Color clash in NOLA

A while back I was on this kick, riding my bike around town and photographing the street signs at some of the fascinating intersections here in NOLA: Magic & Johnson; Short & Zimple; Pleasure & Desire; and of course, this one: Jeff  Davis & Martin Luther King.

The day I took the picture I had a chiropractor's appointment, and I was telling my chiropractor about my new photography project. "In fact, as soon as I'm done here, I'm going to shoot Jeff Davis and Martin Luther King," I told him. "I'll bet they have a lot of wrecks at that one!" We both chuckled.

A couple of weeks later I heard that a carriage driver colleague had been in an accident. When I saw him back out at Jackson Square I asked him about it. He was fine, he said, but his truck was totaled. A lady had run through a stop sign and t-boned him.

"You know how everything here in New Orleans ends up being about race," my friend lamented. "Well the lady who hit me was black. She was polite and apologetic. But I think her family thinks I'm some rich, white guy who's just trying to take advantage of her."

"That's too bad!" I said. "Where did the wreck happen?"

"At Jeff Davis and Martin Luther King," my friend answered.

WHAT? YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING!

As soon as I got time I rode my bike back to the infamous intersection. I had burning questions that needed answering. I had to conduct my own investigation. Turns out that Martin Luther King is the street with the stop sign. So that's where the African-American lady would have been. Whereas my white colleague was driving down Jeff Davis. You really can't make this stuff up! And yes, Martin Luther King still has to yield to Jeff Davis in New Orleans. Not saying that's how it should be, but apparently, that's how it is.

Trying on someone else's glasses

I had a couple from Atlanta on the back of my bike the other day. They were about 10 or 15 years older than me and African American. We rode past the police station on Royal Street, and the man spoke up:

"That's a police station isn't it? Can you pedal a little faster?"

Chuckling, I said, "My dad grew up here in New Orleans, and he was in trouble with the law all the time when he was young. But he raised me to be a law-abiding citizen."

My passenger paused a minute before replying: "That's nice in theory... But you know, you're white."

His words took the wind out of me for a moment then left me irritated at myself for having been been totally oblivious to the racial subtext of the "pedal faster" comment.

Mentally groping for some common ground, I thought of the twinge of fear I feel when I pass by the Iberville housing project. But the limitations of the analogy were immediately obvious to me. Being afraid of outlaws is bad enough; but being afraid of the law must be many, many times worse. That's something I've been privileged not to have experienced.