Sunday night was everything we wanted.  We wanted to win, but if it wasn’t to be we at least wanted a good, close game — anything but an embarrassing blowout.  The Colts were heavy favorites. We Saints fans had been bombarded all season and especially during the two weeks leading up to the big game with reasons why the Colts were the superlative team, the dominant team, the most likely championship team.  We knew the Saints could be that team, though, because we’d been watching them all season.  We had already witnessed many seeming miracles that made us believe.  Yet, despite the exciting wins and impressive stats, the Saints were given only a begrudging respect — the historically losing franchise represents, after all, a city and state that put the ‘fun’ in ‘dysfunctional, corrupt and backward,’ and many commentators and football fans were just waiting for them to blow it, waiting for the curtain to be pulled back, waiting for the child to point at the naked emperor and announce the obvious for all to finally see.  Many were just plain hating on the Saints.

Well, think again or suck it.  Our low-ranked defense proved itself in a stunning redemption and our offense played both subtly and incredibly well.  Brees completed 32 of 39 passes to finish the game with 288 passing yards.  After Colston dropped that first perfectly placed pass, he realized he didn’t want to let that happen again.  Special teams shocked everyone with their onside kick to open up the third quarter, and the offense took it home like they knew they had to after those unsuccessful running plays cost us a TD in the second quarter.  Shockey caught a touchdown pass after having had to sit out due to injury and watch his team lose the last three games of the regular season, and of course Port Allen’s own Tracy Porter swooped into the end zone with an intercepted ball in one hand and the other raised, pumping in the air in jubilant, celebratory fashion.  Our defense closed it out by shutting down the Colts in their red zone when they went for it on 4th. (Colts were #2 in the league for scoring inside the red zone, but the Saints were #2 in the league for defending the red zone.  And the Saints won.)

Prior to the game, the commentators commented their commentary that no team had ever had a 3-game losing streak at the end of the regular season and gone on to win the big game.  Oh, and they were first-timers at the Super Bowl, so that made a Saints victory less likely.  (Only 4 out of 19 teams making their initial Super Bowl appearance have won against their more experienced competitors.  Well, now it’s 5 out of 20.)  Our coaching staff knew to save its best players for when it really counted.  Our coaching staff knew that focus, practice and preparation would give the Saints the edge and ability to win, and refused to accept that a loss this time around would prepare the team for a better chance later on — nope, the future is NOW, and it feels damn good.

And look: a championship football team is by no means an appropriate or sufficient metaphor for a city that still has within it so many struggles.  But beyond the raised money and revenue jolt, this Saints season has united our region, and the Saints fans and Louisiana natives all around the world.  The team knows it is an important emblem of the city, and it’s heartening that New Orleans is in the international news for such a joyous reason.  The Saints refused to pay mind to the naysayers — instead they were visionary and hardworking and saw that they could make history by coming in off a losing streak, coming in as a first-time Super Bowl team, coming in as the freaking New Orleans Saints and becoming National Champions in Super Bowl XLIV.  The Colts did not lose the game; the Saints won it.  Destiny isn’t fairy dust or a god playing chess.  Destiny is the intersection of vision, effort, cooperation, confidence and execution.  It’s buoyed by the collective positive thinking of fans in Louisiana and around the world who know, love and appreciate New Orleans for what it is.  This win doesn’t fix nearly any problems, but it shows us that the past does not have to control the present.  We can and must break out of old chains to claim and create an improved reality.  New Orleans may be a queen city that overshadows BR, the rest of the state, and the whole Gulf Coast region, but thank goodness for her and the Saints that represent all of us.  Hallelujah, laissez les bon temps, and WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA BEAT DEM SAINTS???!!!  Happy Mardi Gras y’all!

Below are some links for posterity and your viewing pleasure.

Onside kick “game changer” “gutsiest call in Super Bowl history” to open second half

Tracy Porter’s interception & touchdown run

Drew Brees w/ son after win (video & pics).  (I love Drew Brees so, so, SO much.)

Drew Brees on Letterman 2/8/10 (Humble, charming, endearing, and THE BEST QUARTERBACK IN THE LEAGUE)

Drew Brees more accurate than an Olympic archer?  Fun analysis.

