The Key Food Mart on Rampart Street

This semester I dropped out of school to read books, travel and drink beer with homeless people, which I’ve found is sometimes more educational and almost always more fun than living in an affluent college town, going to house parties where nothing is said, and cramming for somewhat arbitrary exams.

If you have time, allow me to paint you a portrait:

Cello Song came floating from the window of a second story apartment overlooking the Key Food parking lot on Rampart Street in New Orleans at about 2:30am this morning. Sitting on the curb sharing a 6-pack were the following human beings: Tommy, a wrinkled yet healthy man in his late 40s with white hair who’s been playing his music into the parking lot for the last 15 years after returning from France; Fareed (whose name apparently means ‘unique’ in Arabic), a younger Palestinian man whose family owns Key Food and who splits the night shifts with his brother; Jose, the short, grinning Mexican fellow who works behind the food counter; and myself.

Tommy does all the talking because he’s a self-proclaimed “loud asshole motherfucker,” but it’s okay because I feel as though he’s got good things to say, and it seems the others either agree with me or have just gotten used to him. There are times when I want to jump in, but I recognize I am a child among men, so I practice silence. I have an unwavering proclivity to grin wildly at people when I feel as though I genuinely understand them, so I participate in this manner.

Tommy is certainly the most politically incorrect man I have ever met. However, it’s hard not to notice the irony when political correctness is used to belittle, silence, or ignore people, because at its core it is rooted in an understanding that all subjective experience has validity - that every human being or group of human beings deserves to at least have their story heard. I find that choosing to judge an individual as a bigot the first time they say sometime that sounds offensive is fundamentally incompatible with both political correctness and general love for humanity.

In less than 10 minutes, I heard Tommy mention that he hates both Israelis and Saudi Arabians, he’s pointed out a group of n*****s he recognizes walking down Rampart, and advised me not to go to San Francisco because of all the damn homosexuals. And yet Tommy is absolutely one of the most loving people I have ever met.

“Ah shit, I forgot to tell you about what happened to my homeless friend Oliver.” Tommy recalled the time he was awake in his apartment, late one night, when someone ran up on the 65-year-old, black, arthritic Oliver, “broke a stick over his head and kicked his face in.” Tommy wasn’t able to get down to the parking lot in time, and after the paramedics arrived and he didn’t see Oliver for a couple of weeks, he figured he got killed. “I was so fucking sad for 5 weeks, man. Two days after it happened the Palestinian showed me a shrine they built out of beer cans behind the dumpster, and I added to it every day. But what do you know, a couple nights ago I saw that motherfucker hobbling up the sidewalk, and I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my entire life.”

A couple minutes later, two younger guys come walking up from a sidestreet, and one of them goes in to buy beer, while the other sees Tommy, stops, and gives him a warm hug. Tommy sparks up a conversation with the man, who has sat down on the curb with us, and the two of them converse like old friends. There are moments when I feel as though I experience an especially genuine yet simple moment of human connection, and this was one of them. Shortly after, the second guy walks out with his beer, approaches the guy he walked up with, kisses him on the mouth and says “thanks for a great night.” Tommy’s demeanor does not change, and they continue their conversation as if nothing had happened.

The first time I met Tommy was in December. Late on a Saturday night, I was walking into Key Food to buy a pack of cigarettes on my way to Cameron’s van, and Tommy, sitting by the ice chest, introduced himself with “I’ll take a PBR” - 6 hours later we stood together in the parking lot, watching the sky turn purple as the sun prepared to rise on New Orleans. That evening Tommy had given me a personal tour of his block. Standing the middle of the road, Tommy pointed his beer toward a large white church. “Did you know when the feds bought Louisiana from the French, it was the first time they had to deal with free n*****s? The French allowed slaves to buy freedom from their master, and their status didn’t change after the Purchase. Anyway, this church was built by a bunch of free n*****s in the early 1800s, and not too long ago, after Katrina, they tried to close it down, but all of us got together and barricaded ourselves inside until they finally agreed to keep it open.”

“Man, I gotta tell you, this whole neighborhood has been so fucking gentrified since Katrina. People used to never cross Rampart from the Quarter before the storm - everyone knew there were n*****s all over this part of town - it used to be where the slaves lived.” He glanced at me, and something about my face must have told him he’d been making me uncomfortable. “You know what I mean when I say n*****s, right? I’m talking about n*****s, you know, black grannies sitting on their front porch yelling at their grandkids to come in because dinner’s ready. People around here know that. I fuckin’ love n*****s.”

A couple of days ago my friend Gil and his friend from Georgia visited me on their way to New Mexico. I didn’t think I’d ever see Tommy again, but there he was outside the Key Food, and the music was playing as usual. It took him a second, but then Tommy’s face lit up with recognition, “I remember you, yeah, you’re that asshole motherfucker, yeah that’s right, I remember you, yeah you’re alright. I never though I’d see you again man.”

Conversation began, and at some point Tommy started telling Gil about the Palestinian shop owners. I mentioned to Tommy that Gil was from Israel, and he immediately took interest and began a detailed, intelligent conversation. I don’t recall what was said, but last night, the first thing Tommy told me when I walked up was “Your friends were fucking cool, man.”

New Orleans has taught me that it would be ridiculous to judge someone based on the fact that they’re sitting on a curb clutching a paper bag or based on what they tell me within the first 5 minutes of our conversation.

What it has also taught me is that the conversation that most college students see online surrounding racism, bigotry and hatred is often incredibly surface-level and counterintuitive. Racism, sexism and homophobia all exist, but I’ve found that the practice of jumping to conclusions about an individual and immediately throwing a label at them based on something they’ve said is exactly the attitude we’re trying to combat.

If we truly want to combat hatred and ignorance, first we need to get off Facebook, and then we need to get out of town. We need to look in the eyes of every human being we pass on the sidewalk and smile at them. We need to actually talk to people, and above all else, we need to judge less. The more I hear my peers talk, it seems like love has become the act of hating those who hate. This makes no sense.

Love is something always promoted by example, and hatred is something always diminished by understanding. If you want to love and understand more people, please - go more places, be more open.