The Whitney

Photo Credit: Alice Gibson

Walking through the plantation was an unforgettable experience. We did a self-guided audiobook tour, following a set of carefully curated instructions which led us around the plantation. The tour began with a memorial, dedicated to the enslaved persons on the Whitney. From here, I already knew that this tour would be different from anything we’ve done so far. The message was clear: this plantation tour is to be focused on the lived experiences and realities of the individuals who lived on the plantation, rather than focusing on making a comfortable, easy to digest tour. 


Following the memorial, we walked through the “titular” plantation elements. We passed under the enormous trees framing the luscious walkway, leading up to the home itself. Inside the home, we explored the amount of sheer luxury and leisure the slave owners held, with every facet being designed for their convenience and pleasure. Our tour truly began once we departed from the cool shade of the home, into the oppressive heat of the plantation grounds. The grounds were dotted with plenty of shade and benches for us to sit while listening to our audiobooks. However, I remained painfully reminded that this shade and rest granted to us was a privilege to enjoy, especially on these grounds. 

““I had not then learned the measure of “man’s inhumanity to man,” nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will go for the love of gain.” ”
— Solomon Northup

From there, we toured the various structures built for enslaved individuals. These were buildings dedicated to cooking, laundry, and blacksmithing. There was even a plantation store, operational up til less than a century ago, designed to financially entrap enslaved individuals into a work structure post emancipation. Enormous sugar vats dotted the walkway, reminiscent of the treacherous conditions these individuals were subjected to for the sole purpose of turning a profit for their white owners. I was especially moved by the final exhibits of the tour, a selection of statues and memorials. Each of these immortalized nuanced elements of enslavement, such as rebellion and family dynamics. The final memorial was wall after wall after wall of thousands of inscribed names and written experiences of enslaved African Americans, one of the largest of its kind.

The Whitney is meticulously constructed and curated to remember this horrible chapter of history. However, remembrance and retelling is an unbelievably complex topic, one which we have discussed in depth. We had the incredible opportunity to chat with one of the interpreters of the Whitney. He revealed how his dedication to history and interpretation stemmed from his Native American heritage and their particular emphasis on oral storytelling. He explored the various forms of storytelling in relation to the Whitney and the American story of enslavement as a whole, also referencing a whole collection of “plantation movies”. This in depth analysis into the very nature of storytelling reminds me closely of something written by Sarah Broom in her memoir, The Yellow House.

““Who has the rights to the story of a place? Are these rights earned, bought, fought and died for? Or are they given? Are they automatic, like an assumption? Self-renewing? Are these rights a token of citizenship belonging to those who stay in the place or to those who leave and come back to it? Does the act of leaving relinquish one’s rights to the story of a place? Who stays gone? Who can afford to return?” ”
— Sarah M. Broom

New Orleans is first and foremost a city obsessed about place. The French Quarter’s charm comes out of the history which runs its course through a place, prescribing it different architectural influences. The very city itself was erected to capitalize off of a strategically advantageous place. Enslaved individuals were forced to work and live in certain places, and even post emancipation were often trapped to those same places by an oppressive financial model. Place matters, particularly here in New Orleans. 

So who deserves to tell the story of a place like the Whitney? Who should? I left the experience with these two questions ringing in my mind. As I continue to educate myself on the topic of race in historical and contemporary America, I am increasingly cognisant of just how difficult the answer is. The idea of a place in history, as we know it, regularly changes the more we discover and analyze. Even the plantation tour itself was different a few years ago, the exhibits being in opposite order. Such a minor change makes all the difference in the overall experience of somewhere like the Whitney. However, I am also aware that such a change would never be approved without extensive research, dialogue, and consultation by a team of experts. The efforts of these sorts of experts are then appreciated by people such as myself who see the evident result of their hard work. As our interpreter emphasized, a story remains alive as long as it is told, thought about, and interacted with. 

““The mythology of New Orleans—that it is always the place for a good time; that its citizens are the happiest people alive, willing to smile, dance, cook, and entertain for you; that it is a progressive city open to whimsy and change—can sometimes suffocate the people who live and suffer under the place’s burden, burying them within layers and layers of signifiers, making it impossible to truly get at what is dysfunctional about the city.”
”
— Sarah M. Broom

I finish my reflection in the contemporary New Orleans which I’ve been living in for the past couple weeks. The glamor and intrigue of this city is most definitely a “burden”, as Broom asserts. Enslavement and racism is a fundamental building block to this city. The business district which our hotel is was the epicenter of it all, home to slave pens and industry fueled by unpaid labor. Our exploration of the city made the effects of systemic racism all too clear: from widespread gentrification to the still economically disenfranchised neighborhoods from Hurricane Katrina. 1000 words is not even close to enough words to explore the hardships and atrocities, but it is definitely a start of a lifetime of learning and listening which I am eager to continue. 

Real Life, Real People, Real Stories.

Having spent the past week exploring the mythical side of New Orleans, full of ghost stories and vampires, it became evident that this week has been completely different. Everything this week has been real, full of emotion everywhere I looked.

We started by watching 12 Years a Slave, which tells the real story of Solomon Northrop, a free man who was sold into slavery. This film was deeply moving as it highlighted the injustices that were faced. Having only read about slavery, it became much more prevalent for me after the film and the visit to Whitney Plantation. Walking around the land and seeing the terrible living conditions that these people faced was eye-opening. For me, the most moving part was the statues of the children who once lived on the plantation and the harsh realities of their lives. We were given lanyards with someone's name and information. Henrietta Butler spent her childhood on the plantation before she was set free in 1864 under the Constitution.

"I was born in slavery. I'se not ashamed to tell it either and knows somethin' about it."

The audio at the end of the tour explained that this was not to make people feel sad but to educate. I realized how important it was for people to tell their stories—from Solomon, Henrietta, and Sarah.

The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom is an autobiography and the first book of this trip that I couldn’t put down. She details her mother’s life and her own, throughout the years as she shares her story. The struggles she has had with defining home, whether it is a place or the people. She shares with us, the audience, what matters most to her.

“When people tell you their stories, they can say whatever they want.”
— Sarah M. Broom

Clyde’s Bar

What someone shares with you matters. I had the pleasure of stumbling upon a bar with Mardi Gras colors on the walls and chairs, and pictures of a dog on every wall. I got talking to the man sitting next to me, who turned out to be the owner. He told me that it had been his dream to open a bar his entire life, and he finally did it in December after moving to New Orleans 30 years ago from San Francisco. He introduced us to Clyde, his dog, who is also the name of the place and the face on the walls. While I didn’t get his name, I got his story. When he asked what brought me to New Orleans, I explained Bookpacking. He got excited and said that A Confederacy of Dunces was his favorite book and it inspired him to move here.

On a ride back to the hotel, the Lyft driver Terrance shared that he was born in the Bayou an hour outside the city but has since moved to New Orleans. His passion for the place he calls home was inspiring, as he provided recommendations and ideas that we might enjoy for the rest of our time here. What stuck out to me most was how he talked about his friends: “When you meet a friend in New Orleans, that’s a lifelong friend.” This made me think of my home, the Isle of Man, where I have been lucky enough to make lifelong friends from the age of three.

Expression is another form of storytelling, providing an insight into who you are. I observed this firsthand at Preservation Jazz Hall during a performance where improv was a large part of the music. They worked together to highlight every single player during the performance, giving everyone the spotlight to express themselves through music. From the trombone to the piano, they managed to draw the attention of everyone in that room, despite the unwavering heat.

Earlier in the week, I had been to a drag show, where I watched the queens express themselves through dance moves and skills. The confidence and love for what they did shined through. The energy throughout the hour-long performance was never lost. I was left incredibly impressed and in awe of the talent and skill that it takes for both the drag queens and the jazz musicians.

This has made me think about what I would share, what’s my story? Is it where I came from, my family, my friends? Sarah grapples with what it meant to leave "home"—New Orleans for her—and how it changed her. I couldn’t help but notice that people often share where they came from in conversations I had, from San Francisco to the Bayou.

“What the gone away-from-home person learns are not the details that compose a life, but the headlines
”
— Sarah M. Broom

I find myself relating. Having chosen to go to university so far away from home, I find myself missing and at times regretting being so far away. I worry about the events I’m missing or the dates I’m forgetting, but I can’t let this control me or define me.

“I did not yet understand the psychic cost of defining oneself by the place where you are from.”
— Sarah M. Broom

My story is not the Isle of Man, but it has shaped who I am, influenced the ways I behave and view the world, and I think this is no different from Sarah and her relationship to New Orleans. I think a place does not define one’s story but instead informs it.

I still don’t know what I would say my story is. It is something that is forever changing and evolving. Perhaps my story is rooted in performance, like the musicians and drag queens. Having studied and been a part of theatre my whole life, I hold a deep connection to it. Maybe my story isn’t written or through words like that of Sarah. This week has taught me the importance of listening and learning from the people around you. These people inform a place; it is only through people that a place’s story can be told.

Resilient Rhythms of New Orleans

Driving into the Whitney Plantation, I felt a mix of nervousness and excitement. The history embedded in this place was palpable, and flipping through the pages of "The Fiery Trial" by Eric Foner deepened my sense of reverence and curiosity. Speaking with the guide after the tour, I learned about the shop on the plantation, which closed in 1975 during the civil rights movement. This made me ponder the transformation of plantations from sites of slavery to symbols of resilience. Hosting weddings on these grounds, as the guide explained, symbolized power and wealth. But I saw a deeper potential—these sites could become powerful symbols of struggle, resilience, and ultimate victory, reflecting the strength of generations of enslaved people. A place for Black Resilience, Black Marriage, and celebration.

Monday, May 27th, was a day of profound experiences. City Park in New Orleans was breathtaking, a stark contrast to the Lower 9th Ward's unfulfilled promises post-Hurricane Katrina. The degradation outside the houses, juxtaposed with newly constructed ones, was a sobering sight. Some pictures humorously asked Brad Pitt to fulfill his promises, using GoFundMe QR codes to highlight the exorbitant repair costs. Amidst this, the investment in Musicians' Village by Qatar rekindled hope, reminding me of Buddy Bolden and the undying spirit of jazz that permeates this city. That evening, the sweltering heat of Preservation Hall was offset by the joyous sounds of jazz, a testament to the city's resilience.

