Concrete Suffocation

A sliver of sunlight tries to fill the room. The old jail is stuffed with boxes and boxes of archived jail files.

I walked into this small supply closet and was told to “get in.” I looked back at the person who said this command and it was Tami, the deputy that was guiding us through this profoundly deep and heavy experience. After I “got in,” I immediately turned my flashlight on as I was told that all of the lights had gone out in the elevator but not to worry because it would still indeed work. As soon as I squished into the miniscule space that would take us up to the old jail I began to look around. Directly in front of me was a thick iron gate that was once used to separate a convict from law enforcement when they had to use this very elevator that took them to the jails that would hold them until they had paid their debts to society. I could not stop thinking that while Earnest Gaines wrote a fictional story, A Lesson Before Dying, it was based on a true story and there was a sixteen-year-old boy that had the exact same experience I was having. Yet, this boy knew that there was no chance that he would ever see the outside world again. This was his life. 

As soon as the elevator reached the top floor, Tami swung the metal gate open and as soon as we had stepped onto the concrete floor a thud sounded strong enough to ring my ears. A metal door that concealed the elevator had been shut and Tami was on her way down to get the next batch of us. I began to tip-toe around the quarters as I felt that if I was too strong in my stride the floor might give out or I would trigger something to break. I walked into an old cell and looked at my surroundings. The ceiling was cracking and peeling from the intense heat and humidity. The toilets were metal and looked like a diseased chair. The showers were covered in mold and the cell doors were so rusted that you could practically pry them open with your hands. 

Francesca and Andrew look through old archives. The cell bars which were once painted white are now chipping and rusting through because of the unstable heat that covers Louisiana.

These cells had not been updated once in the near hundred years that they have stood here. These grounds have been walked by convicts that spanned over ten decades. The longer I stood in this concrete box, the thinner the air became. It felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me and it left me gasping for a breath. I could not imagine being locked in this cell for a whole day let alone months if not years on end. These were some of the most inhumane conditions one could think of. The light did not even pass through some of these concrete blocks leaving its inhabitants in the dark for days at a time. This was one of the cell’s that young boy, not even a boy but merely a child, was forced to spend his final days. This cell was his whole world. 

After letting the inside of the cells imprint into my mind, I was guided out into the recreational area that inmates were given for 30 minutes a day. I expected something different than what I stepped into. I expected grass, maybe some tables and chairs, possibly athletic equipment. But what I was met with was heat. Heat seeped into my skin as I stepped onto a white roof blocked in by all sides so that no one could see in, or most importantly so that no one could see out. The sun reflected off of the stark white ground and hit you in the face like a frying pan in an old movie. This was seen as a reward to the prisoners, and I couldn’t help but think that this is what hell would be like. I envisioned Jefferson from A Lesson Before Dying being dragged out of a cell, bound by chains and forced to sit in the blazing son as a reward. It is an overwhelming idea to think that a human being can be trained to think of this near hell experience as a reward. 

Kiki stands flipping through files of the archives. This is one of the largest cells in the facility that would hold up to four inmates.

My next stop was the women's cell. I heard Tami over and over again explaining that this was the only cell that had a bathtub as if it was some type of praise for the construction of this cement death wish. As I approached the cell and we all gathered around Tami, we listened to her stories and her knowledge that explained some of the elements around us. Suddenly her words started to blur, my heart sank, and I began to feel queasy. Right above me was the hook, the hook where people stood just like I am today, and awaited to be hoisted into the air, fighting for every last breath until their bodies gave into the rope around their neck and every last ounce of oxygen had been expelled. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get over that sight. It was the closest I could get to experiencing an ounce of what Jefferson was feeling all along. The feeling that life was not everlasting and that one day we would all meet our maker. Yet we all hope that when this time comes we are old enough to make peace with the final chapter of our story. We hope and we pray that we are not 16 when the time comes just like this young child was. He was just 16 the day that he walked to the electric chair and held his head high and went out like a man. He met his last chapter with dignity and self worth. This is something that is unfathomable to make peace with and I hope and pray every day that this will never have to happen again. 

