Putting aside my own personal opinion of the death penalty, considering only the purpose of the justice system: to find the truth, the death penalty creates more danger than good. Here is why: -
Prosecutors choose whether or not they will seek the death penalty. There is no higher power to guide or check this decision. When faced with a crime for which they would not normally seek death, (perhaps because they don’t believe the jury would so decide and therefore don’t want to waste the expense of a capital trial), the prosecutor might still put the death penalty on the table to entice the suspect to confess. “If you tell us everything we won’t seek death, you’ll get to live. If you don’t talk, you will be executed.” They might even go into the gory details of the death the suspect might suffer through – how they are paralyzed and then suffocated… I digress. The point is, it’s used as a bargaining chip.
Personally I believe this is wrong in and of itself. But some might say – if the suspect is guilty what does it matter why or how he/she confesses? So I ask you – what if the suspect isn’t guilty?
Think it doesn’t happen? Imagine you are brought into the police station and accused of brutally murdering someone. The night of the event you were alone at home, you have no alibi. There was an eyewitness who not only described someone who looks just like you, but also picked you out of a line up. (I’ll have to go into the errors of eyewitness’s another time, or I’ll digress again). The police interrogate you for hours on end. An intelligent person might ask for an attorney, “If you’re innocent what do you need one for?” comes the response, at which point many waive their rights. The interrogation continues. You tell them you need a bathroom break; they make you wait until you’re busting. By now it’s been hours since your last meal, they grudgingly throw you a can of coke. You are sleep deprived. And here’s where it comes: ‘You did it, didn’t you?’ – You’re no longer sure what to believe, you’ve by now heard so many details of the crime you feel like you were there. ‘If you tell us about it, tell us what you did, we will make a deal for you. Otherwise you could face death.’
And this is before the Prosecutor is involved. The police don’t have the power to make such a deal. You are sleep deprived and running on the sugar and caffeine from the coke, you’re thoughts are blurred and you just want them to stop. “I did it! It was me!” you break. Don’t know what you did? Don’t worry, they’ll tell you. ‘You broke into that house and you stabbed that woman didn’t you?’ Maybe you hesitate, this has gone too far. ‘We know you did it. There’s no turning back now, you’ve said it yourself. Now if you want to save your life, you’re going to have to tell us what happened.’ And so you follow the lead, hoping at the end there’s a bed where you can rest.
In the 2002 decision of Atkins v Virginia the U.S. Supreme Court acknowledged that the mentally retarded are susceptible to making false confessions due to their suggestibility and desire to please. The Supreme Court ruled it is Cruel and Unusual Punishment to execute the mentally retarded thus making it illegal. I believe though, that the risk extend beyond just those of a low IQ who are easily influenced. In a country without PACE (the British legislation governing powers of the police), trapped in an interrogation room, facing a reality of life and death, anyone can become easily influenced.
Perhaps I can make the situation all the more real to you with a true-life example. Take the case of Wayne and Sharmon Stock of Nebraska. In the late night of Easter Sunday 2006 they were murdered in their own home, each shot in the head. Initially their nephew, Matthew Livers and a friend of his were brought in for questioning. Matthew had a motive – there had been a dispute over money. The police interrogated them for hours. Matthew was given a polygraph test, he was told he failed. Eventually Matthew confessed, following police prompting. The next day, after some sleep, he recanted. “I was just telling you what you wanted to hear,” he explained. The trouble is – the damage is done. What jury is going to believe that an innocent person not only confessed to the crime but seemed to know so many details? Details the suspect likely heard about earlier on in the interrogation. More damning was – Matthew said he had been driving a tan car, not dissimilar to what an eyewitness said they had seen fleeing the crime, added to which he had had it cleaned within hours after his Aunt and Uncle had died. However, for a secure case, without ‘reasonable doubt’, the police need more. The CSI go over the scene and evidence again. All of a sudden one CSI, Mr. David Kofoed, finds a speck of blood in the suspect’s car. A speck of blood his coworker had apparently missed before. Low and behold the blood in the suspect’s car matches one of the victims.
Another item of evidence also turns up in this heated investigation – a ring, found in the kitchen of the Stock’s house, which belonged to neither the victims nor the suspects. The ring had an inscription, which lead the police to a Miss Jessica Reid. She’s brought into the police station and interrogated to within an inch of her sanity. Having established she was at the scene of the crime, they desperately want her to ‘admit’ that the other two suspects were also present. ‘I don’t know those men,’ she adamantly tells the police, pushing away the photos they keep thrusting in front of her. But the police are certain these men were involved, there’s DNA evidence linking them to the murders, and they want an airtight case. So they bring out the big guns: ‘Tell us the truth about these men and you won’t be executed.’ They have her attention. ‘You met them at the bar beforehand didn’t you?’
‘Sure.’ She agrees. She knows they have her, she was there, she witnessed her boyfriend, Gregory Fester, kill the husband and wife. Now all she can do is save her own life. She tells them whatever they want to know in order to protect herself from a possible death sentence.
Two men put on the chopping board so a guilty woman can save her life. All in the so-called name of ‘Justice’. But this isn’t how you find the truth.
Jessica confides in an officer from another district, “I don’t know those men. They made me say they were involved, but they weren’t.” And it all comes out – the drop of blood in the car tying the two suspects to the crime was planted by the CSI – he has been tried and convicted of this criminal act. Kofoed was famous in Nebraska for finding evidence when no-one else could, calling into question now every other conviction he had helped to obtain. He maintains he is innocent, and that perhaps the speck of blood got into the car by accidental transference during the investigation. Assuming he did do it, no one can believe it was a malicious act – he wanted to ensure two guilty men, whom he knew were guilty because of the confession, were put behind bars. However in so doing he perverted the course of justice.
