The Claiborne Avenue Blues: A Harmonica, A Hole in the Wall, and My Grandmother Celestine

The Claiborne Avenue Blues: A Harmonica, A Hole in the Wall, and My Grandmother Celestine

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

You ain’t really lived in New Orleans till you done heard the blues played by a man in an electric blue suit with a harmonica that sounded like it could make the moon cry. And you ain’t really understood family until you’ve been the designated grown-up for your grandparents.

See, I was the youngest of all my Grandmother Celestine's grandbabies, and Lord have mercy, that woman loved me like the last biscuit in the pan with care, with pride, and with a whole lotta butter. Wherever you saw her and my Paw Paw Wallace, you better believe little Kateb wasn’t far behind. Yes sir, even when they went to the barroom, I was right there ...their pint-sized bodyguard, their eyes when the whiskey got too friendly.

Now Claiborne Avenue, that was our place. Back before the highway carved through it like some cold-hearted surgeon, it was the main vein of Black New Orleans. Them oak trees stood like elders on watch, shading everything from second lines to secrets, and the businesses buzzed like bees 'round honey. There was a rhythm to it, a hum that wrapped you up and whispered, "You belong here."

So one Friday night, my Paw Paw looked up from his red beans and rice and said,

“Celestine, we goin' to the barroom tonight and we gon' have a good time.” My granny didn’t skip a beat. She turned to me and said, “Go take a bath, eat, and get ready. You comin’ with us tonight.”

Now when Celestine said you co

min’, you better act like the Good Lord himself called you by name. So I got myself together, slicked back my little bit of hair, and waited by the door like I was goin’ to the prom.

Paw Paw stepped out lookin' like a jazz note in a zoot suit. Granny? Whew, she was as stunning as a crimson sunset fallin' over the bayou. You know, the kinda beauty that makes time stop and old men take off their hats.

We hit the barroom, and as usual, I got my big shot grape soda and a bag of hot fries. They put me in the back liquor storeroom because, you know, bars are for grown folks and little ones got to sit in the shadows. But this time... something magical happened.

Now don't ask me how or why, but I found this chisel layin' on a crate like it was waitin' just for me. I picked it up and gave the wall a little tap not even hard, just a curious nudge and wouldn’t you know it? A hole appeared. Not just any hole, mind you, but the kind of hole you read about in fairy tales. Or better yet, folklore your uncle swears happened but you know he had a little too much moonshine when he told it.

That hole gave me the perfect view of the dance floor.

And let me tell you, what I saw through that hole could raise the dead just to get 'em dancin'. There sat a tall man in a suit so blue it looked like the sky on a summer night after a fresh rain. He lifted that harmonica and blew into it like he was speakin' directly to the ancestors. That sound hit me in the chest and wrapped around my ribs. It was joy and sorrow, love and loss, hope and hurt, all in one breath.

Then came the piano, then the drums, then the sax, then the bass each instrument jumpin' in like relatives at a family cookout. And baby, when that groove set in, my Paw Paw and Celestine took to the floor.

Now listen, my grandparents didn’t dance, they testified. Granny's feet barely touched the ground, and Paw Paw looked like his shoes had learned a second language. They mopped that floor with every memory of struggle and every ounce of joy they had left. They weren’t just dancin' they were declaring, "We still here!"

That blues man saw them too. He turned his harmonica toward them like it was a praise offering, and for a minute, I swear time bent. You ever seen love that makes music blush? That was it.

Then, he started to sing. His voice was gravel and honey, like Sunday morning sorrow after Saturday night joy. And this is what he sang:

“Down Claiborne Where the Oaks Once Stood”

Down Claiborne where the oaks once stood,

Shadows dance where pride once stood.

Mama sold beans, Daddy fixed shoes,

Now concrete hums a lonely blues.

The horn was high, the bass was bold,

Children danced and stories told.

Grits on the stove, dreams in the pan,

The Avenue raised every man.

I blow my harp for saints and thieves,

For sweethearts lost in summer leaves.

For every soul they tried to hide,

But still we march, still we stride.

So raise a glass, and stomp your feet,

Let joy and pain together meet.

'Cause though the roots were ripped and burned,

The spirit of Claiborne has returned.

Hours passed like minutes, and when the music finally started to fade, they brought me my food like it was a royal banquet. French fries still warm, chicken thigh seasoned like only barroom chicken can be with a touch of sweat, smoke, and love.

They boogied again, and I sat back there just marvelin'.

Eventually, the bar owner opened the storeroom door, looked me dead in my little nine-year-old eyes and said, “Go get your people. Time to take 'em home.”

Yes sir, I walked them both home, steady and sure, like I was leadin' royalty through the kingdom of Tremé. Got 'em up the stairs, tucked 'em in like they were the babies and I was the elder.

Funny how life twists.

Now, let me tell you something. That harmonica man? Nobody ever saw him again. Folks say he was just a traveler passin' through, but old Miss Etta Mae who been readin' tea leaves and secrets since the '40s swore he was the spirit of Claiborne Avenue itself, playin' one last tune before the cement gods came to bury the roots.

They say the oak trees cried that night. That the sound of that harmonica echoed through the ground and tried to hold onto the culture, the rhythm, the soul that got sacrificed on the altar of "progress."

But see, that’s the thing about the blues you can pave over the place, but you can’t pave over the people. That music lives in the cracks. It rises up in second lines and sleepy Sunday mornings. It hums in the kitchen when gumbo’s on. It whispers to little boys in liquor storerooms who watch magic unfold through holes that weren’t there before.

So yeah, I got the Claiborne Avenue Blues. But it ain’t just sadness it’s memory. It’s melody. It’s Celestine’s lipstick on a cocktail glass and Wallace's two-step on a waxed floor. It’s knowing where you come from, and carrying it with you like a harmonica in your pocket.

And if you ever hear a distant tune on a quiet New Orleans night, don’t be afraid. That’s just the spirit playin' your song.

Now go on and dance. Granny would want that.