Standing outside William T. Frantz School, I was struck by the weight of history. This all-white school, central to the desegregation efforts post-Brown v. Board of Education, was where Ruby Bridges bravely faced relentless racism at just six years old. Her story is both heartbreaking and commendable, reflecting the resistance to desegregation—much like the resistance seen during the Capitol riots on January 6th. Nearby, a memorial for those lost to natural disasters highlighted the city's enduring spirit. Water, both a sustaining and destructive force, often goes unexamined in its true potential—much like the underlying causes of climate change, which I define as the rapid rate of temperature changes outpacing regional adaptation.

Visiting the site of "The Yellow House" at 4121 Wilson Avenue brought Sarah Broom's words to life. The absence of the house, where water first breached during Hurricane Katrina, echoed her sentiment: “Look like nothing was ever there.” This loss, compounded by the scattering of her family, highlighted the fragmentation of both her family and the broader community. Broom’s reflection on the abandoned Six Flags amusement park symbolized the decay and abandonment that parts of New Orleans still face. Seeing a freshly painted yellow house nearby, I felt a mix of nervousness and joy as children shouted, "Papa is here," when Andrew rang the doorbell. The 4121 painted on the sidewalk stood as a testament to the enduring memory of literature and history in New Orleans East.

Our stop at the abandoned amusement park in East New Orleans was both eerie and fascinating. The guard’s reluctant opening of the gate, and the unexpected meeting with Elvin Ross, producer for Tyler Perry, revealed the park's potential for film shoots. This made me envision a restored amusement park, a beacon of economic revival and community spirit, much like the revitalized upper 9th Ward. I imagined what could be built here to benefit the people, the city, and the district.

City Park, with its elevated houses and beautiful scenery, was a stark contrast to East New Orleans. Sitting by the water at City Park, I felt a sense of renewal and hope. The Mediterranean meal at Mona’s Café, with its blend of new and old flavors, was the perfect culmination of the day. Watching people swim and canoe, I imagined a future where I could own a house on Moss Street, overlooking the lake terrace.

Inside a Slave Pen Cell where ensalved individuals were chained

By the shore at City Park

Yesterday’s visit to Preservation Hall, despite the moldy smell of the city en route, was a highlight. A conversation with our Uber driver, Chris, a barber and part-time trombone player, revealed how rideshare had become his economic lifeline as music gigs paid less over the years. This underscored the importance of music and arts not just to the city’s identity but also to its economic fabric, where many rely on tips due to low wages in an expensive, tourist-driven economy. His license plate said ‘CUTHAIR’ instead of a number - reflecting his part-time work.

Walking back with Irina one night from the Shop, we observed the city's nocturnal transformation. The music-blasting cyclist and the rats scurrying about captured the essence of New Orleans’ duality—a normal city by day, a lively, almost surreal place by night. This contrast reminded me of the characters in "Interview with the Vampire," where the city itself becomes a character, transforming with the darkness.

New Orleans is a city of contrasts, resilience, and history. From the painful memories of slavery at the Whitney Plantation to the vibrant sounds of jazz at Preservation Hall, every step in this journey has been a blend of past and present, joy and sorrow. As Buddy Bolden’s spirit lingers in the air, so does the hope and resilience of this incredible city.

“Distance lends perspective, but it can also shade, misinterpret” (Broom). Remembering the past while experiencing the present has given me a deeper understanding of New Orleans—a place where history and modernity coexist in a perpetual dance, much like the jazz that defines it.

Home Is Not a Place

I’ve been in Louisiana for about two weeks and as much as I’m enjoying myself, I really can’t stop thinking about how I can’t wait to return to California. I was born and raised in California and have never lived anywhere else, nor have I wanted to; I actually don’t know if I’ll ever leave.

Maybe it's the suffocating humidity, or the fact that this is the longest I’ve been away from home, but I find that I’m irritable. I miss all the people and pets and places that were common sights for me to see everyday, I miss my house and my own bed and, most of all, I miss the familiarity and routine that I had, all the way across the country. I miss my mom.

It feels selfish, to be in a new place and have the ability to experience so many new things and to still want to go home, but it’s how I feel. I’ve found that I’ve hit a wall; I still enjoy the city, but I feel as if I’ve been here so long, which I think can be reflected in my work. But I do feel that that is the reality of traveling and being away from home. I reflect on the people who call this place home and how every year they deal with intense heat and an unpredictable hurricane season, a season I’ll only narrowly miss when I leave for home in the beginning of June. Hurricanes have always been a far off thought in my mind, something I’ve always heard of but never experienced. Nothing new for the locals.

Being very studious at CC’s. The Moviegoer on hand.

I’ve been keeping busy with reading, exploring, and, of course, these blogs. Reading a book in the same place that it’s set in is an interesting feeling; I’m sitting in the place someone has written about, clearly a place that was important to them in some way. Currently, I’m sitting in CC’s Coffee House, the same one in which Sarah M. Broom worked over a summer when she was still living in New Orleans. She briefly mentions this in her memoir The Yellow House, learning the ins and outs of the French Quarter from her older brother. I think about my older brother.

I’ve done a lot of thinking during this trip, mostly about my future. When I’m alone or find myself awake late at night I think about if this is how the rest of my life is going to go; I miss home, I miss my family, but I have to grow up and be on my own. I miss my dad. I grew up with only one sibling, unlike Sarah’s 11 other siblings. I was the youngest, the focus of my parents then and still now. We’re all very close which has made this trip all the more difficult. My brother is 10 years older than me so I had a similar experience to someone who is an only child; to this day, I’m bad at sharing. This also made me appreciate solitude.

Being alone is not something I’ve had much experience with on this trip; everywhere I’m surrounded by friends or my roommate (hi Alice!). To clarify, I’m not complaining, but this is something different for me.

“... tourists are passing by in an air-conditioned bus snapping images of your personal destruction”
— Sarah M. Broom

The lot where the yellow house once stood.

Recently, we took a trip to New Orleans East, the part of the city where Sarah grew up. We visited the short end of Wilson Avenue and saw what used to be the yellow house that she lived in with her family. To me, home is invincible; it can withstand everything, but that’s not the case. To see an empty lot where a home once stood is a strange feeling that leaves you sitting with a strange pit in your stomach. Someone used to live there, that was someone’s safe place once and now, there is only an empty spot. I felt slightly embarrassed at the way we were looking at the lot, a bit like a tourist looking at the destruction of a place, similar to tourism after Katrina. I have to wonder how Sarah would feel about us looking at the place she used to live. I can’t place myself in Sarah’s shoes and imagine how she must feel knowing the house she grew up in is gone.

At the risk of sounding self centered, I think about the houses I’ve lived in throughout my life. At one time, these places were my home. Everytime I left I couldn’t wait to return because that’s where my life was. They are now strange structures to me; unfamiliar yet I know everything about them inside. I have no right to go inside them anymore, but they once held my stuff, my memories, and me. An empty structure to me once I vacated, but to someone else it is where their family is, where they feel safe.

“The house was there, and then it wasn’t. That’s strange, how something could be and then it’s not”
— Sarah M. Broom

Sitting in the back of Terrence’s car. Meg and Alice are also there!

I don’t think I’ll ever call New Orleans home, but to some people it is the best place they’ve ever lived. I had the pleasure of catching a Lyft home with a driver named Terrence, a very talkative man which was a pleasant surprise; I’ve found many of the Lyft drivers here to be very quiet and keep to themselves, as is their right, but sometimes conversation is nice. He mentioned that he was born in the bayou, but moved to New Orleans as soon as he turned 18 and hasn’t looked back. He said he loves living here; the culture, the music, the food, you’ll never find anything like it. His positivity made me feel abundantly better about being away from home; although it's not my home, New Orleans is home to so many people who love it and would never leave, which is something I can understand.

Although I’ve been talking about places, I don’t think home is one specific place or thing. I think about Terrence whose home was in the bayou and is now in New Orleans. I think about my mom whose home was Mexico and is now California. Home is an ever-changing thing; it is not one place or one person, but something that adapts. I think about Sarah. Her mother made a home for her and her siblings, one that is now gone, but the concept remains. Home is your family, whether found or by blood.

“The house was my beginnings”
— Sarah M. Broom

I think this whole blog is to say I miss my family. And friends. A lot. While I grow a bit sad at the idea that home is still a few days away, I find pockets of joy. Terrence’s positivity was a welcome interaction, one that I did not expect to impact me in any way, but here we are. While home is adaptive and rarely does our home remain in one spot the entire time, it is a constant factor in our lives. I’m grateful for the home I have and I can’t wait to return to it. But for now, there is still exploring and reading to be done.

From the Edge

Past the feeling of restlessness that is hidden within the marshes, beyond the lily pads and pond skaters, there is New Orleans. Eeriness veils the heavy air. I get called ‘baby,’ ‘ma’am,’ and ‘miss mamas.’ There is a waft of musk mixed with sweat and smoke and soap. It is where the strange and the peculiar reside.

A small French courtyard.

My head is on fire. It is my first morning in New Orleans. The French Quarter is hot and humid and sticky. I wear Yves Saint Laurent (Libre, to be precise), which finds itself unable to penetrate the atmosphere. Notes of lavender, orange blossom, and white tea accord—just cannot compare. 

The streets are crooked and misshapen; narrow paths that are cobbled and lined with moss. I hear the clack clack clack of clattering feet and hooves. There are bloodied pelicans and sickly pigeons and inky crows. Beads hang from the scraggly limbs of trees that cast shade. Pots are perched precariously on iron-wrought galleries. The fountains and fences are French. Wisps of flame take up space inside black lanterns. Church bells ring every hour. All I see is pastel stucco; cornflower blue or banana brûlée yellow or powder pink. Occasionally I find speckled caladiums. Everything reminds me of Mexico.

I walk around in a slight daze. It is my third morning in New Orleans. A deep pounding resides in my chest; the heart a tremor. I feel like running past the sun; in a desperate, morose way. Just running and running.

““But this sadness was not painful, nor was it passionate. It was something rich, however, and almost sweet, like the fragrance of the jasmine and the roses that crowded the old courtyard garden which I saw through the iron gates. And this sadness gave a subtle satisfaction and held me a long time in that spot; and it held me to the city; and it didn’t really leave me that night when I went away.””
— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

Mary—my, oh my.

At the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum, the trembling stops. My heart is at ease and at a gentle rest. Portraits of priestesses mark the thin walls. I stop by the sculptures to take a look. Carved figurines are standing still and firm; made from teeth and shells by the Ekoi people. In another room, there are working altars set and displayed; saints closely surround and guard the center. Candles and crucifixes are adorned with dollar bills, particularly on the main altar. It’s me and Mary. I leave some coins on the lace mantel scarf.

