“I Won’t Help You Do Wrong”

“I Won’t Help You Do Wrong”

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Now listen here, y’all, and I mean really listen, ‘cause I ain’t gonna say this twice: I won’t help you do wrong. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not even if you come to me with a plate of fried chicken hot enough to singe my eyebrows. Wrong’s got a whole crew already brass band, second-line, the works. It don’t need me signing up for the parade. And you better believe, if you’re thinking, “Well, Kateb, surely you’d bend just a little,” then honey, bless your heart, you ain’t heard nothing yet.

Down here in New Orleans, wrong don’t come creeping in lookin’ ragged and sad. No, sir. Wrong comes struttin’ like it’s the king of Bourbon Street, smelling like powdered sugar, king cake, and hot beignets fresh out the fryer. Wrong will wink at you, call you “cuz,” pat your back, and say, “Come on, cher, let’s cut this corner together.” And if you ain’t careful, you’ll be following wrong like it’s a second line parade dancin’, laughing, thinking you slick until the music stops, the trumpets squeal off-key, and suddenly you realize you been stepping on your own blessings.

Now, before we go any further, lemme give y’all a piece of old-school, hard-earned wisdom. My grandmother Celestine Lord rest her soul she’d sit on her porch with a pony beer in one hand, eyes like she could see through the soul of a hurricane, and she’d say, “Baby, I won’t help you do wrong. And I sure won’t help you leave your husband, wife, or children. That’s your God-given assignment, and if you throw it away, you throw away your blessing.” Then she’d take a slow sip, smack her lips, and shoot me a look that could slice through steel. She meant every word. Some wrongs don’t just trip you up they ripple through generations like a hurricane through the bayou, leaving nothing but mess behind. And no amount of gumbo, jazz, or second-line parades can patch that kind of foolishness.

Folks think helping somebody in their mess is loyalty. Ha! That’s not loyalty, cher that’s being an accomplice. I ain’t about to be an accomplice to foolishness. I’ll stand with you when you cry, I’ll laugh with you when life’s funny, I’ll cook for you, even share my last beignet but if you come to me asking me to lie, cheat, or steal with you, I’m gonna sip my water, tilt my head, and say, “Mm-mm, baby. I won’t help you do wrong. Try somebody else.”

Let me tell you a story you won’t find in no fancy book. Down by the bayou, folks tell the tale of Trombone Shorty Lou. Now Lou couldn’t play a note to save his life, but he could talk faster than the Mississippi flows after a rainstorm. One muggy August night, Lou tells his cousin, “Cuz, let’s sneak into the cemetery, grab that old brass gate, melt it down, and sell it for scrap. We’ll make a fortune.” His cousin, wiser than a priest on Sunday, folds his arms and says, “Lou, I’ll eat jambalaya with you, I’ll drink with you, I’ll even march in a second line till my feet blister but I ain’t about to help you rob the dead. That’s double wrong. Wrong on top of wrong, like ketchup on gumbo.” Lou, of course, didn’t listen. Went off by himself, thinking he was slick. He tugged on that rusty gate, and lo and behold, a skeleton (or maybe a raccoon, folks can’t agree) grabbed his wrist. Lou hollered loud enough to wake the French Quarter, dropped his lantern, set some weeds on fire, and ran through the streets in his underwear. Lesson? Wrong don’t need help to make a fool outta you it’s naturally gifted at it.

And lemme tell you, I’ve had my share of Lou moments. Y’all ever think, “Well, just this once won’t hurt”? Ha! Just this once gon’ turn into a week, a month, a year of misery, and before you know it, wrong done set up a rental in your life and is sending you the bills. Wrong is like a raccoon in your kitchen: you let it nibble a biscuit, next thing you know, it’s tearing up the pantry, running off with the silver, and sittin’ on your counter grinning at you. And that’s when I sip my water, shake my head, and say, “Nope. I won’t help you do wrong.”

Now, some people get real mad when you say no. Oh, they pout, they stomp, they roll their eyes like toddlers denied candy. “What kind of friend are you if you won’t ride with me?” they cry. And I tell them, “The kind that loves you enough to let you curse me today and thank me tomorrow when you realize I saved your behind.” Real friendship is not holding the rope while you hang yourself—it’s tugging you back, even if it bruises your pride.

Let’s talk about another character Bayou Benny. Lord, Benny was slicker than a greased crawfish. Always had a scheme, always had a shortcut, always had a plan to make ten dollars without doing any work. One night, he ropes his buddy Leroy in, saying, “C’mon, Leroy, we gon’ borrow a boat, scoop up some catfish, and sell ‘em on the corner. Split it fifty-fifty.” Now Leroy, being raised by a mama with prayers strong enough to peel paint, says, “Benny, I’ll ride with you to church, I’ll drink with you, I’ll even march in the Saints parade if you need but I ain’t ridin’ to help you do wrong.” Benny goes anyway. Halfway through the swamp, the boat springs a leak. Benny’s hollering, Leroy’s shaking his head, and the Spirit’s probably laughing somewhere behind the Spanish moss. Moral? Wrong will sink itself without you holding a rope.

And don’t get me started on the gossip. Honey, if I had a nickel for every time someone came to me asking me to cover up their mess, I’d have enough to buy my own jazz club. Folks will say, “Come on, Kateb, just a little help, nobody will know.” Oh, sure, because wrong is super good at keeping secrets. Baby, wrong spills like a pot of gumbo left too long on the stove. And me? I ain’t cleaning that mess.

