Peeling Paint

It’s hot again. The heat sits on my shoulders like massive weights pushing me deeper into the soles of my shoes. Oddly enough, it seems to be cooler outside in the heat than inside my house. I’m assuming it’s the fact that we have, due to financial reasons, cut the a/c during the day and limited its usage to the evening, restricting airflow to fans, which seem to push the heavy heat nowhere. The air outside is stagnate, but the occasional breeze is like a small, erratic prize for enduring the heat. A “well-done”, for you have survived the moment of oppression once more. I tire quickly of waiting for the next breeze and decide a bike ride is in order. This allows for a constant rush of air, making me believe I am somehow cooler.

As I maneuver through the streets of Bywater, I am distracted from the heat for a moment. My thoughts of igloos and glacial ice caps are interrupted as I pass the rows and rows of shotgun houses. I start to notice the finer details of debris and blight that I am confronted with on a daily basis. The layers of paint peel away from the siding of the shotgun, revealing the true state of the barge wood beneath. The state of the structure offers its history shamelessly. It allows itself to be read like an open book without discrimination or regret. The stoop sags in the middle, speaking to its overuse. I indulge my daydreams about the past of this house, which reveals itself so freely. I wonder what its walls have seen, how it has survived triumph and tragedy, gain and loss; each layer having its own complete story to go along with it, its own experiences. I look around at the similar homes, arranged tightly along the street, others, more recently refurbished, are not so willing to reveal themselves at first glance. The street itself reveals its scars and blemishes freely, without shame. It’s as if the scene of the siding, the stoops, the homes and the street are saying, without words, “I am here, I exist as I do, I need no justification.”

This brings up so many questions about the state of these houses. Why is it that the houses look they way they do? Why are there so many layers to this scene? Why are the characteristics of what may seem abandoned, so absolutely beautiful to me? The more I think about this, the more I understand the beauty is not only physical, it comes from something deeper. The beauty comes in how these houses have been the canvas for the story, the method of relaying the story. It’s the people that have been the authors of these stories, leaving pieces behind, adding layers to the narrative that is this home.

Just as the houses relay the story of the people, the people relay the story of New Orleans. The sense of community is strong, be it physical or psychological. Is it the architecture; the housing situated on the street, the density of the houses, or the common denominator of the shotgun that creates this communal sense? Or is it something more, an unabashed ability to be whoever you are, without having to justify yourself; an ability to be accepted by your community regardless of your scars, blemishes or peeling paint?