Prayers for the People

Homicide and Humanity in the Crescent City

Rebecca Louise Carter

• Publisher: University of Chicago Press
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9780226635835
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Sociology
• Index: Social Sciences

"Grieve well and you grow stronger." Anthropologist Rebecca Louise Carter heard this wisdom over and over while living in post-Katrina New Orleans, where everyday violence disproportionately affects Black communities. What does it mean to grieve well? How does mourning strengthen survivors in the face of ongoing threats to Black life?Inspired by ministers and guided by grieving mothers who hold birthday parties for their deceased sons, Prayers for the People traces the emergence of a powerful new African American religious ideal at the intersection of urban life, death, and social and spiritual change. Carter frames this sensitive ethnography within the complex history of structural violence in America—from the legacies of slavery to free but unequal citizenship, from mass incarceration and overpolicing to social abandonment and the unequal distribution of goods and services. And yet Carter offers a vision of restorative kinship by which communities of faith work against the denial of Black personhood as well as the violent severing of social and familial bonds. A timely directive for human relations during a contentious time in America's history, Prayers for the People is also a hopeful vision of what an inclusive, nonviolent, and just urban society could be.

PART ONE

On Fragile Ground

Grand Bayou (photo by author)

Clouds

It finally rained yesterday, the clouds opening up with a promise of relief they could not keep. The air in Central City felt fresh afterward, but it was only for a moment, as the steam rose from the pavement and the world was again what it was. Uselessly fanning herself as she sat at the table in the community development center across the street from the church, Danielle began her testimony by describing a conversation she had recently enjoyed with her five-year-old grandson. The two of them had been sitting on the front porch of her house looking out at a similar sky. This boy was the child of Danielle’s firstborn son “Rock,” and “Little Rock,” as he was called, was as inquisitive as his father had been. It had been three years since Rock’s death, and his son had many questions. What had happened to him? He asked his grandmother. Where was he now? Danielle told him that his dad was in heaven, pointing him out in the clouds above. As she recounted,

I told him, “That’s your dad up there.” He said, “How Grandma?” I said, “Just look at his head, round and everything.” I said, “Just look at how the cloud is shaped.” He said “Oooh, how did he get up there?” You know I had to tell him that his spirit went up there . . . I told him, I said, “The Bible said your daddy is absent from the body and present with the Lord and we would see him again.” He said, “When will we see him again?” I said to him, “The Bible said when Jesus comes back.” You know what he asked me then? He said, “When’s Jesus coming back?” [laughter] So you know I told him, I said, “We have to wait on him.” I said, “He’s coming back sooner than we think.”

The other women, gathered with Danielle for the support group that evening, smiled, their spirits collectively lifted by Little Rock’s reaction to an impromptu but powerful teaching.

Danielle had long been fascinated with clouds, but they took on new meaning after Rock’s death. Their sighting reminded her of Rock’s heavenly ascension, which provided some comfort as she continued to mourn his passing. This religious significance was further confirmed when Danielle came across a short religious text, published by her pastor’s wife, in which there was a section titled “Clouds.” Drawing on Scripture and subtitled “His strength is in the clouds (Psalm 68:34),” the text moved from the common perception of clouds as dark and foreboding to their affirmation as an important resource that brought solace in times of need. “It was amazing when I found this topic in this book,” Danielle told the group. “Because when Rock got killed I used to always look up in the cloud, and I did find strength.”

“Clouds” became the central reading at special meetings of the support group, when the women gathered to mark the birth and death anniversaries of lost loved ones. Danielle would distribute copies, and each woman would read a passage. Just after the psalm referencing God’s strength, the text continued in a more somber tone: “What is your perception of clouds?” it read. “In this life, we have a great tendency to think of clouds as something deep, dark, and dismal. We have heard or perhaps said expressions like: ‘There is a dark cloud hanging over.’ ‘I cannot see for the dark clouds.’ Or ‘How I long for an unclouded day.’” It was a sense of foreboding doom that the women well understood, given the conditions of violence that surrounded them.