So the bottom line is: people, whether innocent or guilty, will say anything that is asked of them in the face of death. Justice and the search for truth are not reliable under such circumstances. The only way to ensure their protection is to take such a bargaining chip out of the game.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Jazz Fest
7 days spread over 2 long weekends to celebrate: exceptional food, excellent music, and extraordinary crafts and culture. While the name may indicate the greatest draw to the festival is the music, upon attending it is easy to believe people (especially the locals) go just for the food! And oh how scrumptious the food is!
While I’d like to tell you the highlight of my first day at Jazz Fest (being the second day of the festival – Saturday, April 30th) was getting to see Simon & Garfunkel and hear Paul Simon sing ‘Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes’ (one of my favorite songs ever), I would definitely have to clarify that it was my favorite part that day of the music side of the event. That morning I warmed up my taste buds with a serving of crawfish strudel. I initially had no idea what it was, but I knew I had to have it as I had been told it was a must by Rose (Sister Helen’s right hand woman). And so I beat my way through the crowds, lurching across mud and waited entirely impatiently at the one stand on the site which sold these delicious delicacies. I don’t really know how to describe it, except to tell you that I would have been quite content to keep eating them for the rest of the festival and give up trying anything else if it weren’t for the pleasured moans coming from around other stalls.
Other food I tried included: crawfish bread (a warm roll stuffed with melted cheese and crawfish meat), crawfish sacks (pastry sacks like dumplings stuffed with crawfish meat and fried) and crawfish Monica (a pasta dish with cream, Creole spices and …crawfish!) – are you sensing a theme? It continued naturally but I did branch away from it as well. I tired Boudin Balls (my least favorite of the event) which is effectively the meat of a white pork sausage rolled into a ball, battered and (as the Southerners so love to do with all their food) deep fried. And I began what I believe will be a lifelong addiction to fried green tomatoes! I also tried some ‘Jama Jama’ which is in fact sautéed spinach, and far more delicious than it sounds – a woman on her own had bought a plate of it and sat at a picnic table next to our little group. She picked away at it as I gobbled down my crawfish strudel (again) before asking her what it was – she told me, and offered me a taste. My eyes lit up, and my tongue began to dance – then she let me have the rest of the plate. And so I got my greens for the day.
As for the music – well I saw a whole lot of bands you probably won’t know, as naturally the Festival features up and coming local artists. But you may want to check out: Treme Brass Band, who, if you have been watching the latest HBO hit show “Treme”, you may recognize. And Trombone Shorty – who plays a variety of instruments not just the trombone, and doesn’t appear at all short, and he’s rather delicious, not to mention a phenomenal performer.
As I mentioned above, I saw Simon & Garfunkel which was quite an experience having grown up listening to their music. Garfunkel’s voice wasn’t up to scratch and while some criticized him for it, I think for others like myself it was just enough that he made the effort, turned up and gave it his all. It also allowed Simon to do some of his solo stuff which was rather special. It was funny because all day long it had been overcast and threatening to rain. We all kept hoping it would rain during the day so it would clear by the time they came on, and as we waited for them the threat seemed closer and closer to being realized. But the minute they stood on the stage, the clouds dispersed and the sun shone down. It was glorious.
For the second weekend I managed to get the Friday off to attend the Festival as my boss and his choir were singing in the gospel tent. It was so much fun to see him on the stage – he even did a solo – as if I didn’t admire him enough already. I also got to dance along with a group of strangers to Jose Feliciano and the Gypsy Kings. Aretha Fanklin was supposed to headline on one page but she cancelled supposedly because she didn’t want her vocal chords to be affected by the oil spill – on the road outside the gates someone had written “No R.E.S.P.E.C.T.” In her place Earth Wind & Fire played. At first I thought I didn’t know them, but as the set continued I recognized more and more songs, mostly from car journeys with my mother. And just to keep bragging – I also got to see Van Morison (who’s stage was almost completely gold, particularly his microphone stand) and listen to BB King – for reasons unkown to me he was put in a small tent which burst out onto the paths, so while I couldn’t see him for the crowd I could at least hear him. And he ended the Festival with “When the Saints go Marching In” – which as I may have mentioned before is quite a well loved tune in this football fanatical town.
Crawfest & Killer Caterpillars
Okay so back to that update I started a couple of months ago–
CRAWFEST
A day dedicated to gorging on delectable little red crustaceans that have been boiled alive in a Cajun mix of herbs and spices together with plenty of garlic, potatoes and corn on the cob, all the while listening to a variety of different bands on the grounds of Tulane University. It was a hot day at the beginning of summer, before the terror of humidity had set in. People were stripped down to the bare essentials soaking up the rays during the brief window of opportunity that allowed them to enjoy being outside in the heat. Beer was flowing, and through the strumming of guitars and blasting of horns you could hear people sucking the juices out of crawfish heads and off their fingers. It’s a very social meal, there’s little meat in each crawfish and for the unskilled it can take quite a few minutes to get what is there safely out of the shell and into ones mouth (and let me tell you, it can take a lifetime to become skilled at this practice), so to eat enough to fill you can take a few hours, all the while munching on the potatoes with garlic smushed on them, and nibbling spicy corn cobs. As if the food weren’t enough of a draw, the music is quite a spectical too. I went to see RiverLeft– the drummer is dating a friend of mine, and the lead singer did his PADI dive master at the dive shop on Utila where I worked as an instructor (small world). They are a great group, my favourite song of theirs is ‘American Girl’ – their website is: http://www.riverleft.com/fr_home.cfm if you want to check them out.