Now, let’s sprinkle in some sarcasm, ‘cause some lessons gotta be served with a wink. Oh, yes, let’s all help each other do wrong. Sounds like a brilliant idea. Let’s dig holes for our blessings, set fire to our futures, and blame the neighbors. Y’all, that ain’t love. That’s being a fool with company. I’ll sit over here, pony beer in hand, and let you make a fool outta yourself while I sip slow and thank the Lord I didn’t join in.

Even the Spirit works that way. We cry, “Lord, let me have this shortcut, this job, this lover, this whatever.” And sometimes heaven whispers, “Child, I won’t help you do wrong.” We stomp, we pout, we roll our eyes. But later, when we see the mess avoided, we say, “Thank You, Lord. Thank You.”

And y’all, let me drop another of Celestine’s truths while I’m at it. That woman was sharp. She said, “Baby, I won’t help you do wrong, and I sure as sugar won’t help you leave your husband, wife, or children. That’s sacred work. You throw it away, you throw away God’s blessing.” She meant it with all the force of a brass band at full volume on St. Charles Avenue. If you ever questioned her, she’d just sip her pony beer, tilt her head, and give you that look like you’d just tried to sell her the Mississippi River for fifty cents.

Now, I’ll admit sometimes I want to help folks anyway. There’s a part of me that wants to laugh at the mess, patch the hole, and whisper, “It’ll be okay.” But then I remember: wrong don’t need my help. And the funny part? When you refuse to participate, people think you’re cruel. They pout, they whine, they act like you just told them the Saints lost the Super Bowl on purpose. And I just sip my beer, shake my head, and say, “No, cher. I love you. That’s why I won’t help you do wrong.”

Let me tell you about another one Cajun Clem. Now Clem had a way of sniffing out shortcuts like a hound on a hot trail. One day, he comes to me, eyes all twinkly, and says, “Kateb, I got a plan. We gon’ sneak into Miss Loretta’s yard and pick her prize zucchinis. Quick, easy, no harm.” I looked him dead in the eye, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Clem, I’ll share my crawfish étouffée, I’ll laugh with you, I’ll even go fishin’ with you but I ain’t touching Miss Loretta’s zucchinis. I won’t help you do wrong.” Clem huffed, muttered something about how I didn’t have a sense of adventure, and stomped off. Two hours later, he came back with scratches on his arms, a swarm of bees on his tail, and his pants ripped. Lesson? Wrong’s got a way of smacking you silly all on its own. It don’t need cheerleaders.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of all, cher not the saying no, but the watching. Watching folks you love tumble headfirst into the very mess you warned them about. It aches deep in your chest, ‘cause love makes you want to grab the wheel, pull them back, rescue them before they break. But there’s a higher wisdom that says sometimes you gotta let wrong do what wrong does burn itself out, trip itself up, expose its own foolishness so that the lesson sticks. That’s what the elders knew. That’s what Celestine meant when she’d cut her eyes at you and sip slow. She knew a “no” today could save you from crying rivers tomorrow.

And I’ll tell you something else: every “no” to wrong is a “yes” to your future. It’s a “yes” to your children watching how you walk. It’s a “yes” to your blessings knowing where to land. It’s a “yes” to your soul being light enough to dance when the Spirit calls your name. Wrong is heavy, sticky, it drags you down like swamp mud clingin’ to your boots. But righteousness—ah, righteousness is freedom, like jazz on a Sunday morning floatin’ out of a trumpet that don’t miss a note.

So when you hear me say, “I won’t help you do wrong,” don’t mistake it for rejection. Take it as love in its truest form. Love that would rather stand alone on the porch with a pony beer and a prayer than march shoulder-to-shoulder with foolishness. Love that knows loyalty ain’t about crime partners it’s about covenant. It’s about saying, “I’ll stand by your side, but I won’t stand in your sin.”

And if you’re lookin’ for mercy, listen close: mercy ain’t the same as helpin’ somebody do wrong. Mercy is sittin’ with you while you pick up the pieces after you done it yourself. Mercy is bringin’ over a pot of soup, lendin’ an ear, prayin’ with you at three in the mornin’ when regret’s loudest. Mercy is my hand on your shoulder when you finally say, “Lord, I was wrong.” But mercy ain’t rollin’ up your sleeves to help you dig the ditch deeper. That’s not mercy that’s enabling.

So when you stagger up to me with your hat in your hands, eyes fulla shame, know this: I’ll tuck you in with kindness, I’ll help you mend what you broke, I’ll walk with you down the long road back to right. I’ll teach you how to listen to that still, small voice that don’t wear powdered sugar or parade beads. I’ll even hold your hand while you pay the price you owe the world. But I won’t be the one to hand you the shovel again.

And when my time is done, when I lay down and join Celestine and all the saints in glory, I pray folks remember me not for how many jokes I cracked or how many pots of gumbo I stirred, but for the line I refused to cross. Let ‘em say, “Kateb loved us deep, but he never sold his soul cheap. He stood firm. He kept the faith. He didn’t help us do wrong.”

So let the brass band play, let the second line dance, let life keep spinning its wild circles. I’ll be right here, steady, pony beer in hand, heart turned toward heaven, saying it as plain as the day is long:

“I love you, cher. That’s why I won’t help you do wrong.”