CASHLESS IN
NEW ORLEANS
By Elle Chavis
My grandma gave me a rosary before I left for my summer internship in New Orleans. New Orleans was a Catholic city, and my grandmother approved of that, if not much else.
My dad gave me a new black switchblade, plainer than the purple one I got on my sixteenth birthday, and easier to use. My dad reasoned I would probably need it in New Orleans.
You know what neither of them gave me? Cash.
Armed with a rosary and a switchblade — and no physical cash — I walked into my summer in New
Orleans, more than a little apprehensive. This summer, I had already decided, would be up there as one of the worst summers of my life. While my friends got ahead in their careers or vacationed in cool spots, I would be stuck in New Orleans for 10 straight weeks. And yes, the work I would be doing was important. In the back of my mind I kept reminding myself that. The work I was doing had to be important or there really would be no point in my summer at all.
My switchblade rested in the bottom of my work bag, right next to the rosary. They clunked together as I walked into Dress for Success, the non-profit where I would be spending my days in a rhythmic dichotomy of the best and the worst of New Orleans: violence and religion, war and peace.
Anxious thoughts about how I would fare in a city like that pounded around my head, my entire first day on my job as I learned about the history of the non-profit I would be working at, the history of the women I would be helping serve. The issues seemed too big for me to even begin to tackle in the 10 weeks I would be in New Orleans. Should I even try? I reasoned that I did not belong in New Orleans. It was close to my hometown but completely different. It was not my city, and I didn’t think that I would fit in.
Those thoughts still weighed heavy on my mind, after our first day of work as one of my roommates and I went to get a Sno-ball, an icy New Orleans treat. Brief annoyance crossed my face when I read the dreaded CASH ONLY sign on the building. Muttering an apology and promising to treat her to dinner I let my friend pay for both of us with her $10 bill, since I was cashless.
As we walked to dinner at a local restaurant, it happened again. I stepped up to pay for my friend, only to once again see the sign that had quickly become the bane of my existence. It was 2024 — why were all of these places cash only? My family had given me a cross and a switchblade to prepare for my summer but had said nothing about needing an endless stream of cash in this city that was apparently without debit card readers.
Offhandedly, I brought up the experience to my boss a few days later. She told me that because such a large portion of New Orleans lives at or below the poverty line much of the city operates on a cash economy. It makes it easier, she explained, for everyone in the city if cash is used as often as possible because many people have never had a credit or debit card.
It stunned me into silence. My complaints about not being able to use my debit card seemed silly now when I realized that so much of the city used cash to survive.
​And finally, the work I was doing that summer made sense. I felt stupid and selfish for not realizing it sooner. At Dress for Success, the mission statement proudly written in curly font on the pamphlets I passed out was “to empower women to achieve economic independence by providing a network of support, professional attire, and the development tools to help women thrive in work and in life.” Economic independence in a city where so many struggled to find even a semblance of that ideal was an uphill battle. But for the next eight weeks, it would be my uphill battle.
It refocused me and inspired me to fully throw myself into my work. When the clients came in, I asked them their stories. Despite the nearly twenty years since Hurricane Katrina had brutalized the city, many of them were still recovering from it. They were between jobs or between apartments, and because of that, many of them could not even begin to think about getting a credit card. They relied on their faith to get them through and told me that even though New Orleans was dangerous, if you looked close enough it was endlessly kind and enormously supportive.
Once, a mother and daughter came in, both to get fitted for new clothes for their upcoming job interviews. I had seen several mothers come in with their young children—we kept an iPad around to entertain kids so their mothers could focus for a few minutes—but I had yet to see an adult mother and daughter come in together.
A few weeks later, the mother came in again, this time with her sister. She stood outside of the dressing room, smiling encouragingly and giving her feedback every time her sister stepped out in a potential outfit. That very next day, she was back again. This time with two of her coworkers. The stool outside of the dressing room had become a customary seat for her, and she dutifully took her seat there, calling out advice and opinions every so often. When I asked her why she had decided to come back with her friend, she shrugged and said, “we don’t let people do things alone here.”
And there it was. The argument of my whole summer boiled down into one sentence. Letting people do things alone was not an option in New Orleans, whether that meant repeatedly coming back to Dress for Success with friends and family or operating on a cash economy for the ease of some of those in the city.
What did I know about New Orleans? New Orleans is a Catholic city, like my grandmother wanted. It is also a dangerous city, as my father had warned. And New Orleans is a strong city, a city working to overcome the worst, a city with a cash-economy, that despite all of the strife and violence operated on good-will and kindness. New Orleans is a city that doesn't let people do anything alone.
So I drove to an ATM and took out a wad of cash. When I took out those paper bills, I accepted my place in New Orleans, even if it was only for a summer.
There I was: armed with a rosary, a switchblade, and now, cash.