When my mother moved to Baton Rouge in 1974 from Gainesville, Florida, she felt like she had gone back in time twenty years. She went from a town of longhaired, liberal hippies to one of conservative crew cuts and good ole boys. When last year I decided to move back here, she worried that I was regressing, that there was no way for me to move forward by returning. I disagreed. For almost a year now, I’ve been patting myself on the back for making a great life in this city. It’s the happiest I’ve ever been and it encourages me to resist its notorious brain drain, but right now it appears that part of what I love most about this city could be purposefully destroyed before I’ve even gotten a chance to switch my car’s license plate back to promoting our “Sportsman’s Paradise.”
During economically and emotionally depressed times, during budget cuts to the only institutions that redeem us, during a time of war, crumbling systems and swine flu, I suppose to some it makes sense to begin and wage a shady crusade that could take a crowbar to the kneecaps of a thriving local business that pays hundreds of thousands of dollars per year in state and local taxes, employs over 55 people, and provides work and exposure for talented musicians both local and national.
Go here for the facts.
The responsive refrain I am hearing from a number of friends and acquaintances is one of grumbling frustration. We defend our beloved Baton Rouge to those who complain about how conservative and uncultured it is by pointing to the pockets of beauty and deliciousness that exist here, by describing the fuzzy, warm camaraderie that links individuals beyond cliques and friend groups, by savoring aspects that are truly original to this place. While acknowledging its drawbacks, we celebrate its ‘ironic points of light.’
I began to write this while sitting at the bar at Chelsea’s Cafe at 10:51 PM on Monday night. After an intense 12-hour day at a job grooming me for a lifetime of working in education reform, I came to eat the Pesto Cream Ravioli and drink a Xingu Black Beer while enjoying interesting conversation with my boyfriend and friends both old and new. Marvin Gaye was on the speakers. My mind kept shooting back to the times when I tried my hand at living elsewhere in this world, when Chelsea’s was one of a handful of places I missed dearly. We’ve never had a plethora of ‘third places’ in Baton Rouge, and as a result we take the few we do have seriously.
My mind shoots back to the 3½-month period in town when Chelsea’s closed down to move to the old Colonel’s Club building under the overpass. We thought we were being generous in going with that flow, even though it meant that you could no longer make the easy rounds from Chelsea’s to the Chimes and other Chimes St. establishments, you could no longer take an easy stroll at the end of the night back to the student ghetto or over to Louie’s, and students and professors could no longer walk a few minutes to enjoy lunch there between a couple of classes. That 3½ months was a particularly boring time in this town for a number of us. Everywhere I went, friends and acquaintances were complaining about how little there was to do, how much Baton Rouge sucks, and how much else other cities offer people such as ourselves who enjoy affordable good times and good music in a relaxed, unique atmosphere. When Chelsea’s reopened that St. Patty’s day in 2006, a packed house and back field rejoiced throughout the day and into the night. Our patience had been rewarded.
One of my roommates while I lived in North Carolina was from Massachusetts. He came here to visit me once, after he learned about my love for my home. I took him out of town to St. Francisville and to New Orleans, and also to a couple of places in town–Chelsea’s being one of them. He later told me how when other Yankees asked him how he liked living in the South, he would respond, “It was alright, but you know what place I really enjoyed? Baton Rouge.”
Another friend of mine was born and raised in Minnesota and came to Baton Rouge to teach for two years in a public elementary school in North Baton Rouge. After those two years, she left to return to Minnesota and began to realize how much she had fallen in love with Baton Rouge. She decided to move back. Every single time she’s visited BR in this interim year, I’ve run into her at Chelsea’s, where we inevitably converse about our passion for education reform and our desire to make that our work while making Baton Rouge our home.
On St. Patty’s Day this year, my friend Susan was in town. I had a traditional Irish dinner at her parents’ house, where the depressing conversation mostly focused around the LSU budget cuts. After dinner, she and I headed out to continue visiting. We drove to a coffee shop we thought might be open. It was shut down completely. The other nearby coffee shop we used to frequent was also shut down. Then the question became: Chimes or Chelsea’s? We ended up at the Chimes, a restaurant that becomes a bar late at night (though sans live music, which is why I prefer Chelsea’s in most instances). The Chimes was fine, but much louder and more crowded than Chelsea’s would have been on a Tuesday night. The next day, Susan returned to Austin where she currently lives, and where the young, intelligent, accomplished and energetic people who settle there are not forced to lament a limited number of local, late-night establishments. But hey, I guess if Chelsea’s closes, there’s always late-night Taco Bell.
It was when I attended Baton Rouge High that I first began hearing about the brain drain phenomenon. It never sank in for me until I began looking around as a college graduate at all of the brilliant classmates I had throughout the years, only a handful of which have remained here after receiving their diplomas and degrees. Those that do decide to stay in Louisiana often make sacrifices to do so. The culture and quality of life (thought not of the air) are what make it worthwhile for us few individuals. Remove that from our lives and a number of us will remove ourselves from this place.
Chelsea’s is the lunches on the sunny patio, the Abita beer, the fun dinners with friends before the lights go down and the music starts. Chelsea’s is people of all ages and races eating, drinking and dancing together. Chelsea’s is a gathering place for all kinds of local professionals and assets to our community including teachers, lawyers, students, professors, artists, musicians, and Baton Rouge expatriates who return home for a visit and make Chelsea’s one of their first stops. Chelsea’s is the most recent St. Patty’s Day celebration, where I jubilantly danced to Righteous Buddha followed by The Black Sound Parade while sipping on some Abita Strawberry. “They don’t do it like this in North Carolina, do they?!” “Nope.” Well, maybe soon we won’t do it like this anymore, either.
I remember the flickering wall lamps illuminating my bedroom’s peach colored walls one school night in Charlotte as I lay in my bed. I was on the phone with my best friend who was describing to me the exciting artistic happenings and goings-on in my foreign-sounding hometown, and encouraging me to move back. It won’t be this way forever, she assured me, but for the next few years Baton Rouge would be an exciting city in which to live. Her words made me both happy and sad. I didn’t want to believe the depressive tinge accompanying her enthusiasm, but maybe she called it.