Muffaletta Republic

My father volunteered to work at a polling place for the mayoral election in New Orleans on Saturday. I called him yesterday afternoon, wanting to hear about his experience. I knew he'd be a little bummed out, as the candidate he voted for, Rob Couhig, only garnered about 10% of the vote. (As you probably know by now, the incumbent Ray "Chocolate City" Nagin and challenger Mitch Landrieu won the right to face each other in a run-off. I'll leave my analysis of these two characters to another time.)

Dad sounded tired and hoarse on the phone. He had just gotten back from a Greek Easter party at a friend's house where he had been drowning his woes with wine, and that had clearly added to the exasperation I sensed.

Apparently he had arrived at the polling place at 5:15am and stayed until well past 9pm, a long day by any standards. The polling place was set up in a huge warehouse. As so many polling places had been destroyed in Katrina (76 out of a previous 256 were in operation), the state had decided to combine clusters of 33 to 50 precincts' voting locations into "mega-sites". These mega-sites were at Jesuit High School (Dad's alma mater), St. Dominic's School, the University of New Orleans, and the state's voting machine warehouse in eastern New Orleans (where Dad worked).

Along with another volunteer, he was responsible for Precinct 43M, a precinct of about 1,100 voters in the 9th Ward. Precincet 43M is not in the much-publicized lower 9th, but rather in slightly more affluent neighborhood up-river. It was still heavily damaged by Katrina, along with most of New Orleans East. My father estimates that it's 99% African American, as every one of the voters he polled was black.

The warehouse itself was little more than that: just an aluminum shell that was meant for storing equipment. It was a warm day, and there was no air-conditioning in the building. According to my Father, this lead to the only tense moment in an otherwise calm and good-spirited vote.

Apparently, one election-worker, a black woman, had carefully positioned a large fan to be aimed directly at her so she could get some relief. At some point, a white male election worker wearing red suspenders ("a real 9th ward-type" as my dad put it) decided that he wanted part... or all... of the cool breeze. So he got up and shifted the fan towards his seat without asking for permission. Well, he might as well have punched her in the gut; she started screaming at him, causing everyone to stop in their tracks and watch as these sweaty lunatics quibbled over a fan. The racial divide in action! And it wasn't the voters, but the election workers! The pillars of democracy tearing themselves down! Too bad Anderson Cooper missed this (and the resulting Pulitzer). Anyway, Louisiana State Department quick responders were on the scene in seconds. Soon, after everyone calmed down, another fan was brought in, and both parties were able to co-exist in peace.

As I noted earlier, most of the day was quiet, calm, and orderly. Over the course of the day, only 165 voters showed up for Precinct 43M. They knew that approximately 60 had voted absentee. This put turnout at just under 20%, not a particularly surprising number considering how few people were still living in the precinct.

The volunteer my Dad was working with lived in Precinct 43M, so she knew some of the voters who came in, a lot of whom she hadn't seen since the storm. Some had traveled from Texas. Others were staying with relatives in Lafayette or Baton Rouge. Some weren't sure if they were going to return.

So, after a night's sleep and some time to process his thoughts, he got a call from a family friend inviting him to their house to celebrate Greek Easter. So, Dad found himself at a lavish party downing wine, eating baklava, and coming to terms with the likelihood of a Landrieu-run city hall. And as he ate spit-cooked lamb, he said he felt like Yury in Dr. Zhivago, dancing and laughing at great feasts in Moscow while the peasants starved and froze to death outside in the snow.

While Dad can be melodramatic after a few drinks, there really are two cities taking shape in New Orleans. Uptown and the French Quarter are full of promise while New Orleans East and Lakeside are crippled with despair. I don't mean for this to be a moral judgement, but really just my reflection on a reality that is taking shape. Perhaps it can explain why New Orleans is a place that I simultaneously mourn over and long for.