Cecilia Lie

lost and found

“The truth is, we are all fish out of water because this particular time space reality was designed so. This society feels out of our hands. This lifestyle is too complicated for every person that is part of it, this world is too harsh and everyone feels like they are in over their heads. Everyone feels intimidated by his or her life here on this planet. Everyone feels intimidated by each other. The grand façade is that no one admits that this is so.”
— Teal Swan

Here’s Grand Isle and New Orleans for me so far:
Find time for you. Write your blogs. Make them personal. Talk about how you feel. Be honest with yourself.

Or so I thought…

These are all easy things to hope for, but let me be honest with myself for once—nothing of the sort has been achieved. It’s almost been a whole month here, and I’m just tired.

I read the syllabus for this class. It requires a different kind of writing: not the boring old academic writing, but the more modern journalistic one. In theory, it should be easier, simpler, and more intimate. I mean come on, we’re basically writing a journal! Well… WRONG! That’s how it was supposed to be, but how it has been turning out? Pressure. I think I speak for most of us here when I say that the pressure to write a decent blog is getting to us all. It feels like we’re not writing for ourselves anymore, but for a letter on our transcript. Here’s the thing, journaling should be personal, natural, and open. It shouldn’t be looking up synonyms for Cambridge-level words nor should it be about impressing other people with our writings. At least for me, it still feels that way at times. So where does that lead me? Back to square one. Repressed, discontented, and more façade.

I am sick of it. At least for this last blog, I want to do it for me. It’s only fair. Twenty-one years of life, and I’ve beaten myself up more than anyone or anything else has. I’ve been unfair to myself, over and over again, even throughout this trip. So, for once, I’m not going to write for the world, for the class, or for the website. I am letting my defenses down, and I am going to write for me.

Now, this trip has been great… for the most part. The heat and the rain? Nuh-uh. Maybe a part of it is also just me being a home-body, but I feel as if this trip hasn’t been as fulfilling as I had initially imagined it to be. The transportation system—both the streetcars and buses—is completely unreliable; the food is mediocre at best, unless you’re willing to go to those high-end places; and the weather just makes even the idea of stepping out of this hotel unbearable. I feel like I haven’t been able to make the most out of New Orleans and properly enjoy the city, at least for the purpose I had in mind in the beginning. I don’t quite remember the details now, but if I was to guess, it’s probably something along the line of self-discovery, self-growth, and all that jazz (no pun intended). Instead, most of my free days have been filled with naps, movies in bed, cup noodles, and overspending on laundries.

“I feel rather Teutonic these days. That is sort of a strong yet stiff feeling. But underneath there is a lot of pathology.”
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

As some might’ve been aware, too, this trip didn’t start off quite on the right foot for me. The last night on Grand Isle, I was faced with something that brought on quite some pain and heartbreak. It wasn’t pleasant. It’s still not pleasant, I think. I’m not too sure. I’ve been feeling relatively okay about it, but I don’t know if that’s just because I’ve been busy with other things or if I’ve genuinely gotten over it. All I know is that I haven’t healed from it. I couldn’t have even if I wanted to. I haven’t given myself the time to sit with it. I haven’t been able to journal. I haven’t been able to just tune in with myself and write my feelings out. Some nights I find myself trying to intentionally replay the events of that night and everything else from the past year and a half, just to… I don’t know, feel something? The results varied. One night, it would bring tears to my eyes; another, it would evoke no reactions out of me whatsoever. The ending has been consistent, though. I put on some soft piano music in the background, close my eyes, and convince myself that all will be well by the morning. Funnily enough, it’s been working like a charm.

I’ve been waking up in the morning only feeling groggy and slightly irritated because I want more sleep. Any other emotions are quickly buried down by the ticking away of time rushing me to get ready to head out, either to the Shop for a morning seminar or to the lobby for the day’s escapade. In any case, sleep is gotten, morning is well. It’s usually not until midday when my mood starts going downhill (exponentially). Nine out of ten times, it’s probably because I haven’t had lunch or I’m too exhausted. So then, what do I do? Go back to the hotel, watch another movie, and nap. By the time I wake up, it’s dinner time. What does that mean? Another cup noodles. What does that also mean? Getting annoyed at myself for having been in NOLA for nearly a month, and still haven’t had crawfish or any seafood boil. But, as I’ve come to learn, life is life.

