Missy Wilkinson

There’s an invisible stream of money flowing through the city,” my friend said. We were at a party, guzzling sangria. “You just have to find a way to tap into it.”

He was right. My hometown, New Orleans, gets nine million tourists per year. While they’re here, they need places to eat, visit and sleep.

So I decided to put my place on airbnb.

I’d used airbnb before as a traveler on a trip to Toronto because it offered a cheap, personal alternative to a hotel. While the bed was comfy, the hosts hadn’t bent over backwards to accommodate me. There were dirty dishes in the sink, and their living room was trashed. Like, couch cushions removed and flung across the room and everything buried under clutter. I felt empowered by the low standards. My impression was, “I could easily make money doing this.” Several of my friends admitted to paying their rent with airbnb income. So I tidied my house, snapped a few photos and wrote up its key features.

I emphasized a few words: “spacious,” “private” and “your.” I was super honest about the place’s up- and downsides. We set our rates at $69 a night, a competitive price for the neighborhood. But days went by and nobody inquired. Was my house not good enough? Were travelers deterred by my lack of references on the site?

That’s when I saw airbnb offers free professional photography. I submitted a request, and within a day, a purple-haired, fae-like photographer named Kerry had gotten in touch. “I’m looking forward to photographing your Airbnb listing and helping you showcase your space,” she wrote. She came the next day, snapped photos and was done in 15 minutes. The next day, the set went live on airbnb. And bam, the floodgate opened. Within a few days, we had our first request: two young women from New Jersey stopping in New Orleans on a road trip to Austin, Texas. Pretty soon, every weekend was booked.

The guests have so far been incredibly pleasant, giving us everything from artisan chocolate chip cookies to art lessons, in addition to paying our nightly rate. Some like to hang out and join us on trips to neighborhood bars; other times, we hand them the keys and then never hear from them again. So far, the biggest inconvenience is lack of access to space. The house is only 1,000 square feet, and sacrificing the master bedroom and front porch take a bite out of the living area. It’s also a hassle to sleep on the twin bed in the spare room with my boyfriend. But overall, this is an easy way to make money literally in my sleep. Aside from the hour spent cleaning the house, washing sheets and towels and making sure there are empty drawers in the bedroom, it requires no effort.

There are some added expenses: greater utility use, more toilet paper. And then there are the hidden temptations: I’ve spent more than a small chunk of the income on improvements to the house, adding faster Wi-Fi service and upgrading our bedsheets, mattress cover and patio furniture. I’ve got my eye on a $300 set of Turkish towels, but the line must be drawn somewhere.

While short-term rental offer a great side line of income, I would never want to become dependent on it. First, tourism is very seasonal. Second, I worry that there will be legislation passed that puts a damper on the site. And third, I don’t want to always feel like a guest in my own home. I like having the ability to turn down requests because I feel like binge-watching Netflix in my underwear.

But for now, this is an easy way to pay the mortgage while meeting an interesting stream of international and national travelers.

Last weekend I went to a barbecue in a weird little nook just off Franklin Avenue, tucked by railroad tracks and an interstate on-ramp. I’d lived a few blocks away in 2002 and 2003, when I rented a shoebox-sized apartment on Jonquil Street. But I’d never visited this little patch of ground.

The host, a PhD student my boyfriend knows from LSU, called it a farm, but there wasn’t much by way of agriculture. Some chickens sleeping in their coop. A trailer. A warehouse collapsing on itself. The host said some dude had hidden a bunch of heroin in there. The dude wound up going to rehab, but he wanted one final bender before sobering up, so his dad went out to the warehouse to find his heroin. The host said the dad had a lot of compassion. I said he sounded like an enabler. So, we had different ways of thinking about things.

But I got past the rough patch and was having a pretty good time chatting with the host and his girlfriend about their black bean burger recipe. Other people started to arrive, people with names like Rotten Milk and Arrow.

Arrow had long blonde hair braided under a baseball cap. She was from a small town in upstate New York. I told her about my sister, who lives in Rochester. She told me about her aunt, who owns orchards and wineries. Then she asked the host how he was doing.

