Crescent City Flower

By Tasha Moore

Bourbon Street to St. Charles Avenue, the party is everlasting. The city is known for its laid back and easy way of life. Because of its culture, it has claimed nicknames, such as “The Big Easy,” “The City that Never Sleeps,” and “The Crescent City”. It’s a party town that tourists love. People around the world would agree that New Orleans is a great place to visit, but only a few know what it is like to live there. Most people living in a major city in America can identify with one another. City life is city life, and big cities share some of the same characteristics. There’s always the people’s culture, the greatness of the city, the wealth, the poverty, and the crime. Oftentimes, the worst is reported to the public. Bad news is bad news; the media doesn’t seem to care about how those negative reports create harmful images in the minds of people in and outside of a community. It only takes one second to think about whether what is presented to you is constructive or destructive and then you decide what you will do with the information.
Crescent La’fleur, a native New Orleanian, reflects about the city where she was born and raised. She takes a stroll down the memory lane of her life. Growing up black in America is hard enough, but it can be even harder when you’re a black female and poor. She’s heard the slogan “Black don’t crack” many times, but she viewed this slogan from a different perspective. Her trials in life caused her to feel as if black did crack and was often tested. Everyone has their perspective, but when almost all opinions about you are negative it can place an unsettling stigma in your mind. Crescent was determined not to let the negative stereotypes of her culture (poverty, fatherless-families, drug abuse and broken-relationships) take root in her mind. As she struggles to find a place in society, her experiences take her down roads in life that she didn’t plan to take. An unimaginable and horrific incident occurs in her life that almost claims her sanity. Through it all, she discovers her own strength, faith and resilience. Crescent takes you on a journey of life’s highs and lows, and how they shaped her into the person she is today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tasha Moore
• Release date: Jul 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476141879

Tasha Moore

Tasha Moore is a New Orleans native. Despite growing up in some of New Orleans impoverished areas, she has earned an A.A.S. in Business Studies, B.S. in Psychology and a M.A. in Human Services. Inspired by her life growing up in the city of New Orleans, she shares inspirational stories of life in the city, hoping to encourage people across the globe.

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Crescent City Flower

Crescent CityFlower

By Tasha Moore

Crescent City Flower

Copyright © 2009 By Tasha Moore

Crescent City Flower.

Copyright © 2009 by Tasha Moore. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system in any form electronically, mechanically, photocopy or other means without the prior written consent of the author, except brief quotes used in reviews. This publication is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Part One

At the age of thirteen I began to see life’s harsh realities.

It seemed a thick, dark colored piece of wool had been removed from my eyes and everything became clearer to me. I realized I was growing up as what American society considered to be poor. Why am I thinking? It’s late and I can’t sleep for thinking! It is at least 12 years later; I’m now a 25- year old grown woman, but the thoughts of my childhood and my past is suddenly popping into my head. Lying at the foot of my bed, facing the window, hands underneath my chin, I gaze at the dark sky that is perfectly lit with a full moon and shimmering stars twinkling outside the window. As I try to relax and relish in the cool breeze of this fall night that is flowing into my bedroom window, thoughts of my past keep running in my head. Why? I don’t know. I mean, it wasn’t all that great, or was it? My life has seemingly changed for the better. So, why the trip back down memory lane? I now live in a new state, at least six hundred and some miles away from my birthplace, and I like it here. I really like Georgia. I don’t think I want to ever go back to New Orleans. Living there made me feel that I couldn’t get ahead. It felt as if

I was being strangled, losing every breath of my dreams, and no one cared. That feeling of oppression and the inability to break free is something I don’t miss. So, why am I thinking of my past? I need to be thinking of what lies ahead.

Those were the many thoughts that rolled over and over in my head. It appears that this thought marathon started with me trying to relax my mind and think of my future by envisioning a new beginning. The thing is, I couldn’t do that without revisiting my past. So, I decided to accept that I had to revisit my past to even get close to planning for my future. In order for me to do this without becoming agitated, I had to focus on not looking at my past with negative eyes and look back, realizing I had come a long way in life. That’s what I did and oh how clear my past became to me.

