utilities and uteri
and a flaming bag of dog poop
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On Sunday night I partook in a drum circle.
Just hang on. It gets way worse before it gets better.
The drum circle was part of a larger uterine cleansing ceremony (told you—way worse). It was me and about 12 other women, all in white, sitting by the Caribbean as the sun went down, getting our chakras read, placing hands on each other’s uteruses, and banging on some drums.
I’m obviously back in Mexico, where I’m inspired (and invited) to do things that I would never do back home. Back in New Orleans, I would never sit in on a drum circle. In fact, once, when a friend was plagued by a nightly drum circle outside her window, I’m pretty sure I advised her to throw a flaming bag of dog poop right in the middle.
But that was then, and this is now, and here, Mexico Marcelle does things she would never do at home. Like enjoy drum circles and walk home alone at night.
Here, I live on a small island about 4 miles long and, at places, as thin as two blocks wide, with roughly 22,000 inhabitants. It’s not super remote, but it also isn’t super built up. It’s probably what Tulum was 20 years ago and what Holbox will be in another 15. There’s a naval base on the island not far from my house, where guards keep watch all hours of the night. When I first moved here and wasn’t familiar with the concept of walking down dark stretches alone at night without being fearful, my friends pointed at the towers where the night guards sit watch. They told me I should just wave and say hello and they would watch me get home safely. Although, now I recognize that their watchful eye isn’t even necessary—it’s fairly safe here. I soon came to realize that the rustling in the bushes isn’t a rando with a gun and a petty grievance—it’s just an iguana.
There isn’t much indiscriminate crime, there are WAY less guns, and the cartels don’t generally bother the islanders. And when they do come to the island, they make public posts on Facebook about who they’re coming after—and so far, I’ve been lucky enough not to be on the kill list. And that’s only happened once or twice since I’ve been here. On those days, when my friends who are not as accustomed to gun violence get scared and try to stay home, I tell them it’s nbd. Wherever we go out, we’ll just make sure we stay on the perimeter and stay aware. And then I teach them how to hit the floor real quick at the first sound of gunfire—a skill I learned in my kitchen back home.
But there are some similarities between here and New Orleans. For one, it’s hot and muggy as fuck. Your skin is gonna be wet and sticky right up until the moment you dive into the Caribbean.
Also, this is prime hurricane territory. I was in a cab the other day when we drove past an old building that’s being developed into a big resort—the biggest resort on the island, since this isn’t really an all-inclusive kind of place. The building has stood empty for years and locals have taken advantage of the hidden beach behind it, diving off the abandoned piers and floating on the swells alongside pelicans. Everyone’s a little sad that construction has started up again and they will soon no longer have access to that little slice of heaven. My cab driver echoed the same sentiment and told me that they had started building it 17 years ago, but then Wilma hit and everything stopped.
I touched his arm and said, “I’m from New Orleans. 2005 was a rough year for us, too.”
But the thing that reminds me most of home is that the power goes out all the time. Nearly every time the wind blows a little too hard or a summer storm swoops through, the entire island goes dark. Sound familiar?
The main source of power is an underwater cable that runs from the mainland that is over 30 years old and breaking down. The Federal Election Commission announced in 2019 that they were going to replace the underwater cable to make power on the island more reliable. In the meantime, they installed a power plant right in the middle of the island with a massive generator that could produce up to 25,000 kw, which is meant to absorb the increased demand for power as more and more hotels are built. It’s loud and toxic and blackouts persist.
The infrastructure of the island just can’t keep up with demand.
Sound familiar?
Back at home, Entergy recently announced that we should be prepared to go without power for 21 days if a Category 4 hurricane hits. Seven days for a Category 1.
This, in the aftermath of passing the cost of $3.2 billion in repairs to customers after Ida, when their aging and insufficient infrastructure failed us just days after they promised City Council they had been upgrading everything to withstand stronger winds. This, in the aftermath of a blackout of several days, weeks in some places, during the hottest days of the year. This, during soaring costs and soaring temperatures and a City Council-imposed moratorium on electric shut-offs in Orleans Parish until November 1st. But City Council and The Regulator (aka City Council President Helena Moreno) can only do so much.
When I was called into the middle of the drum circle at the uterus healing ceremony, I was more than a little nervous and skeptical. I was the only American there (which is a lie, because most of the other attendees were from Latin America and therefore also American, but we don’t have an English word that means from the United States, so we just appropriated the entire continent. which is v on brand for American exceptionalism) and I felt my Americanism very viscerally as I tripped over a rock and stumbled into the middle of the circle, a head taller than the lady in charge. Unfazed, she read my chakras and told me that five out of seven were closed, which tracked, and then she, a stranger, placed her hand on my stomach and took my hand and placed it on hers—a first for me. Then she made me repeat these words as we touched each other’s stomachs:
My uterus is a place free from fear and pain. My uterus is a place to create and give birth to life.
Although, technically, the Spanish translation for “ give birth” is “give light.”
So, here’s the plan:
We invite Entergy to the next drum circle, and we make them repeat these words:
My utility is a place to create and give light to Louisiana.
And then we give them a drum and let them howl at the moon. Because, at the very least, their utility should be a place free from fear and pain—which is more than what I can say for my uterus under current circumstances.
So, go ahead. Let me place my hands on their utilities. I’ll open up their chakras real good so the energy will flow nice and easy.
And if that doesn’t work, a flaming bag of dog poop it is.