“So you’re liking your program?” she asked. “You said there’s a lot of international students.”
“Yeah, there are.”
“That makes sense,” Arrow said thoughtfully. “I mean, who else is going to go? Honky Louisiana people?”

It pissed me off. And I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone much after that. Part of me is still angry, part thinks I’m being too emotional, and part feels relieved. Because I know that’s how a lot of transplants see Louisianans: backwards, hopelessly bound by their own prejudices. A Southern accent conveys stupidity. Denham Springs is the heart of darkness. At least this particular Northern white girl was upfront about it. But I suspect she might not have been had she known I was from Baton Rouge.

Louisiana has a lot of problems. There are racists, sexists and homophobes here. It’s also impoverished, diseased and murderous, plus it has the highest incarceration rate in the world. And yeah, the education system is troubled, especially in Baton Rouge, where failing school districts have prompted “a new apartheid.” Also, there was that hurricane not so long ago. So when I go to a party and I hear Louisianans are too dumb to go to grad school? That just feels like being kicked when we’re down.

I would suggest, to anyone moving here, before you accuse Louisianans of being backwards, stupid or prejudiced, ask yourself why? Why do you think that? And what historic, economic and geographic factors might have conspired to make Louisiana’s parishes bloodier, sicker and poorer than the counties you came from? Ask yourself, ask other people, learn about the place you’ve chosen to call your home before you insult its people. Because to do otherwise, well, that’s prejudice, plain and simple.

 

 

I worked at a suicide hotline for seven years. From 2001 to 2008, I spent hundreds of hours on the lines intervening in crises ranging from domestic spats to suicides in progress.

Notice I said intervening. Not preventing. It was never our job to talk someone out of suicide. It was our job to listen.

What did we listen for? A lot of things. Feelings. A precipitating event, which could be anything from lost keys to a lost family member. Whether the caller had eaten, slept, taken his or her meds. With suicide calls, we listened for living and dying clues.

Dying clue: I can’t go on any more.

Living clue: My only friend is my cat.

At some point in the call, the counselor repeats back to the caller all the reasons he or she wants to die. Then the reasons why the caller wants to live. “It sounds like you really care about your cat. That part of you wants to live, so you can take care of him. Part of you wants to live and part of you wants to die.”

Then you pause. You wait for the caller to acknowledge the ambivalence. Because all suicide callers are ambivalent. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be calling you. They would be dead.

Some callers have very few living clues. Most, in fact.

Sometimes the callers acknowledge ambivalence. Sometimes they don’t. Then you’d get them to agree to a plan and a follow-up call. The plan could be as simple as  I’ll drink a cup of tea, call my brother. The follow-up call could come 10 minutes later, the next day, the next week. Whatever interval felt right to the caller– that is, whatever interval felt survivable.

“Do you promise not to hurt or kill yourself, by accident or on purpose, until we talk again?” you would say before hanging up.

You sometimes believed the callers’ lives were in your hand as surely as the bullets were in theirs, the bullets you heard clicking as they rolled them in their palms like Baoding balls, slow and ruminative.

But their lives are never yours to save. It is never a counselor’s job to try to prevent a suicide, to take away a person’s jurisdiction over the only thing that’s truly theirs. Nobody can make that choice except the bearer of the life. You get the privilege of listening to a person grapple with whether to live or die. Then telling them, honestly, what you’ve heard.

And then you hang up, and leave them alone to make that choice again, minute by minute, day by day, for the rest of their lives.

Today is one of those anniversaries that doesn’t commemorate anything. I remember exactly what I did on August 8, 1988. I looked at my white rubber digital watch and saw the date was 8/8/88. I was walking from my grandmother’s house to the neighborhood pool, where I was on the swim team. I was never the most valuable member of the Riveroaks Swim Team, but I did get an award for being most-improved one year. Anyway, I thought the 8/8/88 thing was really cool, and it branded itself on my memory because I didn’t know there would be a million sort of remarkable, sort of mundane numeric combinations of date, month and year over my lifetime.

