Friday, August 10
After breakfast and my nice, bright green parking ticket, I navigated my way toward the library. It’s important to mention my navigation, because navigating anywhere in Lafayette is a little daunting for those unfamiliar with the roads. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the place was downright confusing. I mentioned that some of the downtown street signs were in French, but that’s really not a big deal. Some of the roads would simply end at an intersection with another road, only to pick back up three blocks down going another direction. Others would veer off at oblique angles without warning. I’m glad I had a map, because otherwise I would’ve gotten more lost more often than I did.
Luckily, I had vaguely marked out the location of the library in my head. Unlike The French Press, I only had to pass the library twice before I finally found it and a parking space. And also unlike The French Press, I made sure to put money in the meter. I think I would’ve had a breakdown if I had gotten two tickets in one day.
Streets of Lafayette. The trees make parts of downtown feel pleasant and secluded.
As I walked down sidewalk, I looked around at the scenery. Trees lined intersection corners and created a feeling of closeness and narrowness. The buildings were pale pastels in some places–red and brown brick in others. It all seemed shady and calm. I looked across the street toward a little pavilion with smooth willow trees draped over. There, at the gate in front of the pavilion, sat three guys wearing black and white striped jumpsuits.
My first thought was a flash of scenes from the movies Life and O Brother, Where Art Thou? Something along the lines of, “I’m a Dapper Dan man! You gonna eat yo co’nbread?” at the same time. Surely they’re not prisoners, I thought. But what else would they be doing dressed like that. There was no supervision. No armed guard. The men weren’t bound. They were vaguely working on something–it could have been cleaning, picking up litter, sweeping–but I’m not sure what. I slowed my step for a minute to look around. I had to have had a “Is anyone else seeing this?” look on my face. I quickly ducked into the library to avoid any awkward eye-contact.
At the desk sat a small-framed guy with glasses and a much larger-framed woman–without glasses. I asked for their microfilm room, but the man informed me they didn’t have much other than local genealogy. Any newspaper files would be at the university’s library, he said.
“It’s over there off of St. Mary’s,” he said, matter-of-factly.
I gave him a blank look followed by a smile which was supposed to say, “I hope you realize how dumb I realize I am.”
“Do you know where that is?”
“No. I’ve only been in town since last night,” I said.
“Okay well you’re on Jefferson Street now.”
“Okay, I knew that, but that’s about it.”
“Okay well you know how Jefferson curves off toward Lee right down here?” He pointed down Jefferson to the place where it supposedly curved.
Another blank look and laugh. “Maybe. No. I’m sorry.”
“Here let me print you a map.”
“The roads here are crazy,” the woman behind the counter said. She had one of the thicker accents I had heard so far. Describing it is difficult. It had Southern twang, but it rolled easy off the tongue like drawling French. And somewhere deep in the pocket I could hear New England. There may be only one way to describe it: “Cajun.”
“I been here all my life, honey, and I still get turned around sometimes,” she said.
“Well I’m glad it’s not just me then. You know I was thinking the same thing about the roads this morning on my way to breakfast.”
“Yeah, they are really strange,” the guy said. “I’ll show you once the map prints.”
Here is an old map of Lafayette that sort of shows the strange street layout. Notice the grids running into each other.
He handed me the map, still warm from the printer. Sure enough, the roads were bizarre. Nothing stayed gridded for more than a few blocks.
“I’m not sure of this, but I think the history of the city was that it started and smaller communities developed outside of it,” the guy said. “By the time the bigger part of the city incorporated the smaller part, the smaller one had already been doing its thing for a while.”
What’s created out of it is an interesting network of grids at one angle running into grids at another angle. Streets collide, mix, and jump with and around each other.
“The city looks like it was designed by a kid with ADHD,” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah the whole place kept jumping around to include all the communities. So let me point it out to you…”
It wasn’t near as hard as he made it out to be, but I am thankful he printed a map. The one I had was in the small panel of a road atlas, and it missed many of the streets eccentricities.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you. Well, actually. I just have to know. Is there a prison around here?”
He laughed again. “Yeah, there’s the city jail. Why do you ask?”
“Well I was just wondering because of those guys out there,” I indicated the window. The both turned and looked. The woman got up out of her chair and chuckled.
“They put them to work ’round here,” she said.
“Well that’s better than anything else, I guess. I just didn’t expect to see those suits walking around downtown.”
Sure enough, Lafayette Correctional Facility is literally two blocks away from the heart of downtown. It’s probably arguable that the jail is a part of downtown. More than one road dead-ends into it. All around the jail are police cruisers and bail bondsmen offices. Men and women in black and white stripes can be seen periodically entering and exiting on and off work release. All of this within ear shot of the library, an art museum, and a Catholic school.