KILLER CATERPILLARS
Okay well they aren’t exactly killer but they’re close enough! Usually around February but this year in May (the delay due to our extremely cold winter) the Buck Moth Caterpillars assault New Orleans. The ceramic-esqu eggs are laid in batches at the top of oak trees. And once hatched, they eat their way through the leaves down the tree. They have even been known to strip a tree of all its leaves. The caterpillar’s spines are connected to poison glands, which when they make contact can cause burning sensations and painful inflammation, with the irritation lasting as long as several days and causing nausea. The problem here is that St Charles Avenue is lined on either side with numerous oaks – from which during this period caterpillars are known to drop and sting. I have to travel down most of the length of this famous and beautiful, though temporarily perilous, street to get to work and back each day. I braved the journey on my bike for a few days, until eventually I decided my luck would run dry soon enough and I had to decide whether to cover myself from head to foot in the heat for the hour long ride, or throw my hands up and get on the Street Car. I decided on the latter. And am happy to say successfully escaped the treachery of the buck moth caterpillars.
CRAWFEST
A day dedicated to gorging on delectable little red crustaceans that have been boiled alive in a Cajun mix of herbs and spices together with plenty of garlic, potatoes and corn on the cob, all the while listening to a variety of different bands on the grounds of Tulane University. It was a hot day at the beginning of summer, before the terror of humidity had set in. People were stripped down to the bare essentials soaking up the rays during the brief window of opportunity that allowed them to enjoy being outside in the heat. Beer was flowing, and through the strumming of guitars and blasting of horns you could hear people sucking the juices out of crawfish heads and off their fingers. It’s a very social meal, there’s little meat in each crawfish and for the unskilled it can take quite a few minutes to get what is there safely out of the shell and into ones mouth (and let me tell you, it can take a lifetime to become skilled at this practice), so to eat enough to fill you can take a few hours, all the while munching on the potatoes with garlic smushed on them, and nibbling spicy corn cobs. As if the food weren’t enough of a draw, the music is quite a spectical too. I went to see RiverLeft– the drummer is dating a friend of mine, and the lead singer did his PADI dive master at the dive shop on Utila where I worked as an instructor (small world). They are a great group, my favourite song of theirs is ‘American Girl’ – their website is: http://www.riverleft.com/fr_home.cfm if you want to check them out.
KILLER CATERPILLARS
Okay well they aren’t exactly killer but they’re close enough! Usually around February but this year in May (the delay due to our extremely cold winter) the Buck Moth Caterpillars assault New Orleans. The ceramic-esqu eggs are laid in batches at the top of oak trees. And once hatched, they eat their way through the leaves down the tree. They have even been known to strip a tree of all its leaves. The caterpillar’s spines are connected to poison glands, which when they make contact can cause burning sensations and painful inflammation, with the irritation lasting as long as several days and causing nausea. The problem here is that St Charles Avenue is lined on either side with numerous oaks – from which during this period caterpillars are known to drop and sting. I have to travel down most of the length of this famous and beautiful, though temporarily perilous, street to get to work and back each day. I braved the journey on my bike for a few days, until eventually I decided my luck would run dry soon enough and I had to decide whether to cover myself from head to foot in the heat for the hour long ride, or throw my hands up and get on the Street Car. I decided on the latter. And am happy to say successfully escaped the treachery of the buck moth caterpillars.
Friday, 18 June 2010
The Ethics of Anonimity
Just a brief break in my 'catch up' blogs to discuss a recent execution - Last night, or more accurately in the wee hours of this morning Ronnie Lee Gardner was executed in Utah by firing squad.
He is the third person to be executed by firing squad since the reinstatment of the death penalty in 1976. The other two, Gery Gilmore in 1977(who's famous last words were "Lets do it") and John Taylor in 1989, were also executed in Utah. Gardner chose the method of execution before it was banned in Utah and replaced in 2004 with the lethal injection, the law however was not retroactive. He is the first person to be executed in Utah for more than a decade. There are nine men still on death row in Utah, and four of them have also ellected to be executed by firing squad when the fateful moment arrives. Eight of the nine men were sentenced to death before 2004 (Floyd Eugene Maestas was sentenced in 2005, the most recent death sentence before then was handed down in 1994). No one can explain with any certainty the reason behind the preference - other than in the case of John Taylor who openly faced the firing squad in order to embarrass the State, and in that he was quite successful. Its a wonder then, why the selection has been allowed to continue, and how it is the world will percieve this archane method today - if indeed it notices at all.
Last night Gardner was strapped to a black chair, a hood was placed over his head, and a target pinned to his chest over his heart. Behind reflective glass sat media representatives and witnesses for the victim and defendant. As they watched a man die, Gardner saw neither their pain nor glee. Gardner's final words when asked if he had any were: "I do not, no." Five certified police officers who volunteered to be executioners stood behind a wall cut with a gunport. Each officer was armed with matching .30 caliber winchester rifles, one of which was loaded with a blank. This is so that each executioner can hold on to the belief that they may not have been the one to shoot the deadly bullet.
And here lies my question for the day - if you dont want to reveal your identity, and dont want to know whether you were the one to kill the bound and blindfolded man - why volunteer to be an executioner?
If the death penalty is justifiable - if executing a human being is the right thing to do - why hide behind anonimity? If no one is willing to stand openly in front of the inmate and witnesses and pull the trigger, or flick the switch, knowing full well what the consequence of their action will be - perhaps no one should be doing it at all.
The Utah Attorney General, Mark Shurtleff, "tweeted" his approval of the executioner - "I just gave the go ahead to corrections director to proceed with Gardners execution. May God grant him the mercy he denied his victims."
Why didn't Mr Shurtleff pick up the gun, it seems to me he might as well have been an executioner having given the order to go ahead with it. I pray that when his time comes God grants him the mercy he denied Gardner.