I approach the altar made for Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. She’s a healer, it says on the display. Using the sheet of paper I was given earlier, I write down a few requests for her. I stuff and wrap a few more coins before tucking it away on a small stump, knocking at it nine times (one of my lucky numbers). Closing my eyes, I begin to pray. Do I believe? I would like to.

““It was as if the very air were perfumed and peculiar there, and I felt an extraordinary ease walking on those warm, flat pavements, under those familiar oaks, and listening to the ceaseless vibrant living sounds of the night.””
— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

The heat follows us well into the night. The moon is hung high. I follow my tour guide, hoping to dance with ghosts. I find no such thing, but the shadow of Jesus on the back of the St. Louis Cathedral; its silhouette nearly touching the sky. We continue walking, passing through a crowded alleyway. It smells like sweat and smoke and soap. “Pirate’s Alley,” she says. Of course.

The ceiling of the St. Louis Cathedral.

Near Muriel’s in Jackson Square, we listen to stories of the ghost that haunts the establishment, a spirit named Pierre. A small table is set out for him to eat. For a $50 reservation, anyone can join him for dinner and some wine. Someone in our group claims to have snapped a picture of what looks to be an orb; the ghost of Pierre. We gather to look at the picture as the phone moves around from person to person. I inch my face closer, aiming it towards the screen. It looks like a glare or speck of dust to me.

As the tour closes and I make the walk back to the hotel, I hear faint whispering in my ear. I look back—and no one is around.

On a Saturday, I make the effort to explore Bourbon nightlife. I set out to find the secret vampire bar that is only accessible by password. I quietly slip away from my cohort, leaving them at the Cat’s Meow. I walk over to the bar next door, a snazzy and densely crowded pub named Fritzel’s. A jazz band booms. I move towards the back, exiting a rotten-looking door.

In the outdoor corridor, I find a fellow dressed in black sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette. He looks up at me silently, his eyes piercing my skin. Hair wavy, long, and disheveled, as if he had been sleeping in deep, green waters. I tell him the password. He presses me for more. I add that I received it from Boutique du Vampyre. We make further eye contact; his eyes an electric blue. I tell him I have no other thing to give to him. “Then there is nothing for you here,” he says. I nod, turning back towards the pub in shame.

I like your nose, Nosferatu.

That had been my first mistake—lying to a vampire.

On a Monday, I make my way to the French Quarter for my tarot reading, scheduled at 6 pm. I come across Boutique du Vampyre, land of vampire galore. I quickly scan the shop, chatting up the shop employee. I leave with no password.

Inside Voodoo Authentica, the walls are painted an ochre red. They are covered in feathers, African masks, jewelry, beaded tapestry, and other Haitian trinkets. The shop is fragrant and aromatic. While I wait, I ask the employee a few questions regarding their gris gris (talismans). He manages to pronounce my name correctly; the only person to do so. The reader then calls me for my reading.

I sit down and introduce myself. Before the reading starts, she prepares by dousing me in Florida Water, spraying it all over my hands. It smells aquatic; citrusy. It lingers. My finger had a small cut; the scent of the wound masked by orange blossom. She begins to shuffle.

“You are an old soul,” she says. I nod.

“And you’re in your head too much,” she adds. I nod again, this time quicker; a little more colorfully.

As I leave the shop, a lone saxophonist starts to play.

Everywhere, Ghosts

On our ghost tour, our guide warns us that New Orleans is a haunted city. Ghosts are everywhere, she tells us, roaming throughout the French Quarter, taking up residence in apartments, in old hotels, in alleyways. Her stories are fantastical and sensationalized, the kind of stories you tell after dark holding a flashlight under your chin: stories about jilted lovers, vengeful murders, corpses stuffed away in trunks.

She’s right, to a degree: New Orleans is haunted. But when I think of the ghosts that linger here, I don’t think of any of the tall tales that our tour guide spouted. I don’t think of apparitions through windows or phantoms crawling on ceilings. This is a city haunted by its own dark, treacherous history.

““The historicized past is everywhere I walk in my daily rituals.””
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

What used to be a cotton factory in the Business District

In her memoir The Yellow House, Sarah M. Broom is all too aware of the inescapable “historicized past” of New Orleans. In previous blog posts I have described how this city has a sort of immortal life; how, walking through the streets, it’s impossible not to look at all of the dated architecture without being instantly transported to times of the past.

But this has a cutting double edge; that past is rooted in racial tensions that stretch all the way back to its foundations. This is glaringly, horrifyingly apparent on our walking tour through the Business District, mere streets away from our hotel. Our walk is brief and short, lasting less than fifteen minutes, but along the way we stop again and again for Andrew to inform us that there was once a slave pen on this corner, and this corner, and this one, and here, too.

I stop counting after the first few, unable to wrap my mind around this. Every day we walk these streets back to our hotel, where we are promised comfort, privacy, beds to sleep on for the next beautiful morning in New Orleans; and, every day, we pass by these sites where people once lived in unthinkable conditions, their humanity stripped from them completely. For the past couple weeks I’ve been reveling in the beauty and the glory of New Orleans’s history, thrilled to report back to my family about all the buildings and places that have been here forever. But this history suddenly takes on its full weight, baring ugly, jagged teeth.

““When a person dies in a place they become the place and nothing is ever the same again.””
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

I feel those teeth sinking into me the moment I set foot in the Whitney Plantation. It is deceptively, sickeningly beautiful: ivy grows thick on winding trees, shrubs line brick pathways. Colorful birds skip by, chirping and singing, and I can’t help but think of how wrong it is that birds should sing in a place like this, as if they could know the kinds of horrors that took place here a century ago.

I feel the ghosts here in The Whitney Plantation possibly more than anywhere else. They’re everywhere, making themselves immediately present at the Wall of Honor, which bears the names of hundreds of people who were enslaved on the Whitney. I try to read as many as I can, knowing that I won’t remember them all, and this fact horrifies me.

The Wall of Honor is one of many memorials at the Whitney; the ones that stick and sting in my chest the most are the Slave Revolt Memorial, dedicated to the enslaved individuals who were killed after organizing an uprising on the German Coast of Louisiana, as well as the Field of Angels, dedicated to the thousands of enslaved children who died in St. John the Baptist Parish.

The Wall of Honor

The Slave Revolt Memorial (thank you to Alice for these photos)

These memorials are somber reminders of the past—and reminders don’t feel adequate enough. There are no memorials or reminders or words that feel big enough to capture the pain and the scale and the tragedy of the South’s enslaved history; although we try, we can never fully remember these experiences that we never lived through, and therefore will never fully understand. As I walk through the Whitney, I stop focusing on remembering, and instead I try not to forget.

William Frantz Elementary: one of the first desegregated elementary schools in the Deep South

““The mythology of New Orleans—that it is always the place for a good time; that its citizens are the happiest people alive, willing to smile, dance, cook, and entertain for you; that it is a progressive city open to whimsy and change—can sometimes suffocate the people who live and suffer under the place’s burden.””
— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

And this is the wild, sad phenomenon of New Orleans: returning to the city, it’s difficult not to forget. Everywhere, people seem so intent on convincing you that this is the place to be, selling stuffed alligators, dancing in parades, playing live jazz throughout the streets. For a city with a history that is so entrenched in shame, there’s a great deal of pride everywhere you go. I wonder if this is almost a way of compensating for all of the tragedy, or maybe more accurately, of coping with it. Sarah Broom puts it into words far better than I can: “Everything was life and death; if you didn’t laugh you could die inside, too.”

I think back to our walk through the Garden District—one of the richer, whiter neighborhoods in New Orleans—where, despite the beauty and elegance and upkeep of the mansions, so many of the sidewalks were uneven, ruptured with oak trees whose wild, stretching roots couldn’t be contained under concrete. New Orleans is a lot like this, I think; all of its beauty is built on the roots of deep trauma and melancholy, and those roots spill out everywhere, erupting through cracks. But the people here go on building—building families and lives and communities, building on top of all of this—building anyway.

Death was close to life

NEW ORLEANS, HERE WE COME!

The gazebo in Houma next to Jeaux’s Cafe

I was grateful for Grand Isle, but I was ready for the city. Off we go to New Orleans. But first, a stop at Houma for a quick coffee and some beignets at Downtown Jeaux Coffee Cafe. The one word I would use to describe our drive to Houma would be discovery. Bits of Houma made me feel at home. The beignets reminded me of an Armenian fried dough pastry called "ponchik". Right in fron of the cafe, I saw a gazebo! Lorelai, where are you? My favorite comfort show, Gilmore Girls, has a gazebo where many important moments take place, such as (SPOILER ALERT) the main character Lorelai’s long-awaited kiss with Luke. Houma welcomed me with open arms.

After an hour of downtime at the coffee shop, a few of us broke off to venture around the city. Something sinister caught my eye. A graveyard next to a Catholic school. I had to go closer. As we walked by the graveyard we saw a few cars parked on the street, waiting to pick up their kids from school. Parents parked next to a graveyard to pick up their kids. It was a real life paradox.

One of my worst fears is losing a family member. Much to my discomfort, in Louisiana, death was so close to life. Huge cemeteries right next to schools, houses, shopping places. It was almost like death didn’t have a negative connotation. This was my first introduction to gothic southern Louisiana, a prelude to the king of everything gothic, New Orleans. 

“Over and over I dreamed that he was at the head of the steps and I was holding his arm, talking kindly to him, urging him back into the bedroom, telling him gently that I did believe him, that he must pray for me to have faith.”
— Louis in Interview with the Vampire

Graveyard next to St. Francis De Sales Cathedral School in Houma

We entered the cemetery. Walking through it, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Louis’s brother’s death. At the beginning of Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice, Louis has a hard time accepting his brother’s death. He feels responsible for his death. He feels the creeping shadow that often follows grief: regret. Louis had laughed at his brother’s devotion to God. He had rejected his brother’s visions and had refused to partake in them. I felt sheer discomfort reading through this section, just as I had felt walking through that cemetery. I started thinking about my family and immediately shut down those thoughts. Death is terrifying for me. Living with grief is frightening. Add a sprinkle of regret and … hard to imagine living with grief and regret at the same time.