I sit up, and I have my cup noodles with a YouTube video or movie playing in the background. Before I know it, hours have passed. So then, the choice is usually either to wind down for the day or continue to lay around for another hour or so. Today, it is the latter. Unlike the past days, though, today is a bit different. Instead of indulging myself in digital entertainment (coughs in Fahrenheit 451), the late-night thoughts struck me a bit early, hence my writing of this blog.

So now, here I am, in bed, facing yet another existential crisis.

My bad, that might have been slightly hyperbolic. The truth is, what prompted my whole spill right now was just flashes of events from this trip. I ended up having some sort of a reflective moment, and one word came to mind: “façade.”

See, this notion of façade is something that has been circulating all around me, seemingly an inevitable fate for me. From Kate Chopin’s The Awakening to a personal reflection on my first blog, Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, Sarah Bloom’s The Yellow House, and even now with Walker Percy’s Moviegoer—I am sick of the masks.

Even at the Mardi Gras Exhibition, all I saw was masks. It’s as if no one can survive this world by being true to themselves, as if they have to conceal parts of who they are to get by every single day, and as if everyone is afraid of what truths may be unveiled if no façades were put on. And, of course, I am no different.

On my first blog, I wrote this:

“Having put myself in yet another unfamiliar environment, my automatic response reverted back to the ‘fake it til you make it’ mindset, which is basically to put on as best of a façade as I possibly could. These are new people I’m meeting. They don’t know who I am, they don’t know my past, and they certainly don’t know my battles. They barely even knew my name at first glance, a couple of whom didn’t even know it at all.”

On this last blog, I am writing this:

These are no longer new people I’m with. I’ve lived with them for almost a whole month now. And, good news, they all seem to have gotten to know my name. But, I can still say this… They still don’t know who I am, they still don’t know my past, and they certainly still don’t know my battles. Having been with these people every single day, you would think the masks would come off at some point. Well, you’re wrong.

I was wrong.

“circumvention of the labyrinth
healing of the poison ivy
break of the tidal waves
scrutiny of the mirrors

through the runs and escapes
tangled up by vine
lingering are the scrapes
evanescent is the shine

back to the labyrinth
goes in the dandelion
sink down goes its plinth
suffocating up on the Himalayan

tangled
yet again
wrangled
once ‘gain

perchance the labyrinth
is to blame for the ruin
of the already frail hyacinth”
— causal nexus, pt. II

An Epilogue (of some sort).

I’ve been sitting on this blog for a while now, re-reading it many times over. I think I’ve come to a different conclusion.
The group explored Audubon Park today. We settled under a meditation gazebo for our morning seminar. Today’s seminar was focused on The Moviegoer by Walker Percy, so the discussion zoomed in on the topics of “The Search,” the mundaneness of life, and hiding the pain of the past under a façade. To be honest, I had quite a bit to say during the seminar, but, alas, I didn’t. I kept to myself. This week has been off. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the trip, or maybe I’ve just been feeling more closed off—either way, I didn’t say much this morning. As I went through the day, though, there were more and more reflective points that struck me.

In this blog, I talked about how this trip hasn’t been going as I had initially hoped for it to go, how the façades I glued on at the start have yet to come off, and how the trip has been quite… mundane.

I realized, maybe this is exactly what I needed.

It might not be what I was looking for, but it may perfectly be just what my life needs right now.
Before I went on this trip, as I mentioned on my first blog, I was constantly drowning in this Pre-Med field which seemingly had no end. The overwhelmingness that trails the avalanche of future-related crises and preparation had been my sole acquaintance for a long, long while. But, here, in Louisiana, I’ve come to be acquainted with the mundaneness of life.

