Wendell Pierce talks to Soledad O’Brien

Soledad O'Brien: Let's start at the very beginning. Did you grow up in Pontchartrain Park [in New Orleans]?

Wendell Pierce: Yes. Loved Pontchartrain Park. I always called it a little Mayberry neighborhood. Everybody knew each other. 

Your mom was a teacher. What did your dad do?

My father was a maintenance man at the University of New Orleans.

He was a veteran.

Yes. He fought in Saipan in World War II. And he worked at a furniture store for a while. He worked in the railroad yards for a while. He studied as a photographer in New York, went from Southern University and went to New York to study photography. 

I didn't realize the history here. It's pretty remarkable.

It is. It's one of the triumphs of the civil rights movement in New Orleans. It was in response to the ugly part of Jim Crow, which was black people could only go to parks one day a week, on Wednesdays.

Black Day.

Black Day, Negro Day was Wednesdays. And A.P. Tureaud started the advocacy and the civil rights movement to end that. And they were becoming successful. They were really putting the pressure on city government and all. And this was a part of that appeasement.

"Well, we'll do a set-aside, separate but equal." Next to the white suburbia at this time, this is very much inner city now, but post–World War II, this was suburbia. "And we'll do a black neighborhood with the same contractors and developers of the adjacent white neighborhoods, 200 acres." And that became Pontchartrain Park, separate but equal. 

Was that the only place that black people could buy into?

It was the only place where you could purchase a home. 

So blacks were kept out [of] other neighborhoods. What did a house cost?

My parents' house cost $13,000. And what happened was, Pontchartrain Park in the black community became this idyllic place where you can get a house, you live around a golf course designed by Joseph Bartholomew, Southern University was in the neighborhood, the playgrounds, the parks, the schools. My father fought in World War II, utilized the GI Bill to come home and purchase a home. 

So take me back to where you were when Hurricane Katrina hit and what you were thinking.

I was in St. James, Louisiana. We had evacuated that Sunday after they asked it to be mandatory. With my family, my mother and father, my two nieces, who had come in and my sister-in-law from New York, my aunt and uncle, who lived out there. And we lost power. I took my nieces outside so they can experience hurricane force winds.

I said, "This is a storm." And then when we lost power, I wondered what was happening in the city. And listening to the radio. And they said the levees have broken. Every person in New Orleans grows up understanding what that means, what the Big One is ... We always knew if the levees ever broke, the city was going to be in peril.

And when you saw your street for the first time, was it worse even than you had imagined?

It was definitely worse than I imagined. It was like nuclear winter. It was like Chernobyl. People asked what it was like. It was surreal. 

Why come back? I mean, a lot of people didn't. 

Home is home.

You have a home in L.A. You have a home in New York.

It's true. I really wanted to do it for my parents. One simple thing, I wanted my mother and father to come back home before they died.  

You went to your parents' house?

It was as if someone had poured black detergent in the house and lifted it and shook it around. It was like the death of a family member. I remember turning the corner to come into the neighborhood, turning the corner to come down the block and seeing the house and both of my parents just falling out in tears.

I remember my father saying, "Oh, we raised our sons in this house." They were speaking as if my brother and I weren't even there. They were like this young couple saying, "We lost everything." 

Why did they and why did you decide that rebuilding was the right thing to do? 

I knew that, for my generation, we owed it to my parents' generation to make sure it came back, whether we lived here or not, to make sure that it came back. Because people died so we could be here, truly. 

It's like a movie, almost.

Like a movie. It's nostalgic. It's this bucolic, "Oh, you know, they stood up to somebody" … but just [as] we honor those who gave their lives on foreign shores for our freedoms, there are people who gave their lives on these shores, on domestic roads, in that Mississippi River. There's blood on that ballot box. 

How much money did your parents get from the insurance company?

Four hundred dollars. For 50 years of premiums. Yes, it was considered a 10-day event — $20 for each of them for a 10-day event, $40 a day for 10 days, $400, thank you very much.

So what did it cost to rebuild their house?

It cost about what the houses are appraising for now, which is a modest two-bedroom, 1,200-square-foot house is about $150,000.

How many people, percentage-wise, are back in Pontchartrain Park?

Oh, we're almost whole. I would say we're about at 75 percent. And to me, that's whole.