“As I have walked among the desperate, rejected, and angry young men, I have told them that Molotov cocktails and rifles would not solve their problems.  I have tried to offer them my deepest compassion while maintaining my conviction that social change comes most meaningfully through nonviolent action.  But they asked, and rightly so, “What about Vietnam?”  They asked if our own nation wasn’t using massive doses of violence to solve its problems, to bring about the changes it wanted.  Their questions hit home, and I knew that I could never again raise my voice against the violence of the oppressed in the ghettos without having first spoken clearly to the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today: my own government.  For the sake of those boys, for the sake of this government, for the sake of the hundreds of thousands trembling under our violence, I cannot be silent.”

“I am convinced that if we are to get on the right side of the world revolution, we as a nation must undergo a radical revolution of values.  We must rapidly begin…the shift from a thing-oriented society to a person-oriented society.  When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights, are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.”

“True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar.  It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring.”

“Let us go out with a divine dissatisfaction.

Let us be dissatisfied until America will no longer have a high blood pressure of creeds and an anemia of deeds.

Let us be dissatisfied until the tragic walls that separate the outer city of wealth and comfort from the inner city of poverty and despair shall be crushed by the battering rams of the forces of justice.

Let us be dissatisfied until those who live on the outskirts of hope are brought into the metropolis of daily security.

Let us be dissatisfied until slums are cast into the junk heaps of history, and every family will live in a decent, sanitary home.

Let us be dissatisfied until the dark yesterdays of segregated schools will be transformed into bright tomorrows of quality integrated education.

Let us be dissatisfied until integration is not seen as a problem but as an opportunity to participate in the beauty of diversity.

Let us be dissatisfied until men and women, however black they may be, will be judged on the basis of the content of their character, not on the basis of the color of their skin. Let us be dissatisfied.

Let us be dissatisfied until every state capitol will be housed by a governor who will do justly, who will love mercy, and who will walk humbly with his God.

Let us be dissatisfied until from every city hall, justice will roll down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.

Let us be dissatisfied until that day when the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, and every man will sit under his own vine and fig tree, and none shall be afraid.

Let us be dissatisfied, and men will recognize that out of one blood God made all men to dwell upon the face of the earth.

Let us be dissatisfied until that day when nobody will shout, “White Power!” when nobody will shout, “Black Power!” but everybody will talk about God’s power and human power…

Let us realize that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

In a comic book city

Donned a costume of glasses and bright blazers

And fought with human strength

Supplied by a supply of drugs

And pride

I wore a crown of defeat every night

Driving toward comic book towers

Brightly lit, banked against an ominously colored sky

At home,

I curled up in the curved dome of my head

Suckered to sleep by a perpetual power shortage

And wine

I awoke to a graphic reality

Among quickly unsterilized walls

Dug frantically for my philosophy

Amidst the rubble of my mind’s

Crumbled theoretical walls

And closed my eyes oh-so-tightly

Against the nightmare.

Letter: Reader sees lack of tolerance in BR
Ms. Laura Jones – September 29th, 2009 - Letter #1
It’s no mystery to me why educated adults are leaving the Baton Rouge area in greater numbers than any other part of the state. As reporter Stephen Ward notes, it’s not economic. It’s a simple matter of tolerance, or in our case, lack thereof.

Letter: Tolerance and common sense
Mr. R. Glynn Kelly – October 14th, 2009 - Letter #2
The letter to the editor, on Sept. 29, written by a self-professed lesbian Baton Rouge educator was a real eye-opener for me. Apparently educated people are leaving Baton Rouge in droves because of a lack of tolerance. I have to admit that I was unaware of this problem.

Letter: Line was drawn; letter crossed it
Mr. Kevin Serrin – October 27th, 2009 - Letter #3
A letter to the editor on Oct. 14, written by a local area resident of Irish heritage, is a sad example of the intolerance and lack of understanding that many area residents and elected officials feel toward this city’s sizable gay and lesbian population.

Letter: Homosexuals seek special rights
Mr. R. Glynn Kelly – November 7th, 2009 - Letter #4
A letter to the editor on Oct. 27, written by a local area homosexual resident, Kevin Serrin, as a rebuttal to me, is a sad example of the modern-day definition of “intolerance,” which says, “If you don’t cater to me and my ilk, then you are intolerant.”