I started with the root of it all, my family, of course. My family included my mom, two younger sisters and brother, and of course me, Crescent. We lived in the housing projects of the great city of New Orleans in Louisiana. The projects, or housing development (to be politically correct), where we lived was called the Fischer Project. It’s located on the west bank of New Orleans: West across the Mississippi River

Bridge. To many people that lived in New Orleans, the west bank was a foreign place. It was even foreign to my mom because she had lived on the east-bank from the ninth ward to the seventh ward all her life. My mom was a single parent who worked for many of New Orleans’ big hotels as a housekeeper. I was the oldest of the children and took care of things while she worked. She always did her best with taking care of her children and every time we went out people complemented her on how well groomed we were. Although mom worked hard for us, I remember we relied on government assistance off and on. She would seek assistance from the System whenever she got laid off or couldn’t find work. But, I do recall her working a lot. We had all the things we needed and took turns getting the things we wanted. She did her best.

Mom made sure, when the holidays approached, that we had all the goodies that came along with those special days. Especially on our birthdays’, we would have birthday cake from McKenzie’s Bakery. It was the most popular bakery in my community.

She always bought us a cake with pineapple filling. It was so good! Also, the bakery sold the sweetest, melt in your mouth, buttermilk drops. Oh, how I love McKenzie’s pastries! It was a kid's sweet dream.

At Christmas, mom would buy all four of us new toys. They may not have been the toys we wanted, but we were happy to have something. She brought my sisters and me dolls and toy tea sets every Christmas. They were always black dolls but they were ugly. There weren’t many black dolls being created that expressed the real beauty of black babies or women. Thanksgiving was another reason for folk to cook up some good food and party. Easter, she dressed us well and sent us to church for prayer. Our Independence Day or Fourth of July celebrations were no back yard barbecues, but we gave porch top barbecues or block parties in the back driveway of the jects. Any day that called for a celebration, we celebrated. Therefore, as a child I never thought I was lacking anything.

As a child it can be difficult to comprehend being poor because you’re not aware of all the things the world has to offer that early in life. My sisters, brother and I never had a hungry night. It didn’t matter to me that we ate luncheon meat sandwiches or rice and smoke sausage for dinner because we all ate. No, we didn’t go to the best schools or live in the best neighborhoods, but I still didn’t feel underprivileged. We attended Fisher Elementary, which was a public school that set on a main avenue with the project at its back. Most of the kids in the Fischer Project went there or to Murray Henderson

Elementary, which was across the street from our school. We did not have a car, but there weren’t many people in the project that owned cars anyway. The environment was one where everyone was on the same empty wallet. This is why having family, shelter, cleanliness, clothes and food was enough for me. As a young child growing up where everyone seemed to have all the necessities in life, I had no comprehension of being poor.

It wasn’t until in the late 80’s when I attended high school and was exposed to kids from many different social classes, that I became aware of the things my family was lacking. L. B. Landry was a school that incorporated junior and senior high together, which meant the grades started at seventh and went up to twelfth. The students were from nearby housing projects, other lower income residential areas and the suburbs. Students mingled according to social status and cliques in school. The haves and the have-nots is the way kids divided themselves. It became a matter of get in where you fit in. Some of the kids who had material things were snooty. They wore their name brand clothes and shoes with their heads up in the air and their eyes looking down on the less fortunate.

When you were from the project you hung out with other kids from the projects. Almost all my friends lived in the projects, so that never bothered me. We were all looking at the same brick buildings, jumping rope on the same "New

Orleans" hot asphalt for summer breaks, cooling off in the same fire hydrant showers, swatting the same flies, and scratching bites from the same mosquitos in the same project.

Everyone around me was just like me. However, the one thing that did piss me off was that we were labeled as the kids least likely to succeed in school and most likely to self-destruct. It was crazy. One sure thing was that we all stuck together.

Some of the kids that were from different projects around the city would have turf rivalries but, for the most part, we stuck together. Therefore, everything was fine in my mind until I turned thirteen and attended high school.

