The War We Never Fought
It’s cold as hell in the Gulf South today, and things are heating up, at least on the creative side. This week, Kechi recorded the video portions of Pervirgin, and I was in the theater to watch and assist. I always enjoy watching her work, and this was a sterling example. Work on DEAD END BOYS continues, and the themes are beginning to resolve more clearly.
Since the Pandemic began, I’ve thought a lot about how all this death affects the American Experience. It matters that at the very least 1.5 million people have died from Covid 19 in the United States, and that the government is encouraging us to pretend that it’s all behind us and that nothing needs to change. I don’t believe it’s possible to go through such an enormous national trauma without great spiritual cost. Pretending it never happened only makes matters worse. It brings Hell closer.
My brother Brandon’s death is related to this in a number of ways. I know he contracted Covid at least twice, and part of me wonders whether those infections might have contributed to his death. I don’t dwell on the question any more than I have to because I know it will never be answered on this side of the grave—but I wonder did this national nightmare take my brother from me?
In one of our final conversations, I told Brandon about how I felt during the early part of the Pandemic. My roommate went home to Detroit to be with her family, and I was alone in our Central City apartment. I spent all my time alone, terrified, wondering each afternoon when I finally rolled out of bed whether this was the day. Was this the day that I’d get a call telling me that one or both of my elderly parents were in the hospital on ventilators and due to safety concerns, I wouldn’t be able to see them before the end?
To say that I was lonely and afraid is an enormous understatement. I felt buried alive, separated from the people I loved most. And one of the things that made it so painful is that I did everything we were supposed to do. The last thing I wanted to do was infect somebody, to be responsible for the death and illness of others whether I knew it or not—and others wore their refusal to care as a badge of honor. When I told Brandon about it, he said, “I wish I’d known. I’d have driven to New Orleans and slept on your couch so you wouldn’t have to be alone.” And he meant it. This was who he was. This was why, even though we have different parents, he is my brother.
My life has changed enormously since those early days of 2020. I got a dog, Karate Valentino, whom I love fiercely, I’ve published a novel that people seem to like, I’ve moved away from New Orleans (for the time being), and I’ve married the sweetest, kindest, funniest, and most talented person I’ve ever met. I believe that the strain of the Pandemic contributed to the illness that nearly took my life in the summer of 2023, and I’m grateful that my experience not only pushed me to change my approach to life but inspired so much creative work.
I have no idea how much audiences will enjoy Dead End Boys. It’s a very New Orleans, a very American story set largely in the comedy scene of an alternate New Orleans, and it gives me a chance to say a lot about what’s on my mind and on my heart these days.
Yesterday, my friend and former roommate Vince visited me at my house in Baton Rouge. We talked for hours, traded internet videos, and took a walk around Spanish Town. Like me, Vince has done an awful lot of work on himself since we lived together. He’s making a great living doing fascinating work, and he’s enjoying life more than he was able to in the past. When I think about what we’ve done, where we’ve been, and how we’ve grown in the past ten years, I can’t help but think about all the folx who never got the opportunities we enjoyed, who were casualties in a war never fought. Their deaths matter, but more than that, their lives matter. They shouldn’t be ignored, and I intend to do what little I can to honor them.