There are benefits to living in a Catholic city. One is, you are off on Good Friday. A benefit for working at Tulane (in my department) is usually on a holiday weekend we get let out a couple of hours early.
Both very much appreciated.
Growing up, Easter meant shivering at church while dressed in some kind of flowery garment that I would rather trade to wear a Red Sox hat and nothing else. It meant picking daffodils to stick on the cross (just about the only redeeming thing about church aside from the cinnamon rolls afterward). It guaranteed Easter baskets filled with a small toy and lots of candy. A ham family dinner. And if I didn’t already have one, the ardent pleading for a new duck. All of these memories are from my younger years. As a teenager and young adult, I don’t really have any memories associated with Easter. Unlike Christmas, which I still enjoy to this day, it seemed like Easter was a holiday for children. Now, as an older adult living in New Orleans, Easter is one of my favorite holidays.
These are some of the images that Easter now produces: Brunches at my house with my infamous French-toast-induced sugar coma, burlesque shows, Gay Easter parades, Lori’s annual French Quarter party, egg hunts in secret courtyards, daiquiris in the hood, taking pictures of amazing bonnets, dressing up in some kind of flowery garment that I DO want to wear, dancing in the streets.
This past Easter was difficult. I had a thirty-page paper due the following week and knew I had to get the bulk of it done that weekend. It got even more pressurized when at the last minute I had some friends who were in a jam ask if they could stay with me for the weekend. I gave them my bedroom and locked myself in the office/guest room. I wrote all night Thursday. I wrote for about 16 hours on Friday. I wrote for about 14 hours on Saturday. Except for popping my head out of the room to breathe, move around the house, do something mindless for a few minutes to take my mind off of my research, I didn’t really do anything except work on my paper. At 2pm on Easter (the time I gave myself days before) I put down my work, quickly decorated a parasol, slipped on a yellow dress and my flowered Converses (a Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest staple) and rode my bike into the French Quarter to celebrate Easter with friends.
We got daiquiris, hung in Jackson Square, watched the Gay parade, went to Lori’s party, posed with two Easter Bunnies (a mostly naked and tattooed male and Trixie Minx). Basically, had an amazing time. Later, I had about five friends over for some grilling and we set up a huge movie screen and projector in my backyard and watched “Gone with the Wind.” By 9:30, sprawled out on my back porch, I fell asleep halfway through the movie. Fast asleep. And the next morning I got up early to work on my paper before heading into my job.
Here’s the thing. Some of my friends posted photos of me dancing around the French Quarter, riding my bike, twirling my parasol. I also put some photos up of my own to mark the holiday.
To me, the weekend meant a lot of hard work and a lot of discipline. The weather was perfect and I was itching to be outside. It was almost painful to be at my desk all day (and night). At some point my legs started twitching – literally from wanting to take advantage of the gorgeous weather.
I was surprised by the response of the Easter photos. Many people commented on them, but many more emailed me privately to tell me how carefree I looked and how much fun it looked like I was having (I was).
Footloose and fancy-free!
But to most, I think those few hours in the Quarter represented my whole weekend when, in fact, they were the “reward” for about 40 to 50 hours of sitting at a desk poring over books, scholarly articles, writing and rewriting and rewriting and rewriting. It was also an exercise in discipline to actually put my paper down and go have fun. I had surpassed my page goal, but was in such a groove I almost didn’t want to leave. I could have easily sat there for another 8 hours in my crusty clothes with my uncombed hair and fussed over every word and footnote. It was the allure of my friends and adventure that made me take my break and I am glad I did. Because while disciplining myself to reach goals has never been that difficult (yea, it’s hard but not THAT hard) I have found that the greater challenge is to release work and play. It’s hard for me to sometimes set aside projects and focus on the glee that is happening in front of me. I have a tendency to physically be somewhere doing something but mentally completely in a different place – sometimes to the point where I have problems forming sentences in conversations I am so preoccupied in my thoughts. This usually makes me come off as stupid, or drunk, or snobby. Or all three.
Work hard. Play hard.
In reality TV they say “it’s all editing” and I suppose it is the same way with facebook, blogs, twitter, all that stuff that makes up the “look at me” generation – except you are your own editor.
When I was in my hometown last week, I had many friends who commented on the “breezy, fun” lifestyle I live in New Orleans. I do, but it comes at a cost. I laughed and asked one friend if I should post pictures of me up all hours researching, or in the library, or on a ladder cleaning my gutters, or lugging around 50 lbs of equipment and he laughed and said, “Oh no! It would ruin the illusion!”
So, after hours of working in my studio and backyard this weekend, and finishing photos, and working on my scholarly paper, and getting some final fun reading in before school starts, I might throw on my yellow dress again and head into the French Quarter for Dirty Linen Night and the remnants of the Red Dress Run. But not too crazy – I have more yard work and studio work to complete on Sunday (I am already preparing for Holiday art markets) and I actually have to go to work in the afternoon.
It’s all in the editing.
Favorite pic of that day. 'Louis, don't touch that gum on the ground." Trixie turns around to hear Louis scream and I got the exact moment of horror!