Aside from the ubiquity of façades, another trope that has continued to come up throughout the past month—both on Grand Isle and here in New Orleans—is the mundaneness of life. Sure, my days haven’t been all seminar in the morning, work in the afternoon, and Bourbon Street at night. But, it’s been a very much needed pause from my LA life. I haven’t been feeling on edge and on the go 24/7 this past month, and I certainly haven’t been having my days filled with constant stress from school and MCAT talks. Instead, I’ve been allowing myself naptimes whenever my body needs it, I’ve been going out and about whenever the hotel feels too stifling, and I’ve been appreciating the little things in life more. Breathing, taking things slow, standing in the shade, feeling the breeze, noticing the things around me from the streetcar or that gazebo, and having the privilege to miss dinners with my family back home. Little did I know, I’ve been indulging in the everydayness of my own life.

So, let me end this blog, reflection, and trip by saying this:
It’s been a pleasure meeting you, mundaneness, and I can’t wait to get to know you better.

“It is not a bad thing to settle for the Little Way, not the big search for the big happiness but the sad little happiness of drinks and kisses, a good little car and a warm deep thigh.”
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

4121: the story that remains

A spray-painted number is the only remnant of what used to be The Yellow House.

To most people who somehow manage to stumble upon Wilson Ave, “4121” is just a meaningless, random number on a curb. In fact, these people will probably pass by without even noticing that it’s there at all. To me, seeing the number before my very own eyes is like going on the Universal Hollywood Studio Tour and physically being at the filming sets of movies I’ve only watched on screen. It felt unreal. But, to Sarah M. Bloom, the spray-painted “4121” is the crumb that contains all the memories of Ivory Mae’s “unruly child” that she was very much ashamed of.

Out of the three perceptions of “4121,” Sarah’s is the one that hits closest to home, even more than my own. The house being an embarrassment to her reminds me of my mom. See, as cool as my mom is with having guests over at our house, she always greets the idea with, “You better clean the house before they come. Aren’t you embarrassed?” Maybe it’s the effect of my grandma’s upbringing on her, maybe it’s the pure Asian blood rushing in her veins, or maybe it’s just an excuse to get me to clean the house for her—whichever the reason may be, a part of my mom is seemingly ashamed of the state of shambles that characterizes our house.

In Indonesian, we have the phrase “kapal pecah,” which literally translates to “a broken boat.” This is my grandma’s go-to phrase when describing the state of her children’s houses because no matter how squeaky clean the houses look in our eyes, it will never be up to her ‘Asian grandma’ standards. But… hear me out. I swear our house isn’t that bad. Sure, there may be mails sitting out on random surfaces around the house, or cups, or our dogs’ toys… But, you know, we also try our best to clean them out every couple of days when we’re all not too exhausted from our jobs and schoolwork. So, really, it’s not that bad. And, frankly, I think my mom knows this too. Despite the slight shame she may have, a bigger part of her always cherishes that house because there are more valuable aspects than the (infrequent) messes around the house—all the memories it carries, what she had to go through to purchase it, and the most important of all, her gratitude towards it. That last part? That’s the advice she always gives me whenever I’m going through a difficult time. “Always be grateful for everything that comes your way.” So I guess that’s how she views our house too, because having a roof to sleep under each night is, in itself, something to always be grateful for.

“This is the place to which I belong, but much of what is great and praised about the city comes at the expense of its native black people, who are, more often than not, underemployed, underpaid, sometimes suffocated by the mythology that hides the city’s dysfunction and hopelessness. If the city were concentric circles, the farther out from the French Quarter you went—from the original city, it could be reasoned—the less tended you would be. Those of us living in New Orleans East often felt we were on the outer ring.”
— Sarah M. Bloom, The Yellow House

Personally, I think this sense of gratitude didn’t struck Sarah herself until the Yellow House was gone. While I do think she could’ve given the house more credit, I also must admit that her deep feeling of shame towards it was very much justified. I mean, the Yellow House itself was the epitome of the New Orleans nightmares that were always quickly coated by the city’s Big Easy image. Granted, the house had walls that were peeling, wirings that were exposed, sink that was collapsing, and rats that were roaming around in every corner. Besides these, though, the main issue was that the Yellow House was never built on a solid foundation. Rather, it was built on a swamp and grounds that were way too soft for its own good. From today’s perspective, we can easily ask, “what happened to mandatory house inspections?” From their perspective, the answer was simple: negligence. It was the negligence of the neighborhood, the city, and the government that was to blame for the fall of New Orleans East. Even pre-Katrina, the authority never cared enough to put into place infrastructures that would be safe for living, let alone to build neighborhoods that would allow its people to thrive. Not to the locals’ surprise, during and post-Katrina was exceedingly worse.

