In 1981, my sister got married and moved to New Orleans to attend law school. I married the following year and spent three years in Israel before returning to the United States to attend law school myself. Two lawyers in the family! Mazel tov to my parents. Although I visited my sister in New Orleans during the summer of 1983, it was an uneventful trip save for an excursion to Baton Rouge to see the Pointer Sisters. "I’m So Excited!"
Years passed and I eventually had my own law practice in Albany. One day as I was going through my mail, I came across a flyer for a law conference in New Orleans. Tax deductible! I needed to get away and thought it would be nice to spend some time in the Big Easy. I could even see my sister. So, I gave her a call. She asked a pointed question. "Sid," she inquired, "do you really want to go to a law seminar or do you just want to have a good time?" I confessed. I just wanted to have a good time. So, she told me to forget about the law seminar and the tax deduction and come to the Jazz and Heritage Festival (Jazzfest for short) at the end of April. She guaranteed to me that I would love it. I made reservations. http://www.nojazzfest.com/
Since 1993, I have missed only one Jazzfest. In 2005, the year of Katrina, Passover was late. It coincided with Jazzfest. I did the right thing and spent the holiday with my family. I was back at Jazzfest the following year. I really do love it.
In 2006, I added a new twist to my annual trip to New Orleans. I brought my father along. He loved it too. We were a good team. I enjoyed showing him around the festival and introducing him to Rock N Bowl for Zydeco night. We saw Etta James and Dr. John on successive nights at the House of Blues. We were in the right place and it was the right time. At last. The man can party! He liked it so much that he decided to go with me this year too. And he did.
Jazzfest is very popular, so it’s always good to make plane reservations well in advance. Last year, my father’s made a last minute decision to attend, so we had to travel separately. This year, we coordinated our trips so that we could fly together, father and son. Awww, how sweet. Just to be clear, my dad is a great guy and I love him.
One aspect I enjoyed about Jazzfest with my father was the role reversal. As the veteran Jazzfest attendee, I showed him the ropes. He learned from me. It’s nice to teach an old dog new tricks. Still, I am glad that he’s a quick study.
Jazzfest is held over two consecutive weekends. For years, I always went on the second weekend. It was the weekend when the first family of New Orleans, the Neville Brothers, wrapped up Jazzfest with a set on the main stage (there are about 10 separate stages of music going all day). The second weekend was my favorite because my sister’s friends had guests who would come down every year. We all hung out together, so each year was a reunion of sorts. One of her friends hosted a barbecue every year on Wednesday night, another threw a big breakfast party on Sunday morning. After Katrina, however, things changed. Some of the out of town guests stopped coming and the people who made the breakfast lost their home. The Nevilles no longer perform. Aaron claims that after Katrina, the air quality affects his asthma too much. Live, learn and adapt, I say. For me, it meant that coming on the second weekend lost its importance. This year and last, I have attended the first weekend. It just happened that I preferred the music schedule for the first weekend more than the second. Both weekends are always great. Some years, the first weekend had the better line-up, others the second. Before Katrina changed everything, I was willing to sacrifice the better music weekend for the sake of seeing everyone.
There was only one thing I regretted all those years when I would come for the second weekend of Jazzfest - not being able to attend Piano Night. Piano Night is a very special occasion. It’s a benefit concert hosted by WWOZ for a music foundation in New Orleans. All the best piano players come and play short sets, one after the other, sometimes with a band, mostly without. It’s simply a magical club night which I caught the very first time I was down for Jazzfest. The following year it was rescheduled, permanently, and now takes place on the Monday night between the first and second weekends of the festival. Since I was going for the first weekend, I rearranged my usual trip (arrive Wednesday and leave Monday) so I could attend Piano Night. I was sure that my Dad would enjoy it too.
I am telling you all this about Jazzfest to emphasize how much I look forward to it every year. Every year, amidst the dark despair of winter, I have something to look forward to. It was with this feeling of anticipation that I set out on a Thursday afternoon to New Orleans.
Going to Jazzfest has changed since the advent of the Internet. I can now buy tickets online for shows I want to see at nightclubs. Instead of waiting an hour or more to get into Tipitina’s on a Sunday night to see the Meters, I can now order tickets weeks in advance in an instant. And, I am sure that my father would not have patience to wait in line for so long. For that Thursday night, I had ordered tickets for Rock N Bowl to see Chris Ardoin and Geno Delafose on Zydeco night.
