Morning Drive

Most of us begin each day with a ritual morning drive, whether to work or school or someplace else. Talk radio shouts at us as coffee sits secure in the cup holder. Four wheels spin on pavement, guided more by habit than any sort of skill. But do we ever notice where we’re going? My daily commute stretches 9.4 miles in a soft curve from west to east along Claiborne Avenue, which neatly divides New Orleans into two distinct zones. As a newcomer to this place, I’ve found myself more attentive to the landmarks I pass during the 22 minutes I’m in the car each morning. Here are a few of the sights that have caught my eye:

McDonald’s: As I turn right onto Claiborne, a pair of golden arches beckons. Though I usually manage to avoid pulling in (more out of poverty than discipline), I marvel at the rebirth of McDonald’s in the city each time I pass one. As other food chains, banks, and department stores have languished or left altogether, McDonald’s has systematically (and very quickly) re-established a dominant, visible presence here. Rather than refurbish their old, damaged stores, they have instead undertaken a massive plan to build brand new, gleaming ones. The golden arches are in fact the only familiar symbol of these new fast food palaces. The interiors are more modern and upscale, and double drive-thru lanes are usually packed with cars. Oh, and they are everywhere. Next time we have a hurricane, I suggest putting the McDonald’s people in charge of it. They clearly know how to get a job done.

Edgar P. Harney Elementary School: A row of eight or ten shiny new yellow buses sits along the side of the road as children play in the schoolyard waiting for the bell. I think back to my own Catholic school education, and to my recent years as a teacher and administrator at an exclusive independent school in Boston’s western suburbs. Though I can’t claim to know anything about what happens inside Harney’s walls, it’s hard not to notice the fact that the school is completely surrounded by houses and storefronts that have been abandoned for three years. Maybe those sights motivate some of the students to earn their ticket out of the slums by working hard at Harney, but my guess is that the opposite is true for most. The more I think about it, the more I’m struck by the staggering disparity American children face in accessing high quality education. I am fortunate to be a product of good schools, but I wonder what and where I’d be today if I’d attended Harney.

Superdome: At first it stares me in the face, looming there all powerful and secure with its bright white semi-spherical roof. After whizzing through a couple intersections I quickly pass alongside it, pulling up onto Interstate 10, which runs directly above Claiborne for a few miles. I can’t yet drive this stretch without recalling the hurricane story of a friend down here who, unable to swim, waded a couple miles through chest-high water seeking refuge from the raging floodwaters. The scene inside was so disgusting that she actually held her urine for three long days, unable to endure the smells emanating from the bathrooms. This dome, the tragic site of evil acts of rape, murder, and child abduction in the days following the hurricane, once again hosts the New Orleans Saints for all of their home football games. Many of the people who suffered so much under its dome (my friend included) now return regularly to cheer on their beloved team.

Iberville and Lafitte Housing Projects: From the elevated perspective of the highway, I can easily look down to my left and right into a couple of the roughest and most dangerous public housing projects in the United States. One of them is finally being demolished. It has been said that the New Orleans police will not venture into these areas out of fear. Instead, the drug kingpins make and enforce the laws. As hard as I try, I’m unable to imagine being a boy growing up in one of these projects rather than on a wooded dead end street just down the road from the local country club.

Corpus Christi-Epiphany Church: My new parish. As I pull off I-10 and descend back onto Claiborne, a well-directed glance to the left reveals the red clay rooftop of this church run by the Josephites, a small order of priests who minister to the African American community in the United States. Unless I bring a friend I am pretty certain to be the only white person in the pews. Though I stand out, I always feel welcome. The music and spirit of this church are unlike anything I’ve experienced in parish life up north. Though it’s clearly still a Catholic church, and thus not as animated as many southern congregations, there seems to be more of a conscious commitment to active communal worship. The congregation sings and claps and has fun. They truly celebrate their faith, even in those times when there may not seem to be much of a reason. The parish school hasn’t reopened since the storm, and though there is hope that it might someday make a comeback, that day is at best a long way off.

Industrial Canal: After a four-minute slingshot through the blighted Upper Ninth Ward, full of so many homes that haven’t been touched in three long years, I climb onto the Claiborne Bridge and catch my first glimpse of the Lower Ninth. From a distance, a visitor might mistake this place for a park of some kind, full of what appears lush greenery. But a brief detour to the left quickly reveals row upon row of hidden concrete slabs that once served as foundations and steps that once led into front halls – all of the homes completely washed away by the flood. In the last month, a charitable group led by Brad Pitt has begun rebuilding here. His project is expensive and controversial, but the visible signs of renewal brought by the bright-colored new homes lifts the spirit.

The Parish: As I cross a set of elevated train tracks – hopefully without getting caught by an inordinately long train heading for the oil refinery on the Mississippi – I enter St. Bernard Parish, the diminished community that I have committed to help rebuild during this year of service. St. Bernard is the only county in US history to be entirely wiped out by a natural disaster. Every one of the 27,000 homes in the parish was rendered uninhabitable by the storm. Other than a few fast food places, a Home Depot, a supermarket, and a dozen or so Dollar stores, not much has reopened; but the people here are absolutely committed to rebuilding their community. Having spent every workday with them for three of the last four weeks, it’s easy to see why.

As I get comfortable in my new city, I’m sure I’ll probably stop noticing a lot of the sites that color my ride to work each day. It’s only natural. But I can’t imagine I’ll ever forget these early morning drives.