Thursday, June 29, 2006
In the Brown Zone with Mother Cabrini
St. Francis Cabrini Church, Paris Avenue, New Orleans
Put your nose up to the door, I told my daughter, and take a good sniff. This I tell her is what Katrina smelled like, what the whole city smelled like, in the days after. We were peering through the locked doors into the nave of St. Francis Cabrini Catholic Church, in the Vista Park section of Gentilly along Paris Avenue.
The interior of the church was a ruin of piled pews in the nave, as if prepared for a bonfire, in front of the dramatic sanctuary beneath its flying buttresses. The photograph is taken through thick leaded glass I was tempted to break for a better view, given that the Archdiocese could clearly care less. I was only stopped by the thought of all the Humvees full of National Guard I had seen on Robert E. Lee. There was no sign of them here on Paris Avenue, no sign of life at all, but something stayed my hand.
The nave and sanctuary of Cabrini
My father designed this church. I recall standing as a very small child in the back and watching him climb perhaps fifty feet of scaffolding to reach the top of the buttresses to inspect some work. To a very small child it seemed as if he had ascended the very ramparts of heaven to consult with God about the progress of the work on His house. It is one of the most vivid memories of my childhood, one I can call up clearly at any time.
My reverie is interrupted again by the smell as I press my eye to a window close to the crack in the door. Smell, I tell my own child, smell this. Remember this smell, remember what happened to your new home, to the church your grandfather built, remember it as clearly as I remember your grandfather at the gates of heaven so you can tell your own children some day.
So much of the city is still in danger of being reduced to memory. Sidney J. Folse, Jr., A.I.A. was a prominent architect, a president of the New Orleans Chapter of the A.I.A. at the height of the battle of the Riverfront Expressway. He designed the Rivergate, and I marveled at the model of the Superdome that was central to his office at Curtis & Davis on Canal Street in the 1960s.
The Rivergate is gone, replaced by Harrah's. Beneath it somewhere is no doubt the tunnel dug for the the riverfront expressway to cross Canal, the expressway my father helped to prevent. Given the life cycle of stadiums, it is certain that within my lifetime the Superdome will be reduced to a memory. There will be so little left of my father in this city soon, only the memories of people who knew him, and with each passing year there are fewer to recall his name over a drink or a meal in the way Orleanians invoke our ancestors, with some fond anecdote at the table.
Most of what he built was commercial and only interesting to people who paid for his services. Through an odd turn of career, he became the nation's leading expert on Corrections Architecture, building jails and prisons and courthouses all across the nation, all because one of his first jobs was to draw the Barracks at Angola Prison, an infamous place where prisoners preyed upon the weaker among them.
I believe he spent the rest of his life in a form of atonement for the Barracks. He voted Republican because Republicans built jails, but the facilities he proposed and built were humane and decent, designed to respect the remaining dignity of the prisoner lest they become like rats in a basement.
The only things that will remain in New Orleans from the hand of one of its prominent architects of the 20th Century will be a starkly modern house at 17 Egret Street in Lake Vista, just small enough in square footage to be itself at risk as a tear down in the land of McMansions, and this church.
Ten months after the flood the church shows no sign of any remediation what so ever. The smell is enough to know. The Archdiocese has apparently locked it and left it to rot, the pews piled up like coffins in the oven of a raised tomb. Perhaps they plan to return in a year and sweep the remains into the drawer just as we clean out our family tombs, to make way for the new.
Or perhaps the bulldozers will come, if the neighborhood remains as it appears today, as still and silent and monochrome as a New Orleans cemetery on a hot August afternoon. Someone righted the toppled Virgin behind the church, and placed a small offering of artificial blooms in each of the urns that flanked the statue. Someone has come back, if only for an afternoon. But as I sweep the open ground behind the church and school, the blocks of homes, I don't see them. I don't see anyone.
St. Francis Xavier Cabrini outside the church's rectory
Today, Mother Cabrini stands water stained near the impending ruin that bears her name, a fitting monument to the first American saint in a town thick with saints but abandoned by America, in a neighborhood where the homogeneous brown silence of the flood seems little changed since September, in a place where the water stood so high there are no rescue marks on the front of homes; instead, stroked zeros are marked on the roofs, to show aircraft where homes were searched.
