My Truth, Your Truth, the Poetic Truth at the Maple Leaf Bar
Melinda Palacio -- February 2, 2006
At the Maple Leaf Bar in post-Katrina New Orleans, during the weekly Sunday afternoon gathering of poets and writers, Melinda is forced to confront what it means to tell the truth. With photos.
It's a pleasure to see books and writing make front page news. Although the controversy over James Frey's truthfulness may be distracting us from more important issues, such as our President's "truth", autobiography and memoirs usually don't stir so much hooptedoodle.
I grew up with the question of truth. I utterly disbelieve some of the family stories my grandmother loves to tell, but when I rewrite those stories as fiction, I fear the truth they reveal. A recent visit to the Maple Leaf Bar in New Orleans reminded me that nothing smacks of more truth than poetry.
Graveyard in the Garden District
Before describing what I heard at the Maple Leaf, allow me to tell you about my truth. My family has always fictionalized life. My mother made up stories about my talents and intellectual prowess, so much so that her friends and peers were afraid to introduce me to their kids. Had Blanca Estela lived to write my biography, she'd have been up there with the likes of James Frey. My mother was such a resourceful third grade teacher and political activist that I'm sure her book, My Daughter the Superstar of the Universe, would have made Oprah's book club selection and two days later she'd have become Oprah's new best friend.
My mother's own stories had enough fiction in them to make me hyper-aware, by the tender age of four, of the fine line between truth and fiction. She had stories about meeting aliens (little green men from mars, not our cousins from Villa Acuña, México). She loved to tell about her flower-child adventures as a peaceful hippie-protester, dodging bullets and tear gas, how she had to walk and hitchhike from East L.A. to the Woodstock festival. One of my favorites is how she stopped traffic in Rome because the Italian men found her so beautiful. I have to admit, my mother was drop-dead gorgeous. But where did she get this ability to stretch the truth? If I had to give an answer, I'd say she got the truth-stretching bug from my grandmother, the real storyteller in the family, and the woman who continues to inspire me. Recently, my grandmother told me that her great aunt had 24 children. I wrote that down because I have a small hunch that next year the number will be larger.
Reading
Sometimes you know you've stumbled on the truth. On my first post-Katrina visit to New Orleans, there was no doubt in my mind I'd found the truth at the Maple Leaf Bar, true stories of the flood. The bartender telling strangers about the gift to the bar from a regular customer: cases of looted popcorn. Stories from a woman carrying a suitcase of poems, because poetry was her "bizniz". Every person I met that afternoon could've stepped from a novel's pages. They had names like Winn-Dixie Bob and Randy Vidrina, the day's guest reader.
The Maple Leaf Bar poets offered the real truth about New Orleans, not the rumors or half-truths of TV News. For example, a week ago, my California neighbor asked about the overwhelming smell of rotting refrigerators and black mold. I told her I noticed neither. What I did notice were the people, proud of their city and proud of their own efforts, cleaning houses, repairing, rebuilding, moving on with life in the Big Easy.
... and more
Truth during the open-mike session that afternoon continued to be elusive for one bold soul, who I'll call "The Poet". He was incensed by his recent discovery at a local book signing that the author he'd gone to hear was actually a "liar": his first person poetry was fiction. "How can a poet make up lies?" asked The Poet. What really disturbed him was that the author, when asked about the extraordinary events of his poem, admitted he'd used his imagination -- not the answer The Poet was looking for. The Poet wanted his audience at the Maple Leaf Bar to know that his own work really was The Truth. I believed him.
I first came across the Maple Leaf Bar in Susan Larson's The Booklover's Guide to New Orleans. Larson's guide has a small entry on page 199.
"The longest-running poetry series in the South keeps on trucking every Sunday at the Maple Leaf Bar, 8316 Oak Street. Readings begin at 3pm. Drop by, knock back a few, and bring your poems in case there's an open-mike reading."
... and more
The second time I heard about the venue was in Andrei Coudrescu's New Orleans, Mon Amour, and the third time was when I saw the newspaper listing for one of the Sunday readings. Yes, the listing said 3pm, but in Nawlins Speak, that really means five-ish.
The truth is I'd unconsciously gravitated towards the Maple Leaf Bar next to my favorite restaurant (Jacquimo's) since I began my love affair with the Crescent City almost a decade ago -- long before I knew of it's literary connection, and before I'd registered the bar's name.
Katrina was a hurricane. True, but a hurricane is also a strong New Orleans drink of rum and fruit. Though I can never remember where I drank my last hurricane, I do know how to get there... really, it's true. My grandmother says that drunks and children always tell the truth.
Jim Beam & Mardi Gras Bullet Bra