Don't Let the Fear Getcha

When we arrived at Vaughn's, one of New Orleans' most revered musicians was playing, Kermit Ruffins. He was known to be a modern-day Louis Armstrong, hitting notes on his trumpet that would pop your eardrums. He kindly let me sit in with him a few different times, each time less a disaster than the one prior.

Once I knew Kermit a little better, he told me that I should learn how to play the trumpet. He said my face was too innocent to make it in New Orleans. If I learned the trumpet, I would devlop a "flat lip" like him. He showed me the crease on his lips, the place where they parted. But instead of them being full-bodied so they could open and speak to those around him, they were flat to show how he had chosen the life of a musician, speaking primarily through the trumpet, engaging the music world more than the spoken. He said that if I had this same "flat lip" that it would not only distinguish me from every other suburban girl who moved to New Orleans just to write, or sing, or whatever, it would also be New Orleans' permanent mark on my body, like a tattoo, showing the world that I was committed to communicating with the spirits within the old jazz of New Orleans. "You got a baby face" is what he said. "Spirits do horrible things to baby faces. You need something with a little more character." He said, pointing to the flat lip.

Kermit was also quick to point out that I didn't have much protection when it came to my choice of male company. My boyfriend at the time was an incredibly skinny saxophone player, twenty years older than me. He wore a beat-up tan leather hat and a brown plaid jacket that made him look like a hick. A couple of smart mouths from the local store called him Pa Kettle. "You know, if any man wants you, all he gotta do is knock down your stick-boyfriend and take you." Kermit said. I had been hearing this kind of thing since I first decided to move to New Orleans.

My mentor otherwise known as "the crazy Art professor whom I met at my Barnes and Noble bookstore job" warned me of the repercussions of moving from a quiet suburb of Sacramento to the gruff and violent city of New Orleans. He was an art professor at Sacramento State university. An aquaintance of his described him as electric because when he spoke you swore you saw his hair standing on its ends. He looked like Einstein, with his cotton candy white hair and jumped and yelled as he spoke like Sam Kinison. When I told him I was moving to New Orleans, he gave an impromptu rendition of a very involved myth specfic to the area. He put it within the context of the New Orleans "Mafia." He was orginally from New York, and his accent made his rantings even more confusing or humorous.

"They got New Orleans mafia there, honey!"
"Who are they?"
He laughs.
"They raise girls on the Bayou just to serve the men in this racket."
"Like serve them food?"
He grunts and snorts, laughing.
"They've never seen anything like you before, honey!"

I looked at him, questioning. This is the same man who told me I should isolate myself somewhere like a nun so I could study philosophy and continue writing. He suggested an apartment that he owned in the Napa Valley.

"What do you mean."
"A Chinese and Jewish girl singing jazz!? You'll be like a rare piece of crystal there, honey! Something that they'll want to
look at and then take. And the police are in on it, too. If the mafia can't get you, the police will force you to go. Like
the girls who are raised on the Bayou."

More later...