As we boarded our USAirways flight to New Orleans via Philadelphia, my father and I were excited. Our excitement was enhanced by the fact that we were leaving Albany so late in the afternoon and would have to hurry to make it to the show. It would be a quick hi to my sister, shower, and then out the door.
Imagine how I felt when the captain announced that our departure from Albany was delayed due to problems in Philadelphia and couldn’t tell us when we would be leaving. There was more at stake than just the tickets to the show. Now we had to worry about making our connection to New Orleans. I was not happy.
As is customary on airlines, we waited on the plane. I wasn’t even seated next to anyone interesting. My stress levels began to rise as I counted the seconds. After what seemed like an eternity (I finished the crossword puzzle in the flight magazine - twice!), the captain announced that we were ready for take-off. According to his projections, we would be arriving in Philadelphia about 15 minutes before our connection was scheduled to depart for the Big Easy.
I assume that most of you are familiar with airports. Some are quite big and have multiple terminals. If you have to go from one end of the airport to another, it can take a long time. Dad and I were going to get about 10 minutes or so to make our connection.
The flight from Albany to Philadelphia is not very long. At some point during the flight, we were told that we would be arriving at Terminal F. I looked at my ticket and saw that we would have to get to Terminal C for our connecting flight. It was more like Terminal S for stress. Actually, it really was Terminal F - for f*&%ked up. http://www.phl.org/pdf/PHL_intl_map_hi.pdf
When I was in the Girl Scouts, I learned to be prepared. Okay, I wasn’t really in the Girl Scouts, but my sister was a Brownie one year, I think. So, I checked out the back of the flight magazine where they show the layouts of the airports. I wanted to see how far Terminal F was from C, besides just D and E. It didn’t look good. The terminals were not even connected. There was not even a monorail. Just a shuttle bus. It wasn’t looking good at all. And I really didn’t want to miss Chris Ardoin. Since the death of Zydeco master Beau Jocque, Ardoin was my favorite and I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years.
If life was perfect, everyone on your flight would have to rush off to make their own connecting flights in time. That’s never the case though, especially when there are slow moving senior citizens seated in front of you who first have to get their carry-on bags down from the overhead compartments. Dad and I made it off the plane as quickly as we could. I exercised the pushy New Yorker prerogative even though I live in Albany, two and a half hours north of the Manhattan where people are much more polite. If I could, I would have grabbed my father’s hand and pulled him along, but I decided it would be too weird.
Okay, readers, this is the sensitive part and I need you to read this with an open mind. Don’t forget that even though I was trying to maintain a cool head, I was still stressed about our late arrival. And before you read any further, go back and reread the first paragraph. Please. Really.
The shuttle bus to Terminal C was waiting for us as we left the plane. I barked at my father to hurry out of fear that the first bus would fill up quickly forcing us to wait for another. I got to the bus ahead of my father, boarded and found an aisle seat toward the back. As I expected, the bus filled up right away. My father hopped on and stood near the rear door on the side of the bus opposite me.
Sitting by a window seat on the other side of the aisle was a black woman, a T.S.A. agent. I knew that because she was wearing a uniform. On the seat next to her was a bag. Aldo shoes. It was the only seat on the bus not occupied by a person. I watched as my father looked at the seat, saw the bag and do nothing. He remained standing.
Ordinarily, I would easily have given my seat to my father. Although he is in great shape, I, of course, am his dutiful son and have a great deal of respect for him. It would only be right. This time, however, there was an empty seat save for the Aldo shoe bag. My father, however, is a bit shy in certain circumstances. I could see that he didn’t want to ask the woman to move her bag.
I decided to intervene and said: "Dad, do you want to sit because I don’t think Aldo needs a seat."
My father gave me one of those "don’t bother" looks.
I heard some mumbling behind me. I turned my head and saw four black women sitting in the last row talking about something. I wasn’t sure what.
Then, one of the women addressed the T.S.A. agent. "I think he was talking about you. I heard him say Aldo."
Then, with quite a bit of attitude, the T.S.A. woman glared and said: "You know, you should learn how to say excuse me."