Now 87, my grandmother still lives in the low-slung, three bedroom ranch house I was walking from. She’s been there about 55 years. The pool is an abandoned hole full of sludge simmering behind a sagging chain-link fence. The families and kids who patronized the pool have died or moved on to more happening neighborhoods in Baton Rouge, leaving her once middle-class neighborhood with a rash of problems: roving pit bulls, meth lab explosions and a pedophile (I think he moved when he was convicted though, hopefully to prison?).

The memory is like a Polaroid: a snapshot of time, sepia-tinged and a little out of focus. But it always comes to my mind with a clarity that’s surprising given the number of equally mundane moments I’ve forgotten. I think about it once a year, maybe some years I forget to. But today I remembered.

I‘ve always wanted to be the kind of person who gets up early, say, before 7 a.m., but it hasn’t been until recently (OK, the past two days) that I’ve done so. I credit this to my new house. Four windows flood the bedroom with 14-karat sunlight, and the room faces the street so I hear neighbors dragging their trash cans to the curb. It’s a street of draggers;  I’m never sure why they’re hauling trash cans back and forth for no discernible reason.

I’ve gotten to know the birds very well. There’s a nest of loudly peeping baby birds cradled in the nook under the sagging roof of my neighbor’s battered shotgun house. There’s a cardinal. Now and then I see a couple Quaker parrots. I hear an owl hooting her morning reverie. I’m pretty into birdwatching now. Also, lawn ornaments, these little figurines of mermaids and pelicans and fat Buddhas, I want them all.

It’s really great to spend a couple hours zoning out with some tea and watching birds before going into work. I feel like these new hobbies are offering me a glimpse of the old, porch-sitting woman I will become, and honestly the future looks pretty darn good.

1. I pick up pennies from the ground and put them in a jar o’ change. It’s also the receptacle for change in my purse. Then I cash it in at a Coinstar.

2. We buy groceries at Wal-Mart and cook at home most nights. There’s generally a good deal of wine involved, which we buy for $36 a case at Whole Foods. (The brand is Three Wishes, and it is pretty good.)

3. I sell clothes at Buffalo Exchange, books on Amazon, furniture on Craigslist and random stuff on eBay.

4. We use airbnb to rent out the extra bedroom.

5. I bike to work at least once a week, and usually only bike on weekends to save gas. Plus, I don’t like driving all that much.

6. I don’t eat meat. Groceries consist of beans, rice, pasta, nuts, cheese, tofu and produce…all pretty cheap stuff.

7. My health insurance has an incentive plan to get people to exercise…I get a discount on groceries and free money (like 15 cents, but still) each time I work out.

8. Speaking of working out, I run instead of paying for a gym membership. My yearly expenses are sneakers and entry fees for whatever races I decide to run.

9. I make purchases on a credit card that offers points, then cash those in.

10. I rarely buy new clothes. I get them in thrift and vintage stores or as hand-me-downs.  Often I find great stuff discarded on the street.

11. I go to a salon to get my hair trimmed and dyed twice a year. The rest of the time I trim my bangs and color it at home with vegetable dye or henna.

12. When traveling, we stay with friends and family or we couch surf.

13. I own a 12-year-old car that gets good mileage and keep it insured with liability only.

14. I bring dinner leftovers to work for lunch each day.

15. I have a super no-frills phone. All I can do is text and call, but it’s only $25 a month.

16. I have library cards for both Orleans and Jefferson parish. No need to ever buy a book.

17. I have a lot of coffeeshop meetings with freelancers for work, so I go to the same shop (a few blocks away) and use a rewards card so I get the 10th coffee free. The cost of doing business is cheaper that way.

18. I don’t have cable or a home phone. I watch a friend’s Netflix account when I feel like seeing a movie.

19. We snagged a bread machine (they’re really cheap since everyone hates carbs now) and use it to make pizza dough and fresh loaves. Cheaper than buying bread and so much more delicious.

