Decades Apart is a project exploring artificial intelligence and its ability to create visual images from concepts generated from precise prompts. Each image has been modified from its original state. These tableaus are representations of memories from my childhood in Southern Louisiana. The depictions of flora and fauna become metaphors for an existence that was both terrific and disturbing, hopeful and despairing.
This is a story of finding my first cat, Tiger, in the cane field behind my childhood backyard. He had been hit by a car, and my dad laid him to rest in a ditch separating rows of sugar cane. Dad told me not to go and look, but I did. As I walked away, a bee circled my head and buzzed in my ear. We are as much of the earth as we are flesh. We are so many things. We are bees grieving in the ears of the living.
My mom would tell me that my great grandmother Regina Navarre Tabor would pray to Mary that my sister and I would find good husbands. That Catholic ritual of intention setting was so superstitious to me. There was always the feeling of “if I do this… then I’ll get this…” That “if and then” cycle stuck with me as a way of coping with things I couldn’t/can’t control.
I eventually wanted to be invisible. But long before that I wanted to be a boy. I named myself Johnny Geraldo, cut my hair short, and asked everyone I knew to “pretend” this reality for me. It was an awkward request, but I innately felt a connection to my dad and thought I could choose to be a boy, like him. As I got older and cognizant of my appearance and gender expectations, I began growing my hair out. That curly hair was the most vulnerable part of me, and everyone seemed to know how to dig the wound deeper. Again, I eventually wanted to be invisible.
After watching some horrible television show as a 4 year old, I was terribly afraid of fire. So much so that I’d pray at night in hopes that I wouldn’t die in a fire. In prayer, I’d list all the things that scared me, but fire was the big one. Once we moved from Lockport to Thibodaux, we lived directly in front of a sugar cane field, and during grinding season, the farmers would turn over the fields by burning them after harvest. Lawd, I was praying hard then.
I experienced and “received” all the sacraments as a child having grown up in a region deeply rooted in Catholicism. Being a very nervous kid, I didn’t trust that the communion wafers tasted very good because it was known to me to be flesh. So I’d ask everyone what they tasted like and most people said “they dont’ really taste like anything….” But that answer would have never sufficed my curiosity nor my anxiety. So considering how white and circular they appeared, I’d ask “do they taste like the cream in the middle of Oreos?” Of course, all adults who I’d ask would laugh and say “sure.” During our first communion rehearsal, all the kids were supposed to go up and receive a communion wafer and practice our sign of the cross. As soon as that wafer hit my mouth, I new it was disgusting. The body of Christ indeed tasted awful and nothing like that cream center of the Oreo I’d been promised. Fooled again by religion, I’d have anxiety every time I’d have to go to church after that, which was 52+ times a year for several years of childhood/teenhood. In the few days between that rehearsal and the actual First Communion, I’d stare into the fields behind our house wishing I were anyone and anywhere else.
There was a period of time after the death of my cat that I truly mourned and grieved his loss. It was as real as any other mourning period in my adult life. Somehow, as a child I realize that this loss had shifted something inside me, and it remained a marker of life before and after. There was a realization that had set in that the things that kept me most safe were impermanent.
Planting Season
I found out I would never be able to carry a baby to term. I was never planning on having a child, but I always knew I could be surprised with one. I always felt like if it happened, then we’d figure it out. But now, there’s no choice.
No choice or control or what ifs into the oblivion.
The fertile grounds of southern Louisiana are a respite to me when I visit my hometown of Thibodaux throughout the year. My nephew is a constant muse; he is kindness personified. Since my lineage physically ends with me, I’m willing it to emotionally continue through him and others.
Dirt rimmed nostrils. Mud in my lungs. Every season can be planting season when your womb is the earth.
As for the fragile bodies that will never be, maybe they can all exist in some other, more wildly beautiful realm.
These rubbings were made by rubbing charcoal on paper on top of tombstones at the Whitting Hill Cemetery in Johnson, Vermont. The phrases were pulled from the following stream of conscience essay titled Building Altars, which I journaled upon arriving at my accommodations in Vermont. The narrative is of the death of my Ledet grandparents, the struggle to find control while traveling, motion sickness, the difficulties of forced change, and the impermanence of our physical bodies.
Building Altars
Building St. Doris altars and willing her back into existence. Constantly. Maybe the only control I have is to dream and know I’m dreaming, so I can talk to her. But then is that just my voice echoing back? An echo too many. We drove so far, and felt so much. I felt too much; panicked a bit. Said I can only trust myself, which is not true, but a truth I hold on to. Then when I arrived, I thought if they could see me, we would be dancing. Like the snow dancing, slow dancing into the unknown demise when it eventually hits the ground. Not running, but dug down waiting to decompose as if some grand gesture to absolutely nothing. For nothing. The body is a vessel, and yes there is little containment in the way of the spirit, but I always question our ability to remember things that could heal us more than they could cut us, deeper and deeper into our broken, misshapen hearts. Because grief finds its way to even the happiest of moments when I think I’m strong enough to live without your voice saying “I’m doing alright” in the most blessed bayou accent that you never shed despite your tours in Europe. A place I’ll never go because my body rails against me in motion. Motion is a living thing. Stillness is a living thing. We are destined to be still, and I’m desperate still. When will I let go the grip of sickness that keeps me mediocre? We can lose this game, and I’m not supposed to be mad.
Written on November 28, 2022 in Johnson, VT. Four years after Doris Mae Parr Ledet passed away.
La Louisiane and its undeniable lure. A place worth loving and hating. Sometimes my home, but so unfamiliar until Luke showed up and reminded me that the only bit of innocence remains in the land and in those who tend it.