Even at a Distance

By Alexandra Miller

Illustrations by WASCO

Walking under quarantine, for me, feels strangely like a big, socially distant hug. I'm seven months pregnant and starting to waddle a bit — and I live in New Orleans, where we greet each other from sidewalks and porches as a matter of politeness. Now, instead of the usual "How you doin'?" I hear "Protect that baby! Take care of that baby! Stay safe!" as my neighbors care for me from their front doors. And I never have to deal with the surprise belly rubs from strangers I've heard other pregnant people talk about.

Outside my front door, people are walking and biking at all hours. This isn't completely unusual; my house is two blocks from Magazine Street, one of our major shopping corridors, and the streets around here are active. But pedestrians and bikers have started wandering the residential streets to get some variety, as the usual draws of shopping and socializing give way to neighborhood exploration. The lack of cars has also encouraged more biking, and riders feel free to use the one-way streets as highways in both directions — once a dangerous feat on roads originally built for pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages, with barely enough room for one car to pass.

I'm a planner working with cities across the country, and I'm grateful that my job has kept me busy and fully employed during this time — but I'm cooped up a lot during the week, so I take advantage of weekend days to head out of the house. After walking down my block, I turn onto Seventh Street and head away from the river. The neighborhood streets are green, and I get breaths of jasmine as I go. I'm grateful for the early spring here, and the ability to take comfort and peace from nature. The sound of birds seems to be amplified by the shutdown, without the constant competing hum of traffic and commutes and people. It's easy to sink into a contemplative state and listen to the variety of their calls.

Next is Magazine Street itself.

The quiet of the street is startling. The constant traffic is nearly gone, and the throngs of after-work and weekend pedestrians have been reduced to one or two people per block. I worry about the local businesses that are closed, and the restaurants that are trying to survive only on takeout and delivery.

"I'm hoping we can use our lists of essential workers and start to value those people all the time, particularly when it comes to issues like affordable housing and living wages."

New Orleans couldn't exist without the people who work in restaurants and create our music and culture. Skyrocketing housing prices and low wages were already creating a huge problem for many families before this shutdown, forcing lower-income residents to move to the outskirts of the city, and hollowing out historically Black neighborhoods. Now, many families who relied on hourly jobs have no income; others, still employed, must put themselves and our transit workers at risk every day by riding long bus routes into the center of town and interacting with the public.

I'm thinking about mutual aid, federal policy, and what more I should be doing to help as I pass the grocery store on Pleasant Street — the one spot on my usual walking route that still has a parking lot full of cars. One truly illuminating policy issue that's run through my discussions with multiple local governments is the definition of an "essential worker." Everywhere, grocery store workers are in that number, risking themselves and their health to make sure we can all eat. As we create policies in the future, I'm hoping we can use the list of essential workers each community has developed to value these people all the time, particularly when it comes to issues like affordable housing, living wages, and small business support systems.

A few contemplative blocks later, I turn off Magazine onto Marengo Street to head toward home. I love the street names in New Orleans. Here in Uptown, we have a collection of streets around Napoleon Avenue that are named for significant events in the emperor's life — from Marengo, one of his famous battles, to Milan, where he was crowned King of Italy. In Gentilly, you'll see Humanity and Pleasure and Abundance Streets; in Mid-City there are Esplanade and Rocheblave and Grand Route St. John.

As people are getting out of the house and relearning their neighborhoods during lockdown orders, looking at street names can build that connection by evoking the history of a place and the way it developed. Grand Route St. John sounds like a grandiose name for a simple residential street, but it was a critical way for early New Orleanians and traders to travel between the Mississippi River, Bayou St. John, and Lake Pontchartrain — and that connection is the reason New Orleans was founded in the first place.

I'm startled out of my street-name reverie by a commotion as I turn back onto my block. A neighbor down the street is holding a quarantine birthday party for his six-year-old, and people are driving, biking, and walking by their house with signs. A dad and his two kids pause their bikes by my driveway so he can remind himself how to play "Happy Birthday" on the trumpet he's carrying. A city council member passes in his car and waves; a family of Mardi Gras Indians comes by; a fire truck crew honks and shouts birthday wishes through their loudspeaker.

While New Orleans brings a special flair to gathering in the street, I've seen scenes like this happening all over the country. Even at a distance, we know how to use our public spaces to pull together as a community, support one another, celebrate our joys, and mourn those we've lost. As we all stand six feet apart, we're hugging our communities a little more tightly.

Alexandra Miller lives in the Irish Channel neighborhood of New Orleans. When not meditating on street names or stopping to smell the jasmine, she works on affordable housing and economic development issues as a managing principal at Asakura Robinson Company.