TulaneLSU's Top 10 signs of Bucktown, USA

Dear Friends,

Being born with blue blood, some assume, grants the born certain privileges. When that blood pulses in the body of one who questions himself in every conceivable way, it guarantees nothing. Born with every reason to be an insider, I am, owing to some strange composition of my brain, or perhaps a gift of the Holy Spirit, an outcast and outsider. I have never felt comfortable with the ruling class, the popular, or the camarilla. My small confederation of friends has always consisted of the alien and the stranger. Even these friends I keep at a distance.

Classically, this would have been called anthropophobia. My childhood therapist diagnosed it as the more medically nuanced social anxiety disorder. I rationalize my state as that which any puritanical Five Point Calvinist living in a hedonistic, Pelagian world would take. It was not my choice.

Mother recognized these features early in my life. She saw that, socially at least, these traits would serve as a decided disadvantage to my political and professional careers.To remedy my failings, she thought some old fashioned American-styled flagellation might work. Rather than my choice of cilice, Mother chose rigorous physical labor.

Amelia Urrate was an upstanding woman. Born of generous and courageous Bruning heritage, she was the last owner of the famed Bucktown restaurant carrying her family’s name. It had a New Orleans address on West End Blvd, but its entire structure, like most of West End’s seafood restaurants, was in Jefferson Parish. I don’t remember exactly how the arrangement was made, but I assume it was through Mrs. Urrate or one of her contacts, as we did not know anyone else in Bucktown.



It was the summer of 2001, just months before the terrorist attacks. The typical summers of my teens began daily with the study of the Bible, Plato, and Augustine. Ms. Mae prepared lunch, usually a turkey sandwich for the middle of the week. Monday she always made red beans and Friday she usually made a catfish or shrimp dish. After lunch, I was free to explore as I pleased. Often this meant staying in my room, pouring through the internet, which I had only recently discovered. Other times, I would take the St. Charles streetcar and adventure wherever the winds of Providence brought me.

“It’s time you learned the meaning of hard work,” Mother entered my room with this edict.

I had only been off school for a few days and Mother was preempting my hopes for pilgrimage in text and travel. “But, Mother, I am working diligently to write my first book.”

“TulaneLSU, you aren’t a writer. No one will read any book you write. It’s time you learn what most children your age do during the summer. I have arranged for you to start a summer job this Monday. You will be a shrimping deckhand. Your captain is a nice old man generous enough to take you on. His name is Captain Mike.”

I was speechless. I did not understand my emotions either. Was I afraid? Angry? Excited? Disappointed? Probably a mix of them all.

“What does a shrimping deckhand do?” I asked once my emotions calmed.

“It’s not important now. You will find out.”

Monday came. Mother woke me at 4. I showered. She had set aside a new outfit for me. They included blue jean shorts, which I had never worn before. And a plain white shirt. Atop the clothing was a green hat with Tulane in white block letters. There were some new Aviator sunglasses on my desk.

I dressed in the ensemble. As I brushed my teeth, I saw a strange creature in the mirror. I looked so common. I could have been anyone’s sixteen year old son. What Mother had failed to put upstairs were my new shoes: white rubber shrimp boots. I first saw them when I went downstairs. They looked hideous.

“Here’s your lunchbox and sunscreen.” She handed me my 7th Heaven lunchbox and an orange squeeze bottle of Banana Boat Sport SPF 30. “Be sure to apply this every hour. I don’t want what happened in Destin to happen here.” She was referring to a bad sunburn I received on a family trip in 1993.

How we got to Bucktown, I do not remember. It was dark and we took roads with which I had little familiarity. I do remember turning off Old Hammond Highway to a shell road that does not exist any longer. We creeped northward, past Sid Mar’s on our left. It was a shame Sid Mar’s could never reclaim its glory after the federal government took their property. We then approached the old Bruning house, which acted as a de facto lighthouse and lifeguard station until Katrina washed it to sea.

The sun was just breaking the horizon. I could see the outline of an old bridge across the 17th Street Canal. When I was six or seven, shortly before the Huey P incident, we were eating at Bruning’s. After we finished our meals, Cousin and I asked to be excused. We ran to the bridge. We had been there before, but this time, Cousin dared me to jump off the bridge. The bridge at that time was wooden and I believe it was Georges in 1998 that battered it beyond repair. I was easily led astray at age six, owing to childhood rebellion. I took off my shoes and jumped into the warm, brackish waters.

Apparently I was not supposed to do so. An authority, or someone acting as one, grabbed me by my shirt collar as I climbed out the waters. He held me, asking me where my parents were. Cousin retrieved Mother, whose cheeks were red with anger. I was released to a week of grounding.

During my volleyball days, after the Huey P incident, I spent some more time at that bridge. But it was sitting near it, and not on it. I spent two nights a week for lessons at Coconut Beach. During breaks, I would sit by those red bricks, feet overhanging the concrete wall, and watch the boats come and go.

The walkway survived Katrina, its railing twisted, but foundation firm. The US Army Corps of Engineers, however, razed the bridge in the late winter of 2006. It was the first step toward commandeering that zone. Coconut Beach would survive a few more years there before meeting the same fate. All that remains is its approach slab, a dated, fading, red stamped concrete wound, which is wheelchair accessible.



I exited the car and there was a gristly man standing on a grisly deck of a faded 22 foot shrimper. An emaciated face with stubble that took years to grow was as dark as Ms. Mae’s roux. His skin had the texture of a ten year old live oak’s bark. A cigarette listed on his lips as he shuffled a tattered skipper’s cap between hand and head. I counted just three visible teeth when he opened his mouth to introduce himself.