NOLA Flow: A Callaloo Retreat in New Orleans

March 6, 2008: Thursday

En route, 5 PM–2AM

We can’t help being thirsty, moving toward the voice of water.

—Rumi

Stuff is in the H₂O from the moment we leave San Marcos, Texas, for the straight eight-hour drive to New Orleans. Two Piscean writers take turns driving through sheets of relentless rain, with an eight-year-old bull playing on her DS in the backseat. My white students here at Texas State University were kind enough to see me off with: “Um, don’t stop after Houston.” Shit.

To our delight, the Camry we’ve rented has a Magellan RoadMate GPS Navigating System. Ferdinand, the first to supposedly have sailed an expedition westward from Europe to Asia and to cross the Pacific Ocean, would be proud of our efforts. His namesake isn’t. Though she speaks proper British Travel Agentese, I swear she’s nettled by our detours to Jack in the Box and Wal-Mart.

After driving for four hours and insulting myself with four carcinogenic tacos, I move over to the passenger seat, where I promptly fall into a swampy sleep. When I resurface, we’re crossing a bridge and the world’s going backwards and forwards at 60 mph: in the darkness and rain, trees rise like prehistoric monsters, and behind them, the Baton Rouge steel refineries promise post historic oblivion. Our blue arrow on the Magellan screen is tracing a dangerously thin black line through an expanse of blue. “Oh. My. God.” That’s Sheila Maldonado, horror-stricken driver-poet. We’re driving over swamp, being showered by zooming tractor trailers, in a violent rainstorm. All this for spice, Ferdinand?

We arrive in the Crescent City at 3 AM. Naturally, the French Quarter reminds me of Havana and of Puerto Plata, my mother’s Dominican hometown. It reminds my daughter of San Juan, Puerto Rico, “except it smells different.” After brushing our teeth in the Prince Conti Hotel sink, we both agree that the bathroom water smells fishtanky.

March 7, 2008: Friday

Closed Session 2, 10:30 AM–12 PM

Man—despite his artistic pretensions, his sophistication, and his many accomplishments—owes his existence to a six-inch layer of topsoil and the fact that it rains.

—Author Unknown

We head to the Hotel St. Marie for the Closed Session. On our way, a mini-carnival crosses our path in “celebration of Friday” and getting on their St. Patrick’s a week ahead. Fine by us. Like proper pirates, mother and daughter gather all the beads and loot we can. We arrive late to the session.

The St. Marie’s Audubon Room can’t be more appropriate a place for the session moderated by Fred D’Aguiar (Virginia Tech), whose surname’s derived from the Portuguese for “eagle.” The roundtable, composed of literary critics and writers, is already in the throes of discussion when I shuffle in. I buckle down to catch up, taking notes, which I always wonder how I will ever put to use, let alone remember I’ve even written them down in the first place. Of course, I later lose them and am now doomed to reconstruct memory in stylized present tense.

Therefore, the following are merely notes on my notes of the session:

• • Koritha Mitchell (Ohio State University) earnestly expresses feeling intimidated when confronting works of poetry. I admire her admission, which she doles out apologetically. Later, writer Emily Raboteau will marvel at how many critics spoke, compared to the artists. Just as well, I think, imagining that perhaps there aren’t as many forums for academic critics of color to discuss issues specific to them amongst each other. Artists are spoiled. And sometimes we talk too much.

• • At one point, Christian Campbell (Franklin & Marshall College) fesses up to being a “miscegenated” poet, referring to his dual role as critic and artist. Everyone chuckles. Having shown up to the Audubon Room a, um, late bird, it takes me a minute to get the, uh, worm. My laughter’s delayed: the term sounds weirdly fascist.

• • I look down at the Callaloo Retreat brochure...