He is the third person to be executed by firing squad since the reinstatment of the death penalty in 1976. The other two, Gery Gilmore in 1977(who's famous last words were "Lets do it") and John Taylor in 1989, were also executed in Utah. Gardner chose the method of execution before it was banned in Utah and replaced in 2004 with the lethal injection, the law however was not retroactive. He is the first person to be executed in Utah for more than a decade. There are nine men still on death row in Utah, and four of them have also ellected to be executed by firing squad when the fateful moment arrives. Eight of the nine men were sentenced to death before 2004 (Floyd Eugene Maestas was sentenced in 2005, the most recent death sentence before then was handed down in 1994). No one can explain with any certainty the reason behind the preference - other than in the case of John Taylor who openly faced the firing squad in order to embarrass the State, and in that he was quite successful. Its a wonder then, why the selection has been allowed to continue, and how it is the world will percieve this archane method today - if indeed it notices at all.
Last night Gardner was strapped to a black chair, a hood was placed over his head, and a target pinned to his chest over his heart. Behind reflective glass sat media representatives and witnesses for the victim and defendant. As they watched a man die, Gardner saw neither their pain nor glee. Gardner's final words when asked if he had any were: "I do not, no." Five certified police officers who volunteered to be executioners stood behind a wall cut with a gunport. Each officer was armed with matching .30 caliber winchester rifles, one of which was loaded with a blank. This is so that each executioner can hold on to the belief that they may not have been the one to shoot the deadly bullet.
And here lies my question for the day - if you dont want to reveal your identity, and dont want to know whether you were the one to kill the bound and blindfolded man - why volunteer to be an executioner?
If the death penalty is justifiable - if executing a human being is the right thing to do - why hide behind anonimity? If no one is willing to stand openly in front of the inmate and witnesses and pull the trigger, or flick the switch, knowing full well what the consequence of their action will be - perhaps no one should be doing it at all.
The Utah Attorney General, Mark Shurtleff, "tweeted" his approval of the executioner - "I just gave the go ahead to corrections director to proceed with Gardners execution. May God grant him the mercy he denied his victims."
Why didn't Mr Shurtleff pick up the gun, it seems to me he might as well have been an executioner having given the order to go ahead with it. I pray that when his time comes God grants him the mercy he denied Gardner.
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Guts and Glory
So it has been far too long since I last updated my blog. A lot has happened in the past two months, including:
Angola Rodeo,
Crawfest,
Stinging caterpillars,
Jazz Fest,
Home rebuilding in the Ninth Ward,
A visit to California.
And of course some interesting stuff at work too which has kept me very busy, so lets blame that for my lack of updates.
I don’t want to rush through all of this, so having given you an idea of what’s to come, let me now tell you about my experience at the ‘Rodeo’.
So, Angola as most of you will know is the name of the Louisiana State Penitentiary (I keep promising to write a blog about the prison itself – it has a very interesting history – but that will just have to wait a bit longer still). Twice a year the prison hosts a Rodeo. The inmates enter the arena to do the traditional bareback riding, bull dogging and barrel racing plus a few additional ‘games’ in which they risk their lives for the chance to win a few bucks against a raging bull. In ‘Convict Poker’ four inmates sit around a table ‘playing poker’ (I can’t imagine terribly well, if at all – they are probably gripping the cards in fear and anticipation of what’s to come, blind to the royal flush before them) when a wild bull is released into the arena. Last man in his seat wins. The game doesn’t last long – the bull instantly heads for the table, and it’s usually a matter of mili-seconds between who leaves the table when. Then there is ‘Guts & Glory’ – a poker chip is tied to the meanest bull of the day – the winner of the event is the first to get the poker chip. It’s the last event of the day, and quite unlike the rest which sees inmates attempting to remain in position if not running away – rather than trying to get close to the raging animal. Another unlikely sight about which I have heard is monkeys attached to sheep dogs, rounding up sheep in the arena… The Deep South is an odd place, Angola is just plain peculiar.
There is more to the event than the rodeo itself. In fact I only stepped in for a few minutes to see the arena over the hours we were on the grounds. I didn’t want to see the dangers the inmates (were practically forced to) volunteer for. At first I thought I had missed the worst of it as on my approach I saw inmates trying to climb on bare-back horses from barrels, until the arena was cleared except for a few inmates and a steaming, eager bull was released upon them. The bull rammed one inmate against the railings, lifted him up with his horns and tossed the man into the air like a mere rag doll, up he flew, and down he fell into a heap. Paramedics were brought in and the body was removed. “Our thoughts are with the inmate” a voice from above said, he wasn’t given a name, not even a number, he was just another entertainer. At that point I promptly left the arena again.
Outside the violence and mayhem inmates had set up stalls to sell various items they had made over the past few months. There were cow hide belts and leather wallets (which I couldn’t help but wonder – was that the last rodeo’s unappreciated bull?), there were silver bracelets, charms and rings, paintings and sketches, plants and rocking chairs, even bbqs! And everything was so carefully and beautifully crafted.
Once you had selected an item to purchase, the inmate selling it wrote you a ticket and put the item aside. You took the ticket to a cashier (a non-inmate) gave them the amount, they marked the ticket and made a note of who the money was to go to and how much of it the warden would receive. With your ‘paid’ stamped ticket you returned to the inmate and retrieved your bought item. “Why the complicated system?” I asked at my first purchase (because in the heat and the hustle and bustle of the day, it seemed unnecessarily and rather inconveniently complicated) “Because money is weapon or a death wish here.” I was told. And too true – many a man had served time for less than each might earn that day!