Interestingly, the way Louis responded to grief was getting closer to death, involuntarily. He got attacked and became a vampire. He saw Lestat kill. He saw Claudia kill. And he eventually killed. By this point, the novel felt less real. My mind exited the real world and entered a fantastical dark world. A gothic escape called New Orleans. As we got to Jackson Square, the gothic images were incessant. If I had a dollar for every time I saw a Voodoo shop I would retire tomorrow. Death was almost glorified. The vampire cafe with its “Blood bag” drink. The voodoo museum with its sinister images that attracted many tourists. The “friendly ghosts” that roam around Jackson Square. Death was close to life in New Orleans but I was no longer afraid. It almost reminded me of Louis’s parallel journey with death, transforming from avoiding it to taking part in it. 

“I never saw a living, pulsing human being until I was a vampire; I never knew what life was until it ran out in a red gush over my lips, my hands!”
— Louis in Interview with the Vampire

Horse-drawn carriage in the French Quarter

This theme of glorification of death followed me everywhere I went in southern Louisiana. One day, Daniela and I were preparing to go to The Shop to read when we ran into Kevin, the manager of the Lafayette Hotel we are staying at in the Central Business District. He started asking us about our day and by the end of the conversation, we had somehow plunged into a 20-minute snapshot of the culture shock he experienced when moving to New Orleans. He was reminiscing on the first funeral he went to. A minute into the topic he mentioned “jazz funeral”. A jazz funeral!? Wow, there was nothing intuitive about this city. There was young Kevin, astonished at what seemed like a festival accompanying the dead into the grave. During a jazz funeral, after the body is deposited into the ground, a jazz procession follows that signifies a celebration of life. I was intrigued. Here I am, terrified of death, avoiding the thought of it any chance I get while there was a whole culture out there playing jazz during someone’s burial, celebrating the life the person lived. This concept was incredibly eye-opening. At some point in Interview with the Vampire, in a heated discussion with Lestat about their vampire nature, Louis has an epiphany. He realizes he appreciates life so much more now, having taken part in taking it away. On a similar note, one must celebrate life before it’s too late. Let the celebration of life after death not be the first and only time we celebrate life.

“It’s funny when you’re dead how people start listening.”
— Song "If I Die Young" by The Band Perry

St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square

But bits of the city brought back the creeping discomfort. New Orleans was also like a real life paradox. As we first stepped foot in Jackson Square, a grand structure looked down on me. St Louis Cathedral. A cathedral in the midst of dark imagery, how ironic. As a Christian, I had been avoiding anything Voodoo simply because of the discomfort I felt. But on the day we went to the Voodoo Museum, I decided to try the experience. Walking inside, I felt like an “other” again. But feeling like an “other” was no longer a source of discomfort. As I mentioned before, it was a sign that I was growing closer to my true self. I was growing closer to faith and with that came the feeling of not fitting in. And I am ok with that. I long to fully find myself. And be unapologetically myself. Stick to my core beliefs, just like Louis’s brother did. He died being true to himself.

“...he never wavered in his conviction for a second.”
— Louis in Interview with the Vampire

Mortals Amongst the Immortal

An example of the architectural style in the French Quarter

“There was no city in America like New Orleans.”
— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

This is one of my initial thoughts when I arrived in the city. I could not put my finger on it at first, but New Orleans feels familiar yet foreign to me. On our first day walking around town, I thought to myself that this city resembles a blend of other cities I have visited. The Central Business District reminds me of New York City, Canal Street resembles Hollywood Blvd and the Las Vegas Strip, and the French Quarter has the qualities of a French/Spanish neighborhood town. 

I am sitting here writing this blog one week later, and I still feel like I have barely scratched the surface on things to do and see here. Yet, there is also a feeling that I have been here for months, even years! The amount of rich history that exists here is extensive and the evidence of it lies within the gas lit lanterns that hang outside homes and shops, old oaks and trees adorned with Spanish moss, weathered cobblestone sidewalks, and structures showing off their faded pastel colors.

There is a timeless charm about the city. With centuries of history seamlessly stitched together, New Orleans itself shows signs of immortality, making it the perfect home for… You guessed it… Vampires! Before this course, Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire was one of the books I was looking forward to reading the most since I’ve watched the AMC TV series adaptation, but I just never got around to reading the actual books. And boy, what a different experience it was. 

Since we started reading the book before we left Grand Isle, I was relying on Rice’s descriptions of New Orleans and the swamps to conjure up the setting in my head. Thankfully, one of our little detours before entering the city was a swamp tour. This activity was the one I was anticipating the most because 1) I have never seen an alligator before in my life and 2) my favorite animal is a raccoon and the tour site promised that I was guaranteed to see them. My only preconceptions of swamps were based on what I have seen so far from looking out of the van window and from films/television. Let’s just say the swamp tour did not disappoint. I was instantly entranced by the tall cypress trees draped with Spanish moss making it look like they came straight off of a postcard. The murky waters were completely still other than the ripples caused by the boat and alligators swimming nearby. The surrounding air was filled with an earthy musk and sat heavily with a little breeze of air every now and then so it was not entirely suffocating. And… the sounds. I am not used to cicadas, and I know they are not popular amongst the locals, but their persistent hum almost acted like a heartbeat for the swamp. Mixed with the soft croaks of frogs and faint cries of birds flying overhead, I believe they brought the scenery to life. There is an eerie tranquility about the swamp, the sights and sounds lure you in and tuck you away from the rest of the world.

“And there were the sounds of the swamp, a chorus of creatures, the cry of birds. I think we loved it.”
— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

New Orleans has a way of reminding you about life and death everywhere you go. In the swamp, you can see and hear life through the luscious greens and sounds of animals, but also you are reminded of death through knocked down trees and lurking predators (e.g. alligators) who are always on the hunt for their next meal. As you move into the city, the same principles apply. Life in the city is apparent in its people, live music, and parade celebrations whereas death creeps up on you when you pass by cemeteries and haunted landmarks. However, I have observed that death is not feared here but rather embraced. Notably, I was eager to get the chance to learn about the history of Voodoo and Voodoo practices. Originating from African countries and Hatian regions with elements of Catholicism, the practice of Voodoo adds to the cultural mythos of New Orleans. The affinity between the natural and spiritual worlds is the foundation for this religion. Practitioners of Voodoo are known to call upon spirits and ancestors through rituals and offerings in order to seek healing, advice, or protection. Even though it has no direct ties with Vampirism, I still believe they are intertwined with one another. Yes, they both contribute to the folklore that makes up the city, but they also both align with themes of immortality. Voodoo practitioners achieve a sense of spiritual immortality by connecting with spirits and ancestors while Vampirism relates to immortality in a more literal sense by drinking the blood of the living to defy death.  

In Interview with the Vampire I enjoy the parts where Anne Rice brings up conversations surrounding mortality versus immortality and the moral burdens that come with everlasting life. It is not something that you think about and question every day. If you were offered the chance to be immortal, would you accept? In my humble opinion, immortality is straight up scary. I understand that we only have one life to live and there are no do overs, but I just cannot mentally comprehend living forever and “aging” along with the times. I sympathize with Louis’ internal struggles with the moral implications about living forever and the overwhelming guilt that comes with taking away the lives of other humans to sustain his own. Lestat, on the other hand, views human life as disposable and embraces his immortality since it has been over a century that he was a human himself. The novel really implores its readers to ask themselves which kind of vampire they would be – a Louis or a Lestat.

“Evil is a point of view. We are immortal… God kills, and so shall we… for no creatures under God are as we are, none so like Him as ourselves, dark angels not confined to the stinking limits of hell but wandering His earth and all its kingdoms.”
— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

The shadow of Jesus Christ on the back of the St. Louis Cathedral overlooking Bourbon Street

So far, I understand why people love to visit New Orleans. There is a palpable allure that attracts tourists from all corners of the world. 

Life and death. 

The natural and supernatural. 

Mortal and immortal.

All of the above are building blocks of the city, an intoxicating epicenter for sin and salvation.

“I might never leave New Orleans. But then, what are such thoughts when you can live forever? Never leave New Orleans ‘again?’ Again seemed like a human word.”
— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

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

City of Vampires

I have relied on TV and film as an escape for as long as I can remember. I would come home after school and escape into various landscapes, different times, and new cities each night on my screen. I fell in love with the ability to lose myself and be immersed somewhere else in the world. New Orleans had become a place I thought I knew well after watching The Originals with my sister during the pandemic. I became captivated by vampires and all things mythical, but I had never been able to experience this place until now.

On my first day in New Orleans, halfway through Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice, I became invested in the characters, excited to see the city through the eyes of Louis and the eerie atmosphere Rice portrays. Armed with my prior knowledge of the city, I was patiently waiting for the mystery and dark undertones the city holds. Having never feared ghost stories or menacing creatures, I developed a fascination with vampires. From Dracula to Twilight and modern shows like The Vampire Diaries, I enjoyed the slight variations in supernatural creatures. Rice’s vampires provided depth and emotion while still managing to evoke fear in the world around them.

“There was something forever savage and primitive there, something that threatened the exotic and sophisticated life both from within and without.”
— Anne Rice

I went searching for the darkness in New Orleans that the shows and Rice depict. However, I was left disappointed, or so I thought. I discovered the beauty of this city through hidden entryways. Behind rusted metallic gates that acted as bars for the light peeking out from them, lay a contrast with the vibrancy of green. Fountains in the middle were surrounded by bricks leading up to them. The vividness of the bushes, the buds of flowers, and the trees provided quiet moments in this bustling city.

Croissant D’Or courtyard

Moments of magic were felt. On the first day in the city, sweaty and tired from the intense heat after walking around, we looked for food. The French Quarter was packed, tourists filling the streets, making it nearly impossible to get in anywhere for lunch. We found ourselves at the edge of the quarter, the street suddenly bare and quiet. Along this residential street, tucked away amongst the rows of houses, stood a coffee shop. Croissant D’Or saw us all relieved as we were met with the cool air conditioning and refreshing tranquility found in the courtyard. We had found a hidden gem. Since then, I have tried to return but have been met with closed doors twice, despite the website saying it is open. Perhaps it was luck that we found it that day, or maybe something else.

During the days, we explored the city, from the mansions in the Garden District, visiting Anne Rice’s house, searching for cowboy boots on Magazine Street, and admiring the architecture of the Quarter and St. Louis Cathedral. I had fun exploring this city with my friends, but still, something was missing. It didn’t feel like the New Orleans that Rice had painted for me.

