Demo Day

Marty & Jimbo 

411 Pearl St 

“Cradle to the Grave” played on the local radio station. It was four pm on Sunday, the year 2015. The doorbell my Ma got for free from the Salvation Army rang with that sour two-note chime. This was an odd occasion, of course, as everybody knows mail don’t come on Sundays. I walked to the door, questioning what awoke me from my rest, seeing a shadowy figure outside the screen front door. “Can I help you with sumtn?” I called out, sliding my feet into my fish-themed flip-flops. 

“No, sir, I’m just here to finalize the details," he stated, clearly looking into the disheveled living room. 

“Which is?” I questioned. It wasn't normal for people like him to be in this part of town, dressed all nice and such. I immediately knew he wasn't from here, and wasn’t gon’ bring anything good with him either. 

“You haven't heard? y’all’s area is zoned to be taken down. The new interstate gotta be fit somewhere, and by the look at y’all’s situation, maybe this isn't a bad thing.” I was taken aback, “You talkin' about this house right here, on this block. Ya’ll had all of Mississippi, and y'all had to choose here?” I said with a puzzled look on my face. His expression was no different. “They had a vote back a couple of years ago, and the whole project got put on hold for a while. I’m surprised they didn’t remind ya’ll earlier. “Yeah, me too. This stupid city only takes from us these days.” 

“Aye, good luck though, demo day is in a week.”

The man then slipped a sheet of paper into the mailbox posted on the side of our house, as if I would have some reaction if he had handed it to me. He proceeded to close the screen door, creaking as it came to a close. As he was about to leave, he butted in, “Don’t forget anything in the house, once they start, there ain't no going back”. I stood there with a blank expression on my face, watching him proceed over to the neighbor's house next door.

“Fuck” I muttered under my breath, reading the page he had given us. In bright bold red letters, it read:

“MUST LEAVE BY 6/19, NO HOUSING WILL BE ACCOMMODATED”. There was no way my ma and I could afford to find a new place to stay, and in our current situation, two months would be an overestimate. “We’re gonna have to go back to the streets,” I thought to myself, getting flashbacks. Back in the days when my Ma would work three jobs just to try and keep us afloat. Back to the days when the Little Caesars down the road would give us the leftovers, hot and fresh. Back to the days when that boiling Mississippi sun would beat down on us, cracking our skin, but we would sneak into the community center pool at night. But when we finally got that house. That roof that you worked for, day and night, saving every dollar we could scrounge. There was something different. Inside, it felt like a warm hug, like a dog running to its owner who had just come back from work. Those nights on the hot pavement road were over. Those cold hardwood floors felt like a magic carpet. We had so many memories, like our first Fourth of July, where the neighborhood children and I would pop firecrackers. When we would sit under the willow tree, in the overgrown grass, its droopy branches shading us. Like the first night you read me a bedtime story without having to wear a headlamp. I miss those times.

Lenoux 

150 Claiborne St 

It was seven am on a sunny Mississippi morning. I was just finishing up my letter to the city council, as I had been petitioning for this demolition since I voted against the zoning. While yes, it wasn't much, this part of Biloxi, Mississippi, has been a part of me ever since I was just a little boy. Reading those flyers from the city just broke my heart. So I sat in the kitchen writing this letter with my true feelings the mayor of Biloxi. 

Dear Mr. Holloway, 

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’ve set my community to be demolished and reconstructed into a concrete jungle. To you, this might look like a banged-up area with criminals and the homeless, but if you even took the chance to come and visit, you might have changed your mind. For the past 37 years, I have lived in this exact house, 150 Claiborne St. My father bought it back in ‘78 for just 28 thousand dollars. On the outside, it might not look like much, but if you came inside, you would be able to smell the sweet peach cobbler my grandmother would bake for us, or the hot fried catfish my mother would buy from the corner store down the street, yet you don’t. To you, this land is nothing but a price tag, waiting to be sold. However, to us it's something greater. While I know this letter won’t change the outcome of the construction, I just wanted you to know that there is more to these communities than the naked eye can see. The outside will never show the soul inside. 

-Lenoux Bonneau

My eyes watered as I finished the last line, when the telephone rang sharply across the room. I slowly walked over to the desk, and when I picked up, I heard that ever noticeable southern accent of my Aunt, who lived just 45 minutes north. 

“How are you keeping up, Lenoux?” she chimed happily. 