The Whole Story

I have spent my time in this sun soaked state, glistened by my sweat and overtaken by my thoughts, and bound to my lens. Not the usual lens that everyone thinks of with two rims that hook onto your ears and make you see the world a little more clear, but the one that hangs right in front of your eye and captures snip-bits of each little moment that you are on Earth. That’s right, a camera lens. It has been 19 days in which I have been on this trip and yet all I have to show for it is a few hundred photos that fill my camera roll, marking days in my lifeline. A photo is just a single representation of what I have witnessed, what I have embraced, and what I have embarked on. Every single photo has a story, it has a history.

This image depicts a gorgeous waterway, lined thoroughly with cypress trees, glistening under the warm sun. What you wouldn’t know is that this water is a swamp and it is filled with hundreds if not thousands of alligators. Each day, large pontoon boats filled with visitors come and grace these waters. The guides stuff the alligators full of marshmallows just so these visitors can get their “perfect picture.” These swamps are lined with history, in little pockets of this straightway are rice plants which were farmed in the 19th century in order to make a profit.

This image depicts Ciena gently climbing an antique staircase that is so graceful and unique. What you wouldn’t know is that these staircases lead to the second floor of an old Pharmacy Museum in the French Quarter. At the top of these stairs were sharp tools and medical instruments that made the difference between life and death in the 19th century. You also wouldn’t have known that Ciena and the rest of the group were just caught in one of New Orleans’ torrential downpours that soaked everyone’s clothing down to the last thread.

This image depicts a group of people standing around an old cabin and exploring its surroundings. What you wouldn’t know is that this cabin is on a plantation. This plantation, called the Whitney Plantation, was home to hundreds of slaves during the early 19th century. In this very cabin over twenty slaves were housed with no running water, no access to food, and no way of escaping the Louisiana heat.

This image depicts several colorful books lining perfectly built bookshelves. What you wouldn’t know is that these books belong to a shop that has been in New Orleans for several decades. One of the most amazing aspects of this bookstore is not actually the books but the people who run it. They are filled with zest and an undying love of learning that just oozes onto their customers. And you wouldn’t even know that once upon a time, William Faulkner called this very place home.

This image depicts a young girl standing on a balcony, smiling. Well, what you wouldn’t know is that girl is me. What you wouldn’t know is that this was the night I stayed in from going out because this entire trip I have been battling severe allergies. This little “self love” photoshoot was in hopes to make myself feel better for being trapped in my room all night. It was a way for me to get some fresh air and feel like I was actually enjoying the city and the short time I have here.

While I have spent a good portion of this trip with my face behind the camera, I have realized after looking at the hundreds of photos I have taken, they do not nearly explain what I have experienced. I could have had thousands, if not millions of photos and yet they would not explain the whole story. A photo does not tell us how someone is feeling, what may have happened before the photo or even after. A photo is truly just one small spec in this never ending universe.

It makes me wonder how many times I have been shown a photo and believed I knew the whole story. How many times I have seen a photo about an event or in the news, and felt as if I knew exactly what was happening. How many reporters, photographers, or community members thought they knew what was happening.

I have realized that most of the time, I will never know the whole story. I will have to rely on others, trust others to help me find my own conclusion. But most of all, I will never assume I have the whole story. I will always respond with an intent to learn and an intent to listen. I know I may never know the whole story, and I am okay with that.

The Rhythmic Breakdown

Paintings line the walls of Preservation Hall as a group of attendees patiently await the starts of the concert. Portraits of “The Greats,” fill the walls of Preservation Hall, illustrating the deep history that is here.

