Every space where people are together is sacred. There are spaces and knooks and crannies of the sacred space. At Tchop and Napoleon, there is a place: Tipitina’s. Built as as warehouse in the 1850s, the aged wood and barge board building has a sound quality when resonates inside and is subtle to the neighboring buildings. Accross from the Port, this building has stood as a music and gathering space for likely more than 100 years. In the mid 70s a group of young college kids bought the building to establish a music venue. These Fabulous 14, started something fantastic. It became home of Professor Longhair, Dr. John, and a regular spot for the Neville’s to preform. Many bands who are household names now, cut their teeth at Tips. After Hurricane Katrina, they hosted WWOZ for several years before the radio station returned to the Quarter. Shoot, the Killers- known for selling out arenas- picked Tipitina’s  over any other venue in town for their Jazz Fest after Dark show location.

Back to what makes it sacred. The gathering of people to commune together in shared joy of music is a staple of this City. For those who live here, we sometimes take for granted the fact that the best of American Music can directly trace its root to this particular bend of the Mississippi. I lived around the corner from Tipitina’s for 6years. On a good night, I could hear the show from my back patio. Even in daylight, walking by the bright Yellow, trimmed with black two story building, there was an energy given off by the structure itself. The rhythm of the last show still reverberating the day after. Funk and New Orleans Music Royalty frequent the joint as though they are musicians who are just starting out and not known by the masses. You will find folks from all walks of life at the shows because they host all kinds of shows. The genre of music is of little consequence, and spectators and worshipers of the groove are transported into another plane for the duration of the experience. They could be utilizing any number of extra curricular mind altering fun to reach that plane. Then again, oftentimes they aren’t even doing that. The restraints of the mondain everyday give way to the bass beat and the lights. The energy of the music is embraced and the sweet release of dancing without concern of the opinions of others envelopes you a you just let yourself be carried away with the sound. It could be 50 people or 900, it doesn’t matter. You let yourself go with it. With portrait of Prof. Longhair over head above the stage, his vision of this sacred place continues years after his departure from this plane.

January 7, 2026 I will be testifying for my case. the 6th is Jury selection.

For anyone who would like to attend the trial in support of me and other victims of Sexual Assault here are the instructions for the day:

Address of the Orleans Criminal court 2700 Tulane Ave, New Orleans, LA 70119 Enter through the door up the stairs facing Tulane Ave. Don’t bring your phone or any recording devices. 0900 is show time. Section K is where my case is being heard. I’m not sure how long the day will be. I won’t be allowed in the courtroom until after I testify.

If you have additional questions, contact me directly.

The shaking. The deep rage I could feel radiating from the center of my being. I’ve been upset before. I’ve felt shame, I’ve felt the gut based voice in me asking me why would I have done what I done. This was different. This was deeper.

I forgot to bring a charger. my phone battery was on 10%. How was I going to let my people know where I was? What do I tell my office manager? Fuck. I am hungry. WTF happened last night? Ouch it hurts.

Tuesday November 2, 2021. I drove myself to the ER at the Southeast Louisiana VA Medical Center in New Orleans. Initially I was going to go to Ochsner Baptist ER. While driving up Napoleon Avenue, I realized I wouldn’t feel safe there. So I passed by Baptist and drove to the VA.

It was surreal. The parking lot at the ER for the VA isn’t real big. I drive a stick shift, I didn’t have the capacity to park correctly. So, I parked at an angle over the handicap spot at the end of the row, the one with space for a wheelchair to exit a vehicle. Well this is jerk move on my part. The distance from the parking lot to the doors felt like a mile away. It wasn’t till I exited the elevator and walked to the counter gave my name and last four and said in my broken voice “I was raped. I am not ok” that I broke into tears. Not panicked sobbing. Just the steady flow of waterworks knowing I was safe.

It was once I was in the back in a room that someone grabbed a phone charger for me to borrow. They informed me that the VA doesn’t take care of kits of this nature, but since I was already checked in, I couldn’t just drive myself to the hospital known as University Medical Center (UMC) on the next block. door to door it felt like a full mile. We had to wait for an ambulance to take me to UMC.