“I’m alright, just finishing up the details before the movers get here,” I said solemnly, listening to the chirps of the summer birds in the background. 

“Man, I remember that house, back when your father bought it, he let me stay over for the first couple of nights. We would go and get that fried catfish from that corner store your mother used to work at.” 

“Oh yeah, Frank’s always had the best seafood, but I never knew my Mother worked there?” 

“Way back then, she did, we were small, but we were definitely a community. We brought business to the corner store, and it gave us everything we needed right back,” she stated proudly. 

“Man, I’m going to miss those days even more now. Just thinking of the idea of being away from home just doesn't feel right,” I said. 

“Now don’t you worry, just because they're taking the soul outta Biloxi, don’t mean they can take it out of the people, we just gotta stand strong.” 

“You're right, Auntie, I’ll catch you later.” 

“Alright, Lenoux, you stay safe out there, and remember, throughout all the change, they’ll never be able to take the Biloxi out of you.”

The phone beeped statically as the phone call ended. The emotions all started coming back to me as soon as she said that. I thought and reminisced on the times I had back in this home until I remembered the line my father used to tell me. 

“You never appreciate the greatness in life you have until it's too late”. 

Mr. and Mrs. Wangley 

420 Richmond Dr 

I’ve stood at the living room window so many times, I’ve worn a groove in the floorboard. Fifty years, the same view of the street, that I can’t seem to look away from. In my head, it was just a couple of years ago that my husband, Bill, walked into our new home for the first time, our fingers intertwined, palms closely together. I had cooked his favorite meal that night, shrimp and grits, everything made fresh by hand, of course. Back then, he always had a grim look on his face, the same one I saw every day I would visit him while he worked. It was August of 1973 when I first saw him standing there behind the local bar. I had walked in with a couple of friends, just visiting for summer break, when we locked eyes. As I walked up to the counter, he introduced himself. 

“Good evening, miss, what can I help you with today?” he said with poise. “Oh, nothing, my friends and I were just looking around at the city,” I said, cheeks warm and flushed. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asked me. 

“I’m alright, but thank you very much for the offer,” I said with a smile on my face.

“Well, you just let me know if I can get ya’ll anything, ya’ll have a good rest of your night.” 

He was a smart and handsome-looking man, and the way he talked to me with such confidence was enough to make me go back the next week, and the week after as well, until it was a spot I stopped during my nightly walks. On my fifth time in, I finally caved to his smooth talking and charming looks, and finally sat down and had a drink with him. To me, he was just a friend, but to the rest of the bar, they saw us as something more. He would remember my favorite drink and would have it waiting there for me, before I got there every time. I would wait there the whole night to talk to him after he had finished his shift of talking to the harbor fishermen and groups of tourists on vacation. Later in time, he had convinced me to get married, and I started helping around the bar. As the years went by, we served thousands of people. The bar had become the spot people would run to when it was raining outside, or just needed a person to chat to on a lonely day. I slowly had become a quiet keeper of the neighborhood's history. 

The bar is long gone now, yet I still remember those times with him. He had managed to create something so special with the community and me. I yearn for those days, and I still manage to find myself standing by that window. Missing everything I had, but appreciating everything I got to be a part of. I loved the people of Biloxi; they treated my husband and me with the utmost respect and honor. I’ll forever remember that. 

Professor Harp 

417 Fowler St

I was forced to move to Biloxi just two years ago. I had been transferred to around three different schools until they found a new spot for me to teach right here in Biloxi. Thinking that I wouldn't be here long, I never bothered to decorate the walls or buy any long-term furniture. I had started to make an art of not being attached to the places I had been, as every time I did, I would have to say goodbye shortly after. That's why when I heard the news of the block being zoned for demolition, it never meant much to me. This only further proved my point of the reasons not to get attached. While the doorbell mostly stayed quiet throughout the time that I had spent in the neighborhood, it rang surprisingly during the last week before the move-out day. As I reached the door, I saw the small puff of hair, barely visible through the door window. It was little Marcus P from the second grade whom I used to teach during my first year in Biloxi. I reached for the handle and pulled it wide open until I was face-to-face with him. “May I help you?” I asked, puzzled as to why he was at my door. 

“I'm sorry to hear that you're moving out, sir. I really appreciated you as a teacher,” the boy said with a wide gap between his two front teeth. 