Okay, you're probably thinking, How can she say that she didn't know she was poor and she lived in the ghetto? Well, I guess it was the meaning of the word that made me feel that I wasn't. I found one meaning in the dictionary that defined poor as, to lack desirable qualities, and at a young age there weren’t many things I desired. Another definition for poor read, needy, not rich, and spiritless. Well, we had everything we needed and we were rich in spirit. God made a way for my mom to provide for us. This is why when I thought of poor, I thought of those third world countries that local public stations would show on television. Those kids were starving and suffering to the point of dehydration and malnutrition. They were lacking shelter, food, shoes, clothes, and beds.

Moreover, they were fetching water filled with parasites from miles away. Looking at the conditions they lived in made me feel sad for them and it made me realize that we were blessed. The more I became aware that we had all we needed, I thank God every time I saw one of those shows because I knew that our situation was better. My mom always taught us to pray for those who were less fortunate. Her encouragement of prayer made me very grateful in my early childhood years. Prayer allowed me time to reflect on all the things we did have and not what we were lacking. The thought of being poor never came across my mind as a child. Now don’t get me wrong, there were times I wished I had the most popular toy on the market but not having those things didn’t make me feel disadvantaged. Our family members would buy us gifts and this would add on to what we already had. I was only a child and it wasn’t much that I knew about having and not having, so I was comfortable with what we had. My mom always made sure she bought us toys we would really like. Barbie dolls were my favorite. I loved to play with

Barbie dolls. I played with those dolls until I was about thirteen years old. I used my playtime with Barbie to escape reality. I would fantasize how my life would be one day.

I’ve always had big dreams and one of them was to become rich and live in a beautiful mansion far away from the project. Barbie had many different play items that supported the visions I had for myself. All of the items that accompanied playtime with this doll said that her opportunities in life were unlimited. The mansions, cars, nice clothes, shoes, travel, and dining was ideal in a life that was limitless. Barbie had everything she needed to have a good life. I dreamed of a life that was free and full. Instead, I realized I was living in one that was restricted and filled with lack. The life I created for Barbie with imaginary play was the one I wanted for myself someday. I desired to have the opportunity to acquire nice things. I felt as if I deserved to have this opportunity just like anyone else. After all, my visions were considered The American Dream. Anyway, my mind was made up about my future and I don’t think anyone could change it. I had already seen myself living comfortably wealthy. I know it sounds silly, but I was only a child. The more I played with the Barbie doll, the more believable having a better life became.

Nevertheless, when reality checks in, your dreams seem unattainable. All I hoped for were like phantom images in my head. The dream of acquiring all that my heart desired was shattered into pieces by what was really going on around me. It was hard for me to hold on to my dreams. My family and friends knew I loved to play with Barbie, but no one knew I used my playtime to escape my life’s realities. They never knew I used it to envision my future.

I didn’t enjoy playing with Barbie because of what she looked like. It was never her long blonde hair and white skin that was impressive to me but it was her privileges and endless possibilities in life that made me enjoy her. I won’t deny that her image was representative of the standard of unequivocal beauty in America, however, not in the hood. Most women in the projects embraced their blackness. They expressed love for their kinky hair when they rocked different styles such as, cornrows, Afro puffs, curly or straight. They showed appreciation for their rounded butts by draping them in their best fitting denim jeans that showed them off.

I know that many of them relaxed their hair but I don’t think it was because they wanted to be white. It always appeared to be about the versatility. In fact, an individual was frowned upon in the hood if they were said to be acting white. Therefore, I truly didn’t have any complaints about the way I looked. Many black, beautiful and confident women surrounded me. I never heard them complain about being unhappy with their African features. They complained about being broke, but not the way they looked. I loved my blackness and everything that came with it, everything except poverty and oppression.