While most inmates were able to stand by their stall, shake a hand or two and hang out with some visitors. There was one ‘pen’ where inmates of a higher security level were held. Crammed in together in a horse-shoe shaped pen with tables encircling the outside on which their goods were displayed, they ignored the steaming heat as the sun shone down directly on them, and they clambered over and on top of each other, calling out for attention – a kind word, a smile, or if all went well, a sale. Of course I had to buy something from an inmate in the pen. But I chose a beautiful box, carefully crafted so the lid slid apart if you turned it in the right direction and four little pockets came sliding out – for a measly $25 too!
For those not in the pen, the rodeos provide an opportunity to visit with their friends and family without being under the constant watchful eyes of bored guards, and rather than a two hour restriction they could spend the whole day together, eating and chatting. As I approached one stall to look at some jewelry the inmate asked me “What kind of son would I be if I made my mother pay for a necklace after she’s made it all the way up here and spent $10 to come in and see me?” I looked at him, and the older, warn out woman standing beside him holding onto a chain and fleur de lis charm. “The bad kind.” I said.
“Who’s side are you on?” The mother spoke back. “Can’t you help a woman out?”
“He wants to give you a gift,” I told her “You should accept it as such. And tomorrow sneak some money into his prison account, and it wont be like you bought it from him.” Apparently satisfied with this solution, she put the necklace on and smiled at her son.
Apart from all the crafts, the guards and their family were also selling food. Anything and everything you can imagine and more – such as deep fried coke – yes you read that right. Have you ever imagined such a thing? Well I hadn’t and so for your sake alone a bought and tried it. It’s a doughnut batter with coke in it, made into little balls then thrown into a deep fryer and covered with cream – rich and no doubt heavy in calories (the things I do for you) and quite tasty… an experience, the once in a life time sort.
And that’s it for now my friends, unless you have any questions, or I remember something else. Next installment in a few days – crawfest and caterpillars.
Angola Rodeo,
Crawfest,
Stinging caterpillars,
Jazz Fest,
Home rebuilding in the Ninth Ward,
A visit to California.
And of course some interesting stuff at work too which has kept me very busy, so lets blame that for my lack of updates.
I don’t want to rush through all of this, so having given you an idea of what’s to come, let me now tell you about my experience at the ‘Rodeo’.
So, Angola as most of you will know is the name of the Louisiana State Penitentiary (I keep promising to write a blog about the prison itself – it has a very interesting history – but that will just have to wait a bit longer still). Twice a year the prison hosts a Rodeo. The inmates enter the arena to do the traditional bareback riding, bull dogging and barrel racing plus a few additional ‘games’ in which they risk their lives for the chance to win a few bucks against a raging bull. In ‘Convict Poker’ four inmates sit around a table ‘playing poker’ (I can’t imagine terribly well, if at all – they are probably gripping the cards in fear and anticipation of what’s to come, blind to the royal flush before them) when a wild bull is released into the arena. Last man in his seat wins. The game doesn’t last long – the bull instantly heads for the table, and it’s usually a matter of mili-seconds between who leaves the table when. Then there is ‘Guts & Glory’ – a poker chip is tied to the meanest bull of the day – the winner of the event is the first to get the poker chip. It’s the last event of the day, and quite unlike the rest which sees inmates attempting to remain in position if not running away – rather than trying to get close to the raging animal. Another unlikely sight about which I have heard is monkeys attached to sheep dogs, rounding up sheep in the arena… The Deep South is an odd place, Angola is just plain peculiar.
There is more to the event than the rodeo itself. In fact I only stepped in for a few minutes to see the arena over the hours we were on the grounds. I didn’t want to see the dangers the inmates (were practically forced to) volunteer for. At first I thought I had missed the worst of it as on my approach I saw inmates trying to climb on bare-back horses from barrels, until the arena was cleared except for a few inmates and a steaming, eager bull was released upon them. The bull rammed one inmate against the railings, lifted him up with his horns and tossed the man into the air like a mere rag doll, up he flew, and down he fell into a heap. Paramedics were brought in and the body was removed. “Our thoughts are with the inmate” a voice from above said, he wasn’t given a name, not even a number, he was just another entertainer. At that point I promptly left the arena again.
Outside the violence and mayhem inmates had set up stalls to sell various items they had made over the past few months. There were cow hide belts and leather wallets (which I couldn’t help but wonder – was that the last rodeo’s unappreciated bull?), there were silver bracelets, charms and rings, paintings and sketches, plants and rocking chairs, even bbqs! And everything was so carefully and beautifully crafted.
Once you had selected an item to purchase, the inmate selling it wrote you a ticket and put the item aside. You took the ticket to a cashier (a non-inmate) gave them the amount, they marked the ticket and made a note of who the money was to go to and how much of it the warden would receive. With your ‘paid’ stamped ticket you returned to the inmate and retrieved your bought item. “Why the complicated system?” I asked at my first purchase (because in the heat and the hustle and bustle of the day, it seemed unnecessarily and rather inconveniently complicated) “Because money is weapon or a death wish here.” I was told. And too true – many a man had served time for less than each might earn that day!
While most inmates were able to stand by their stall, shake a hand or two and hang out with some visitors. There was one ‘pen’ where inmates of a higher security level were held. Crammed in together in a horse-shoe shaped pen with tables encircling the outside on which their goods were displayed, they ignored the steaming heat as the sun shone down directly on them, and they clambered over and on top of each other, calling out for attention – a kind word, a smile, or if all went well, a sale. Of course I had to buy something from an inmate in the pen. But I chose a beautiful box, carefully crafted so the lid slid apart if you turned it in the right direction and four little pockets came sliding out – for a measly $25 too!