Letter: Gay rights are not special rights
Ms. Rebecca Marchiafava – November 20th, 2009 - Letter #5

I am writing to address some assertions made by R. Glenn Kelly in a letter to the editor published Nov. 7. In this letter, Kelly dismissed discrimination against gays as essentially non-existent. This view is incorrect and governed by emotion and, frankly, indicates a lack of critical thinking about the issue.

Mr. Kelly argues that gay citizens are seeking special rights. This assertion is absolutely false. Example: after centuries of shameful and legislated discrimination, anti-miscegenation laws were declared unconstitutional in 1967. Every single Southern state maintained these laws until that point when they were forced to repeal them. Was an interracial couple seeking special rights when they argued for the right to marry? No. All citizens were granted that right, whether or not they chose to exercise it.

Gay-rights proponents, regardless of their personal sexual orientation, are not advocating special rights. Rather, they are protesting the injustice of present discriminatory laws or actions that currently limit the ability of members of a minority population to: be granted equal civil rights within a marital union, discuss their home life at work, serve in the military, attend a prom with a significant other, hold hands with that significant other in public without fearing physical or verbal attack — the list goes on.

Arguing that these are special rights is as absurd as arguing that women were granted special voting rights in 1920, but, be assured, people vehemently espoused that argument. Personal discomfort or disgust aside, homosexuality is a part of human nature and human society. Ignoring that truth is a sign of blind bigotry, which can only result from faulty logic. It is this type of prejudice that causes the arc of history to take as painfully long as it does to bend toward justice.

Last, Kelly argues that gay rights would trample on the rights of others who don’t want to work with or who fear the ‘influence’ of homosexuals on their children. Sorry, but in the end, the right to be prejudiced does not trump others’ civil rights. You don’t have to like it, but civil rights legislation historically corresponds with the philosophy that humanity should transcend narrow-minded and destructive beliefs, and we will continue down that path.

As for me, I hesitate to bring children into a world that is still so populated with close-minded individuals. However, as those people are a natural part of society, I guess I just have to live with it — even if it disgusts and offends me. It’s just unfortunate that so much vitriol be directed toward, simply, love.

Rebecca Marchiafava, board member
Baton Rouge Progressive Network
Baton Rouge

*Find out more about the Baton Rouge Progressive Network (BRPN) at www.brpnonline.org and on Facebook.

photo-synthetic

manchac

halloween night moonrise

amelia earhart and a supernova have a drink

dance party

Sometimes it’s good to get outta BR, paddle in the swamp at night, go to the city and…put on a costume, give candy to strangers, fake-film people with painted cardboard and dance to techno while two male witches have words.  Word of advice: if you can’t get a cab, best to just walk.  If you choose to try to hail a cab from non-cabs, don’t kick the non-cabs for not picking you up.  (This may seem like an unnecessary caveat, but it’s apparently necessary for at least one jackass who was on Touro last night.)  HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY…….!

We’ve got too many naysayers (Uncle Toms?) in this education game arguing against substantially higher teacher pay.  Maybe those are the ones afraid they couldn’t compete if competent and excellent teachers could be attracted to every classroom.  Why not compensate excellence in such important work?

Hear a little bit about it here.

Visit TEP’s website.

(a monologue)

I used to always say that I hated actors.  This meant I hated artifice, pretense, and facades.  I hated attention-getting melodrama.  I hated the praise lauded on acting as talent, hated the money society heaps upon the movie industry and those who work in it, hated the numerous and tedious hours of interviews devoted to questions stroking already overblown egos, hated the number of people who called acting their “passion” when it seemed they were actually driven by pure and simple narcissism.  I hated stage actors especially.  I hated art exaggerating life.  I hated that acting is seen as elitist, as something only a certain few can do well.

We all act, every day.  (All the world is a stage.)  As a teacher, I act like I don’t curse or do drugs.  I act like I support the behavior of other teachers whose behavior I didn’t agree with.  In public, around certain people, I act like my grammar is worse than it is.  I act like I care.  Around my family, I act like a peacekeeper and diplomat, usually refraining from contradicting their political or religious views.  So what conclusion I’m coming to is that one of the reasons I profess to hate acting so much is that I hate it in myself as much as I hate it in others.  I pride myself on being a “genuine” person but too often I am anything but, just to not be accused of being difficult or unpleasant—or worse, pretentious.  We all act every day in various different ways and settings.  People act like they’re fine, like they agree with you, like they’re coming.   They act like they’re confident, and it is disturbing for everyone, I think, when they realize that their parents and all other adults in the world are just acting like adults.