The sound of jazz is a euphoric experience. The sound simply numbs your body to outside forces and places it in a trance-like state where the instruments are in control of every single nerve. The piano taking hold of your legs, the saxophone taking over your arms, the drums swaying your hips from side to side, the trombone shaking your core with every glissando, suddenly your whole body is overtaken note by note and suddenly you are in a whole other world just like Buddy Bolden in Coming Through Slaughter. 

In Coming Through Slaughter, the entire book is a work of literary greatness. Each page is unlike the other; some are short, some are long, some are offcentered, some are flushed, some sprinkle in the work of prose which Michael Ondaatje, the books author, is best known for. There is no proper sequence for this book, it broke all of the rules that a book could, which is exactly why it perfectly describes the life of Buddy Bolden. Bolden was a black man living in the 19th century who was known as one of the “founders,” of jazz although he did not take credit for it. Yet, what he is most known for is his mental state. Bolden was known to have an increasingly worse mental state throughout his life that was filled with breakdowns, a broken family, and frequent escapades. His life was anything but normal and he definitely defied every rule in the book. 

The book is written as if it is a piece of sheet music, a piece of jazz. Each page drives you to the next but is broken into different snippets of Bolden’s life, just like the change from one instrument to another at Preservation Hall. The writing on each page did not only mirror the lyrical rhythm of jazz, but the jazz began to illustrate the shortcomings of Bolden’s mental state. It was then in this book's timeline in which I felt connected with the character more than anyone else in this place and time. 

Drifting back to about five years ago, it was evident that I was developing anxiety. I spent years in therapy detailing my past traumas and having various psychologists blame the most important people in my life for my unhappiness. This repeated message made me dwell on the past, playing what should have been long forgotten situations over and over again pushing me deeper into a psychological plunge. It was not until recently in which I have realized that my mental spats are no one’s fault. I was tired of dwelling on the past and was keen on focusing on the future and fixing my current state despite the millions of reasons that may have caused it. 

A member of Southern University band plays trombone alongside a band of about eight others. This group played for over an hour in the scorching heat right outside Jackson Square in the French Quarter.

The past years and leading into the present have been a rollercoaster of ups and downs that mirror the rhythmic changes from one note to the next that jazz so beautifully illustrates. When I stood in that jazz hall listening to the humming of the instruments, it was so clear that these melodic sounds were telling a story. Since the human mind is innately selfish, I truly believe that it was telling my story. From the very beginning the music was uplifting and filled with excitement and joy. I reflected upon these poetic sounds as a transport to my past. The days of my childhood that were filled with love and frolicking with not a care in the world. The days in which mental illness was a far distant idea that was too foreign to overtake my mind. 

As the vibration of the air continued the tones began to change. There was now a series of ups and downs. At one point there was just the sound of the tapping of keys on a worn down piano. It provided stability and a sense of belonging, a blanket of security. A time that I saw as my period of finding out about my mental illness. Being slowly introduced to this idea that my mind was not completely controlled by me. It was instead to be overtaken by this monster that rocked my core. It placed me in a chokehold and slammed me against the wall with no place to run, no place to hide, no retreat in sight. I was weak, I was stuck and the future was unknown and frightening. Would I stay in this chokehold forever? Or, would I one day be able to break out and exert my own sense of power?

Slowly the sounds shifted into the saxophone which provided a sense of fear. My whole body was shaking, wrestling with its thoughts. Trying to grasp onto anything I could to possibly relieve my pain and allow me to escape from the wall. But the feelings continued to electrify. My palms were sweating, my voice becoming hoarse, my body in a state of panic. There was no option of fight or flight at this point. I could not run away, I could not hide, It was going to be fight. It would soon always be fight. 

The trombonist sits in Preservation Hall greasing his slide. It is essential for the trombonist to take care of his instrument beforehand in order to have control and ease when they are playing.