For those not in the pen, the rodeos provide an opportunity to visit with their friends and family without being under the constant watchful eyes of bored guards, and rather than a two hour restriction they could spend the whole day together, eating and chatting. As I approached one stall to look at some jewelry the inmate asked me “What kind of son would I be if I made my mother pay for a necklace after she’s made it all the way up here and spent $10 to come in and see me?” I looked at him, and the older, warn out woman standing beside him holding onto a chain and fleur de lis charm. “The bad kind.” I said.
“Who’s side are you on?” The mother spoke back. “Can’t you help a woman out?”
“He wants to give you a gift,” I told her “You should accept it as such. And tomorrow sneak some money into his prison account, and it wont be like you bought it from him.” Apparently satisfied with this solution, she put the necklace on and smiled at her son.
Apart from all the crafts, the guards and their family were also selling food. Anything and everything you can imagine and more – such as deep fried coke – yes you read that right. Have you ever imagined such a thing? Well I hadn’t and so for your sake alone a bought and tried it. It’s a doughnut batter with coke in it, made into little balls then thrown into a deep fryer and covered with cream – rich and no doubt heavy in calories (the things I do for you) and quite tasty… an experience, the once in a life time sort.
And that’s it for now my friends, unless you have any questions, or I remember something else. Next installment in a few days – crawfest and caterpillars.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
All Things Green For Chasing Snakes
Well St Patrick’s Day was quite a spectacle in New Orleans! Another welcome excuse for a party – and of course, what is a celebration without more parades?! For the entire week people were dressed in green, and drinking green beer (I didn’t dare ask what made the beer green lest they shatter my happy delusion that it was merely food colouring).
The Saturday before the actual day there was a parade along Magazine Street, which in typical Louisiana fashion commences about two hours later than scheduled and lasted an additional few hours. The street was lined with crowds dressed in varying shades of green, eating green things and drinking green things – and downing green vodka jello shots (does that constitute eating or drinking?) The parade consisted of a number of floats throwing the usual beads and cups (which I again avoided as though someone were dropping bombs), and CABBAGES – well they are green after all…. And there were multiple men in kilts handing out green, orange and white paper flowers in exchange for kisses – it was the kilts that captured my curiosity! And during all this fabulous festive celebration of a snake banishing Brit turned Irish slave I don’t think I came across a single person who could claim a genuine direct and proximate lineage to Ireland. I made a feeble attempt claiming on facebook that I am in fact an eighth Irish thanks to my great Grandmother – which my Mother rapidly and publicly correct – it was in fact my great Grandfather… oops.
After a dozen or two beads encircled our reddening necks, a couple of green beers, and few rounds of cabbage football, our green clad gang headed to Nacho Mama’s for a Mexican meal served by American’s dressed as Irishmen… sometimes I think I’m Alice living in Wonderland.
After a dozen or two beads encircled our reddening necks, a couple of green beers, and few rounds of cabbage football, our green clad gang headed to Nacho Mama’s for a Mexican meal served by American’s dressed as Irishmen… sometimes I think I’m Alice living in Wonderland.
On St Patrick's Day itself, I found myself again wearing green (soo not my colour!) clutching a beer wondering whether I would ever even step foot in the country I was at that very moment claiming legacy from... The place to be seen on Wednesday evening was the Parisole's Bloc Party. I'm not a regular of Parisoles, it generally looks like a bit of a sketchy place on the corner of nowhere. But for one night a year it is so popular you cant even make it inside! Its a wonder why the bother opening any other night of the year with the fortune they must rake on St Patrick's Day.... and Im not even sure how they are related to the celebration except that it has become a New Orleans tradition. And complain as I might, it was a fabulous night. Although it again ended with a mexican meal... but potatos are my least favourite food so its hardly surpising we weren't eating "Irish food".
Monday, 22 March 2010
Lombardi Gras and Cups and Ink
Who Dat? Who Dat! Who Dat Say They Gonna Beat Them Saints?
No one!
Who Dat? We Dat!
So the Saints won the Superbowl! Black and Gold Superbowl!
No one!
Who Dat? We Dat!
So the Saints won the Superbowl! Black and Gold Superbowl!
New Orleans has confirmed that pigs can fly and hell has frozen over because the Lombardi Trophy is ours!!! (Yes that’s right people, I said “ours” – I am including myself)
The Saints are all about “Faith” and “Believe” – the fans had Faith, they Believed – that against all odds our Black and Gold heroes lead by Breesus (Drew Brees) himself, we could win.
The Colts were a sure favourite to win. My friend Dr Beer was visiting from England, having arrived the day before, she did not have the faith. She looked on at our fan club which had congregated in Lucy’s Bar with concern, especially as The Colts lead 10 up in the first quarter. “We finish strong” we told her, repeating another Saint’s mantra, our confidence still holding strong. I won’t bore you with a play by play but it was an amazing game. We didn’t just win we kicked those horse shoe wearing blue boys out of Miami in style with a final score of 31-17!
I thought the Championship party was big. It paled in comparison to the way the city took off once the Superbowl was claimed. The streets filled with people. There were tears of joy, screams of jubilation, and bear hugs all round. We danced until dawn, quite literally. The clubs played the Saint’s unofficial anthem, Ying Yang Twins Stand Up and Get Krunk, every third song! (Incidentally, Krunk apparently means Krazy Drunk).
When the Saints returned home on Monday the road to the airport was blocked with traffic all the way to the city (and it’s a half our drive without traffic!) – they were given a hero’s welcome having raised New Orleans out of the ashes, “We aren’t victims any more. We are winners!” The Tuesday after the Superbowl was renamed “Dat Tuesday” and each Krewe from Carnival provided their best float to parade the team and trophy through the city for the fans which gathered. A first estimation count indicated 800,000 people showed up, we are pretty certain that’s only half because people watching from the surrounding buildings along the parade route weren’t included in the count. Most parishes in Louisiana provided an unofficial half day on Tuesday to allow people to drive to New Orleans to attend the parade – and of course most people hadn’t turned up to work on the Monday either, with some parishes having declared it a public holiday in anticipation of success.