It's true. The locals weren’t too surprised with the whole Katrina disaster. Unfortunately, for outsiders like me, we might’ve been more ignorant to the truths that overshadowed this catastrophe, so the whole thing was quite shocking. For me at least, it wasn’t until I visited the Hurricane Katrina exhibition at The Presbytére that I learned of the truth. Throughout my visit, as I went around reading and watching eyewitness accounts, I couldn’t help but shake my head, make “tsk tsk” sounds, and furrow my eyebrows at the absurdity of it all. So, what is the real truth behind Hurricane Katrina? Hell on Earth—dead bodies floating on the flooded streets, people screaming for help, and those who were “evacuated” being transferred into locations which had even fewer resources. Yet although these truths existed, they were otherwise told by the media. Much like how the locals were not made aware of the situations at the time, outsiders were also told lies by media coverage of complete and successful evacuations throughout. We weren’t told that hospitals were falling apart and more people were dying; we weren’t told that the entire state was undergoing shortages of food, water, and supplies; we weren’t told that all locations of refuge were losing power and electricity, thus causing a deadly increase in temperatures.

“Without that physical structure, we are the house that bears itself up. I was now the house.”
— Sarah M. Bloom, The Yellow House

As for New Orleans East, all that remained following Hurricane Katrina was the “physical wasteland” it had then become. Lacking its physical structures, the Yellow House and its memories now exist only within Ivory Mae and her children. So while this mass of land has come to represent the loss and suffering of its people, it might have also been Sarah’s freedom from the house she detested.

After all, the physical structures which she felt a deep sense of shame toward had all fallen apart then, and “the story of [the Yellow House] was the only thing left.”

untitled.

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
— Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I’ve been wrecking my brain for ideas on how I would like to start this blog off, and frankly, I got nothing… So, let me start with this:

I grew up in a comfortable Asian household in Indonesia. Sure, as I mentioned in my first blog, my grandmother might have been a bit strict and intense. Still, I was comfortable. Fast-forward to the summer of 2013, I arrived here in the U.S. I began my studies here, learning about world history, U.S. history, and inevitably, slavery.

Now, like I mentioned, I grew up comfortably. What does this mean? This means that up until today, I still avoid situations that would lead to self-embarrassment and/or ending up in a ditch. I consider this part the good part. I mean, hey, I don’t humiliate myself in public and my friends all think I have it all together. But, what does this also mean? This also means that up until today, my family keeps to themselves. My mom, in particular, doesn’t like confronting people or issues, especially racial, political, or any other sensitive social issues. She always says it’s better to stay silent and still as long as it doesn’t affect us. In other words, keep to yourself and trouble won’t come your way. Having been raised here and being somewhat knowledgeable about the historical truth of this place, a part of me dislikes this family dynamic. I get it. We’re Asians. Yes, we’re a part of the minority. Yes, we’ve had our fair share of prejudice with the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, the Japanese American internment camps, and more. Yes, she is simply scared. But this is where the split is. To her, let’s be still and quiet so that we’re not targeted. If we don’t do anything, nothing would be done to us. To me, sure, let’s avoid trouble because who wants trouble? But at the same time, let’s be proactive and aware. Having learned these pieces of history, my brother and I have been taught to become more aware, to stand up and raise awareness, and to act on it when can be. We have come to develop a different mindset—the importance of being aware of the issues at hand first and foremost, even if the urge to resolve or the resolution to said issues does not come straight away.

So, I guess, all of that is to say that I’m writing this blog with one purpose in mind: to bring more awareness to the world even if it is of a thing of the past. There is quite a lot I want to write about. The topic is sensitive, and I can’t even begin to let the concept of it sink in. With that said, this blog may come out a bit disorderly, so please bear with me.