Then the trombone came, it sounded even more riveting. The strong tones shook my core, sending me into a frenzy. It was happening there was no turning back. The trombonist stood up, and I winced; knowing very well what was coming next. It was inevitable. The trombone powered into the sound of the glissando. There it was. The feeling of death. The feeling of dying. The feeling that took me time and time again, week after week, year after year. The feeling that kept me a prisoner from sleep, a prisoner from friends. The feeling that held me captive in the attic, hot and steaming with no room to breathe. The feeling that took me to the hospital time and time again because I would become so ill there was no other place that seemed right. Begging for them to tell me what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I eat? Why couldn’t I breathe? Why couldn’t I live?

The glissando neared the end and the seven-letter word that would be a part of my life forever was once again diagnosed to me. Anxiety. 

I live in an age where we are spreading awareness of mental illness. Where I am seen as a person with a disability, exaggerating that I am a person first and I just happen to be living with a mental illness. Although sometimes this feeling is encompassing, it does feel that I am defined by my body’s inability to shut down negative thoughts and an inability to control the racing feeling of my heart. Yet, I’m reminded by my peers, my friends, my family, my loving boyfriend that I am not a product of anxiety. I am a fighter of anxiety and that is what allows me to slip through the chokehold and away from the wall. 

But Buddy Bolden was never able to slip away from the wall. He was mentally disturbed first and a man second. He was never given the opportunity to break away from the wall. His life would always be a song of jazz, the bounce of the saxophone carrying him to fear, and the glissando crashing down his world like a fighter jet each and every time. He was never able to make it to the piano, the stability, because no one had told him that that was an option. Instead he stayed against the wall, in a chokehold for the rest of his life. His behavior was deemed uncontrollable, unfixable, and so he found himself locked in a concrete room of Jackson, Louisiana in a hall filled not with people but with mental disabilities. He stayed in this suffocating room until the day his body gave out, never once released from his chokehold until the day he found himself looking inside his own coffin in which the song grew to an end and the room filled with the clapping of the opulent fair skinned community that overtook the room.

Under the Covers

Bella stands in front of a vintage mirror taking a photo. In the background is the Pharmacy museum which was filled with old medical paraphernalia of the 19th century.

Hiding under the covers. Hiding under the covers is where I find my comfort in a time of distress, fear, and most importantly when I find something scary. Well, for three days of the trip, I find myself hiding under the covers and clinging on to our second novel, Interview with The Vampire by Anne Rice. As I lay protected by the warm sheets of the hotel bedding, I wince and writhe as Lestat makes his next calculated kill. These tales are somewhat of a mystery to me as I have neglected to indulge in such genre of writing. I had always found it obscure and not to my liking as one could not fathom to imagine the world in which these creatures lived. It is obscure and mysterious, unlike life in my small beach town back home. 

Upon arriving in the setting of Interview with The Vampire, it does not take long for me to realize the inspirations that Anne Rice drew upon for her novel. In fact, it is hard to ignore the eerie and hair prickling feelings that you get when you enter the French Quarter of New Orleans. As you pass through the hustle and bustle of Bourbon Street in the daytime, it seems a perfectly normal tourist attraction. Laughter and smiles fill the faces of those surrounding you, a comforting place to be. 

An alter to the Papalegba is covered in offerings, jewelry and alcohol. Papalegba is said to be the gatekeeper to the afterworld. He is always pictured as a sweet old man and is paired commonly with St. Peter.

As you step further into the French Quarter and wander away from Bourbon Street and truly dig into the quarter outside of the bustling alleys, you find yourself in a setting of Anne Rice’s novel. Down one street you are engulfed by vintage tales of the past. You see a VooDoo museum that details the curse after curse that someone could procure during the 19th century. On the other side you have the old Pharmacy museum. Two floors filled with vials of distinct powders, serrated tools that would be inserted into a patient's body, lobotomy aids, anything that would make the average human feel bombarded by a cold gust of the unnatural. Down another street you hit the jackpot; vampires. Vampire boutiques, vampire restaurants, a man who will chisel your teeth into fangs, an alcoholic concoction in the form of blood, a whole ghastly array that plunges you directly into Anne Rice’s world. 