20. We grow herbs. Basil and mint proliferate like weeds, but are pricey in the supermarket.

21. We hit the international markets for cheap bulk spices. Another overpriced grocery item.

22. We always buy generic.

23. I clean using homemade products: white vinegar and water gets almost anything sparkling. I use washcloths that can be re-used rather than buying paper towels.

24. I have washable maxi pads and mineral salt deodorant, which has lasted years. It’s nice to always have these basics on hand and not have to buy them each month. I use Dove soap for my face and body.

25. I use up the stuff I have before replacing it. This mostly applies to makeup. If I see a red lipstick I like, I finish off my old tube first before buying the new one.

When I was younger, I dreamed about inheriting my grandparents’ Lakeview home, a sprawling 1950s red brick structure that was all split levels and weird crawl spaces, with a backyard full of grapefruit and lemon trees. But the 2005 failures of the federal levee system following Hurricane Katrina put the house under 12 feet of water. It marinated there for weeks. Once the waters had receded and left everything slimed with mud and mildew, I felt a stronger urge than ever to rebuild and reclaim the structure that had housed my family for three generations. You see, I had lived there too, during my MFA program at the University of New Orleans from 2003-2005.

A broke grad student, I couldn’t afford to buy or restore the house. A deeper part of me questioned the wisdom of rebuilding on low, swampy land that could flood again. But one night at the Parkview Tavern, when the city was still dark and deserted, the waterlines were fresh and the vehicles on the road were still mostly the National Guard’s, I picked a window frame out of a pile of rubbish and promised myself I would rebuild…just not in the home I had hoped for.

It ended up taking almost 10 years, but I’m now a homeowner. The funny thing is, if not for Hurricane Katrina, I would not have been able to build my house. I qualified for a $25,000 soft-second mortgage– money from the government I don’t have to pay back if I live in the house for a decade. Those dollars came from the Federal Disaster Community Development Block Grant provided by the State of Louisiana for housing recovery from hurricanes Katrina and Rita. The hurricane took away one home but gave me the resources to build another.

 

My dad was a running man. He ran marathons: one, a long, winding course through downtown Baton Rouge. Another time, a pin-straight shot across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway’s 24-mile stretch of concrete, into a brutal headwind. He ran to my grandmother’s house for lunch on Sunday afternoons, a six-mile jog that ended with him stretching his tan, hairy legs on a garage tool cabinet. In 1984, he ran the Crescent City Classic, a 10-kilometer race, in 42 minutes.

I was four years old at the time, and my mom said one of my wishes for when I grew up was “to run with Daddy.”

By the time I started running (quite by accident; you can read about it here), my dad had long since stopped. He’s neither encouraging nor disapproving of my newish running habit. I’m sure he knows how masochistic distance runners can be, and it’s probably not a fate he wishes upon me with any enthusiasm. But he does seem mildly curious about my training and finish times.

He doesn’t show any interest in picking up running again.

A little over a week ago, I ran the Crescent City Classic. I didn’t seriously train for it. It’s just 6.2 miles, about the same length as my weekly long run. Not a big deal. My time was 56 minutes and some change, and I now regret not running for speed. I made 752nd place; I think I could have broken the top 500 finishers with a more disciplined approach. My dad came in 352nd out of more than 20,000 racers in 1982.

The guy who won is a champion runner from Kenya, and he finished in 27 minutes, 44 seconds. Four-and-a-half minute miles. It’s crazy to me that there’s a race where I can run alongside a champion and a guy dressed up in a banana costume and we can all have a pretty good time.

I wore my dad’s race shirt from 1984. It got a lot of love from other runners. Some of them even remembered the race. I don’t. I was too young. But I was there.

Today I spoke at the University of New Orleans’ Third Wednesday series on how to score internships and turn them into paying gigs. Here’s the gist of what I said.

First, the actual application process. Give your potential supervisor exactly what he or she is asking for. Usually, this will be a resume and clips. Go through your hard drive and find pieces you’ve written that mirror the tone and subject material of the publication you’d like to work for. From potential Gambit interns, I like to see news pieces that include quotes from sources. This tells me you know how to conduct an interview.