“The moon that rose over New Orleans then still rises.”
— Anne Rice

Klaus Mikaelson’s house

That was until one night, just after sunset, I ventured out, and suddenly my body tensed. Crows were flying above, cawing as if producing warning cries. The humid weather provided a never-ending heat, but the breeze did nothing to chill. The lights overhanging buildings, still with a gas flame, flickered in the night as I watched the shadows of trees dance on the ground. It was everything I had imagined and more. I began to picture the apartment Louis and Lestat lived in on Royal Street, the corner Claudia ran off to cry, and the places they’d stepped. New Orleans suddenly became the perfect place for vampires to be.

During a ghost tour of the French Quarter, we walked around the streets, quieter than I thought, with only streetlamps and shadows of people around the corners, creating a more sinister feeling as people analyzed their pictures to see if they captured any ghosts. I found myself excited as the tour guide pointed out filming locations of The Originals. Suddenly, what I had seen on the screen was in front of me; I had arrived at my perception of this city.

“In which a vampire, richly dressed and gracefully walking through the pools of light of one gas lamp after another might attract no more notice in the evening than hundreds of other exotic creatures.”
— Anne Rice

Band on Frenchmen Street

While the fear that darkness often brings exists, I saw another side of this city. Bourbon Street was lit up with neon lights and upbeat tourists. On Frenchmen Street, local musicians performed on the street. As I listened to one of the bands, a man with a trumpet joined in, not a part of the band but welcomed as if he was. The spirit and culture of this city can’t help but leave you smiling.

This city is multifaceted, offering something for everyone, with history and culture in every corner. But if there is one thing I must recommend, it is seeing this city at night. How one street can be so full of life with music bouncing off the walls while another may be empty with only those gas lamps to guide you. While I can’t guarantee that you will see ghosts or vampires, there is still something eerie down those dark alleyways. Who knows, maybe it is Lestat.

love and beauty in a tragic and finite existence

“New Orleans, though beautiful and desperately alive, was desperately fragile. There was something forever savage and primitive there. Something that threatened the exotic and sophisticated life both from within and without. ”
— Anne Rice

Nothing about this city makes sense. The city is quite literally under the water which surrounds it. It’s surrounded by swamps and alligators and way too many mosquitos. It’s constantly battered by storms and hurricanes. Yet through it all, the region has always been occupied, whether by Americans or Europeans or the Indigenous Peoples to the land. Despite it being so utterly inhospitable, there have always been people who have tamed the land, forcing life into it regardless of its circumstances. How vampiric. 

We spent the first few days of our travels in New Orleans reading Anne Rice’s Interview With a Vampire. The novel, largely set in New Orleans, follows a cast of vampires over centuries in New Orleans. Through the immortal eyes of Louis’ the vampire, we see the city of New Orleans as he questions his morals and the developing world around him. 

Much of our time was spent in the French Quarter, a historic part of New Orleans characterized by lively streets and historic architecture. We walked the same streets which Rice’s vampires prowled at night for kills, and peered through the countless alleyways in which they eventually escaped from onlookers. 

““Our eternal life was useless to us if we did not see the beauty around us, the creation of mortals everywhere”
— Anne Rice

The French Quarter’s beauty is best encapsulated through the lens of a vampire. Vampires span across time and constantly force periods of rebirths. The beautiful architecture of the Quarter is made possible through history, the architecture receiving Spanish, French, Creole, and American influences. The Quarter famously endured through fires which damaged much of the city during the early 19th century. In our contemporary period, the city has also seen devastation through historic hurricanes. In the Quarter, many of the intricately designed buildings stand side by side with dilapidated buildings. The city’s unique complexion is equally defined by its historical influences as well as the catastrophes it survived. 
Having strolled among such architecture, I have reflected upon vampirism and immortality, as Anne Rice has. What does it mean to live forever? Immortality is surely glorious, the ability to mighty withstand the unrelenting blows of time. Immortality means not only surviving through it all, but outliving those around you. New Orleans has certainly outlived the thousands of different physical, cultural, and ideological influences thrust upon it. Its current state is because of its immortality through it all, the good and bad. But does it ever get lonely? Infinity is an unfathomably large concept, so we tackle it in ways our own minds can start to comprehend it, like sucking blood and sleeping in coffins.

But why can us humans create so beautifully in a finite existence? Is our mortality the key to it all? Throughout the city, beauty is showcased itself in every which way. We’ve seen dozens of moving street murals, painted straight from the heart. We’ve sung along to street performers whose powerful voices come from the soul. We’ve eaten in the most incredible places, chefs pouring every ounce of passion into each dish. Even little chalkboard signs outside boutiques and coffee shops are drawn with exquisite attention to detail.

My favorite testament to this is Frenchman street, a quick streetcar ride away from us. It comes to life every night: drag shows, street music, staged music, painters, jewelry makers, and even a late night bookstore. The majority of these artists are people of color, queer, and/or marginalized in some way. We’ve learned in depth how this very city was built off of the marginalized. Beggars and coined “undesirables” were shipped off to populate a tiny French colony which then became a horrifying slave hub––New Orleans history. Yet, through it all, the city never stops radiating culture and celebration.

Mortality is perhaps the key to it all, a limited existence for which there is always room to create joy out of suffering. 

““‘You gave me your immortal kiss,’ she said, though not to me, but to herself. ‘You loved me with your vampire nature’. “‘I love you now with my human nature, if ever I had it,’ I said to her”.”
— Anne Rice

Why is it so special to love as a human? Why does Louis feel the need to explain that he loves Claudia beyond his vampiric nature? A vampiric love is rather romantic. It’s a love that’s so utterly physical and carnal. It’s a love that transcends generations and civilizations. So why would a vampire feel the need to justify that his love is human? Perhaps it’s how humans can produce such intense love, in spite of the tragedies and imperfections of humanity. 

This city is a testament to how humans love amidst hardship. NOLA’s beauty is bred out of suffering and tragic chapters of history. Even today, those effects are still seen, interwoven with the beauty. We watch and hear street artists, talented beyond belief, who must tirelessly perform to make ends meet. We embarked on a ghost tour which packaged the devastating tales of homicides, tortures, and suicides throughout the Quarter all into a two hour walking tour for some $ a head. We walked through the stunning Garden District with houses upon houses which would make Jay Gatsby jealous. This area was once plantations, and then became the escape for wealthy Americans from the Quarter. My next blog will continue to explore the darker sides to this city, as we bookpack through the black experience, dotted with unrelenting discrimination and systemic oppression.

Discovering Hidden Narratives: Black History and Resilience in New Orleans

My journey through New Orleans has been an enlightening experience, blending travel, literature, and history to form a deep connection with the city and its stories. This third blog post focuses on Black history in New Orleans, revealing both the beauty and the often unseen ugliness of the city’s past. We visited the Whitney Plantation, watched "12 Years a Slave," and read "The Yellow House" by Sarah Broom. These experiences have profoundly shaped my understanding of the legacy of slavery and systemic racism, building from my foundational understanding of African-American history.

Watching "12 Years a Slave" and learning about Solomon Northup's experience was both horrific and educational. It was angering and upsetting, yet also nuanced and understanding. It provided a clear picture of what has happened in our past and the movement and progress since then. The most important thing I found while reading more about "12 Years a Slave" is that Solomon Northup was not exaggerating his experience; he was accounting for the facts and the harsh reality of Deep South sugar plantations that were dangerous. Northup concludes his narrative with the following statement:

"My narrative is at an end. I have no comments to make upon the subject of Slavery. Those who read this book may form their own opinions of the 'peculiar institution.' What it may be in other States, I do not profess to know; what it is in the region of Red River, is truly and faithfully delineated in these pages. This is no fiction, no exaggeration. If I have failed in anything, it has been in presenting to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. I doubt not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this moment wearing out their lives on plantations in Texas and Louisiana. But I forbear. Chastened and subdued in spirit by the sufferings I have borne, and thankful to that good Being through whose mercy I have been restored to happiness and liberty, I hope henceforward to lead an upright though lowly life, and rest at last in the church yard where my father sleeps" (Northup, 1853).

Visiting the Whitney Plantation made me understand how subjugation continued for generations. It was the age-old strategy of the whites to use divide and rule for continuous subjugation. The slave pens and having slave drivers, meaning an enslaved person would punish his fellow slaves for output work on the cotton field, highlighted this. Watching the movie built my knowledge of American history, slavery, and reconstruction. This is my first time being exposed to the history of slavery in the USA at such a granular level.

Watching the movie made me question: if I were an enslaved person, how would I break free? Would I rebel, be patient and wait it out, or be one of the lucky ones with unique artistic skills or carpentry? Solomon was one of the lucky ones who was kidnapped but was able to regain his freedom through a Canadian abolitionist he briefly worked with on his master's plantation. Patsey, one of the fellow enslaved people on the plantation, was almost killed through whippings by Epps (the master) for getting a bar of soap from another plantation. The question was always about survival. How would I fight for my freedom? Be in despair constantly or compete with my fellow enslaved people? I don't know what side of history I would have been on.

Even though Ford (Solomon's first master) knew that Solomon was actually a free person, he passed him onto Epps to repay his debt, showing the economic priorities at the time and the belief in the economics of the peculiar institution. The biggest realization for me through this course has been that economics works because of demand and supply. There was a demand for slavery and enslaved labor, and people supplied it even if it was evil. The unfortunate reality is that slavery still exists in some parts of the world today, in regions in Africa and other areas where it is illegal. The conditions are far worse now, as there is less incentive to keep kidnapped or sold individuals healthy compared to the 1800s when they were valuable assets and maintained to generate maximum extractable value (MEV). We saw Epps justify almost killing Patsey by saying it was “no sin” because she was his property.

The abolitionist movement argued that it was inhumane to own another human being, as Lincoln believed, but very few individuals paid attention to the horrific conditions of slavery like Solomon Northup describes and Harriet Beecher Stowe illustrates in "Uncle Tom's Cabin." There was very little sympathy for what slaves went through, and this empathy came later, following the 1850s and the new states, the Compromise of 1850, the Fugitive Slave Act, the Douglas-Lincoln debates, and as a result of these two documentations. Religion and the Bible were often used to justify slavery, with texts like "obey your masters" being interpreted timelessly across different cultures and times. Later, Black people founded their own churches during the era of sharecropping and were trapped in a vicious cycle of debt by plantation owners who opened shops and exploited uneducated Black people. As we know, Black churches, music, and art became the coping mechanisms many black people used to move through their experiences at the time.

