You Know The Hopeslope

You've lived it all your life

No matter where you are, you know The Hopeslope. You’ve lived it all your life.

But, like many great things, the idea was born in New Orleans. I’ll start there.

I did not create it. A dear friend taught it to me back around 2012. He learned of it on his neighborhood’s porch bar in mid-city, where it was written on a whiteboard by another friend who learned it from their uncle. That uncle might have lived in Navarre? Unclear… Further back, its lineage is shrouded in mystery.

Regardless, it’s been a touchstone for my community for longer than I’ve been a part of it. We’ve all added to the concept bit by bit - together and on our own. We tell people and all play with it like putty. You know how it goes.

But before going any further, some housekeeping: Prior to using it in the name of this publication or this writing, I asked consent of those who taught me and of those who taught them - as far back as we could figure. Everyone was fine with the concept being used and shared. But of course they were - that’s the whole point!

The Hopeslope belongs to us all.

So what is it? What is The Hopeslope?

Well, life in New Orleans can be charted on a sin wave. The absolute best, most joyously hopeful day of the year sits at its peak: Mardi Gras Day. The worst, most brutally hopeless day is nestled in its trough: August 29^th, Katrinaversary. The through line is Hurricane Season, and everything can be charted accordingly.

The wave, this cycle, is called The Hopeslope.

So let’s start at the bottom, shall we?

August 29^th. It’s so hot and humid you want to die. You’ve got swamp ass. Swamp tit. Swamp existence. Walking outside during the day feels like an act of violence. Chances are you’re broke - at least if you work any sort of service or hospitality. The bugs are insane. Nothing works. The streets are even more shit than any other time of the year - if that’s possible? Everything is crumbling. Half the city is empty. You’re pretty much nocturnal if you can manage to be. And every moment of the day you’re just waiting to hear a Hurricane is coming to blow it all away again. You’re mourning. Deeply.

And it feels like a sickness. By the end of August living here in New Orleans can feel like a Goddamn sickness. And just as you promise you’re never doing it again, that you’re leaving and never, ever coming back — suddenly, it’s Saint’s season. Your friends who left town start coming back. Maybe a hurricane hit, maybe it didn’t … but in the end it wasn’t that bad. Right? Right.

Things start picking up, the weather isn’t getting any hotter anymore.. at least not much. Life isn’t so hopeless. The passionfruit starts ripening, the kumquats. Autumn Equinox. More citrus starts appearing, and with that you know - you know - you’re climbing the Hopeslope. You can feel it.

Then it’s October, things start cooling off. Clothes aren’t so horrible anymore. Festivals start: Blues & BBQ, Treme Fall Fest, Halloween! Oh yeah, by Halloween we’re back and the air starts buzzing with it.¹ Dance your face off costumed on Frenchman Street. Saints season continues. More citrus arrives. Mirlitons. Thanksgiving.

December 1^st, the end of Hurricane season. Big exhale as you take that pot of storm anxiety off your stove for the rest of the year. And now it’s proper cool.. maybe? Celebration in the Oaks. Winter Solstice. The holidays. The time honored tradition of bitching that it isn’t cold enough and how nice it’d be IF ONLY SEASONS EXISTED HERE. Secretly loving that now you can bitch that it isn’t cold enough because seasons don’t exist here. New Years. Grapefruit. Sweet potatoes. We climb.

…and then TWELTH NIGHT. We’re really ascending now. Joan of Arc. King Cake. Costuming. It’s 2 months or 17 days, but who’s counting? There’s glitter literally everywhere. Parties. Friends. The parades start. Didn’t you say you’d start costuming over the summer? Yeah. Did you? Probably not. Is 5 distinct costumes too many to make this year? Totally. Doing it anyway - gonna cry trying. Oh, is the Super Bowl happening? Not like we’re in it, but I guess that’s good to know.

February and now there’s officially too much to do. You can’t do it all, but you’re going to try. Maybe? Maybe not. Do what ya wanna! It’s a festival of death, of life - a huge community release. What does it mean to be a New Orleanian if not this? What does it mean to be a New Orleanian if not to look at so much grief in the face and celebrate? Dance in spite of it, revel because of it all — because we aren’t gone yet. And for those weeks we allow ourselves to deeply feel… or do everything we can to not. It’s up to you! Climb baby climb.

