repost from lady robin
Today was a cool, sunny day in the French Quarter. It was a holiday, Martin Luther King Day, and tourists and locals alike brought more business than usual on a Monday. I walked down ....Decatur street...., my thoughts filled not with shopping or with enjoying the weather, but with Wendy,the woman shot to death two nights earlier, only blocks away.
As I approached Aunt Tiki’s Bar, the place where Wendy had healed so many broken hearts, I could see a small group of people gathered outside its doors, taking photos and talking. The doors to the bar were shut, something you would never usually see, and a hand-written sign on green paper read “Bar is closed. Mourn the loss of our girl.
”
And mourn we did.
Friends, strangers and tourists alike gathered to offer up thoughts and prayers, leave flowers, candles and notes, and photograph the small yet growing memorial in her name. People passed and asked“what happened?” and we told them. They’d shake their heads and continue on,careful not to step on any homage a person had left for her.
A note of love and condolences hung on the window, signed “Salon D’Malta”, another business where one of their own was murdered not even two years before.
A woman stooped to rearrange the flowers people had left; she made sure the notes were visible and the flowers sat attractively. A tear slipped down her cheek as she did the very little she could for Wendy, even though everything was too late. Nobody could have saved her; nobody could have known that this would happen to her. Except that we all knew it would happen to someone. And we were all powerless to stop it.
Mere weeks after a march on City Hall to protest violence, to demand that something be done to prevent and apprehend criminals, and once again, violence strikes deep in the heart of every citizen.
A large white sticker stuck on the wall of the bar’s exterior, speckled with red blotches and reading “Somewhere in this city, this blood is real.
”
A police sketch hung in the window of two suspects in the murder. It’s so rare to even have that much information. The digital drawings depicted two children. Two black, male children.
Kids. Just kids. Kids that should be in high school, but most likely aren’t. Kids that should be doing homework and riding bikes and going to the movies on the weekends, but instead are robbing hard-working locals. Children that should be hanging out with their mothers and going to school dances, but instead are shooting innocent people without a care. The value of life is absent. Their parents have no idea where their children are or what they are doing and probably don’t care.
And the sketches look just like the kids tap-dancing on bottle caps in the 500 block.
I stood there and watched as people continued to stop. A cloud hung over the block, thick enough to be cut. Eyes looked downward and every thought was the same. Even tourists stopped smiling for a moment long enough to realize what had happened. Even their hearts were broken.
“Take the photos” I thought of the tourists passing by. Take them and bring them home and show the people in your city what we go through. Show them the pains we suffer every year when another of our own is lost to violence, violence that could have been prevented by an effective police force or the appropriate steps from City Hall. Take those photos and show the world that the streets of ....New Orleans.... aren’t just filled with piss and liquor, but also with blood and tears.
This is our home, our lives, our souls. This is the only place most of us know how to love. This is the orphanage of the world and the heart of so many, now beating the same funeral dirge.
A memorial will be held tonight at Aunt Tiki's bar around 7 pm. Whether you knew Wendy or not, you should join as we band together with heavy hearts to grieve the loss of one of our own and send the message that enough is enough.
Rest in peace, Wendy. I know you were loved by many and will be sorely missed. You were more than just a bartender to so many orphans here; you were a friend, a counselor, and a mother. I sincerely hope you are in a better place.
As I approached Aunt Tiki’s Bar, the place where Wendy had healed so many broken hearts, I could see a small group of people gathered outside its doors, taking photos and talking. The doors to the bar were shut, something you would never usually see, and a hand-written sign on green paper read “Bar is closed. Mourn the loss of our girl.
”
And mourn we did.
Friends, strangers and tourists alike gathered to offer up thoughts and prayers, leave flowers, candles and notes, and photograph the small yet growing memorial in her name. People passed and asked“what happened?” and we told them. They’d shake their heads and continue on,careful not to step on any homage a person had left for her.
A note of love and condolences hung on the window, signed “Salon D’Malta”, another business where one of their own was murdered not even two years before.
A woman stooped to rearrange the flowers people had left; she made sure the notes were visible and the flowers sat attractively. A tear slipped down her cheek as she did the very little she could for Wendy, even though everything was too late. Nobody could have saved her; nobody could have known that this would happen to her. Except that we all knew it would happen to someone. And we were all powerless to stop it.
Mere weeks after a march on City Hall to protest violence, to demand that something be done to prevent and apprehend criminals, and once again, violence strikes deep in the heart of every citizen.
A large white sticker stuck on the wall of the bar’s exterior, speckled with red blotches and reading “Somewhere in this city, this blood is real.
”
A police sketch hung in the window of two suspects in the murder. It’s so rare to even have that much information. The digital drawings depicted two children. Two black, male children.
Kids. Just kids. Kids that should be in high school, but most likely aren’t. Kids that should be doing homework and riding bikes and going to the movies on the weekends, but instead are robbing hard-working locals. Children that should be hanging out with their mothers and going to school dances, but instead are shooting innocent people without a care. The value of life is absent. Their parents have no idea where their children are or what they are doing and probably don’t care.
And the sketches look just like the kids tap-dancing on bottle caps in the 500 block.
I stood there and watched as people continued to stop. A cloud hung over the block, thick enough to be cut. Eyes looked downward and every thought was the same. Even tourists stopped smiling for a moment long enough to realize what had happened. Even their hearts were broken.
“Take the photos” I thought of the tourists passing by. Take them and bring them home and show the people in your city what we go through. Show them the pains we suffer every year when another of our own is lost to violence, violence that could have been prevented by an effective police force or the appropriate steps from City Hall. Take those photos and show the world that the streets of ....New Orleans.... aren’t just filled with piss and liquor, but also with blood and tears.
This is our home, our lives, our souls. This is the only place most of us know how to love. This is the orphanage of the world and the heart of so many, now beating the same funeral dirge.
A memorial will be held tonight at Aunt Tiki's bar around 7 pm. Whether you knew Wendy or not, you should join as we band together with heavy hearts to grieve the loss of one of our own and send the message that enough is enough.
Rest in peace, Wendy. I know you were loved by many and will be sorely missed. You were more than just a bartender to so many orphans here; you were a friend, a counselor, and a mother. I sincerely hope you are in a better place.