Commentaries by Lance Hill

Commentary by Lance Hill
12-31-2005
 

Today is New Years Eve.  It is also my birthday.  Those of you who were born on a holiday know the true meaning of human tragedy.  New Years Eve is even worse than other holidays since it is the only official American holiday that sanctions and glorifies the ritual use of intoxicants to erase all consciousness of human pain, suffering, and social and moral obligation.  Thank God for that.  Unfortunately, this tradition also means that family and friends cannot be held accountable if they forget your birthday or, god forbid, they combine it with the closest holiday in a transparently convenient “proximal celebration.”           
 

My wife grew weary long ago of my chronic and very public complaints that the family consistently shortchanged my birthday.  She had always made it a special day for me and it was not her fault rest of the world had better things to do.  In recent years, she took to launching a pre-emptive strike against my whining by asking what I wanted to do for my birthday.  I’d brush off her question, but she would ask the next day, and the next day, and so on.  There are liability issues here and she did not want to be stuck paying a big settlement.  So finally I would break down and I tell her what I wanted: Nothing.  No cake (we’re all too fat from the holidays).  No big meal (everyone is worn out, and besides cooking a big meal means I’d have to finally wash the dishes I left to soak at Christmas).  I would tell her that all I wanted for my birthday was some corndogs.  And some pistachios.  She was always happy to agree to this modest celebration, though she added the proviso that she did not want to hear me crying about how I never got a cake or party on my birthday.  Yes, dear.
 

So it is usually is very nice birthday.  All my kids are in town that day–or at least they call and leave a message on the machine.
 

This year, of course, nothing is the same.  This morning I woke up and retrieved the newspaper which, since the hurricane, takes a very long time to read and gets you good and depressed for rest of the day.  This is a very tough city to live in if you care about people.  This morning on the second page there is a small story about the murder-suicide of a displaced family that lived in Grapevine, Texas.  They faced eviction next week from their temporary housing.  The man apparently killed his wife and son and then turned the gun on himself. 
 

I was stunned.  I did not feel like I was reading a story about strangers.  I felt as if they had lived next door for years.  Or that I had worked with the guy or he delivered the mail or his wife was the clerk I chatted with at the drug store.  I sat there on the couch crying.  I was glad that everyone else was still asleep and could not see me cry.  I wanted this man and his wife and son back.  This did not have to happen. 
 

What a way to start the New Year, I thought.  What a birthday. 
 

Sometimes I hate this city so much I don’t think I can stay here another moment.  Last night I was getting out of my car when I caught the scent of a blooming sweet olive tree.  I used to tell people that I could never leave New Orleans because it was the only city in American that smelled of sweet perfume.  The blooming plants take turns throughout the seasons lacing the night air with the fragrances of sweet olives, magnolias, jasmines and honeysuckles.  No city in the country is so alluring.  Last night New Orleans had her perfume on.  It made me angry at first.  I know how cruel and uncaring this city can be, and a little perfume isn’t going to make me forget.  But the sweet olives and magnolias know nothing of tragedy, despair, and defeat.  When the wind died down and the floodwaters receded, they started their cycle of life again.  All they know is to bloom, to release their gifts, and then to bloom anew.   

There was a moment last night that I once again wondered if I could I ever leave this place.  The city had turned warm and sweet for my birthday.  That’s a kind gift.