““When you come from a mythologized place, as I do, who are you in that story?””
I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams.
The sun breaks at noon. Light seeps through the leaves at Congo Square. The wind is eager to pass; young and snappy. I sit under a live oak in order to feel. Cicadas cry; it is both gentle and mighty.
Many things seem to follow this life. Gender is one of them. Class especially so. And, unobjectionably, race. Gender, class, race. Sometimes in that order, other times not; because it can arrange itself a bit differently, and often does. For the unfortunate, they are what you call slim pickings. These things will always follow—and it is so haunting.
You cannot help but position yourself to think this way. It is glaringly obvious. The city talks if you listen. Sitting down in Congo Square, taking in the sun, and listening to the wailings of the cicadas—you simply cannot help but to think.
Of course, these are things I’m already familiar with. Ask me how or why. But exploring New Orleans—where every corner tells a story—can change or move a person. I really do believe that.
It’s all around us: pockets of the dark past; an ink that bleeds and continues to bleed, staining each page of the book. Nearly every major street in the Central Business District once held slave pens. Tall and wide gray, white, or black buildings situated on every block. Hotels, civic or corporate buildings, restaurants; all once the sites of open human markets from the not-too-distant-past. I can look out from the window of my hotel room to see one at any time. And there are many windows to choose from.
““We played hiding behind the trees a heap and played in the moonlight. We played tag. We picked up scaley barks, chestnuts, and walnuts.””
The land on the Whitney Plantation is vast. It is an expansive property. Dragonflies hover and whirl. They are blue and green. Upon entering, I’m given a lanyard with a pass. It displays the statue of what appears to be a young girl named Julia Woodrich. She has my mother’s name.
I walk around the self-guided tour, stopping by at each marker or monument. Walls with many names. I try my best to read them all.
The chimes. Oh, the chimes.
Near the big main house, tall oaks blanket the space. Each limb as long as the Mississippi. It occurs to me, with eyes fixed on the trees, that I can hear the soft sounds of chimes. Around the corner, I see wind chimes swaying, the breeze cradling it along. Birds and other bugs sing along with the chimes. I am transfixed because it is so beautiful; everyone else walks on by. It is ethereal for what it is; a glimpse of light that pierces the dark.
I arrive at the quarters. The small statues of children posted outside are gifted with toys, coins, and other gifts. I wear my sunglasses for the rest of the tour.
““We are all born into histories, worlds existing before us. The same is true of places. No place is without history.”
”
Look closely: it’s a monarch butterfly playing hide and seek.
Have you ever cried at the sight of a butterfly? I watch as a little monarch butterfly flutters around, before hiding in the leaves of a tree. I take it as no coincidence; monarchs are a symbol of home—monarchs migrate annually to Michoacán, Mexico. Not too long ago, I learned that there is an enslaved ancestor on my father’s side, particularly through my grandfather. I will never be able to know their name. But I’d like to think it is them.
I come to the memorial of the 1811 German Coast uprising. Each head and each name on a pike; all murdered for a righteous cause. The heat suffocates and makes me cry. I feel the weight of the pain; my chest swells. I still have my sunglasses on as I leave. At the gift shop, I purchase a cookbook for my father.
Sarah M. Broom’s 2019 memoir The Yellow House traverses the places we call home; each crack and crevice that binds history to the self. Broom expands on the significance of the titular Yellow House, the seemingly lively and unruly house she grew up in, located on 4121 Wilson Avenue in the then-promising neighborhood of New Orleans East, a section of New Orleans that is now systematically overlooked due to its overwhelmingly Black and middle-class population. The youngest of twelve children, Broom, the prodigal daughter, inevitably faces the push-pull effect tied to generational trauma; a desire to leave home that is left to be confronted and reckoned with.
My visit to Wilson Avenue is cornered with low expectations. Like Broom, I come from a mythologized place—Los Angeles. And yet, it is a version of Los Angeles unconventional to the mind; devoid of Spanish-style dreams and sweet-smelling citrus trees. I am an other; there are no stars in this part of the sky. I count time with each passing train. I feel as if I cannot leave.
William Frantz Elementary School.
New Orleans East is stuck between wetland and wasteland. 4121 Wilson Avenue is a desolate and solemn plot of empty space. Abandoned and left to die. The streets are scattered with seashells. It is awfully silent, save the rowdy rumbling of cars on the main road over. The legacy of Katrina lives on with every sprawl of reed.
Next to the Lower Ninth Ward, I come to a stop at William Frantz Elementary School, a monumental landmark and cornerstone of civil rights. It is the location where Ruby Bridges, then six years old, became the first Black student to integrate the previously all-white elementary school in 1960, part of the historic ruling of Brown v. Board. Quite honestly, this was one of the most surrealist moments of my entire trip. It felt otherworldly, standing across from the very place that moved me as a child. I initially learned about Ruby when I was in elementary school, having watched the 1998 television film sometime between the first and third grade. Watching the semi-fictional Ruby cower in fear due to racist death threats struck fear and sorrow into my own heart.
Those feelings never left.