One of my biggest learnings is that education and healthcare are perhaps the most important factors for growth in this world. The reason we can read Solomon Northup's work today is because of his education and skills. He knew how to build houses, was a skilled musician, and played the violin well. He was treated better than his counterparts, and that's one of the reasons we have his work today. One of sources of inspiration in the subject of history, economics, and finance is Ray Dalio (I highly recommend reading his work or watching his videos here), who describes the world and the history of mankind through five forces: Debt-Money economics, internal conflict, external conflict, environment, and technology. I have added two of my own forces to that framework—education and healthcare. The invention of contraception also played a role, as slave owners benefited from impregnated enslaved women, considering their children property and ensuring a supply of labor for generations.

Education was crucial—the ability to read and write meant the ability to communicate, store information, and pass down wisdom to future generations. Families in slavery were more worried about each other and their children. Standing inside the slave pens and cages at Whitney Plantation, I used my imagination to understand what it would be like to be locked up and brutally attacked. The history of Louisiana laws giving free rein to slave owners to treat slaves as they liked, including placing bounties on runaway slaves, showed how a system (a group of people working together to promote legislation, mindsets, and societal goals that matched their interests) was formed against Black people from the start of “The Peculiar Institution.”

This experience also made me think about human rights overall. It made me realize the individual atrocities and how caring about lives affected by current conflicts, like those in Gaza, is similar to understanding human sufferings in the past. Enslaved people were subjected to bad water, diseases, and unhealthy diets that caused long-term health issues for generations. The legacy of slavery still affects Black communities today, with higher mortality rates and health problems like diabetes and heart disease. Progress takes time and effort, and the true effect of policy and cultural change will take a hundred years to manifest fully. We have done half a century of work but still have half a century to go. 1964 was really the year when these systems working against African-Americans were suspended, and there will be a time lag effect of a century from then to see a full effect of equity based on my prediction. 

Reading "The Yellow House" by Sarah Broom added another layer to my understanding of New Orleans’ black history. Broom’s narrative, interweaving her family’s story with the broader history of the city, highlights the enduring impact of systemic inequalities. Her reflections on her childhood home, both a sanctuary and a symbol of neglect, mirror the socio-economic challenges faced by many black families in New Orleans. The Yellow House itself becomes a symbol of both resilience and decay. Broom writes, "There was a quiet nobility in the way we bore the weight of our history, even as the house itself leaned into the earth, sagging with the accumulated burden of years.”  The resilience displayed in "The Yellow House" echoes the strength of the city’s black residents, despite the adversities they faced, and the traditions that carry on to honor this legacy of resilience. 

I am grateful for this experience in Louisiana and visiting the Whitney Plantation. It has deepened my understanding of how slavery was an "evil" but was justified for economic benefits. It was not “necessary” as Thomas Jefferson argued, but “beneficial” to the economic powerhouse of the South. Slave masters knew it was a sin but used laws to deem slaves as property and rationalize it in their minds. This reflection made me ponder which side of history I would have been on. I believe in free market economics, but I understand that some products, services, or in this case people demanded should never be supplied, as supplying them can be evil. Would I have been a southerner justifying the institution, an abolitionist, a cotton processor benefiting from enslaved labor, or someone documenting these atrocities? I hope I would have had the wisdom and self-belief to distinguish right from wrong and be on the right side of history.

The Louisiana Law Code regarding those enslaved from The Whitney Planation Museum

Haunted Elegance: The Enigmatic Charm of New Orleans

New Orleans: A Living Character in Anne Rice's Gothic Tale

In Anne Rice’s “Interview with the Vampire,” New Orleans emerges not merely as a setting but as a vivid, living character, steeped in haunting beauty and dark history. As I walked through its streets, I felt the city’s atmosphere—defined by its intricate blend of French, Spanish, and African influences—permeate my senses, enhancing the themes of immortality, slavery, and vampirism that Rice so masterfully explores.

The Rich History and Culture

New Orleans’ unique cultural blend is palpable in its streets and architecture. The city was built by the French and Spanish and later shaped by Irish, German, and African influences. This mix is evident in the bustling French Quarter, with its vibrant music scene, ornate buildings, and rich culinary traditions. Immigrants from various backgrounds, including free people of color, contributed to a unique cultural milieu that is both diverse and deeply historical.

The Duality of Beauty and Horror

Rice’s portrayal of New Orleans captures the city’s dual nature—its beauty and horror. Quotes from the novel like, “The vampire was completely immersed in the shadowy, timeless beauty of New Orleans,” underscore the city’s allure. Yet, this beauty is often contrasted with the delicate elements of vampirism and the dark history of slavery.

The Metaphor of Vampirism: The Intertwined Histories of Vampirism & Slavery

In "Interview with the Vampire," vampirism serves as a powerful metaphor for slavery. The vampires’ eternal existence, filled with luxury and indulgence, mirrors the lives of the antebellum Southern elite, who relied on the exploitation of enslaved people. The novel subtly critiques this system by depicting vampires as predators who, like enslavers, drain the lifeblood from their victims to sustain their opulent lifestyles.

Slavery on the Plantations

New Orleans’ history is inextricably linked to the institution of slavery. The city was a hub for the transatlantic slave trade, and its plantations thrived on the forced labor of enslaved Africans. As I wandered through the Garden District, the grand mansions with their towering walls and elaborate designs spoke to the legacy of wealth built on slavery. These structures, juxtaposed with the wild, unstructured growth of trees and plants, symbolized the untamed spirit of the city. The large, fortified mansions in the Garden District symbolize the lengths to which slaveowners went to protect their wealth and uphold the peculiar institution.

Architectural Grandeur: The Gothic Charm of New Orleans

The architecture of New Orleans, particularly in the Garden District, reflects the city’s opulent past. The grand mansions with their towering walls and elaborate designs speak to the legacy of wealth built on slavery. These structures, juxtaposed with the wild, unstructured growth of trees and plants, symbolize the untamed spirit of the city. The purple hues of some buildings, reminiscent of vampirism, add to the city’s mysterious and otherworldly charm.

The Nocturnal Allure

New Orleans comes alive at night, with Bourbon Street epitomizing its nocturnal allure. The city’s nightlife, with its vibrant music and lively crowds, is tinged with a sense of danger and excitement, much like the world of vampires. Lestat’s green house on the ghost tours, with its eerie ambiance, further enhances the city’s spooky yet fascinating character.

The Hidden Histories

Beneath the surface, New Orleans harbors many untold stories. The city’s sidewalks and pavements, disrupted by the roots of ancient trees, symbolize the hidden histories of enslaved people who lived and died in the city without recognition. The locked courtyards of old houses reflect the selective memory of a city that often glosses over its dark past to focus on its charming exterior.

The Role of Religion

Religion has played a complex role in New Orleans’ history, often used to justify slavery while also providing a source of hope and resistance for the enslaved. The syncretism of Catholicism and Vodo in the city reflects the blending of different cultural and spiritual traditions, creating a rich and multifaceted religious landscape.

Reflections on New Orleans

Walking through the streets of New Orleans, I felt the weight of history in every corner. The city’s beauty is intertwined with its tragic past, creating a haunting yet captivating atmosphere. As Anne Rice’s “Interview with the Vampire” so vividly illustrates, New Orleans is a place where the past and present coexist, where beauty and horror are inextricably linked. The beauty and “frenchness” of the french quarter really blew my mind away.

Personal Observations

There is a certain Spanishness, Frenchness, Englishness, and otherness (e.g., vampirism) in the city. The architecture in the Garden District, with its big tall boundary walls, represents the wealth of families built on enslaved people and their efforts to protect it. The colors of the city, especially the purple hues on some buildings, suggest the vampirism of the city with its diversity. Trees branching out with weird, unstructured roots affecting sidewalks and pavements illustrate the wildness, much like the chaotic and eternal lives of vampires.

I found the unknown buried slaves beneath the ground to be a sobering reminder of the city's dark past. The nocturnality of the city, especially on Bourbon Street, added to the eerie ambiance. The ghost tour of New Orleans, with Lestat’s green house and the hissing and creaking doors on "murder" street during the ghost tour, created a spooky yet exciting feel. Seeing someone who looked like a vampire on an electric skateboard added to the city's otherness during the ghost tour.

On the positive side, the beautiful chandelier lights in antique stores, the amazing French bakeries open only until 3 PM, and the portraits and art in shops reflected the beauty of the cultures of the city. The lovely beignets and beautiful flowers in the Garden District and the inner part of the French Quarters revealed a particular old-school beauty if one looks past the dark history it was built upon.

The coexistence of vampirism and slavery in the city's history, with big walls on federal buildings and where slave pens once stood, reflects the lengths to which the city went to protect the peculiar institution. Religion also plays a part here, especially with black culture in music and arts reflecting the history. Religion was used to justify slavery, with different interpretations of biblical texts across time, people, and cultures. The erosion of the history of black people in the city, particularly in the French Quarter, is also notable. The structure of houses with locked courtyards illustrates how select landowners and slaveowners protected and benefitted from the peculiar institution.

The Native American experiences in Congo Park and the crazy infusion of cultures in New Orleans are unlike anything I have ever seen, even more diverse than Los Angeles or New York City. The churches and houses with plants hanging from the top of each floor trying to cleanse their dark history reflect the city's efforts to reconcile with its past. Just like ghosts, alligators never die except from disease, symbolizing the haunting presence of history in New Orleans.

Walking these streets of NOLA, I felt the ghosts of its history whispering through the creaking doors and swaying branches, reminding me that every corner of this city holds a story waiting to be uncovered. New Orleans, with its unique blend of vibrancy and darkness, leaves an indelible mark on the soul, much like the eternal night of Rice's vampires. In this city of contrasts, where every shadow hides a piece of history and every light reveals a new layer of beauty, I found a place that is as timeless as the immortals who call it home.

Chandeliers in Antique Stores in New Orleans, LA

Tall Walls of Buildings which used to be Slave Pens (Trading areas for enslaved people)

Lestat’s Green House

Creaking, Spooky Door on Ghost Door

Tree Roots growing from all ends representing the wildness of New Orleans

House indoor courtyards in French Quarters blocked off but visible to the public at the same time - much like slavery was in New Orleans

Nocturnalness of Bourbon Street

The “Buried” Slave

I want to get to New Orleans!

The city of New Orleans could not be more different from our idyllic island setting that we left behind a few hours ago. A change I appreciated; island life was getting old rather quickly for me.