I was fixated on if my car would get towed. A tall, black women in the VA Police uniform came in. She asks me “What kind of car do you drive? How will I know its yours? I’ll make sure it doesn’t get towed” I respond “You served?” “Yes", Army MP.” she says. Me “Army SIGO. Its a Blue Subaru with a sticker on the back that says ‘A rock or something’ parked cockeyed in the lot downstairs” Even in a terrible moment she and I laugh together in the common chuckle of knowing the symbol of MRE memories.

After around an hour, an EMT team with a truck came and escorted me the quick drive to the ER next door.

I am forever grateful to the team at the VA for their understanding and gallows humor that morning.

While on active duty, there was plenty of training events where the steps for reporting a sexual assault were drilled into us. I’d been the one who received the report of an assault, but one never expects that it will be you needing to use the steps. This was auto pilot. I am a women who wants to help others, protect others from harm. Care for folks when they are in pain. I will take heat for speaking up about something uncomfortable knowing I am making myself the target, knowing that doing this will ease the fall out on others.

Fuck with me all day long, fuck with my people and I will do everything in my power to find you and bring justice upon you.

At this point, only the medical staff and three others knew what had happened. One asked if I wanted her with me, I told her no, there wasn’t anything she could do by being with me. Being self sufficient and hyper independent has its flaws. As rage, a terrible hangover, fear and shame washed over me in waves of shaking and emotion, I was glad that my instincts kicked in and that I was going through the mental checklist of actions I could control. Still feeling that loss of control, yet knew that if I followed these steps justice would happen. Little did I know how long this would take.

it has been 1511 days 11 hrs. and 16 min since I was raped in my home by an acquaintance who was staying on my couch for the night. I reported it immediately. 4 years and 50 days later, there has still not been a resolution.

I’ve never understood why folks even ask this question. It is difficult to report. It is not easy to accept that something has been taken from you and that there are those who will believe you and will support you. Living in a society where “boys will be boys” is the name of the game, women are shamed immediately for what has been done to them.

Today, I am not able to go into many details, as I am still awaiting the trial to happen. I can give you a summary of my experience.

What I will share:

The defendant was an acquaintance. Someone I’d met in passing at the local bars. I was very drunk. He asked for a place to crash. It was cold, and being the type of person I am, I offered him my couch. The door to my bedroom in my rental unit never closed completely. I know now that this is something I aught to have fought my landlord to fix. Being New Orleans, landlords aren’t known for fixing things- even if those items are required for all properties. On this night I did my best to get the door to close. I was drunk. I was unconscious. Until I was.

I woke up twice. Once I couldn’t figure out what was going on and passed back out. The second time I pushed him off me and told him to leave my house. Later I got up and found him on my couch. Again I told him to leave. I told him that he raped me. He told me I liked it. He left. I drove myself to the VA ER. I was transferred to University Medical Center (Turns out this is the official location for all sexual assaults in the greater New Orleans area, as they are the only ones with nurses trained in processing the kits). I spent my day in their ER having the Rape Kit done. They kept my clothes I was wearing. When I was released, the sun was down. I was in a pair of 2XL grey sweatpants and a nearly see-through white hones undershirt, and a short sleeved scrub (medical uniform) top since I wasn’t comfortable with walking down the street with my nipples on display.

Everyday since driving myself back to my home has been a struggle. I’ve been victim shamed. I’ve been called all sorts of names. I was told I did it to myself for letting someone sleep on my couch. I was an alcoholic at the time, I freely admit this.

The most challenging part has been standing firm on wanting a trial a justice because this man took something from me. Have I had a number of sexual partners? yes. Have I ever kicked a man out of my house then driven myself to the ER while in pain and seeing blood? This was a first.

Until relatively recently, Orleans Parish had a backlog of untested rape kits going back two and a half years. I don’t know the total number of that project. They announced that they’d “caught up” back in May. Ironically, that week was the same week the trial of my case should have been in trial. Instead of being in trial, I went to the City Council meeting and asked what their plan was for these cases. Based on my experience, having DNA evidence and witnesses doesn’t expedite anything about a case.

This afternoon I will meet with the ADA in preparation for our upcoming trial. This is the 5th time we have had a trial date. As of this moment, I have learned to not hold my breath.