Danielle had founded the support group in 2005, shortly after Rock’s passing. His death was devastating but not unexpected, caught up as he was in violence associated with drug trafficking and murdered on the street, just a few blocks from the church. In fact, violence, in all its forms, went back for decades in this poor African American community, its impact accumulating across many generations. Danielle was raised primarily by her grandmother and brought up in the church, but her life took a turn at age eleven, when her father was released from prison. Spending time with his extended family in the housing projects of Central City, the dark clouds of poverty, poor education, teenage pregnancy, joblessness, and substance abuse settled around her. She dropped out of school and became involved with drugs, as a dealer and then a user, addicted by the age of twenty-six. She nonetheless managed to provide for her son and the children that followed, making sure that they were baptized and that they finished high school. It had not been possible, however, to fully clear the skies for Rock, and this kept Danielle, and many other mothers, in a constant state of anxiety as they waited for the phone call that eventually came to announce, in her words, “jail or death.”

In a later return to the church, and with sobriety, Danielle made her way to another perspective. Her trust in God was restored, and she believed that He would “keep” her through whatever the clouds might unleash. The emphasis thus shifted to strength over sorrow, to clarity over a clouded mind and heart. She read carefully the next passage from the text: “When we examine the biblical history of clouds, we see our Lord is indeed in the clouds of our lives. The Bible declares His strength is in the clouds. The children of Israel were led by a pillar of clouds by day. (Exodus 13:21) This should be good news for the children of God, that there is help in the clouds. The prophet Elijah was encouraged by a cloud that it would rain. We are grateful for the clouds that bring rain because it is essential for life.”

The passage triggered Danielle’s memory of the rain yesterday that had brought some relief, albeit short lived, to the heat of a summer day in the urban delta. “And guess what?” she said, looking around the table, “It was so hot yesterday that when I seen that rain came down, I just stood up and said, ‘Thank you Jesus, for cooling off the earth!’” The other women agreed, emphatically, “Oooh child, yes!” Needing no encouragement, Danielle began to preach: “It was so hot yesterday, the heat was actually . . . I felt the weight of the heat. But his Word is just awesome.” She returned to the text. “And like it says here: ‘And Psalms 36:5 reminds us, ‘Your mercy, O Lord, is in the heavens, Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds.’ And we can all testify for that.”

One’s connection to the clouds, therefore, was not solely based on the conditions of violence that were close to the ground, nor was it singularly transformed through the recognition of God’s strength and mercy; it was atmospheric in nature, inseparable from the pervasive context and climate. Showers and thunderstorms were frequent from an unpredictable tropical air, and weather systems could quickly intensify, as everyone certainly understood. While this added to an existing state of anxiety, it was also conceptualized as a blessing. Another woman read the next passage: “It will do us good to remember the lower our clouds hang the more blessed we are. How, you may ask, can this be? When in the clouds, we cannot see our way clearly. That’s when our Lord draws closer, nearer because we need Him most. Thank God that His mercy is always in proportion to our troubles. Our generous, gracious God would not give us a cup of grace when our situation calls for a gallon.”

Danielle was always moved by this passage and she stopped the meeting that evening to comment, “I just want to share with you all, we go through so much, you know? But God knows just what we need. I mean sometimes we have big troubles, we have little troubles. But God, He will supply our every need. And if we need a gallon of it, He got it. If we need just one cup of it, He got it. . . . There’s nothing too big and nothing too small that He can’t handle.” It was an important reassurance, especially for those whose suffering was acute. She asked a longtime member to conclude:

The next time you find yourself overtaken by dark clouds you must remember, there is peace, hope, and help in the clouds because God’s strength is within them. Let us also not forget that the glory of the Lord is in the clouds (Exodus 16:10). Wherever, whenever and whatever His children are in need of, He is there, even in dark clouds. When our dark clouds are hanging low, all we need is to draw closer to Him, whose strength is in the clouds. If we just keep our eyes on Him, we will be able to consider our ways and see our way clear. Recognize the voice of our Lord, and walk in His will, and know that by faith we will receive the strength that is ours for the asking.

Luke 21:27 reminds us that we shall see the “Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory” . . . 1 Thessalonians 4:17 tells us the day will come when “we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and we shall always be with the Lord.” Heaven . . . I am going there . . . (2 Corinthians 5:1).