This was not just a football game for New Orleans, it was a giant step in their recovery from Katrina. Drew Brees arrived in New Orleans after the hurricane, and immediately stepped in to help rebuild the community, now he has lead the Saints to victory at our first ever Superbowl and the city is bursting with pride. Even the ‘ladies what lunch’ are seen dressed in football jersesys! Breesus will never have to buy a beer or pay a parking fine in this town again. After parading around the town he went to Lucy’s Bar (the very place where I witnessed him claim the trophy) and shared his pre-game chant with the fans:
When I say “1” you say “2”
When I say “win” you say “for you”
When I say “3” you say “4”
When I say “win” you say “some more”
When I say “5” you say “6”
When I say “win” you say “for kicks”
When I say “7” you say “8”
When I say “win” you say “its great”
When I say “9” you say “10”
When I say “win” you say “again”
Win Again Win Again Win Again
And now For Something Completely Different-
Well, not so much really.
The Saints are all about “Faith” and “Believe” – the fans had Faith, they Believed – that against all odds our Black and Gold heroes lead by Breesus (Drew Brees) himself, we could win.
The Colts were a sure favourite to win. My friend Dr Beer was visiting from England, having arrived the day before, she did not have the faith. She looked on at our fan club which had congregated in Lucy’s Bar with concern, especially as The Colts lead 10 up in the first quarter. “We finish strong” we told her, repeating another Saint’s mantra, our confidence still holding strong. I won’t bore you with a play by play but it was an amazing game. We didn’t just win we kicked those horse shoe wearing blue boys out of Miami in style with a final score of 31-17!
I thought the Championship party was big. It paled in comparison to the way the city took off once the Superbowl was claimed. The streets filled with people. There were tears of joy, screams of jubilation, and bear hugs all round. We danced until dawn, quite literally. The clubs played the Saint’s unofficial anthem, Ying Yang Twins Stand Up and Get Krunk, every third song! (Incidentally, Krunk apparently means Krazy Drunk).
When the Saints returned home on Monday the road to the airport was blocked with traffic all the way to the city (and it’s a half our drive without traffic!) – they were given a hero’s welcome having raised New Orleans out of the ashes, “We aren’t victims any more. We are winners!” The Tuesday after the Superbowl was renamed “Dat Tuesday” and each Krewe from Carnival provided their best float to parade the team and trophy through the city for the fans which gathered. A first estimation count indicated 800,000 people showed up, we are pretty certain that’s only half because people watching from the surrounding buildings along the parade route weren’t included in the count. Most parishes in Louisiana provided an unofficial half day on Tuesday to allow people to drive to New Orleans to attend the parade – and of course most people hadn’t turned up to work on the Monday either, with some parishes having declared it a public holiday in anticipation of success.
This was not just a football game for New Orleans, it was a giant step in their recovery from Katrina. Drew Brees arrived in New Orleans after the hurricane, and immediately stepped in to help rebuild the community, now he has lead the Saints to victory at our first ever Superbowl and the city is bursting with pride. Even the ‘ladies what lunch’ are seen dressed in football jersesys! Breesus will never have to buy a beer or pay a parking fine in this town again. After parading around the town he went to Lucy’s Bar (the very place where I witnessed him claim the trophy) and shared his pre-game chant with the fans:
When I say “1” you say “2”
When I say “win” you say “for you”
When I say “3” you say “4”
When I say “win” you say “some more”
When I say “5” you say “6”
When I say “win” you say “for kicks”
When I say “7” you say “8”
When I say “win” you say “its great”
When I say “9” you say “10”
When I say “win” you say “again”
Win Again Win Again Win Again
And now For Something Completely Different-
Well, not so much really.
Mardi Gras was unofficially renamed Lombradi Gras in commemoration and celebration of the Saint’s Lombardi trophy success, and most Krewe’s had a float which in some way signified their pride in and love for the Saints. And a brass band or two marching along played “Oh When The Saints Go Marching In.”
Carnival is something quite incredible – hundreds of thousands of people line the streets – with arms out stretched looking skyward as floats roll by – begging for a “throw” – be it beads, cups, a soft toy, doubloons (which is essentially a big coin with the Krewe’s stamp on it), or for the Muses parade – SHOES!
Of course this can be rather dangerous – particularly for those as uncoordinated as little ol me! While watching a parade one sunny Sunday afternoon there was a shower of cups hurled at my direction, and as I went to cover my eyes with my arm a stack of no less than 10 giant plastic cups flew straight at my lips. My lower lip split and blood gushed forth. That was not the end of it – I was no more than 10 minutes latter struck across the face with a string of beads leaving bright red circles running diagonally across my face – which together with my swollen, bloody lip – I looked like I was in combat at war and was from then on for the duration of Carnival named “Rambo”. Needless to say I dodged and ducked any cups which came my way after that. However we caught so many beads it literally took two trips to get them home on Mardi Gras and my house is now beautifully decorated in them.
The rule with beads is – if you catch them, they’re yours. If you drop them – DO NOT PICK THEM UP. Some people scrounged the floor for the beads which slipped through peoples fingers – “tut tut, bad luck!” – true locals watching on would say (in an appropriately southern accent of course). This can result in some arguments when two hands go for one string of beads, but generally spirits are high and the argument will be more of a “No, really, you have them” kind than “they’re mine!” Because as we discovered – there are plenty to go around! I caught a pack of ‘Mardi Gras 2010 peanuts’ and someone offered to give me $10 for them! I don’t like peanuts so it was an easy thing to hand them over, but I couldn’t accept $10 for peanuts I was just fortunate enough to catch (I had in fact been reaching for a long set of white beads, but the bitch in front got them first when a pack of peanuts fell right into my outstretched hand). The happy couple taking the peanuts home to their mother couldn’t believe their luck – FREE PEANUTS FOR MAMA – and I made someone’s Mardi Gras – that was enough for me.