If you’d like to follow along and read more as I navigate this through this holiday season and however long this takes, subscribe to this sub stack. My next post I plan to detail the rate of continuances and the bureaucracy which has helped this case along.

Okay, everyone has their advice about visiting New Orleans. “Don’t do this.” “Don’t do that.” “This is how we do it here…” And much of this advice is absolutely valid. This is not a story for the visitor. This is not for the tourist. This is for those who live here. I will detail out the realities of life in New Orleans at a later date. Today. Today I am going to share my adventure Saturday evening. It is a perfect example of taking a risk, accepting an invitation and getting out of your comfort zone.

See what had happened…

When I left my house Saturday afternoon, my only plan was to head uptown to my favorite bar and watch my friend James and his band preform on the sidewalk outside the pub. Knowing this, I painted my face (put on makeup) and did my hair (washed and actually styled it) and wore a fun outfit which is a particular favorite. Its got pockets, its quick drying (the forcast called for rain) and supremely comfortable. All of this to say, I looked fabulous and felt fabulous as well. My friend Jenn had returned to the bar enroute to a house party, as she was walking in the bar “Hey, what is your plan for after here?” “I don’t really have a plan.” I responded, which was the truth. “would you like to join me at a house party? My friends band is playing, she a jazz singer and I am excited to see her play with her band. wanna come?” I think for a moment, “sure, that sounds like a great time.” This is the first sign this will be a delightful evening.

As of late I have been feeling a sense of self I hadn’t felt in a long while. Life is messy and depression is real. Over the past year I have been rediscoving who I am and what my own priorities are in life. My imagination and creative brain is always on overdrive and sometimes I think about how New Orleans is a place which transends time.

We hop on the St Charles streetcar and head towards the Garden District. Being without a car of my own, the public transportation of this city is a primary method for my day to day movements. These green transport vehicles have been crusing this route for over 100 years. The timeless aspect of knowing that this isn’t a unique travel method, but a thread of the fabric of this city and its culture is never lost on me. Tourists ride it like its a a ride at Disney “ooo look at how vintage this is!” No, Sherly, this is how we commute here. But I digress. Its always fun to be on your way to something, dressed to impress (or at least not looking like a person of Walmart) and the excitment of experiancing something new.

Now, the act of the house party is not a new trend. It is a tale as old as time. When publications talk about Andy Warhol or other artists of New York in the 1970’s, the photos are often of a crowded aparment with sense of positive creative energy. This was what it felt like when we walked up to the house. Before we even got to the corner for our turn, I could hear the salsa music. “I thought you said your friend was in a Jazz band?” Jenn just shurgged. “Donno, maybe shes playing later?”

The Scene

Let me set the scene: Lower Garden District, a multi family home built around 1850, a courtyard in the front, and a driveway/carport off to the side of the house. The event was held by a women who was given 30 days to vacate after living there for seven years and the whole property had been sold. This is not a terribly uncommon situation, disappointingly. As a method to help her raise funds to get reestablished, cover was $8 bucks. When we arrived and walked up the stairs, weaving between conversation clusters, the music flowed through the door and the obscured view of the swinging bodies salsa dancing was energizing. The apartment is a Studio/ one bedroom set up. going through the door you have a long hall with a staircase which is capped off at the top, likely part of the sectioning off that was done making the building multiple units. Under the stair was a clawfoot tub, filled with ice, white wine, beer and some bottles of vodka. The deal was, pay the cover, enjoy the music and unlimited drinks until they ran out. At firstI thought the tub was there to be cheeky, then I saw the one bathroom was a small closet toilet with a pedistol sink also under the stairs. Oh, well, leave it to this town for creative use of space.

It had been so long since I’d attended an event such as this, I didn’t know how to handle myself. How am I cool enough to be attending what looks like a gathering of the creatives of New Orleans? I pop my head into the main room. The salsa has ended and the band is packing up while another band sets up. There is gorgeous plaster crown molding lining the ceiling. Plaster medailions in the center where the lights hang from. Theres a queen sized bed between two doors opening to the living space, a couch and a couple chairs towards the front windows and a large open area as a dance floor. The bands are set up opposite the couch. This room was likely the parlor of this home when it was first built. Pale pink walls give the crowded space gives a sense of warmth. I shimmy between people through the gally kitchen behind the main room and make my way to the covered drive outside. As I light my cigarette, it occurs to me that I know no one and Jenn is off talking to people. She actually knows many attendees to this gathering. I am content to people watch and enjoy the moment.