Also, it really, REALLY helps if you’re familiar with AP style. Get the handbook and prepare all your  correspondence and interview materials accordingly.

Don’t have clips? That’s OK! Everyone has to start somewhere. I really just want to see what your writing ability is like. Polish up some papers or assignments or blog entries and send them to me. Again, these are most helpful if they mirror the type of assignments you would be completing for the paper. Backing up a little bit: MAKE SURE YOU READ THE PAPER REGULARLY!

The cover letter is pretty standard; just about any book on cover letters will give you solid advice. I’m mostly concerned with your clips. If you have any publication history or you’ve done internships before, highlight that. If you have a strong social media presence, include your website/blog/Twitter handle.

At the interview: WEAR A SUIT. You can’t go wrong in a suit. Besides, nobody expects a college student to even own a suit, so your interviewer will automatically be impressed. A suit is an easy way to gain points, plain and simple. Bring your resume. And be prepared to remind your interviewer who you are and why you’re right for the job, because editors exist in an unending crossfire of deadlines and may have forgotten why they wanted you to interview in the first place.

Congrats! You scored the internship. Now BE PROACTIVE. What does that mean? Being proactive means coming up with story ideas. I like getting pitches, but ask your supervisor first if it’s OK to pitch stories. Make sure they fit the magazine’s topics. I like it when interns send me a short write-up of a potential feature along with a photo or link to a website. Being proactive also means staying busy. There may be times when you don’t have much to do. The golden words during those times: “CAN I HELP YOU WITH ANYTHING?” Ask for work if you don’t have it. Ask for features you’d like to do. Pitch compelling ideas your editor can’t say no to. And don’t ever let your supervisor do work in your presence. Like, if she’s making copies, be all, “OH, LET ME DO THAT FOR YOU, PLEASE.”

Make the internship a priority. Treat it as a job. There are rarely consequences to skipping class or turning a paper in a day late, but in newspaper land, if you miss work or blow a deadline, somebody gets fucked. And that somebody is probably your editor, who will hate you because she now has to do your job for you. Do NOT let this happen.

It’s possible you might have to work your way up with a lot of tedious work. If you’re stuck doing something tedious like fact-checking or taping the bottom of shoes at a photo shoot, DO THE BEST DAMN JOB YOU CAN. If you prove yourself with taking care of details in the little assignments, your editor will trust you with bigger ones later down the line.

Your internship is winding down. Congrats! Now you’d like to move on to paid work for the paper. Ask and ye shall receive! When I was nearing the end of my internship, I wanted to throw up when I thought about asking to stay on as a freelance writer. It took two days for me to summon the nerve to approach the managing editor. My line was this: “My internship ends Friday, and I’d like to do some freelance work, if you have any.” She was like, oh sure, fill out these forms. It wasn’t even a big deal.

The best news is, being a good freelancer is the same as being a good intern. Pitch those stories! Meet those deadlines! Polish that AP-style prose! And I promise you, you’ll be ahead of 90 percent of your competition.

1. Unlike painters or musicians or dancers, writers don’t look cool practicing their craft. They just look pasty and hunched as they tap on their laptops. Watching a writer is just about as entertaining as watching someone scroll through a Facebook feed.

2. Words don’t have any intrinsic value. If you’re a crappy potter and you make an ugly mug, at least you can probably still drink out of it, even if it won’t end up in the Smithsonian any time soon. Crappy stories, on the other hand, are worthless.

3. When you tell people you’re a writer, they smile knowingly and ask, “But what do you really do?”

4. You’re always alone. Writing is not a communal activity. There’s no greater loneliness than confronting your deepest insecurities every time you fire up Word’s empty page.

5. You’re always getting rejected, and you’re supposed to have developed a cast-iron skin because hey you’re a writer, rejection is part of the gig. News flash: rejection still hurts.

6. You’re probably poor.

7.  You’re kind of stuck living with one through six, because the only way to be at peace with yourself is by writing.