Our journey into the revolting enslavement period in the American history began with a screening of the movie 12 Years a Slave. This film, directed by Steve McQueen, is based on an 1853 firsthand memoir by Solomon Northup. To premise, Northup was a free-born African American who resided in New York with his wife and two children. He was a landowner and a professional violinist before getting kidnapped in Washington, D. C. and sold into slavery in Louisiana, where he was put to work on several plantations for 12 years before liberated. Unlike other historical account-based films, 12 Years a Slave sets itself apart by the rawness it is able to capture on screen. It is not too matter-of-fact, it does not intentionally omit gory details, and it certainly does not shy away from the reality of what it meant to be an enslaved person at that time; it is a remarkably educational piece given how raw and sickening and vile the scenes are, which makes for an accurate representation of enslavements.

Solomon, renamed as “Platt,” was first bought by a man referred to as Lord Ford. At the auction, Lord Ford seemed to be one of the more decent slavers—as inhumanely decent as someone who buys and sells another person could ever be—compared to the others. Sitting there, I felt like jumping out of my chair out of anxious anticipation for Solomon’s purchase by Lord Ford. I thought, “Cumberbatch looks like he has some sliver of humanity left in him. Maybe if Solomon goes back with him, his life wouldn’t be too excruciating.” And, low and behold, my hope came true… that is, until the lunatic Tibeats came along, projecting and screaming his insecure masculinity around. Nevertheless, I felt the hopefulness that Solomon felt and saw the shine in his eyes during his time with Lord Ford, whose only lips out of which the words, “Platt. Poor Platt” were ever uttered. Following Ford, though, everything took a dark and unpleasant turn. Solomon was sold to Edwin Epps, or Master Epps as he came to call him.

During his time with Master Epps, tension grew not just within the film but also within me. As opposed to Ford who was still good-natured and gracious, Epps… was… abusive, bitter, dissatisfied, insecure, cruel, belittling, callous, and not to mention, a cheat! Epps was basically just a ball of all damnable, obnoxious, and cursed personalities crumpled into one single being. To consider him a “human” or a “person” is even beyond me.

There was this sense of fear that overcame me each time Solomon would bat his eyes up directly at his Master Epps, as if to glare. I was fearful that it would be deemed as a disrespect, but rather than returned with a simple “lower your eyes,” it would instead be followed by the whipping of lashes, the running of blood down the back, and the exposing of bones. I was afraid for him. There was a part, too, where Epps uttered, “Man does what he pleases with his property.” The notion that these enslaved people were less than anything humane, even below that of animals, is inconceivable. In an attempt to wrap my head around this statement—which I don’t think I ever will be able to or even want to with how sickening this whole part of history is—my mind wandered to my electronics and everyday purchases as being my properties. Despite the fact that these things are inanimate, I still care for them more than any regards those slave owners ever had for the enslaved people. This realization left me still in my chair…

The most heartbreaking part of the movie was the horror that filled Solomon’s eyes. It was the joy that was sucked out of the performing of his fiddle, and the sliver of hope that slowly slipped away from the window of his soul as the years passed. The shine and soft glimmer of his eyes had disappeared, and this sent an upsetting chill down my spine. It was, too, how aged Solomon had come to look by the time he was then again rendered free; how unrecognizable his children were to him, and him to them; and how apologetic he was to them for the change in his appearance following years of labor and abuse. I found myself having to rid of the frown on my forehead, which was a constant innate reflex reaction to the film simply being an illustration of humanity being torn apart and ripped into shreds over and over again.

“I apologize for my appearance but I have had a difficult time these past several years.”
— Solomon Northup in 12 Years a Slave

The day following the screening, we visited the Whitney Plantation. As much as I appreciated the experience, a part of me hated it. The 12 Years a Slave film was raw and bona fide; the Plantation was yet another educational bore. It was too matter-of-fact, and informational, and dare I say… bland. Aside from being able to stand on the exact location where a piece of history took place, all of the information they provided felt like it was pulled straight out of a textbook.