“I want to get to New Orleans!”
— Anne Rice

New Orleans is a city like no other, at least not one that I’ve ever seen. The fusion of French, Spanish, and, of course, American influences provide the backdrop for a very distinct culture; one that, without being told, can be identified as New Orleans.

The geography of New Orleans lends hand to the city’s identifying features; it sits next to the Mississippi, on a grid, and at a 45 degree angle. The city itself is damp, dirty, and dark; being in the French Quarter at night feels like you’re standing in a different place, at a different time in history. A time where electricity does not exist and the street lamps are still lit using oil, real flames lighting up the streets. Except, you can see the flames are real and electricity does exist. But still, you find street lamps with fire instead of lightbulbs, and you wonder to yourself about the existence of these things in the modern age. In simple terms, New Orleans is a spooky city. A fact that I find fascinating as a lover of spooky things. As our time in the city progressed, I was anxious to discover the French Quarter at night; we had been out in the daytime a few times, but I had a feeling the Quarter transformed when the sun went down.

The Bourbon-Orleans. See any ghosts in the window?

Lucky for me, on Wednesday evening, around 8pm, we took a classic New Orleans ghost tour. I had been waiting for this day since the beginning of the week. I had a feeling we weren’t going to see anything outwardly spooky, but I was thrilled to explore the quarter at night. Having recently finished Interview with the Vampire, I couldn’t wait to explore the city in which Anne Rice chose to set her novel in. As you walk past the oil lamps and dark alleys, there is no wonder Anne Rice chose this city for a story about vampires. Our tour guide was great, very comical which I appreciated, and had plenty of knowledge surrounding the haunts in the quarter. We passed by the Bourbon-Orleans Hotel, said to be haunted by a few ghosts, but unfortunately they were camera shy as I’ve yet to see one in any of my photos; we passed the iconic St. Louis Cathedral that overlooks Jackson Square where public executions were held, and a few more iconic sights that deserve their own sentence. Being built on a grid, the quarter is disorienting; every turn looks the same, there are plenty of dark corners to hide in, and if you’re not familiar with your surroundings, every corner and every street start to blend together. It’s wonderful.

Check out those orbs! Or maybe dust on my camera…

As we began our tour, the moon hung brightly over the cathedral, a perfect start to a spooky night. I think what jumped out to me the most was the overarching shadow of Jesus over the cathedral, a bit harrowing to me, but maybe a comforting reminder to some. It reminded me of Louis’ venture into the cathedral after his transformation; a crisis of faith is enough to make anyone go insane, vampires and mortals alike.

We passed through the alleyway next to Jackson Square and learned very quickly to avoid the puddles as, like our tour guide would say, that is not water. After walking away from the looming presence of the cathedral, we walked down some smaller streets and learned a few more ghostly stories. In between all of this we had a bar break, or bathroom break for me. My friends and I stepped into the Lafitte Hotel and Bar looking for a short break from the heat, but we found much more.

A pianist played in the lobby of the hotel, next to the bar. He was very lively and we quickly started to sing along with him, truly a wholesome memory I won’t forget anytime soon. He played a few songs and a lovely rendition of “Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel, my personal favorite. Our time in the hotel was short as our tour had to continue, but we had a great time, regardless. On our way out we got his name, Steven Monroe, and his schedule. If you're near the Lafitte Hotel on a Wednesday or Friday night, pop in! You won't regret it.

We walked through a few more streets, saw some buildings that were used in the filming of “The Originals”, a great show, by the way. Reaching the end of our time, our last stop was the infamous Lalaurie mansion. Madame Lalaurie was a wealthy New Orleans socialite known for her cruelty, as well as the amount of slaves she kept locked away in her home. The tour groups gathered beneath the surrounding buildings, yet no groups stood directly under the outside terrace of the mansion. The tour guides are superstitious, aware of the energy that can be felt from being near the mansion, and consciously choose to stay away from it. As our tour guide was talking, I began to get the strangest feeling…

I have had déjà vu a handful of times in my life, always spooky, but I tend to take it with a grain of salt. If you’re unfamiliar with the term, it means to feel like you’ve been somewhere before, experienced something despite maybe never having been there. Sometimes I'll be in a situation and realize I have dreamt about it before, or of something very similar. I don’t know what it means, nor do I try to interpret it, but I find it fascinating. As we stood near the mansion, I started to get the feeling that I had been in this exact place and time before, except I never have. I felt it for a moment, and then it faded, the familiar feeling had passed.

Curious, I asked the tour guide if she had ever had anyone mention it before, she said it's not uncommon, but still something to note. She mentioned that she doesn’t know much about it, but that I can take it as a sign of being somewhere I’m supposed to be, as if I’m reaching a place along my journey, whatever that may be.

I still don’t know what it means or how to feel about it, but I know I’ll be thinking about that long after I leave New Orleans.

All of this is to say, New Orleans is strange. And interesting. And beautiful. And every adjective in between that I can’t think of right now. Anne Rice made the right choice, if there is one, in choosing New Orleans for the setting of her gothic novel. My experience is just one of many from the thousands of people in the city, and from this I'd say everyone should experience at least one night in the French Quarter, maybe you'll meet a real vampire. Or at least hear Robert playing a lovely song.

Steven plays my favorite Billy Joel song. I sent this video to my mom.

New Orleans, In All Its Crooked Glamor

Our venture out of Grand Isle and into New Orleans begins in a swamp.

Cypress trees and wild sprigs of grass rise from muddy water. The world is so green that I start to forget what other colors look like. As we embark down the bayou on our boat, the sun beats down mercilessly on my shoulders, my skin is sticky with sweat and bug spray, gnats bat across my face—and all of it is just wonderful.

““And there were the sounds of the swamp, a chorus of creatures, the cry of the birds.””
— Anne Rice, Interview With The Vampire

In Interview With The Vampire, swamps are an integral part of the locale of New Orleans. They’re a place of mystique and natural beauty; Louis describes them with a sense of awe and reverence, fondly recalling the swamp that lay just beyond his old house. But throughout the story the swamp is also a setting for horror and fear: it’s the place where Louis and Lestat bury the bodies of their victims, as well as the place that Louis and Claudia bury Lestat after they attempt to murder him.

It’s easy to see why Anne Rice felt inspired in a place like this, a place crawling with both life and decay. Our swamp tour is a fitting introduction to what I will discover of New Orleans over the next few days: magnificent in its rich history and geography, withered slightly by its transformation into a tacky tourist trap. Alligators roam the water, tremendous and terrifying beasts with leering, hungry eyes, but they’re fed hot pink marshmallow Peeps. A Croc bobs up and down on a bed of algae, a reminder that this site is overrun by tourists.

At one point, everyone on the boat passes around a baby alligator with a muzzle fastened around its deadly mouth. It’s an incredible experience, getting to hold a creature like this in your hands, to feel the softness and aliveness of its body, the little chest rising and falling with breath. But there’s also some artifice to this, seeing the gator’s mouth glued shut by the muzzle, its limbs rigid and frozen like it’s playing dead. It’s a trade-off: we’re sacrificing integrity for glamor.

““This was New Orleans, a magical and magnificent place to live. In which a vampire, richly dressed and gracefully walking through the pools of light of one gas lamp after another might attract no more notice in the evening than hundreds of other exotic creatures…””
— Anne Rice, Interview With The Vampire

New Orleans, as I come to learn, is built on this dichotomy, this ever changing push-and-pull of crudeness and elegance. Louis describes the city as a “medley of languages and colors”, and walking down the streets it’s impossible not to admire this medley. I think of this when we walk through the Tremé, where every single house is painted a different color and has its own personality.

Where I live, a little suburb in Tustin, California, our neighborhood has regulations to enforce perfect uniformity—I remember a resident being flagged by the HOA for painting their door too dark of a brown. It’s a shame, because there is so much beauty and wonder in the Tremé, where each house stands on its own, expressive and vibrant and unique. Maybe I’ll write to the Tustin HOA once I get back.

Houses in the Treme

““Even when the gas lamps went out and the planes came in and the office buildings crowded the blocks of Canal Street, something irreducible of beauty and romance remained [...] walking now in the starlit streets of the Quarter or the Garden District I am in those times again.””
— Anne Rice, Interview With The Vampire

There’s no place better to observe the vast, marvelous culture of New Orleans than in the French Quarter. All of the architecture is remarkable; I could spend hours in the Quarter just gazing at all of the buildings, soaking in their incredible details, the lattice of the galleries, no texture or pattern or pillar quite the same.

“The moon that rose over New Orleans then still rises,” Louis reflects of the city’s changes throughout his immortal life. This city itself has a certain immortality, too, being a unique time capsule of a place. It’s impossible to walk through the streets without thinking of all the humans who, long before we even came to exist, passed through these same spots, stayed in the same apartments, rested under the same shade.

You can’t walk the streets of New Orleans without hearing music—and even the music varies vastly in both genre and quality. As you pass one corner of Jackson Square, you’re serenaded by a jazz band, and walking up just a little further you’ll find a man blasting AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” on an amp outside of the St. Louis Cathedral (I struggle to think of a worse form of blasphemy). But this is the city boiled down to its truest form: a mix of elegance and tackiness, thriving on pleasure and pain. A medley of languages and colors, for better or worse.

““There was no city in America like New Orleans.””
— Anne Rice, Interview With The Vampire

Lestat’s house!

A recurring thought comes to me as I dreamily drift through my first week in New Orleans: Where else could I find this? Where else could I find such a rich and complex tapestry of culture? Where else could I read a book about vampires and find that the world around me is not so different from the world on the page, dusky and sensuous and bewitching? Where else in the world could I do a swamp tour, a ghost tour, and a voodoo tour all in the span of one week?

I'll close with a scene from our voodoo tour: Madame Cinnamon Black gives us a showy theatrical spiel about the magic of this city, hands us strips of “wishing paper” that are very clearly hand-ripped from plain Inkjet printer paper. To make our wishes come true, we are instructed to wrap our wishing paper around offerings of money, drop them into a plastic tree stump and knock on the plastered wood nine times. I watch other tourists fish rumpled single bills from their wallets and hastily fold them into their wishing paper.

A one-dollar paper wish might seem cheap and flashy and worthless anywhere else—but everyone performs this ritual with such eagerness and reverence, some closing their eyes when they knock on the fake tree, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, praying between each beat of their knuckles. There’s a beautiful kind of desperation here. In spite of their wishes being paper, in spite of the drunkards in the street, in spite of the hokey gift shops, in spite of, in spite of—everybody wants to believe that the magic of New Orleans is real. I think I believe in it too.

