The lower 9th ward is basically a post-apocalyptic vortex. The remnants of life – foundations from houses that once stood there, barred churches, heaps of trash and sundry puddles – are a modern-day Pompei except unlike Pompei, the civilization that existed still remains, albeit worn and defeated. We were driving around looking for whatever remains of the Prospect 1 installation. The Brad Pitt houses were an impressive intrusion onto the barren landscape. We saw a parked pick-up truck with teenagers sharing a mickey of whiskey in the middle of the day. We drove over dilapidated roads and forlorn shrubs, passing an destroyed school, abandoned homes and various signs that described the particular murder that occurred on that very spot.
We parked by the levee and stared out onto the low water, sitting on the low barrier that leads to this bleakly peaceful death beach. There wasn’t even any graffiti to attest to someone’s marks of presence. I became very panicky. The incessant stories of murders, muggings, pistol whippings and car jackings exacerbated my growing stress level. I pretended it was because I was heart-broken over this scene that ‘s shockingly displaced for this country. All things I’ve heard before. But the truth is, I was scared shitless for my pathetic ass, thinking, probably not without an unwarranted sense of self-entitlement, that my life is somehow better and bigger than this. And that’s the crux of the problem: I’m a selfish, smug coward willing to do my part but only when it fits into my zone of acceptable discomfort. We’re so predictably weak.