An Open Letter to Andrei Codrescu
Dear Andrei:
May I call you Andrei?
Let me start by telling you how much I enjoy your work. You're extraordinarily articulate, and your critical eye is keen--which is more than I can say of most other kids from the former Soviet Bloc. Granted, your prose sometimes waxes a bit poetic for my tastes, and your writing can become unnecessarily dense, but all-in-all, you're a-okay in my book. We New Orleanians have been lucky to count you in our number.
However, I take some issue with your recent comments in the New York Times about our city's "doomed" future. Specifically, you claim that New Orleans' "great period" has come to an end as a result of the hurricane, but I have to tell you, Andrei: our "great period" was over long before you or I were born. Since before the collapse of Storyville, New Orleans has been riding on its past glories. The city has tried to grow and prosper, but we've been outpaced by upstart burgs like Cleveland and San Diego and--goddess forbid--Dallas. We can't compete with the corporate communities of those cities because our educational system, not to mention our geography, have put us at a disadvantage. Even our cultural communities are average, at best. Apart from our music and culinary industries--both of which are formidable--New Orleans is no real stand-out.
In case you're wondering, yes, I'm going somewhere with this.
The way I see it, what makes New Orleans great is its atmosphere. And I mean that in the most intangible sense possible. Tourists come to New Orleans thinking they want to taste the food and hear the music and drink the booze, but ultimately, what they walk away with is something grander and far more indescribable. And whatever that is, it's bound up in the people. And the people will be back--maybe not the same people, maybe not your friends, but people. And they'll be people who want to be there, who love the city's charm and romance and je ne sais quoi and plan to keep it rolling. I mean, there's a reason that a successful 2006 Carnival season is at the top of our city leaders' wish-lists right now: the krewes are the city, and by ensuring that they're alive and well, we're ensuring that the city is alive, too.
I guess my biggest problem with what you've said--both here and elsewhere--is that you're clearly a slave to nostalgia, and lemme tell you Andrei, there's nothing I hate more than nostalgia. It's selfish. It's static. It's a dead-end. You want nostalgia? Visit someplace like Savannah or Charleston: nothing but the Geritol crowd taking old-home tours for as far as the eye can see. New Orleans, however, is not nostalgic. Our city's romance is alive because we live it every day. So while the specifics of "your city"--your friends, your hangouts, your "great period"--may be damaged or gone forever, don't assume it's ruined for the rest of us.
In closing, I'd like to reiterate what everyone else in the country has been saying for the past week or more: San Francisco bounced back after the Big One in 1906. New York bounced back after September the 11th. Hell, even Atlanta bounced back after being burned to the goddamn ground. And to the inhabitants of those cities, each of those tragedies looked just as insurmountable as New Orleans does right now to you and me. Luckily, our capacity for memory--fresh, vivid, blood-red memory--is very short indeed. Even now, the floodwaters are receding from the streets, New Orleans is receding from the front pages, and soon we'll be getting on with the humdrum business of our lives. So keep writing it all down, Andrei, because in five years, you might not be able to recall how you're feeling now. We'll check in then, perhaps.
Thanks so much for your time, and I hope to see you soon.
Your fan,
Richard