As I began my tour around the Plantation, following the arrow-pointed numbers and exhibits, I realized something was not sitting quite right for me. I felt uncomfortable and unsettled. I couldn’t fathom the fact that wherever my foot landed on the Plantation, it could have been exactly where another person’s blood had been shed. I was standing exactly where these enslaved people had toiled with their blood, sweat, and tears (literally), and some even to the extent of losing their lives. One comparison I couldn’t help but make was to our trips around New Orleans, as we constantly complain of the heat that inconsistently scorches our skin due to the presence of frequent breeze. How privileged are we that we are able to complain of the heat under which we freely roam this city. At some point, I couldn’t stand being on the Plantation—picturing these innocent lives being whipped to near-death as they were tied to a stock, being buried where my light footsteps might have landed, and being forced to labor under the blazing heat in the open field that us visitors enjoyed as a ‘nice scenery.’

Now, to end this blog on a more positive note would be disrespectful and dishonest of me. That would make me a deceiver and, frankly, an accomplice to one of the greatest crimes in human history. As dramatic as that sounds, it’s the truth. There’s nothing positive about any of these, and any glimpses of positivity would only further bury the true nightmare that this period in history truly was.

Oh, and one last thing I wanted to mention that quite literally pissed me the hell off (pardon my language)... The concept of plantation wedding. Why on earth would you create this façade of a land being one of celebration to merely show off your wealth when decades ago, innocent human beings literally shed their blood and lives from the torture and abuse of enslavement on that exact spot you are standing on? That is plain ignorance and stupidity. It's just baffling.

“Oh, yes, they had straps and a whip, and they’d better not catch you praying to God. When you prayed, you had to hide in the woods.”
— Carlyle Stewart
“Some of the slaves was whipped while they was tied to a stock. My master was all right, but awful strict about two things; stealing and telling a lie. He sure whipped them if they was caught in them things.”
— Milton Marshal

the devil’s dwelling in the joyous and holy land

“One chord is fine. Two chords are pushing it. Three chords and you’re into jazz.”
— Lou Reed

A Jazz musician playing 'Itsy Bitsy" to a baby in Jackson Square!

Festivity. Livelihood. Celebration.

All nouns which paint the atmosphere of the heart of the city as I strolled around, surrounded by the entrancing sounds of jazz. The moment I set foot in Jackson Square, feeling deeply welcomed by the joyous grooves, a ripple of appreciation rushes over me. Though this appreciation stayed unwavering for the most part, I couldn’t help but ponder the origin of this beautiful art form the longer I stuck around. I pondered and pondered until I came to the conclusion that jazz is a balance between chaos and order. It is the music of the soul, yes, but it is one which veils the screams of its people as they endured the tyranny that was subjected to them in the past. It was the voice of the people when words could not be uttered; it was their sense of identity when their individuality was stripped away; and it was their greatest passion when their thoughts and emotions were oppressed. Simply put, jazz is one with a big personality and a deeper history behind it.

Accompanying the syncopation and swing feel of these improvised blue notes was the rest of the French Quarter which included entertainments that are quite distinctive to that of the city. From the few smaller stands of psychic and tarot readings that were occupying the center of the Square to the footsteps and conversations of both tourists and locals blending in with the sounds of saxophone, I was seeing everything and everyone from all places coming together to create such a raw and unparalleled atmosphere. To some, this could be quite overstimulating and rather appalling; to me, it was just… beautiful.

In the midst of it all, there stands the St. Louis Cathedral, too. By the time I got to this point of the tour, the scorching heat had gotten me a bit weary. Everything seemed to pass right through me, and all I could feel was the grumbling of my stomach and the stinging of the sun on my skin. Regardless, I proceeded to head inside the cathedral. Perhaps it was the cooling breeze that blew across the church, or the serenity that embraced the holy place—either way, I immediately felt so much sprightlier.

As I made my way further inside, the resounding noises that filled the streets around Jackson Square gradually shifted to a soft whisper, and then an utter stillness. I took a couple photographs of the breathtaking view of the altar and ceiling before walking down the nave to take a seat on the side aisle. Having been faced with the chaos of my everyday life as per usual, I took some moments to ground myself, to really take in the quietude of the room and redirect it to the mind. I found myself wishing to be alone in the cathedral so as to be more at peace with myself and one with the place. For the first few minutes or so, I also found myself not being able to stop staring at the sanctuary—the exquisite paintings covering the interior walls and depicting scenes out of scriptures, the colorful stained glass adding vibrance and serving as theological teachers, and the towering arcades resting on columns and delivering more characters to the cathedral. I really could have sat there for the remaining time of the day if it wasn’t for the time constraint that followed our itinerary.

