usual double standard. It's a psychotic cat's cradle that allows one to delude oneself into believing that no matter what a person does, regardless of the outcome, whether soaring achievement or complete failure, the reason is race. It is the existential antithesis: you are nothing but your blackness (smirk, smirk). Embittered by the failures of feminism, and the pressures of being a woman in politics, she is angry that a Black man will snatch away the pinnacle of feminist achievement: the presidency. In her untouchable, bourgeois, whitey arrogance she refuses to recant. Even getting so hysterical (yes, I understand the snub) as to face the challenge by implying that she is a victim of "the race card" too, that she is being attacked because she is white. Sorry to inform that no, she's not being railroaded as a woman, she's being attacked because she is a deluded psycho, implying that being black in America is a cool fad, easy, or lucky, that there is an affirmative action effect. I missed the memo, the transition... here I was thinking that life is hard and even harder as a black person, and the whole time Obama is sliding down an easy shute to the Oval Office like a diseased cow in a meat packing plant! Thanks for the heads up, Geraldine!

I laugh uproariously at the image of white people as bugs mesmerized by Obama's brown-skinned "bug light" effect. There's a lot of stuff white people like, but black people in power is not one of them (so far). You lose... good thing you quit Clinton's campaign before she had to "denounce and reject you"! Too bad, so sad. Now go sit your ass down and think about what you've done!

This is why black women have always struggled as feminists; it all breaks down because there is the tension of competing and conflicting interests. Our feminism is often restricted to within the race or subjugated altogether in many cases, ostensibly for "the good of the race" philosophy with which we are so often socialized. I have mixed feelings about this, but mostly I just have to accept it, and it's work within me. I feel it keenly when I read and see this. I admire HRC and Geraldine Ferrara for representing the fierce competency of women, and the successful and skilled power brokering and politicking that we can do. Yes, they've paved a way. But I cannot accept or allow that respect to deafen my ears to racially charged statements and behavior. The facts say it all. Sad to say, but Callejo and Ferrara have said the most racists things in the campaign to date, not some white guy. Something to think about!

Post Theme: Hate On Me by Jill Scott