“Amen,” the women said when the reading was finished. “Praise the Lord.”

ONE

The Black Urban Delta

The wealth of a world is here,—unworked gold in the ore, one might say; the paradise of the South is here, deserted and half in ruins. I never beheld anything so beautiful and so sad. When I saw it first—sunrise over Louisiana—the tears sprang to my eyes. It was like young death,—a dead bride crowned with orange flowers,—a dead face that asked for a kiss. I cannot say how fair and rich and beautiful this dead South is. It has fascinated me. I have resolved to live in it.

Lafcadio Hearn ([1907] 2007, 42–43)

I first met Danielle at a public vigil against urban violence held in New Orleans over the New Year’s Day holiday in 2009. Organized by the clergy at Liberty Street Baptist Church, the three-day event took place in the heart of the Central City neighborhood—at the foot of a memorial to the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., which stands in the middle of the “neutral ground” (median) on South Claiborne Avenue between Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Felicity Street.1 The location was not far from the church and also not far from the Uptown neighborhood that I called home. Driving to the vigil in the early afternoon, I followed Napoleon Avenue toward the lake, turning right on South Claiborne. Nearing the intersection of Felicity Street, I could make out a small group of about ten people standing on the neutral ground. Positioned at the base of the King monument, they were also under the protection of a few trees, which gave some shelter from the drizzling rain. It was a dreary afternoon, but they had built a small sanctuary of sorts, huddled together with three lanes of traffic rushing by on either side. I parked and crossed the street to reach them.

Pastor Samuel, the pastor at Liberty Street and the vigil’s main organizer, was easy to spot. I recognized him from a televised interview I had seen the afternoon before announcing the vigil and describing its purpose—to bring attention to the problem of violence that continued to plague the Black community. Participants were there to pray for those who were suffering, but they also wanted to reach people outside of the community—to raise awareness about violence as a problem of collective concern, not one confined to poor Black neighborhoods. A tall man with a formidable but gentle presence, Pastor Samuel was already making a statement, wearing a black T-shirt and matching cap with the word “ENOUGH” printed across the front in bold white letters. I introduced myself and he welcomed me without hesitation, inviting me to join in the prayer and fellowship that was planned for the day.

I walked around and met the participants who were already gathered. They had set up camp in the center of the neutral ground on a small paved area. There were a few benches there, interspersed with lawn chairs, blankets, and sleeping bags from the night before. Someone had carried in a small metal fire pit, which sat smoldering with coals. The participants were mostly men of various ages, although a few women, including Danielle, were present. Most were positioned along the perimeter of the neutral ground in close proximity to cars when the traffic light turned red. They held printed and hand-lettered signs that read “I will NOT take a life,” “I will not take the life of my brother,” “Homicides in 2008: 178, Homicides in 2009: 0,” and “Yes We Can,” in reference to Barack Obama’s campaign slogan and recent election as the first Black president of the United States.

Danielle was at the center of the neutral ground, close to the monument. She was lettering her own sign, which read, “I am a mother hurting because of violence.” As we introduced ourselves she told me a bit about her affiliation with the church. A member of Liberty Street since childhood, she expressed loyalty and gratitude for Pastor Samuel because of the support he had given her and for the leadership he provided for the community. She finished lettering her sign and then pulled a flyer from her purse, handing it to me before joining the others along the edge. It advertised a support group she had founded for grieving mothers like herself. “You are welcome to stop by” she said, “if you are interested in seeing what we do.”