At some point as I was deep in my absorbing of the cathedral’s tranquility, I came to the realization that I was exactly where Louis, from Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, was when he met with the priest for a confessional. The priest had called him a devil, and for that, Louis went on to kill him. There is this clear paradox that comes with this occurrence of a vampire visiting a cathedral to confess, and yet ending with his killing of yet another being. It seems preposterous for a vampire to yearn so desperately for the existence of a God and to be so in touch with his morality to begin with, though it is simultaneously quite rational given that vampires are basically the living dead. To me, personally, the irony that trails this part of the novel beautifully embodies the city of New Orleans.

“Don’t be a fool for the Devil, darling.”
— Rice Anne's Interview with the Vampire

Why are all things horror as vampires and voodoo often retraced back to this offbeat city? Perhaps it is the century-old architectures, the nightlife, the indulgence in luxuries and antiques, or even the above ground cemeteries that permeate the city. Whatever the reason may be, this parallel paradoxically coexists with the standing of the St. Louis Cathedral precisely in the center of the heart of the city—just a holy presence in the midst of all the horror and dark elements sprinkled everywhere else around it.

Even as I continued on with my exploration of the French Quarter that day, I noticed not one, not two, not even three, but so many more voodoo shops and haunted history ghost tours occupying each block of the streets with no exceptions. Aside from the cute, little, aesthetic cafés and high-end restaurants, all the other stores are all things horror. For someone who has been quite a fan of horror movies for as long as I can remember, this is just perfect for me! For others who are more horrified by superstitions and the concept of fantasy horror, though, this may not necessarily be their cup of tea. So, when walking in groups, I've come to note the possibility of having to split up at some point because a couple of us may not be too comfortable being inside voodoo shops or going on ghost tours—they are indeed quite an acquired taste. In any case, New Orleans is a city with tons to offer, and thus has little bits of everything for everyone, so it should never be a worry!

I haven’t been back to the Quarter since that day. We have just been incredibly busy exploring neighboring districts, and frankly, it is quite the distance from our hotel. While I do enjoy being in other parts of town that are more authentic and true to the locals, I do wish to go back to the Quarter sometime soon to engross myself in more of its essence. I want to become more acquainted with its character, and exploit the rare charm of this part of the city as much as I can.

Yet although this city of New Orleans is one that is unlike any other, beware—it still does not stray from its darker personality.

Chilling. Unsettling. Spine-tingling.

causal nexus

“She was becoming herself, casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment.”
— Kate Chopin's The Awakening

Upon hours and days of pondering about this first blog, I am now seated at Fourth Wall Coffee, determined to somewhat free myself of the concealed truths surrounding the life I’ve been living and the one I’m living now. In other words, I am learning to be more open and honest with myself, and this is one of my first steps forward.

Fourth Wall Coffee is a vintage-looking coffee shop in New Orleans, just a couple blocks down from the hotel I am staying in for the remaining three weeks of my trip. Its courtyard area, which is where I am currently seated, has an antique and idyllic character to it that allows me to somewhat detach myself from the madness that is Los Angeles, my hometown.

Courtyard area of Fourth Wall Coffee down on Gravier St.

I wanted to start off this blog by introducing the phrase ‘causal nexus,’ which is a term defined by the American Psychological Association as “a nexus or connection between phenomena that is one of causation.” In similar terms, a chain reaction or a vicious circle. I believe this phrase can best describe the circumstances of myself and of Edna Pontellier, the protagonist in Kate Chopin’s novel, The Awakening.

Between graduation, post-grad plans, job-searches, and the continuation of my existence as a Pre-Med who was constantly drowned by classes, research, and hospital programs, I have to admit that the entirety of my being was not on this Maymester until I physically arrived on Grand Isle, LA. Having put myself in yet another unfamiliar environment, my automatic response reverted back to the ‘fake it til you make it’ mindset, which is basically to put on as best of a façade as I possibly could. These are new people I’m meeting. They don’t know who I am, they don’t know my past, and they certainly don’t know my battles. They barely even knew my name at first glance, a couple of whom didn’t even know it at all.