And who lives here now? Because it used to be elderly folks.

Yeah, it's a hodgepodge. It is young folks. It is still elderly. We have a lot of renters now. I think what happened in the city is, public housing was taken down. And so you have a lot of public housing folks who are now renting in the neighborhoods, which I don't mind. Welcome them and, actually, welcome them in purchasing the houses that we [are] really developing as a part of our community development [corporation] … And so it's a real hodgepodge. We have white families in the neighborhood for the first time. I'll never forget, when that happened, my father, 90 years old, said, "See? See, son? That's what it's all about. That's America." Aw, he'd laugh. 

Has the city itself come back?

It's a tale of two cities. It is the haves and the have-nots, definitely. It's always been a black and white city. And whatever tensions we have around race, it's always closely related to class. 

Why has this become your issue? I mean, you are on the stage in New York, on Broadway. You're in films. You have other gigs that probably take up a lot of your time.

Trust me, I ask myself that a lot. What happens is, when it's happening to you, it's hard to ignore. I live here. I live in this neighborhood. My parents live here. My friends live here. We have the same issues. The city's too small to make it a tale of two cities. The true economic engine is when there's access and opportunity for a multitude of people … Restricting opportunity only restricts growth, and people feel as though expanding opportunity is competition that denies them something, which, actually, just a rising tide floats our boats. There's a common understanding. That's what American capitalism is all about.

I'm a true capitalist. And we're not practicing capitalism. We're restrictive in our thinking when it comes to growth. My kids can only get this education. Only this opportunity for our community. Or, if we do development over there, then we won't be be able to do development here. 

And isn't there some truth to that? It's a zero-sum game.

No. I don't think it's a zero-sum game. That's what people want to believe. A lot of people make a lot of money if you believe that, you know? And I'm one that doesn't believe that. 

Let's talk about things that seem to have been missteps. One, I don't know that much about what happened with the Salvation Army. Didn't they give a million dollars?

Well, the misstep that I had with the Salvation Army ... pulled their grant from us because we weren't building houses fast enough and getting people in them. There was a conflict of best practices, which is we are restricted to who we can sell our houses to. Only 80 percent AMI, average median income, and below. If someone of my generation who grew up here said, "Hey, I want to pay cash for a house window," they couldn't purchase it.

They'd make too much money?

They'd make too much money. It was because properties transferred with these government programs, from the government, they were saying, "We want to give the opportunity to lower-income people," which is great. The city and other people involved and Salvation Army also were saying, "No, build the houses. Build the houses first, then go find people to get qualified up, and then get into the houses."

And we saying the difficulty is getting people qualified. To lose a grant is unfortunate. It's not the end of the program. 

What's the biggest problem right now, post-Katrina New Orleans, would you say?

Crime. 

And what's the root of that crime?

Jobs stop bullets. Economic development. And crime is about education and opportunity. Now people will challenge me and say, "Well, hey, man, you had the opportunity. It's on those people to take advantage of their education."

You're not a criminal.

But we all make contributions to a dysfunctional dynamic. And people have to look at their contributions to the dysfunctional dynamic. So when we look at our neighborhoods that are in crisis and crime, violence, murder, understand there's a responsibility, personal responsibility, yes. But we have memorialized policies, too, that are contributing to that. And let's have a comprehensive approach and get rid of it all. It's not monolithic — "Oh, they need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps" or "It's the education system."

You have to understand, people make money by keeping an underclass. And so people make money by keeping a criminal class. We've privatized our prisons. The only way you make money, if you go into the prison industry, is if you have prisoners. How do you keep prisoners? You make sure you lobby against any education reform. Because education is opportunity that's not going to take you down a criminal path.

So if you have an uneducated class, that's eventually going [to] become a criminal class, because they're not going to have any skill sets. And then you keep your prisons filled. So it's the prison-industrial complex that people talk about. So it's multifaceted.

What was it like to do "Selma"?

"Selma" was a blessing.

How so?

It was very spiritual to be in the very place where so many people really did extraordinary things. And one of the most profound moments I had doing "Selma" was standing on the Edmund Pettus Bridge after we had finished filming and I could just feel and hear the people say, "Make sure you tell our story." All the souls at the bottom of that Alabama River are saying, "Just tell our story. Make sure they don't forget us."