The other thing you may have heard about beads is that they may be claimed in exchange for flashing one’s breasts. This occurs of an evening down bourbon street. Literally everyone was doing it – except me, yes I am a prude. Its as though people leave their dignity etc parked on Canal St while they take a leisurely and mischievous jaunt down Bourbon – the kind of behavior which might be frowned upon elsewhere is openly accepted and expected here!
Carnival is something quite incredible – hundreds of thousands of people line the streets – with arms out stretched looking skyward as floats roll by – begging for a “throw” – be it beads, cups, a soft toy, doubloons (which is essentially a big coin with the Krewe’s stamp on it), or for the Muses parade – SHOES!
Of course this can be rather dangerous – particularly for those as uncoordinated as little ol me! While watching a parade one sunny Sunday afternoon there was a shower of cups hurled at my direction, and as I went to cover my eyes with my arm a stack of no less than 10 giant plastic cups flew straight at my lips. My lower lip split and blood gushed forth. That was not the end of it – I was no more than 10 minutes latter struck across the face with a string of beads leaving bright red circles running diagonally across my face – which together with my swollen, bloody lip – I looked like I was in combat at war and was from then on for the duration of Carnival named “Rambo”. Needless to say I dodged and ducked any cups which came my way after that. However we caught so many beads it literally took two trips to get them home on Mardi Gras and my house is now beautifully decorated in them.
The rule with beads is – if you catch them, they’re yours. If you drop them – DO NOT PICK THEM UP. Some people scrounged the floor for the beads which slipped through peoples fingers – “tut tut, bad luck!” – true locals watching on would say (in an appropriately southern accent of course). This can result in some arguments when two hands go for one string of beads, but generally spirits are high and the argument will be more of a “No, really, you have them” kind than “they’re mine!” Because as we discovered – there are plenty to go around! I caught a pack of ‘Mardi Gras 2010 peanuts’ and someone offered to give me $10 for them! I don’t like peanuts so it was an easy thing to hand them over, but I couldn’t accept $10 for peanuts I was just fortunate enough to catch (I had in fact been reaching for a long set of white beads, but the bitch in front got them first when a pack of peanuts fell right into my outstretched hand). The happy couple taking the peanuts home to their mother couldn’t believe their luck – FREE PEANUTS FOR MAMA – and I made someone’s Mardi Gras – that was enough for me.
The other thing you may have heard about beads is that they may be claimed in exchange for flashing one’s breasts. This occurs of an evening down bourbon street. Literally everyone was doing it – except me, yes I am a prude. Its as though people leave their dignity etc parked on Canal St while they take a leisurely and mischievous jaunt down Bourbon – the kind of behavior which might be frowned upon elsewhere is openly accepted and expected here!
The funniest part of walking down Bourbon (which can occur most weekends but is especially prolific during Carnival Season) is the 'Bible Bashers' -Now Im a Christian so this is not a term I use lightly, but it is as though these men/women are quite literally attempting to bash passers by with their Bibles! Its all "God hates sinners" and "You are a sinner" and "God hates you" and "You're going to hell" - now correct me if Im wrong but didnt Jesus dine with prosetutes and tax collectors? Didnt he die for our sins?... not that im trying to get into a religious debate at this point, nor condoning prostitution etc... but I cant imagine God hating anyone for having a bit of fun now and then. I have to wonder if they ever have any "success" with their signs and shouting and practical stoning sessions, or indeed how the define "success".
Now naturally the police are around to ensure that while the debaucherie ensues nothing illegal occurs (such as drinking in the street, flashing, inapropriate public exposure etc). And I have never seen a picture which so perfectly sums up the NOPD as this one which I took on Canal St on Mardi Gras day - not only was he a tough guy smoking a cigar, he also drank cup after cup of coffee (no doughnuts or even beignet though) and spat huge gubers into the street! Oh and the best past was he would let people walk half way down the road so they were five steps from the nearest break in the barrier before shouting at them to turn around and go back where they came from "cos y'all cant come down here."
And Other News:
I was fortunate enough to have two fabulous friends D&G come and visit me for 3 weeks – they caught the end of Mardi Gras and the last of the terrible weather. But we had an amazing time together. Most of which included random nights out, occasionally leading to strip clubs on – you guessed it – Bourbon St. But we also heard some fabulous live music and ate some delectable delicacies.
And Other News:
I was fortunate enough to have two fabulous friends D&G come and visit me for 3 weeks – they caught the end of Mardi Gras and the last of the terrible weather. But we had an amazing time together. Most of which included random nights out, occasionally leading to strip clubs on – you guessed it – Bourbon St. But we also heard some fabulous live music and ate some delectable delicacies.
Oh and D held my hand while I got a tattoo! Yes you read that right people – I GOT A TATTOO!! It is a fleur de lis on my foot – and I am still so in love with it I have to keep checking to make sure its real.
Of course there is much more to catch up on but this will have to do for now. Last week was so manic at work I did 25 hours over time, and I am now sick as a dog with a cough (why oh how did that saying come about – dogs aren’t generally sickly creatures).
Of course there is much more to catch up on but this will have to do for now. Last week was so manic at work I did 25 hours over time, and I am now sick as a dog with a cough (why oh how did that saying come about – dogs aren’t generally sickly creatures).
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