John Beardsley knows everyone. In our volunteer camp here in Biloxi, Miss., it doesn't matter who you are: if he hasn't shared a cab with your cousin, it was a kayak with your ex or Dippin' Dots with your old babysitter.
This held true during our first visit to New Orleans. Strolling the neon-lit cobblestones of Bourbon Street, we came upon a middle-aged black man carrying an enormous sign: "HUGE ASS BEERS TO GO." His name was Ricky D, and his forehead was bright with gold glitter. Our subsequent conversation confirmed the inevitable: Ricky had volunteered with Beardsley's buddy from high school.
We arrived in New Orleans during the fourth quarter of the NFC Championship: the Saints versus the Chicago Bears. The outcome was already clear -- the Saints were losing by three touchdowns. The miracle season was all but over.
The city would not go quietly. A minute after we parted ways with Ricky D, a young black man tore down the middle of Bourbon Street on a motorized wheelchair. Steering with one hand and pumping his fist with the other, he was yelling a Saints cheer: "Who dat! Who dat!"
Turning a corner, we stumbled upon a crowd surrounding a parked convertible that was spilling Saints paraphernalia out of its doors, hood and trunk. We walked toward the rear of the car, where a man was focusing his camera on a woman, her face giddy and anxious, her hands gripping the bottom of her t-shirt. As we passed, she lifted her shirt -- no bra, of course, suggesting premeditation -- and the crowd whirled to see. The camera flashed. It was an overcast afternoon in late January; anywhere but the French Quarter, her breasts would have been out of season.
I asked Beardsley how long we had been in New Orleans. He looked at his watch.
"Ten minutes."
The streets emptied as night fell, and we searched for the perfect alligator dinner. A t-shirt in a store window pronounced: "FEMA Evacuation Plan: Run, Bitches, Run!" A restaurant marquee read: "Dedicated to the Preservation of Jazz."
Back in Biloxi, our work continues. I recently tutored a fifth-grader named Michael. He punctuated his signature with a large skull and crossbones, and drew "LOSER" on my hand in green highlighter. Needless to say, the word problems were slow going. I tried to set goals, but his watch was stuck at sass o'clock.
"How about we just finish this last problem."
"How about this: let it go."
When he ducked under the desk for a few seconds, I asked him what he was looking for. He said, "A way out of here," and he meant it.
I can see where Michael is coming from. We also help out in his school library, where the librarian has placed colorful toy trucks all over the tables -- and forbidden the children to play with them. She constantly scolds the helpless transgressors. (With a straight face, she explained that the trucks are only for transporting books across the tabletops. How do you spell Scooby Doo's confused noise?)
Living in the Hands On Gulf Coast camp is like being in a soap opera. It is run largely by (miraculously well-organized and hard-working) college-aged people who are as capable of moodiness and immaturity as anyone our age. Living here is also like being in a soap opera because, this week, that is precisely what we are doing. "Guiding Light," the daytime drama which happens to be the longest-running program in broadcast history, has invaded Biloxi; they are celebrating their 70th anniversary by promoting volunteerism. The entire cast and crew arrived in matching black sweatshirts and white vans, with substantial funding and publicity for Hands On's work -- and catered food! -- in tow.
Needless to say, the resulting circus has been surreal. During our nightly dinner meeting, anyone who needs to speak has to wait for scurrying boom operators to dangle black, giraffe-like microphones over their heads. Even out of costume and makeup, the female actors are made obvious by their self-possessed detachment and alien prettiness, as well as by their nose jobs. One of the actors is even slightly recognizable, since no one in the volunteer demographic watches soaps. The result is like a visit from dignitaries from an unheard-of nation: we know they are important only because we can see how important they find themselves.
To their credit, the actors are hard workers, and the show's generosity has worked wonders. As I write, the governor of Mississippi is conducting a ceremony forever designating Jan. 25th "Guiding Light Day" in this state.
Absurdity has come to Biloxi, but money came with it. Tuesday's State of the Union address devoted exactly zero words to the still-unhealed Gulf Coast devastation, wounds worsened since Katrina's landfall by Administration failures. Mississippi can't be picky -- even if it means throwing a birthday party for a soap opera, help is help.