Interesting times, because it seems like the story is relevant again.

Well, it's a continuum. And what happens every once in a while, the veil is lifted and we're reminded of the barbarians at the gate, that there's a ugly part of hatred in human nature. That is always something that we have to vigilantly fight against and know and that people will rationalize violence in ways that is just ugly.

It's so clearly ugly for people to see, but they can't. And that's what "Selma" was reminding you, that this wasn't a movement in the past. It is a continuum of vigilance. That's what the American aesthetic is all about. The American ideal is not static. Our values are a living, breathing thing. A lot of people are always shocked when I say, speaking about American values, when I'm talking about the civil rights movement, and I say that shock tells you we still have work to do, because you see it as something separate, you know?

People were surprised that you wore an "I can't breathe" shirt at the premiere. And there you got some flak about it.

Oh, we got more than flak about it. We had a Oscar voter, who said, her literal words were, "Do you want to be an Oscar-nominated film, or do you wanna stir up shit? And how dare you wear protests at your premiere?" She obviously doesn't understand what art is about, what protest is about. One of the greatest things about America is to be able to protest and ask your government to address issues. That is the first rights that they gave you as a people. You have the right to peacefully assemble and ask the government to address issues that you have. That's the greatest American gift that you have. 

Do you think it cost you the Oscar in any way?

Yes. She said it. "I'm not going to vote for that film because of that." And it did.

Do you regret it?

No. Absolutely not. What was so great was, that day of the premiere, millions of people, not just young black people, millions of people said, "You know, that's not our values." 

Last time I saw you, you were performing "Brothers From the Bottom" in New York. And [now] you're bringing it here to New Orleans. I would think it would be particularly relevant performing that play right here.

Well, it's what we're dealing with in New Orleans, gentrification over the past 10 years since Katrina. It's not only a hot-button topic for the country, but specifically, the events of the play are around the events of what's happening in New Orleans. And forum of art is where society comes together to discuss those things that are on people's minds. 

How big of a deal was "The Wire" for your career?

It will be the defining moment of my career.

Really? Why?

The first line of my obituary will be, "Wendell Pierce, who was known for playing Bunk Mooreland the detective on 'The Wire,' died today at 110." It was a defining moment in television. It was a defining moment in the literary nature of television.

Were you afraid when it ended? I mean, sometimes when you have such a defining role, it has to be scary when it moves on.

No. I missed it. I always kind of get choked up when I leave a character or leave a role. But it was a relief. I had a friend tell me — she said, "Wendell, you had your 'Godfather.'" Every actor hopes to have something like that in their career, you know?

And I thought about it and said, "Yes, I could be in a chicken suit, you know, passing out fliers a year from now. And hey, I was Bunk on 'The Wire.'" 

How about 'Treme,' which was about the neighborhood Treme here in New Orleans?

"Treme" was, first of all — "Treme" was divine intervention for me.

What do you mean?

It was the last years I got to spend with my mother in town. I got to spend the last four years of my mother's life with her. I literally held my mother in my arms the last moments of her life. And it was because I was here doing "Treme." I think it was divine intervention and therapeutic. And that was the role of the show for the city, too, where people could look at it, get mad at it, hate it, love it, remember what they went through, remember what's important to them. As we go through these discussions of appropriation of culture, losing culture — "Are we losing our neighborhoods?" or "What are we throwing away?" "What's new?" — we have a cultural document that was a show called "Treme" that we'll be able to put in and say, "Listen, maybe you're not understanding me. This is what I'm trying to say."

And that's a very special thing, as an artist.

You have a book coming out.

Sept. 8, called "The Wind in the Reeds." It's about the love of family, the love of New Orleans and the transformative nature of art and the impact that it has. 

You think art can really transform?

Oh, I know art can transform. We're talking about New Orleans. Everybody remembers, after Katrina, the first time they heard, "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans and miss her each night and day?" Louis Armstrong. You know what that feels like, what that meant to you, whatever.

A poet changed Poland — the Solidarity movement, Lech Walesa. An American actor became an American president, Ronald Reagan — "It's morning in America." So poetry, art, the power that that can have on a person's life can be transformative. 

This interview has been edited and condensed