I am at ease chatting up strangers and sharing in the communal contentment of doing something which five years ago would have been an absolutly normal occurance. Covid lockdown of 2020 and 2021 changed the structure of social interaction worldwide, and it had a major impact on New Orleans specifically. The City CANCELED MARDI GRAS. The last time that happened was in the 1970s, and that was because of a strike by the police department. If New Orleanians can take a break from gatherings knowing that its for the greater good, you would think other communities could too. Thats for another conversation entirely. Events big and small are slowly coming back into fashion.

The sound of the combination of music, active conversations and laughter were a perfect accomoniment to the warm breezy evening. Jenn finds us and gets us to join her inside, the second band is finished and now her friend is about to preform. We find our way to the main room, the crowd is excited as she begins to sing. What was striking to me through out the evening was the thought that this was likely not the first time an event like this happened in exactly this space. People are paired off swing dancing and just following the music. The disco ball is the give away that this isn’t 1925 or 1965 or 1985. The fashion is eclectic, barets, thrifted dresses, everyone looks as though they were thoughtful in their styleing of their own design. Not in a pompus way, more like “oh! I love this outfit” sort of way. In my humble opinion, this is how one should feel when they dress for the day everyday.

I look around the room. No one is glued to their phones. Occationally, you’ll see someone bring out their phone to check a message or to take a photo or video of the night, the only method to prove you didn’t just have a fever dream of a world where people still gathered for no particular reason in shared experiance. Below is one of the videos I took of the moment.

Currently, the United States is going through growing pains of sorts. One could describe it as a hostile government take over of a narsasitc mad man who is using his position as president to gain pay to play privilage, all while the puppet masters of the Herritage Foundation dismantle the represenitive democratic republic of the past 250 years in order to build a Christo Nationalist dictatorship of their own imaginings. The issue is that looking back on the Weimer Republic, now known as Germany, of 1919- 1933, there are actions being taken in the US now which were exactly what had happened already.

How did we get here?

Reflections on the “how did we get here?” can be linked directly back to the actions of the Hitler and co during this period. Berlin of this period was a highly progressive place. An epicenter of the Bauhaus movement in arts and architecture, the caberets and dance halls, and the ability for those of the LGBTQIA+ community of the time to live their lives openly and and truly resonate with the New Orleans I find myself in today. Berlin was where the study of sexuality and gender affirming care was being documented and normalized. When the Nazis began burning books, the books and research of Institut für Sexualwissenschaft (Institute for Sexual Science) was the first target for the book burnings. I have been finding myself thinking deeply on the comparisons of USA now to Weimer Republic, the frequency of these internal dialogs has been more often as the US Congress and the US Justice department fail to stop Trump and his cronies.

With all of these thoughts melding in my mind regularly, this Saturday night on Prytaina I had an imagining in my mind. That this simple joyful event could be transposed across time and space and we could have been doing this exact thing in 1925 Berlin. A last harah of a tennent telling the new owners of the property to fuck off, and her peers coming together to join her in the sentiment of “no matter what happens, we are still going to make music, dance and live a life of note.” I leaned to Jenn, said in her ear “In another time, we are doing this in 1925 Berlin and are part of the Bauhaus art scene!” She laughed, though I’m confident my exstestential philosophic ramblings just seemed like a stoned chicks oddball commentary.

Okay, I get it. Most aren’t going to get the reference of the Bauhaus or even understand the vision I had in my head of this event being transendent of time and space. For me, there is comfort in knowing that even when those in power are taking actions which will eventually find their way down to affect my day to day life, there will still be house parties. There will always be dancing and singing and art in the face of fascism. There will need to be more portests, more acts of rebellion, and more strenghthening of communities in the face of what is coming. We also must make a point to continue to find joy and pleasure in the radical act of living.

Hold the line.

My goal is to share the hope I still hold as the Federal level of the US Government is being dismanteled. Hold the line, we will make it through so long as we chose to.

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