I read Vista Park homeowner Tim's Nameless Blog regularly. I know that people are coming back to the neighborhood that stands across Paris Avenue. Today, I don't see them, even as a few blocks away Tim wrestles a push mower around Pratt Park and other neighbors work to bring the place they called home back from the disaster that stands in stark silence all around me.
If these places are saved, it will not be through the New Orleans Recreation Department saving Pratt Park or the Archdiocese of New Orleans saving Cabrini. It won't be the city or the Corps or even the grace of God. New Orleans will be saved only because people who love these places, this city, insist on saving them. They will do it on their own, whatever it takes. They are the descendants of the immigrants Mother Cabrini ministered to here, people who were not afraid go to into the unknown, into the heat and the funk of this place called New Orleans and make it their home. Their great grand children will do it again.
Mother Cabrini, pray for them.
Katrina NOLA New Orleans Hurricane Katrina Think New Orleans Louisiana FEMA levees flooding Corps of Engineers We Are Not OK wetlands news rebirth tsunami Gentilly Vista Park Mother Cabrini St. Francis Cabrini
Our dads were friends threw Cabrini. He always had such wonderful things to say about your farther.
I went to Bienville for a short time then they moved me to Cabrini in 2nd grade where I finished and most of the girls then went on to SJA. Thank you thank you for this wonderful post.
When I went to NO for the first time in late September, I of course went to my parents house on Bayou St. John :( then onto my siblings homes in Lakeview :( then I drove right to Cabrini.
As sad as this is, I have to tell you the Love I have for that church and school is un measurable.
Wonderful post. Done from the heart, and indicative of what's happening to our city.
We are now coming to the time when we MUST FIGHT BACK. To reclaim our lives and our city.
You are correct that the majority of my drowned neighborhood remains vacant and decaying. I try to focus a spotlight on the good things, spotty as they may be. I do this for my own sanity, and to try to tell people there is hope.
I'm not religious, but I've been to Cabrini church several times. A beautiful structure, and a credit to the neighborhood. Sadly and I think rather selfishly, the archdiocese quickly abandoned several historic churches without a plan to sell or reuse the buildings and property. They're just letting them rot.
There is a rumor that Holy Cross High School might move to that location. Just a rumor, but one I rather hope turns out to be true.
Two interesting items about the steeple shown in your photo: the steeple stood so tall and was so recognizable that it was an official landmark listed by the National Geodetic Survey as a horizonal benchmark. It also shows up on charts used by aviators. And, the cross at the very top was not damaged by Katrina, but was actually damaged weeks earlier by Hurricane Cindy.
Peace to you and yours,
I'm not sure you recieved my email. I have no way of knowing.
I have more info, I've been doing some diggin'. Seems I know you after all, and not threw my twin or brother. ha! small world.
i'll quickly recap:
my mother tells me that our dads were pals in the early 60's. now, i'm guessing it was threw Cabrini. my farther was so involved back then. during that time in his life, he worked in the CBD & everyday @4:00 he taught English at Tulane. (could that be it?)
also, my brother was in your class at DLS & he tells me that he's pretty sure my twin dated u. (can't confirm, cause the twit is out of the country) she was a DLS cheerleader. (big hairy deal, i was a Jesuit cheerleader, so there)
so if by chance u figure it all out, please do not confuse me with the other chickie in Covington (first name spelled differently) who bears the same name as I.
enjoy this beautiful day.
A cousin of mine is one of the Sisters of Mt. Carmel, and all of their statues stood up fine, too.
Your father was not an architect, lots of them around...he was an (Art)chitect.
Thanks for that post it was great.My parents renewed their marriage vows at the Cabrini Church.I went to Bienville when I was a child.Recently I went to visit New Orleans and saw the church.I got this feeling inside and took a picture of the church.I can't believe that nothing has been done to fix it.Once again thanks for the great post.
"And when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcome, but when we are silent we are still afraid. So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive." -- Audie LordeAny copyrighted material presented here is done so for the purposes of news reporting and comment consistent with USC 17 Chapter 1 Title 107.