It’s the best of times. It’s the worst of times. Can I work 12 hours, party 8, sleep 4? Let’s chat about it in the Jefferson Variety line. Grapefruits are proliferating, just incase your liver wants to work even harder. It’s a marathon not a sprint. And of course, now it’s cold.

Oh, wait, now it’s Deep Gras and it IS a sprint. A 6 day sprint. Parades and parties, art and community, underground, mainstream.. is this over yet? When was the last time I ate a vegetable that wasn’t the trinity? Have I met my true love? Do they love me? Hate me? Or is it just my serotonin shot? I think there’s glitter in my ass crack. There’s definitely glitter in my ass crack. Why is there glitter in my ass crack? Really can’t be sure.

And then, like that, it’s here. Dawn Mardi Gras Day. You’ve arrived. And no matter what you do or how you do it - whether you’re here in the city or as far away as possible - it’s Mardi Gras Day. It’s the top of The Hopeslope and it’s magical.

Because, my god, there is MAGIC in this swamp. And no matter how you do it - whether you watch or march - you can feel it. New Orleans - She is powerful. Not good or bad - just powerful. And on Mardi Gras Day, the Spirit of this Land with 1,000 names known and lost - she is old and you can feel her. You know she’s out to play and my god it’s… transmutating… if you allow it to be. Or just a damn good time if not. Or, on occasion, it can be the worst hell - it is whatever it is meant to be. Sometimes it’s nothing at all. Do what you wanna, there is no WRONG way. But damn, there is NOTHING more hopeful than Mardi Gras Day. It’s sheer joy. It’s sheer hope. It’s soul fertilizing. It is. The. Top.

And then it’s done.

Ash Wednesday, and you got the post-Gras saddies. Even if you’re sober. That’s ok. You went hard for 17 days, you deserve to be home for 40. Of course, you won’t be home for 40. Because although we’re now on the decline, it’s a slow roll not a steep cliff. Cultural lent lets you down slowly — but not really? Starts getting warmer and there’s still SO MUCH TO DO. Super Sunday. St. Patrick’s Day. French Quarter Fest. Easter. Spring Equinox. Strawberries. Mulberries. Crawfish. Crawfish. Crawfish.

Termites swarm. So do the flies from your neighbor’s not-cleaned-quite-right boil. That’s ok. It’s goes from warm to hot in a flash, then maybe back again. Blackberries ripen. Jazz Fest comes. Fry Parties. You’re nearly crawfished out. Midnights at the Maple Leaf. Bayou Boogaloo.

You trim back trees, bushes, vines - or at least think about it. You know you should prep for hurricane season before it becomes too hot. You promised yourself you would last year. Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t. Either way, May comes to an end and the weather is pretty gorgeous except for those days when it’s already not. The season was great but, to be honest, some rest would be nice.

June 1^st - we’ve hit the through line again: Hurricane Season. But we’ve still got some time before the dread really sets in. The college students and people who can, leave. Pride month. Juneteenth. Days get longer and hotter, NOLA becomes sleepy, but it feels nice for a while.

Passionflowers bloom. Air conditioners provide a constant hum, the backdrop to a society of chirping birds who speak to one another as you’re outside on your porch or stoop. You walk through the heat to the bar or the store and when you arrive crisp AC is a relief.

Days creep by, you have to start sitting outside later and later. Essence Fest. Fourth of July. The first named storm in the Gulf? Clean the culverts because Sewage and Water Board sure as hell won’t.

Mosquitos swarm early and late.

Now we’ve hit the point where it’s so hot and so humid that walking outside feels like slamming into a brick wall, if that brick wall was full of bugs waiting to devour you just enough to make you itch and itch and itch. But there are blueberries and Japanese plums. Summer Solstice. Your neighbor gives you some mulch to keep the soil moist in the heat. Down the Slope we glide.