“Oh, thank you, Marcus. It was a pleasure teaching you. Do your parents know you're here?” I said, still somewhat concerned about why he was at my doorstep. “Nope!” he responded quickly, “But I wanted to give you this.” 

He handed over a crumpled, folded piece of paper, which I unfolded and looked inside. It was one of the first worksheets I gave the class when I first taught them. 

“What is this?” I asked. 

“It’s what you told us to do. You said to draw or write about something that you would miss if you didn’t have it anymore! He said excitedly. 

“Yes, but what does this have to do with me?”

“Wellll, while thinking about it, I thought about you and how much you meant to me and all of the other students,” he said, scratching at his nose. 

“That’s super thoughtful of you, Marcus, thank you,” I said, frozen in the moment. “You're welcome, Mr. Harp. Have a good rest of your day! He said, the sound slowly fading out as he ran like a little kid would from my doorstep. 

I had never thought of myself as having a very strong connection with the community. However, this was mostly my fault, as my ability to connect with others was weak. However, I did remember on my first day in the neighborhood, an old lady who came to knock on my door and deliver me food when the kitchen had a bad plumbing leak. I was never able to fully catch her name, but I do remember the delicious food she used to bring. I never understood why she would always stare out the window across the street, but I got used to ignoring it. I’m not sure why I never went over to give something back to her, or just to thank her for taking care of me. I’m going to miss that. I realized, for the first time in years, I was able to attach, yet I was too late to realize it. I thought to myself, wherever life takes me, I’ll make sure to appreciate everything I’m given, no matter how big or small. 

Matthew Prosper 

Jackson, Mississippi 

This plot of land has undergone some changes, and while I'm sure many disagree, what was done had to be done. I usually don't focus on small pieces of land like this, but when I saw the opportunity, I knew I had to take it. I grew up in a suburb just 30 minutes north of Jackson. Growing up, my parents would rarely take my siblings and me into the city, claiming that it was

too dangerous. Because of that, I only knew my neighborhood. Luxury SUVs lined on custom driveways, in front of multi-car garages. The lawns were always perfectly maintained, with grass that looked like it belonged in the putting greens of Augusta. My father, a businessman, worked on development deals that earned our family enough to buy without ever looking at a tag. However, he spent most of the time working as most real estate agents do. Weekends were not a thing to him. In his words:

“There's always someone thinking about buying a house, no matter the time, day, or season.” 

I started working with my father when I was just 16 years old. He taught me his practices, which weren’t always the most humane, but it was what gave us the ability to live like this. When he passed away, I took over the business, working on developments in poorer parts of Mississippi. This was how I came across Biloxi. I had always known of the area, but when I heard that the city council was working on expanding the interstate, I knew it was an opportunity I had to take. It all started with an email. 

Hello Mr. Holloway, 

My name is Matthew, and I am interested in helping you out. (Rule one: always create a problem to solve) I have heard of plans to expand the interstate, and I was wondering if you would be willing to work with me on an area of business. As you may know, from my projects in the greater Jackson area, I work in developing pieces of land from the ground up, turning them into revitalized hubs for shopping, entertainment, and whatever else you could think of. (Rule two: visualize for them what it could be) I see the zoning that you are working on, and I was hoping that you could possibly pull some strings, expanding it further east in order to fit this

development? I can promise you that if you trust me for this project, it will greatly impact Biloxi as a whole, giving it a refreshed new look. (Rule three: give a proposal they can’t resist) Matthew Prosper 

From there, it was really quite simple. He followed up soon after, which led me to take a visit down to Biloxi, scouting the area where the construction would take place. I had noticed several run-down homes, or what possibly could have been. Nevertheless, it never crossed my mind what would actually happen to those people in that neighborhood, but it was a loss for a greater cause. 

Years after the initial meeting, construction finally started. I was briefly informed on why it had taken so long; it had something to do with protests around the idea of gentrification or the destruction of historic homes. If only they could understand that I was trying to help them, but it never really mattered, as I was occupied with other projects at the same time. After construction had finished, I came to visit the area and see how it was working out. It seemed as if people were enjoying it, as people from towns adjacent were making the drive over to check it out. In that moment, I felt as if I could finally fit the shoes of my father, as he had always given our family everything he could. I wish he could've seen what I had created, what I had done for this poor, disheveled city. In life, I wanted to be nothing less than him. Same career, no family. Like father, like son.