Style

Photo by Parker Galloway

The surface does not tell the story

All of the seconds

Hours days leading up to this point which included all of the decisions that went into accumulating the style

All of the memories and

Associations that unfolded apparently at random

Or with a grand design far beyond our comprehension

Those all culminate to make

Style

A copy of a copy of a copy has no place near the word

To have Style is to capitalize the S

To breathe and stare

And see

What’s before you

And be puzzled by it until it starts to

Carefully make sense

To associate yourself with others who’s style you gravitate towards maybe a lie

If you expose yourself too quickly

It could

Teach you something

You’ll understand more than you did before

Oh no

Better not make a mistake

Better not learn

You will be found imperfect by your fellow man

The French Quarter is dripping in Centuries of Style

All sorts of people

Creoles of all directions

And other categorizations for caste

Beyond those surface level organizational structures

Lies all the individuals who made all of the decisions that

Didn’t match each other

And thus

Royal Street

Bourbon

Decatur

Chartres

Burgundy even

These Petri dishes

These coral reefs have long been here

Growing

Before our eyes each year with every season

Mardis Gras

Halloween

Personal Style is both present here and impossible because it’s all mushed up together in the end

Gumbo Style

I’ve been feeling small lately

Like one voice of many voices that are all just noise

My Style has changed significantly since leaving West Humboldt Park and heading down South

I barely recognize myself

I see the love I have for my Grandparents and their 1950’s culture in how I move and the scarfs around my neck that actually did come to me as gifts from Granny who wore them once

I see Hollywood movies in my eyes when I glance over at myself in the big old mirrors at The Celestine when I first enter at dawn

My signature flowing dresses

With my Krewe glasses as a modern touch

I love seeing the personal styles of my fellow Quartermates (We are not rats!!)

And how we are of the same world

And we all chose to be here and fought like hell for the freedom to walk these cobblestone streets every day

And lock our wroth iron gates by slamming them hard behind us

The surface does not tell the story of anything in the Quarter

When someone arrives to New Orleans for the very first time and looks up at any of our corners, they’ve never been so ignorant

And blissfully unaware

Their death could be in there somewhere years away

Or Unfortunately for the very few who came to Bourbon Street days before January 1st, 2025

Arriving

Now

RIP

Who could have known

Style is not

The barricades in front of Bourbon Street off Canal to prevent cars from driving down

Or is it

It’s a bandaid to cover a wound of

Something that happened

Sadly

Doesn’t that fit

Our definition above?

Style is not just a happy, joyful thing

It’s all your scars too

But sometimes the best Style comes from the attempt to soothe great pain

Have you ever stood just above The Moonwalk over looking The Mississippi? Have you ever turned around while being there and seen Jackson Square?

And The St. Louis Cathedral

I feel like I can hold my neighborhood in the palm of my hand every time I do

All of the colors and textures and flavors are just there

300 years worth of

Adventure and Things Forgotten

But never lost like a Cemetery with a perpetual second line going for every single body

Before I moved to New Orleans, I didn’t realize Visual Art could speak

Now I know better

I become more fluent every day

I don’t know what I have left that’s precious to me to toss into The Mississippi as a good will sacrifice for the Fall

It’ll come

I still miss everything that’s gone but then again

Style is also

The absence of