Edith Garland Dupré Library at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette.
I thanked the librarians and moved on to the university library. It would’ve been smooth sailing but for road construction. By the time I found my way in, the library was only open another hour. I stayed and did what research I could. The closer I get to New Orleans, the more coverage I see about the integration of the city schools. It was during this tumultuous period that Steinbeck visited New Orleans. Three stories occur more than any other: suspicions about “Red China,” the New Orleans school integration, and the last days of Kennedy’s campaign for president. The air in 1960 was saturated with the conflict developing in New Orleans. There is no way that anyone in this area who read the paper could not have known what was going on. It is little wonder, then, that Steinbeck felt defeated before even encountering the strange breed of Americans that we are in the South.
Alexandre Mouton house (A.K.A. Lafayette Museum)
I left the library, took a few pictures around town I had been neglecting, and decided to leave. I should have left then, but I felt the need to stop by the Lafayette Museum. With a name like that, it’s assumed that there would be the history of Lafayette somewhere within the walls. I was greeted at the door by an older woman with nicely dyed blonde hair. She wore a mustard cardigan draped around her shoulders with the sleeves hanging loose at her sides. She was sparkling with rings and a pearl necklace. Her voice didn’t have the thick, smooth Cajun spice I was growing fond of.
She gave me a quick history of the house which belonged to and was built by Alexandre Mouton–a U.S. Senator and the 11th Governor of Louisiana. She ushered me into a room to watch a video which was one of the more boring things I have seen in my life. It was Ken Burns style documentary footage of every. last. thing. in. the. house. listing the style of craftsmanship, the year it was made, or the year it was imitated from; often, it would also include the worth. Everything from tables and chairs to mantles and rugs to crown molding and baseboard was zoomed in on and talked about. This was interesting for the first three minutes. Ten minutes in, and I was wandering around the room looking at various items from the video. After fifteen minutes, it finally goes off and she sends me off through the house.
“Since it’s just you, you can just take those ropes off the doorways up stairs and go into the rooms. I won’t mind,” she said.
I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. It felt rude and irreverent, somehow. I mean, hell, she’s letting me take the ropes off the doors. How often does anyone get to do that ever? I went upstairs. The old lady put on anachronistic, soft lounge versions of familiar songs. The house became surreal as a piano sang a rendition of… what was this…is this Frankie Valli? Yes, it was “Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You.” Where am I right now? Scenes from The Shining came to mind as the music floated up the stairs. I knew I was in the wrong place when I turned the corner and saw a mannequin of a nun standing over a bed. Chills ran up my spine. I mentioned my distaste for museums with mannequins back in Texas. For some reason, I removed the rope and went in the room.
Look closely to see the cold face of death peering over my shoulder.
I watched the nun closely. One move and I was going to chop her in the throat. My assurance of the mannequin’s ability to move was only strengthened by the dead, blue eyes and complete lack of movement. I turned my back on her. There, on the wall beside the bed, opposite the nun, was a shadow box with a picture of the nun who was a member of the Mouton family. In those days, it was customary for nuns to shave their heads and weave the hair into intricate shapes. Now the hair adorns the picture of the nun on a satin cushion. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that Americans are completely normal. Then I saw it. In the reflection on the glass, the pale face of the mannequin nun hung above the picture like a pale whisper. Fear struck. I cussed, spun around, took a picture, and got the hell out of there–replacing the rope with one last glance over my shoulder.
There’s no way this was a museum. I had wandered into the old prop room for a B-horror movie. The other rooms weren’t better. The nursery creaked with the memory of the old crib rocking–the crib with a mannequin-child staring wide-eyed up to the ceiling or God. The bedroom was freshly dusted, but not presumably by the model white woman standing regal in evening attire in the center of the room. No “help” to help her now. The last room was the most disturbing: a room of mannequins showcasing the old Mardi Gras costumes. “Sway” began to sing from the canned piano downstairs. I need to get out of here, I thought.
I left in a hurry, thanking the woman for her hospitality on the way out. I’m not sure what I had wandered into, but I think if I had stayed any longer, they would’ve found dismembered mannequins strewn about the house with me huddled in a corner whispering quietly to myself: You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you.
It was late. The road to Houma wasn’t getting any shorter, and I was anxious to see what lie in wait at one of the southern-most towns in Louisiana–a town which Steinbeck said, “is in my memory one of the pleasantest places in the world.” Anything was going to look like paradise compared to the inferno I had just narrowly escaped from.
Limb of the Nation 