While approaching these landmarks in the daytime can give you a feeling of uneasiness, it is only when the sun slips below the horizon that you can get a taste of the setting that Anne Rice’s two vampires, Lestat and Louis, experienced on a nightly basis. When nightfall rushes in like an unsuspecting ghost, the whole city gets flipped upside down. Instead of smiles and laughter down Bourbon Street you are greeted by creatures that you believe were once human not more than a few hours ago. These creatures who are overtaken by the sweet temptation of liquor and luminous bar lights. They all of a sudden become possessed. They are no longer in control of their own bodies. Their mouths ramble heinous things at one another, they stumble through the cobblestone streets, their clothing transforming from a curated ensemble to a disheveled costume doused in the scent of absinthe. 

Cornstalk Hotel stands basked in the night light and lit up by the occupants inside. This hotel is positioned right next to the Andrew Jackson Hotel which is said to be haunted by five young boys that died tragically when they were unable to escape a fire.

In order to obvert your gaze and to hide from their empty eyes, I look up. My vision is greeted with the French architecture that resides on each house front of these streets. The iron work is delicately crafted in each and every balcony. Each fleur de lis distinct feature silky smooth and the gentle designs jutting from the corners of the awning. The iron work provides a sort of regality that is both untouchable yet comforting. Each and every home is fit for a King, or in Anne Rice’s case an elegant and poised vampire. I can imagine Lestat and Louis standing on a balcony, protected by the fleur de lis drinking their glass of wine, or at least appearing to be a glass of wine to onlookers and assessing their next target. I can understand how their nightly activities could go unnoticed in the midst of these humans turned creatures at dusk. For as Anne Rice writes,

“ ‘Never in New Orleans had the kill to be disguised. The ravages of fever, plague, crime – these things competed with us always, and outdid us.’ ” 

It is not until I really was able to look around and examine this city and dismantle each cobblestone piece by piece until you are able to understand Anne Rice’s writing. The creatures of the night that terrorize you and make you long for home. The possibilities of VooDoo and ghosts around every corner leave you fearful each step you take. The possibility that you may just be greeted by Lestat and Louis. Or the painstaking fear that these characters were based on true characters that roam these streets at nightfall. Characters that pray on the incapacitated and innocent, sucking them of their lives, their virtue, their wealth. These shady creatures that lurk under the radar and are undiscovered because of the ravages of fever, plague, and crime that flank these streets. For this reason I retreat to my hotel room and find myself yet again protected by the covers, hidden from Anne Rice’s world.

Independen[sea]

Houses liter the coastline of the Grand Isle. On the Grand Isle, all of the homes are built on stilts to prevent flooding from the yearly hurricane season.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been independent. Sure, I’m an only child, and sure I have made my own way in the world, but there has never been a time where I wasn’t supported by an army of love, reassurance, and encouragement. I have always felt somewhat protected and sheltered from the outside world. This is who I based my person off of, I was a reflection off of those around me. Looking in retrospect, I in no way see this as a negative portrayal of who I’ve become, but instead a realization, or an awakening one might say.

Students stand waiting for the van right out of the airport. At this point in our journey, the rain came down for the first time.

On the first day of this trip as I hugged my family good-by, I felt somewhat empty. I didn’t know what to expect on the other side of the airport door. Whether my next month would be filled with treachery and a pang for returning to my comfortable bed with my dog nestled by my side, or if the next twenty-six days were going to be exactly what I needed to make myself feel fulfilled.