I remained by the monument, taking in the scene. This was a busy intersection along a major commercial corridor. Thousands of people rushed through on any given day and many rushed through with purpose, it seemed, to minimize their time in what was known as a poor, African American, and violent neighborhood. They kept to South Claiborne, on either side of the long median, rarely frequenting the mix of gas stations, fast food restaurants, and discount stores that served a mostly local clientele. From where I stood, facing the monument, my eyes followed the traffic as it proceeded Uptown to eventually skirt behind prestigious universities before extending into Jefferson Parish. Turning the opposite way, I watched the cars travel up and over the I-10 overpass, veering off to get on the highway or continuing past the Superdome and into the Central Business District (CBD). Central City spanned primarily to the left and right, toward the “river side” or the “lake side” of Claiborne where it encompassed the B. W. Cooper Apartments (Calliope Projects).2

It occurred to me, standing there, that Pastor Samuel had chosen a strategic site for this work. When he had a moment to chat, I shared my observations: “We’re standing at the busiest of intersections, located in the heart of Central City but also between Uptown and the CBD,” I said. “I mean thousands of people pass through here every day, and fast. Does it mean anything to you spiritually or otherwise to be at such a place, at this particular crossroads?” He answered quickly and emphatically, “Yes. First of all because it’s familiar. But the monument also reminds me of what we as a people are able to do. It reminds me of a debt I feel I owe. I mean how can we just sit by idly when this kind of battle is going on in our community?” He gestured to the surrounding area as he continued to speak.

You know, we have given out maybe five thousand bibles at this intersection since Katrina. Because you know people were reestablishing their lives and everything, but everybody was replacing everything that they had lost except for their bible. So, we started giving them away. And it’s so funny because whenever you stand on the corner, people assume you are trying to raise money. So, they ask me, “Are you giving those away?” And you say, “Yes, would you like one?” And they say “Yeah . . .” and then, “Who are you?” They just can’t believe that somebody is giving away something for free, and when you tell them you are from a church, they are shocked. And I’m thinking, you’re not supposed to be shocked if the church gives you a bible. I mean that’s how far away we are from the Word and from where we want to be. So, we’ve given away literally millions of tracts, even way before Katrina, and we’ve had times when we’ve just flooded this area at every intersection; all the way down Martin Luther King [pointing to the left and right] and Claiborne [pointing behind him and to the front]. It’s always been impactful when we’ve sustained it.

The Life and Death of a Son

I contacted Danielle a few weeks later, and she agreed to an interview so that we could get to know each other before I attended the support group that she had founded. We sat in her office, tucked away in the community development building across the street from the church. I thanked her for taking the time, and then I asked about the history of the group, when and why it had formed, and the nature of their work. Danielle took a long minute before responding and then revealed that her primary source of inspiration had been the sudden, but not altogether unexpected, death of her own son. “In 2005 Rock was murdered, which was very hard for me,” she began.

And Pastor Samuel called me up and asked about me coming to share with the news media . . . and his reason for asking was because he said that he saw that I was one of the stronger mothers that have dealt with this tragedy, how God gave me the strength to deal with it. And at my son’s funeral he was there, and it was just amazing how God kept me and helped me to stand in the midst of it all.

I immediately expressed my condolences, feeling foolish for not anticipating the painful memories such a question would likely trigger. Yet I was also struck by how quickly Danielle had moved from grief to an affirmation of religious strength. God had “kept” her and helped her to stand. Stepping lightly, I asked her to elaborate on the source of this strength and what it provided. Her response came in the form of a long narrative, which she later described as her “testimony.” As I would come to understand, sharing this testimony was an essential part of how she communicated, survived, and flourished in the troubled city she nonetheless called home.

Well what it was, to be honest about it, was that God guided my heart. Because my son was in the drug life. He was a drug dealer for ten years, and when he got murdered he was thirty-two years old. And I always tried to help him to come out of drug life, as far as not selling drugs . . . And I knew it wasn’t nothing good in the drugs . . . that if he didn’t stop, it was going to be jail or death. So even before he got killed, I prayed and asked God to give me the strength when that phone rang.

As she continued to speak, it became apparent that the source of Danielle’s strength was also tied to the knowledge she possessed, gained from an experience and awareness of how the world worked, at least in this regard. This was not separate from the strength and knowledge she attributed to God; rather, it stemmed from a belief that God supported her through death and mourning, and this gave her the capacity to stand and to support and strengthen others. She continued,

Just w...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Introduction: The Crescent City
• part one  On Fragile Ground
• part two  In Search of Love at Liberty Street
• part three  Raising Dead Sons
• Acknowledgments
• Notes
• References
• Index