Comin' From Where I'm From..

Comin' From Where I'm From..

 

See,
comin from where I'm from,
we party past 2.
And with our feathers, handkerchiefs, and umbrellas,
we dance in the street,
and smile at the sweet sun that sets
along the banks of the Mississippi.
See,
I am the Crescent City.
And in my belly,
I bear the spirit of those who knew-orleans.
And if you feel me,
then feel me.
Cause it goes beyond Rue Bourbon,
where we drowned ourselves with hurricanes before they hit.
Where we partaked in our own "Utopia",
and where we let go of all our inhabitions,
and insecurities,
and just lived.
It goes beyond the million dollar homes
that whether bought or sold
are still alive with the spirits of slaves,
whose work was done in vain
cause though you can now see their crib on Cribs,
if you just Shhh and listen,
you can still hear their chains.
Beyond the
"Who Dat Say They Gonna Beat Them Saints" fans
and the Superdome.
Beyond Harrah's where you walk to after work
and spent your best,
and though we do know how to host the best shin-digs,
it does go beyond Essence and Jazz-Fest.
Now don't get me wrong,
I do miss bus stoppin' with Frankie
and standing on the porch with the front lawn full of cars
while I listen to the music from Congo Square,
But hear this...
I pity you if all you know is the commercial bull shit
they sell you about my city,
but it goes beyond the tourist ignorance.
See, from the potholes to the po-boys,
we partied.
From Lakeshore Dr. to Louisiana Ave.,
we lived.
We are this countries melting pot..
of Gumbo, that is.
So how dare you look at me and say that we
don't have class, cuth, and culture.
Have you ever sat on the side of Bayou St. John
and fed the few ducks that called those grassy shores home?
Or walked down to Robert E. Lee,
stood on the hill,
stared at the tree,
and saw him...
swinging?
Ever "Do Whatcha Wanna"
and experience the real Mardi Gras?
I'm not talking about
purple, green, and gold
and celebs you meet,
or girls gone wild and Canal St.,
I'm talking about marching bands and indians,
from Bacchus to Endymion.
Ever rode in a parade?
or waited for the truck floats to pass so you could
see all your people,
even though you'll see them later?
Ever took a walk in the quarter?
No, I mean really walked in the Quarter,
took notes and learned something.
Like the difference between innocence and ignorance,
as you looked in the eyes of teenage boys
who dance their hearts out
with bottlecaps on the bottom of their Reeboks
all for the little change you got back
from the beneits you ordered next door
that you drop in their pizza box.
Or stop and listen
to the man who stands on the corner
of Decatur and Canal,
with his Bible and umbrella hat
as he urges the people of oldtime sin city
to repent.
Have you ever appreciated art like on Royal St.?
Or been to a concert at the House of Blues or the Blue Nile,
just to hear some jazz and chill out for a while.
Have you ever took time out of your busy day
to spend on Magazine St.
and enjoy the little things we take for granted?
Actually,
have you ever been curious enough
to learn all that you could and take a ride through
OUR hood?
Probably not.
Enjoy some of the best food ever put in a mouth
24 hours a day on the corner of
St. Claude and Elysian Fields.
Or ride from Baronne to St. Phillip street and see us hangin'.
Grown folk talkin' on the porch with their eyes stuck
on the kids who run to the candy lady to get a Huck-a-Buck
Or be bold enough to go
behind the backstreets of the St. Bernard
or the brickwalls of the B.W. Cooper that tell stories.
Oh, and my bad lil whodie,
but don't make fun of my accent.
Cause I can't help it if I got
boucoup broken french flowin through my blood,
that most people didn't even notice before the flood,
and now you say WE talk funny?
That's funny.
Cause I'm from the land of the broken levee,
that breeched from deciet and lies,
and I bet,
before that,
you didn't know shit about the Lower Nine.
I'm from the soil of the multicultural,
where the Heinz 57 within me
makes my heart pump.
From the land where you can tell where someone is from
just by their last name.
From Gert Town to Gentilly,
From the corner store to ya mama and nem's backyard,
From Gene's, to Deanie's, To Mule's,
From the UPT to that Creole Cup they call the 7th ward.
We live strong and sing loud,
so hear me.
Play my Louis Armstrong and Rebirth
down Claiborne and come Secondline with me.
Cause we,
are still here.
And let us not forget that our songs and dialect
will remain sweet and fresh on our lips
like pure sugarcane.
So, God bless the day,
we must all wake up and say,
we still makin it this far,
so,
"Lezzais Le Bon Ton Roulliez"

The Last Time..

The Last Time..