July marches into August and at some point you just stop going outside. Is Satchmo Summer Fest happening? Are you sure? Ok. I can’t fathom how, but I guess go off? Oh and Midsummer Mardi Gras, too? Krewe of O.A.K? Again, ok I guess. It’s so hot. The temperature differential between the hellfire of outside and the arctic freeze of over conditioned air is officially shocking in a way that isn’t pleasant. Those damn orange caterpillars have eaten the entire passionflower vine. We’re sliding down the slope fast.

Weather updates become unbearable to watch. Holy shit that’s the 4^th hurricane in the past 2 weeks. It’s too much to relive it all again and again and again day after day. It’s definitely August. Those damn orange spiked caterpillars have eaten the entire passionflower vine. Someone will tell me about a storm if need be.

No idea what’s blooming because it’s too hot to exist. When the fuck did that new pot hole appear? Are the power lines melting? Did a rat just take out Entergy again? It was never this hot when we were kids. It was never this severe when we were kids. There were never this many storms when we were kids.

It’s mid-August. Everything trudges by so slow in the deep-summer swamp. Why do I live here? I think this is a sickness. This is absolutely a sickness. How much water do I need to drink to stay hydrated in this heat? How much heat can we withstand? How much grief can we hold in our hands? In New Orleans? In the Gulf South? As a community? How much can we take? How am I going to afford to keep living here? Spiritually, emotionally, physically, financially?

Each year I watch more people from my community get priced out of their homes. People come because it’s magical and “affordable” to those who are from elsewhere. But now, between the general economy, the taxes, the home insurance… mine has raised 291% in 5 years and I’m on the low end comparatively speaking. Rents are skyrocketing from crisis, greed, AirBnB. It’s killing us. This is a crisis - it’s not sustainable and no one is listening. No one in government is actually helping. I guess that’s why we have such an incredible community: we show up for each other, just do our best to help ourselves.

My Entergy bill is how much this month?? Are you shitting me? Oh the elderberries are here. The Bayou is beautiful at sunrise still. How did they even manage to have a sex room at SWBNO in this heat?? Wait, there’s another fucking hurricane in the Gulf?! AGAIN? Will I ever be hydrated again? It’s Southern Decadence soon? What? I think I’ve breached delirious.

And now, it’s Katrinaversary, August 29^th: the bottom of The Hopeslope. We are mourning. Full of despair. So many of us died from it. Not just here, but throughout Louisiana, Mississippi. 1,833 in the storm, but how many have died since because of it? Family. Friends. Community. It killed my grandfather, it just took him 18 years to die. We just buried my 10^th high school friend last month. Not to mention all the other storms before: Camille. Betsy. After: Gustav, Ida. How much more can our hearts break?

It’s so hot. I am all out of hope. I cannot do this anymore. I’m going to move when the heat breaks. Why is there another mosquito in my home? I haven’t gone outside in days.

A knock on the front door. It’s my neighbor. “Come over to watch the first Saints game?”

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

THAT is The Hopeslope.

If you are not a New Orleanian, The Hopeslope still exists. It’s just different. Maybe a little less intense or a little more individual. But the cycle of a year or whatever your season’s length — from the highest high to the lowest low — that’s universal. It’s something that all of us know.

So if you’re not from New Orleans - or even if you are - what’s on your Hopeslope? What do you add, take away, replace? What’s the highest hope that keeps you here? What’s the lowest despair that makes you want to leave?

For wherever your “here” is, you know the Slope. The Cycle, the routine. And, chances are, you’re working to navigate it gracefully, just like me. Just like us all.

1. It’s worth noting that some elder acolytes of the Slope want to note that in past versions long ago the through line was Halloween to Jazz Fest. If you’ve done Halloween or Jazz Fest in NOLA and danced your face off on Frenchman Street, it’s easy to see why.

However, when I began working on the (social modeling) mathematics denoting the Slope as a Graph of Hope, I came to the conclusion that Hurricane Season is the way to go when conceptualizing the through line as the axis denoting Time.

If you would like to chat more about the social modeling I’ve done behind this, please let me know! (I’m not here to spam anyone with my elementary trig, modeling work, or theories on time [eadem mutata resurgo?] but I would be so. stoked. to discuss.)