Being in Louisiana, I was not only away from the bustling city of LA, but also from my loved ones and, frankly… from comfort. The first day on Grand Isle felt like a fever dream. Between landing at the airport, being struck by the severe humidity and strong wind, and having to settle in at the beach house, it was all simply a beautiful chaos. Despite being away from the comfort of home, I was beginning to feel a new kind of comfort that embraced me in a way I’ve never before felt. This trip felt like a chance to get away from everything else that I had ever known—the academic struggles, the painful pasts, and all the heartbreaks and traumas of life thus far.

There wasn’t much to Grand Isle, if at all, but this little town has so much characters and its people are so welcoming that it was nothing short of rich and whole. Outside of the brief adventures around town—Jo-Bob’s, The Starfish, Grand Isle State Park, Meagan’s Sno-Balls, etc.—the majority of our time was spent bookpacking at the beach house.

Just as Edna and her husband Léonce sat outside their holiday cottage reading a day-old newspaper on Grand Isle, I, too, indulged in the reading of The Awakening on the veranda which oversees the Gulf shoreline. Taking in the same languid ambiance of the place, Edna and I both ventured into the jam-packed yet desolated nature of our hearts.

Being married to Léonce and being a mother of two children, Edna Pontellier’s life has come to a comfortable yet bleak halt. Though she is secure in her family life, this sense of security has come with a catch. Her dreams, passions, and desires all slowly wilt away; her sense of womanhood consumed by wifehood and motherhood. It is not until her vacation on Grand Isle and her meeting of the townspeople that her long-lost yearnings and urges for life is awakened. In a sense, it is as if she has gone back to her youth, where the true fulfillments of life that follow freedom, spontaneity, romance, satisfaction, artistic creativity, and sexual desires are emerging altogether and at once. Throughout her life, Edna has always been a desolate figure, containing her private thoughts and repressing her emotions. Yet although this realization has gradually come to her, it only serves as an accessory to her solitude and self-restrain. Yes, Edna begins to do whatever and whenever she pleases, but this seems to have also augmented her consciousness of the disconsolate life. She becomes more aware of her happy and unhappy days, not knowing the reason behind the latter, and being numbed to the concern of whether to be alive or dead. One thing Edna knows for certain, that she will not lose her sense of belonging of herself to another, and thus decides to succumb to her deep despondency at last.

“An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish.”
— Kate Chopin's The Awakening

Upon getting to know Edna, I couldn’t help but draw resemblances between her and myself. Granted, I am not a mother, nor am I closed to being married; I barely graduated college just about a week ago, for heaven’s sake! Even so, I very much empathized with how she was feeling. I guess if this was to make her feel any better, I am in my 20’s and I frankly do not feel capable of indulging in the freedom for which Edna had longed. Rather, in a similar way, I feel a heavy weight on my shoulder. Something isn’t sitting quite right with me, and I am aware of the anguish and anxiety that frequently cloud my day-to-day, though not the rationale behind them. Maybe not to the extent of being detached to the idea of life or death, but definitely the inability to express myself to others and, consequently, having to live quite a repressed and isolated life.

See, growing up in an Asian household, I was brought up in a home where crying was intolerable, and that doing so would result in punishments. Due to our family reputation back home, too, I was essentially raised as a princess would. Don’t act this way, eat that way, talk this way, and sit that way. Don’t act out in public and always be presentable. Learn to fake facial expressions and circumstances even if it comes at the expense of my own feelings. Don’t get me wrong, I grew up comfortably… as Edna was at the start of the book. But as she and I both came to discover, this comfort comes with a cost. Though, while Edna had chosen to take control of her own fate, I think I’m going to let the flow of life take a hold of mine. And with that, I will end this blog with a poem I wrote once upon a time…

“tough be the surface
sunny did they see
deception they purchase
the heart floats to sea

chained be the lion
by fog they are blind
free as dandelion
numbness it confined

novelty it desiderates
oscillates with the waves
barricade ne’er liberates
so alive in its graves
”
— "causal nexus" by yours truly :)