It was simply evident that I was living in a country where my worth and value was measured according to my race and socioeconomic status. Big bank accounts meant you were sitting high on the list of preferable people. Needless to say, my family didn’t have much money and the only account we had was in America’s bank of statistics: Statistics that reported my people to be less likely to succeed. I knew that my country offered some of the greatest opportunities in life; however, one’s race or socioeconomic status could be a deciding factor in whether or not they’re given a fair chance at one. I wanted a fair chance. A fair chance meant not being viewed through inferior lenses, as some poor black girl from the projects in New Orleans that will birth generations of poverty. I wanted to be viewed through lenses of hope, as a hard working citizen that was striving to fulfill her dreams. Many fought for me to have that fair chance. Their struggle changed things in this country but the fact still remains that racism still exists. America is a great country with grand opportunities and I love her dearly. Her only problem is that she can’t seem to find a way for everyone to equally benefit from the opportunities she presents. I’ll admit that in the case of my people, we have been given room to grow.

Unfortunately, the majority remains in control of the minds of many minorities. Negative stereotypes of minorities have created mentally binding prisons where there is no escape.

This is one of life’s harsh realities that had become more evident to me as I developed in my teen years.

I had the determination to defeat ever becoming a statistic, but it wasn’t going to be easy. The more that I grew, those visions of having my Barbie’s life of luxury slowly began to fade away. Once the awareness of my circumstances set in, I found out that getting respect and a fair chance didn’t come easy when you are poor and black in America. I had to accept that opportunities would never come easy for me. I would always have to fight hard for them.

Before thirteen I was living in a fantasy world. I was a child with little worries and big dreams. My community was full of people who were struggling financially just like my family. The idea of endless poverty was being engraved into our minds through television media. Stories reported about our neighborhoods were always discouraging and it made the whole image of our community life appear worst than it was.

Reporters often found the most uneducated person to interview, and then aired their ignorance as a representation of the entire black community. Those cynical images began to take root in the minds of many Americans and most importantly the people in my community.

The youth were especially affected. We were being conditioned to believe the worst of ourselves. The media made it extremely hard to believe that there was a possibility to overcome poverty when they aired it as being everywhere black people were. The confidence of a few people in my community began to change due to the media’s constant replaying of the demoralizing images. It was as if the select few thought the ignorant behavior was expected of then which encouraged them to behave in that manner. Most of us knew that those in power cared very little for the blacks in poverty and the media was a tool used to prove their beliefs that we weren’t worth helping. There were a few optimists that believed the exposure would get our communities the help it needed but it didn't. Instead, the media make a mockery of our community and created stereotypes that eventually caused division within the black communities. These stereotypes have caused division between African American cultures and other American minorities. America remains divided: the haves and the have-nots.

The impact was so great until some black kids thought if they had one shirt more than the other they were well off. I never understood why when I would have an argument with one of my peers they would ridicule me. It was senseless because they weren’t living much better than I was living. We all lived in the same neighborhood. Almost all the kids in my school lived in the projects and no one had much more than the other. It was this way from the time we moved in the projects in 1983. I understood poverty to be poverty.

The dangers inside the projects were often talked about in the media. , Murders, drugs, robberies, prostitution, and any other crimes were being committed in projects were in the news often. Crime was going on in other communities in the country but reporting the crime that was committed in urban areas obviously boosted local television ratings. It was as if the news was no longer there to inform the public but to purely to entertain folk. The local news stations pretty much birthed reality TV. The images that were portrayed of the Black community were what became real in the minds of

Americans. Those images caused many to look down on people in my community. The rest of America had no clue that our communities had people that did their best to create a safe environment. Adults in black communities were just as protective of their environment as any other culture. They wanted their children to have an innocent childhood and they would do what they had to do to make it happen.

Although crime filled our neighborhoods, adults didn't discuss much of what went on in the presence of children. Don’t get me wrong; we were always encouraged to be safe but not afraid. Our parents wanted us to have the ability to play without fear. Even with the high crime rate, my mom managed to make us feel safe. As long as she knew where we were playing she was fine and we were too.

Often time’s residents in the projects stuck together like family. Everyone knew everyone. All of the kids played and went to school together. The project was no different from other communities. The families that lived there had the same hopes and dreams for their children as suburban families. Many children that are raised in the projects are brought up with good moral values in spite of their surroundings.