Right off of the plane, it started to rain. While many think that rain may be a sign of danger, or a warning, I see it as the earth giving a gentle cleanse to everything around it. Rain is a washing away of all the worries, the past, and seemed like an omen to me as I ran outside and let the hot drops of water wash over me. The rain pelted on for hours more, along the drive down to the Grand Isle. As the water-streaked windows filled my view, I saw a landscape like never before. Long trees with thin arms sprouting from mere water. Their existence was unfathomable to me as not only were they protected by this murky water, but they were green, a rarity in California landscape. Continuing down the road we saw the landscape alter into marshlands which looked like a million little islands all thriving off of the Mississippi river. It was strange to think that one mother of endless water gave birth to all of these little tufts of grass and the contents that remain inside them.

Bella sits petting a dog at Jo Bobs Gas & Grill. This dog is one of many that roam free on the Grand Isle, this one in particular was the owner's dog.

As the sun began to set, we started to approach our final destination, Grand Isle, LA. The landscape began to shift and the architecture around me felt foreign and cold, which provided me with some weariness and a sense of unease about my feelings for this whole adventure. The houses were on stilts, they were filled with color, and a type of person I had never seen before, a Southerner.

Alas we approached our humble abode, and while a sense of relief from the long days' travel washed over me, there was still an undeniable fear that gnawed at my stomach. One that ate at me until I was too tired to keep my eyes open. Upon reopening them, the windows were filled with a light glow. I stumbled out of bed, cautious not to wake anyone up, and headed for the porch. There. There it was, waiting for me, beckoning to me like a call home. The ocean stood roaring with waves that whipped back and forth from the pressure of the wind. The sun shone brightly onto the sand and casted a gentle glow upon the water's surface. The air was warm yet inviting and filled with the mist of the sea. This is what I had been waiting for all along, this was in fact, just what I needed.

Throughout the day, I was entranced by the text of The Awakening, a book I had read years before at a much younger age, and at the time felt very hard to understand and rather out of place for a seventeen year old. But now I stand here today, with the humid air lapsing against my skin, and the smell of the Louisiana salt water, surrounded by a group of individuals that I know little about, and somehow this book is enchanting, all encompassing and a complete representation of my experience. Edna, the main character, is a nuanced woman living in an outdated society. Her expectations were to care for a family, be a silent and obeying wife, and to live a rather uneducated life. But her curiosity and ideas plague her, and she goes onto have herself an “awakening.” She finds what is truly important to her, and important to her life. While she goes to great lengths of getting to a place where she feels free and unchained from her old self, including death, I feel that this trip has done that for me. I feel unchained from the society that bound me to the stress of needing to be “perfect,” at all times. As I sit here, writing this, my focus is not on anything besides myself, my discoveries, and the ever-expanding world around me.

The Starfish Restaurant stands on the main road of the Grand Isle. While the Grand Isle is minimal in its food options, the Starfish caters to locals and tourists alike.

I’m captivated by the culture, it is one that is foreign to me and unbeknown in it’s customs. In The Awakening, this culture is described as inviting and involved. It’s culture lives with a mindset that you work to live and not live to work. It’s rare that you see this kind of care free attitude and I saw my first taste when we dined at a little restaurant, frankly the towns only restaurant, The Starfish. We were greeted with a warm smile and a spirit that could make anyone feel at home. Tiffany, our waitress was one of the most interesting characters I have ever met. She was beaming with happiness and was unforgivingly just being herself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a waitress disregard the outlined “duties” or “customs” of a job to fit their personality but Tiffany sure did. While she had a job, she make it her job. She truly embodied this inviting Creole culture and everything that Kate Chopin was describing.

It took me a long time to be comfortable with the mindset that Tiffany had, and I don’t know if I will ever be completely comfortable with this mindset in the work-culture that America breeds. However, I gained understanding of this feeling because for a brief moment I felt free. Understanding this feeling is like no other until you are sunning yourself on the porch of a holiday home, sinking in the breeze of the Gulf where you are perfectly nestled between the water on a small piece of unbeknown land. Here is where I learned to live life how it is meant to be lived. Free of my worries, and unphased by the possibility of the future.