We all act because we all imitate.  It’s innate to imitate words, facial expressions and behavior.  What kills me is when people continue to act in situations where there is little reason for it.  I hate being treated as a member of an audience when I am a participant in conversation.  I hate being expected to read between the lines of an acquaintance’s script.  I hate when people act so much like others that they forget who they really are.  I hate when people care more about the attention of strangers than they do about those who truly care about them.

Of course, there is validity in acting. People can learn more about their true selves through acting, just as they learn more about their hometown by moving away from it.  I’ve been emotionally moved by images on film that were constructed in their set, speech and movement precisely to move me.  I appreciate the medium of film to tell a story through a combination of action, image and language.  I appreciate actors who make me believe I am watching a real person instead of the actor.  These days, I usually refrain from saying I hate actors because I think most people get the wrong impression about what I mean by it.  I don’t say it, but for the aforementioned reasons, I still think it.  I hate actors.

[And scene.]

She has an ant bite on her ankle that hasn’t yet healed.

She stood at the edge of her driveway, arms crossed very tightly. The blue and red plaid of her shirt twisted around her torso like her body might torque into a tornado at any minute. Her limbs and shoulders contorted into a posture of protection, her heels locked into the starting blocks.

That evening it was too dark to see the potential of a naked ankle and an angry ant. She was distracted. She searched frantically for the few things that compose her spine–her daughter, her age, the life no one else built but her.  She pierced fortitude through it like a needle gathering a hem and staked it into the ground between him and her.

His eyes shifted from rage to misery, back and forth, a flashlight getting dimmer and suddenly finding life again.

Not you, he said, you don’t do this to me.

The words were not from his ego, they were from a place were good things nest inside him; a very small piece of real estate. Some narrow condo of what he must cherish, full of things she only sees when he is upset. In there, on the fifth floor, is a vision of this woman with her heart in her hands, forever stretched outward pleading for him to take, take, take. Like an icon of St. Mary, eyes dewy and inappropriately-colored blue, crying adoration on his sleeve.

I never thought you could do this, he said.

She chewed on that line for a long while, wondering how he could think such a thing when it was that behavior that enabled them to be together in the first, second, third and fourth place. He assumed her mental infidelity was reserved for all but him. It was privilege only he could abuse. But on this evening two things became quite clear. One, that that luxury had been revoked and two, she had abandoned her dream of him. These pair of facts were codependent and she was using all her strength not to sink into the self-loathing of it all.

I’m a coward, she said.

That made him feel better.

I’m a coward, that’s the reason for everything.

She didn’t have the courage to forgive him, the courage to leave him, she didn’t have the courage to demand one thing for another, she didn’t have the courage to tell him she need something more, and she certainly didn’t have the courage to tell him how she thought of someone else.

You left a hole in me, she said

He agreed, but he reminded her that he could fix it. No, she thought, you couldn’t fix what you did when you were 27 and indecisive, you can’t fix me being 27 and decisive.

She shook her head, honestly baffled by his nakedness. She had never seen this.

You have to give me a chance to fix it, I can make you forget who ever it is.

She doesn’t want to forget who it is. She shifted to her left leg and purposefully relaxed her forehead. He had never heard no from her. Not ever. Everything had been on his terms up to this point. All hours, even when she was with other people, he had his influence. But now, in this dark evening, where is it?

Why?

He would ask her this a million times, and the answer always occurred to her but she could never say it; that the worst of him is not worth the best of him. Because he cherishes her like poker chip. He mindlessly fondles her in his possession, just to make sure she’s still there, but she is only really valuable in someone else’s pocket or at least on the table. She didn’t say any of this as the ant narrowed in.

After he left and she retreated from the edge of the driveway, she could see, with flood light clarity, the whelp on the inside of her ankle. It instantly reminded her of when he used to cut down trees early in the morning and then sneak into her bed late at night. He’d make her pop all the septic bites gathering around his arms and legs. Both of them took a perverted pleasure from doing this. Two monkeys grooming each other, seeing how intimate they could get before grossing each other out. How much pain could she inflict and how much could he take before he slapped her off of him?

At the thought of this she reached down and pinched the knotted infection herself and that made the woman very happy. The scab is there “twenty days later” (as he says with complete disbelief). And every time she looks at it she feels more certain of what she’s done.