Of course, I wasn’t going to let her comment just "sit" there. I felt a need to respond. It’s what Larry David would do. So I said: "Actually, I was hoping to get my Dad to say just that, but he’s a bit shy. Really, when you think about it, by putting your bag on the seat, you were engaging in passive aggressive behavior, which to me, is still aggressive anyway you look at it."
My father heaved a nervous sigh. I could see the look in his eyes saying: "Does Sid always have to shoot off his mouth? Can’t he just mind his own business?"
The T.S.A. agent wasn’t going to let the dispute die. "You should mind your own business," she snapped.
"My own business? This is a public bus. It is my business. I paid for a ticket to ride on this bus and so did my father. Did you?"
Obviously, it was a rhetorical question. As a T.S.A. agent, I doubt that she had to pay to get on the shuttle. My question was designed as a rebuke. I could see she wasn’t happy that I asked.
My rhetoric drew an animated response from the black women sitting behind me. They wanted the agent to return fire. Instead, she turned to them and said calmly: "Let him keep talking, someone will be waiting for him at the gate."
What!? I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t let that go.
"Are you threatening me? You want to tell me someone is going to arrest me because I wanted my father, a ticket holder, to have a seat? You have to be kidding. That’s too funny."
A hushed silence fell over the participants in this little spat. The T.S.A. agent sat smugly in her window seat, Aldo shoe bag still at her side. My father was turning red. Poor guy! It must be difficult to have a son like me.
I peered out the window to my left, opposite the agent. There on the tarmac sat a plane. I couldn’t believe it. Was G-d himself intervening in this dispute? If He was, then what was He telling me? Surely, it was a sign. I just wasn’t sure what the sign meant or what I should do with it. This is what I saw.
Parked on the tarmac for all to see was a Northwest Airlines jet. NWA in giant letters painted along the fuselage. I am sure it’s a pretty common sight at an airport, even considering all the problems Northwest has been having of late. Perhaps you are wondering what role it played in my confrontation with airport security.
N.W.A.’s "Straight Outta Compton" is regarded as one of the greatest rap albums of all time. Featuring some rap luminaries such as Dr. Dre, Ice Cube and Eazy-E, the album is one of the most influential rap albums in the history of the genre and has made many "best of" lists, including those compiled by "Rolling Stone" magazine and VH1. Although I don’t expect many white people in my age demographic to know about the group, it certainly is well-known in the African-American community. To borrow a term coined by Tracy Turnblad in the musical "Hairspray," it’s Afrotastic! Oh, by the way, there is one little detail about N.W.A. that I have not shared with you yet. It does not stand for Northwest Airlines. Although the "N" bomb is an incredibly offensive word, N.W.A. stands for Niggers With Attitude.
Dear readers, how can I relate to you the level of temptation I experienced at that moment? Did I dare take advantage of the opportunity presented to me? Except for maybe the "C" word, is there a more politically-incorrect word in the English language?
Need I even ask?
I didn’t have much time to think about my next move. Although the shuttle was moving slowly, the Northwest jet would soon be out of sight forever. I quickly weighed the pros and cons of what begged to burst forth out of my mouth. To be honest, I don’t know if I actually made a decision or if the words just popped out.
Before the moment was forever lost, I said, clearly, resonantly, in a well-modulated voice with sufficient volume: "N….W….A…." I paused momentarily to look at the shocked expressions of the black women sitting around me. It was glorious. Their shock at what I said was multiplied by their incredulity that I even knew to say it. I thought I heard one or two of them say;" Oh no, he didn’t!" Before any of them had a chance to respond, I added: "Northwest Airlines." I smiled smugly.
What could they say? Accuse me of reading the side of a plane? They were struck dumb.
My father still stood by the door of the bus. He didn’t comprehend what just occurred. He had never heard of N.W.A. How many Jewish men his age are into rap? My guess is not too many.
Within a moment, the bus stopped. My father and I hurried off and entered the terminal. The T.S.A. agent and her friends remained behind.
I can only imagine what the women on the bus said to each other after I left. I’d like to think that along with their shock and outrage, at least one of them turned to the T.S.A. agent and said: "He got you, girlfriend!"
I didn’t have much time to reflect on what happened. My father and I raced through the terminal to get to our gate. We made it in the nick of time and were the last ones to board. Remarkably, our luggage made it to New Orleans with us. And yes, we arrived in time to see Chris Ardoin at Rock N Bowl.
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