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.

I Hate Packing (And Birthdays)

I Hate “Packing”

While I have lots of practice with traveling, especially since I’ve moved to college, it’s never gotten easier. Moving living spaces, time zones, and of course beds is tough, but manageable. But there’s one element that seems to always take years off my life. How many shirts do I need to bring? Mostly long pants or shorts? Do I even bother with a jacket? Will there be a hair dryer? Do I bring an underwear per day or two per day and what happens if god forbid I run out?

I hate packing, all of my little overthinking tendencies packaged into a little activity. 

I hate the surprising physicality of it, bending my back for hours on end looking through my drawers and under my bed. I hate having to juggle a million and one different considerations, and still managing to forget something critically important. So why on earth would I uproot for an entire month and live in a hot, foreign swamp, subjecting myself to a Maymester called book-PACKing?

The reason starts with me. I love to pour love into specific places, curating a space for myself by myself. I love cultivating an environment filled with routine and familiarity.

A week in, I now understand that the reason we bookpack is to discover, in others, all of these reasons I love NOT to pack. 

Upon my arrival in both present-day Louisiana as well as Chopin’s 1899 Louisiana, I instantly investigated these elements of routine and familiarity. 

What is a day to day routine on the island of Grand Isle, where most of the events of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening unfold? Perhaps it involves an early morning jambalaya at the gas station, enjoyed only after petting the monarch of the island, Jo-Bob the cat. Or maybe it’s an afternoon treat from the teal little “Snowball” hut which serves shaved-ice stuffed with Ice-cream. But could I ever fit into this swamp filled with crosses and dune buggies and mullets? I didn’t know, so I turn to bookpacking and my new friend, Edna Pontellier.

“In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood.
”
— Kate Chopin

What does routine mean for the inhabitants of Grand Isle from a century ago in The Awakening? Would I have any place in such a society, filled with naps and music and privilege? How did someone like Edna feel out of place with her mother-ness and her woman-ness in a place which seemingly celebrated it? The more we read, the more of a prison routine became, as Edna increasingly clashed with her surroundings. Edna’s growing aversion to her routines can perhaps help explain how I felt so out of place in Grand Isle, despite once upon a time living in the South. The more we grow into a certain way of living, the more we grow out of another. And while my personal transformation might not be a progressive feminist metaphor of any kind, I can still find pieces of myself in the friction Edna feels in a place she once thrived. 

On the final day, it all began to click. Our day off, I elected to spend the majority of the day on our porch and take in the beach of Grand Isle. From here, I witnessed the air alternate from mighty winds to bolts of lightning to stagnant calm. Between it all, here I was. I breathed in the same breeze as Kate Chopin, Jo-Bob the cat, and a cashier with the world’s fluffiest mullet. I had come to peace with the fact I could never fully live here and assimilate; these same reasons I felt so other-ized are easily the reasons others feel at home.

Bookpacking is how will get over my fear of packing, by intimately exploring the reasons why others DON'T pack, and choose to stay. 

On Birthdays

2 days into the Maymester, I turned 21. All things considered, this was a great birthday. My new friends and I made a lovely assortment of drinks, food, and dessert. We ate and talked, telling stories about our once mysterious and unknown lives. However, I am far from original when I say that birthdays are strange days for me. I love being celebrated and appreciated, but I can never seem to shake off the existential dread which comes with this number increasing by one, forever. 

““In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her.””
— Kate Chopin

I couldn’t help but lean towards the side of existentialism on this day. Especially in this country where 21sts are seen as something especially monumental. 18’s seem to be mere trial periods to adulthood, but things get “real” at 21. But what happened between May 14th at 11:59PM and May 15th at 12:00AM which was so groundbreaking? Did I miss some kind of memo where the first time I purchase a 6 pack of Coors Light from the corner store, things would become okay? I still feel young and unbelievably afraid of the expanse of life that follows university. 


Edna spends much of The Awakening pondering her existence, feeling increasingly trapped by the roles she’s bound to. The more the novel progresses, the more she discovers means of liberation from her “old” life. However, the more she grows and finds such freedom, the more overwhelming it all becomes. As I progress through stages of my life, such as this new “21” milestone, I indeed feel the excitement for all the new horizons I have available to me. However, I can’t help but feel increasingly terrified for all of the mistakes I am going to make and the times I will feel lost. I don’t know if there are any true cures to how small I feel against the sheer size of the rest of my existence. But great food, drinks, and company are a good start.

Aren't You Even Gonna Kiss Me Goodbye?

The air in Louisiana is demanding. Not like anything else that I’ve encountered before. Markedly humid, it seems; thick with bravado. A gust of hot wind beckons me as rain begins to fall—and I come to realize that it’s going to be a particularly long, dismal summer.

I can’t tell you with certainty that I could ever imagine, and much less find, myself in Louisiana of all places. But it’s been an extraordinary year, for Christ’s sake! One cannot sit still for any second longer. We move and we will continue to move, not knowing what lies ahead. Because fate and time wait for no one. This is the so-called fish mentality.

Upon my arrival to Grand Isle, I’m met with more rain; part of the untimely fickleness of Southern storms. I couldn’t help but feel inundated by the weather, left to be blanketed by the warmth of the neverending bleak sky. Was this really Kate Chopin’s Grand Isle of parasols and pompousness? It was a completely different sight altogether, contrasted with observations made earlier in the day. The past two hours on the road had been riddled with images of sprawling green fields, dubious politics, and sounds of the coastal South: strange, bawdy country music and croaks from a handful of small, noisy egrets. (Oh, Los Angeles! How I miss you so.)

The great, philosophical pelican.

Still, I admit that there are some things to be admired. By the next morning’s wake, I take note of Grand Isle through a closer look; a friendlier, yet rather honest second impression: it is a zone of astounding peculiarity, with its kitsch, nautical charm. The wooden walls of our temporary beachfront homestead are adorned with teal seahorses, jellyfish, and flimsy fishnets. Awkward and out of place (we’re in Grand Isle, not the Bahamas), but endearingly charming nonetheless. Quite like someone I know.

I was not anticipating this experience to be totally transformative, matter of fact. Frankly, I expected to present myself under a sly guise of frivolousness. Self-reflective, sure; not entirely existentialist. Introspective, but done in a chic-tinged mode. Reading The Awakening led me astray.

““I’m going to pull myself together for a while and think—try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don’t know.””
— Kate Chopin, The Awakening

There is a certain morbidity found in The Awakening, conjured by feelings of dead-end dread and wistfulness. Stylistically voyeuristic, readers are caught between the rugged tumultuousness of Edna’s inner turmoil and the unraveling of her personal affairs. Edna is innately alone on her path to 19th-century self-discovery—forced to pry herself open under the watchful eyes of the sun. She ultimately struggles with the oppressive weight of societal expectations, along with traversing the roles of her many relationships that come along with it: a wife, a mother, a lover, and a friend. I gather it to be characteristics of the female ennui: fatalistic and romantic; cruel with excess beauty. Something I’m rather familiar with.

By the third morning’s wake, gloom sets in. To bask in the heat of a melancholic summer—is quite intimate and sensuous. I suppose I know too much and nothing at all; I’m only a young fool. As I head out to the beach, I begin to scout around for seashells in a sort of weary stupor. Not in the mood for love, but in the mood for quiet contemplation and solace.

Graves, graves, graves.

I think about my recent graduation from USC, the countless directions I could take in post-grad life, and the unsettling nature of change; whether or not it will take ages for me to be able to bear it. I watch as birds and blades of beachgrass soar and sway in the wind. Time moves so slowly here; at a sea snail’s pace. The water is a pallid, somber shade of gray; oil rigs haunt the distant horizon like ghosts. Everything is quiet in this corner of the world. Even the wind, at times, appears to quiet itself. The heat begins to lull me to sleep—and I find myself to be the strangest thing under the sun.

Our subsequent trip to the Grand Isle cemetery further invokes this sense of dreariness. I walk listlessly along the many raised graves, each decorated with withered plastic flowers and tattered flags. Each tomb, more or less, bathed in a bleached bone hue; paint chipping or peeling away. Some are the shade of lithium. Marble statuettes of saintly figures are scattered throughout the markers. Tall oak trees covered in swaths of ivy encircle the tombs. Most of the surnames are in French, indicative of the state’s great Creole roots. I marvel at the beauty in the spiritual and the mundane.

““But the night sat lightly upon the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the mystery and the softness of sleep.””
— Kate Chopin, The Awakening

All the world seems to be asleep. The night is a deep shade of black. So dark that it swallows the depths of eyes. I look out toward the ocean from the deck, wondering why there isn’t a single star in the sky. It is perhaps that drowsiness and the scent of salt fills the void of stars. And if there is just one star, can there at least be another? I bring myself to go to bed, despite the slight restlessness that inhabits the mind. I wonder if change is as forgiving or merciful as the moon. Had I been Edna, I would have much preferred to swim at night—in search of the missing stars.

Upon my departure from Grand Isle, I come across a wonderful sight by looking out the car window just briefly: a small gray and jagged fin just above the water, near the marshy, olive reeds. A tiny shark making its way through the vast gulf. Could it be scared, this singular and minuscule shark? Swimming around in these profound, warm waters all alone? I wonder what direction it's headed in—and if I could one day follow.

Until then: safe travels, my friend. I’ll see you again, I’m sure.

Taking it Slow in Grand Isle

As the final weeks of the spring semester at USC came to an end, I was looking forward to spending a few days to decompress on a sunlit beach on Grand Isle, Louisiana. It was time to leave the months of stress and sleepless nights behind in Los Angeles. 

The first glimpse of Louisiana’s green landscape from the skies above.

As soon as I stepped off the plane in New Orleans, I could already feel a shift in the air. No, it was not the humidity in the air (although, this is certainly something I am still getting used to), but rather an aura of easygoingness. I was no longer surrounded by the bustling chaos of Los Angeles city life where everyone is in their own bubble and in a rush to be somewhere. Instead, I observed that people were more carefree and welcoming. For instance, not even ten minutes off the plane, and I overheard a conversation in the New Orleans airport bathroom where a local introduced themselves to the lady next to them in line, and they began a conversation about their families and where they are from. I found it to be extremely sweet and refreshing since I would not notice this sort of outgoing, friendly behavior in Los Angeles. 


Our journey to Grand Isle was beautiful and green. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen this much green while looking out the car window! As we ventured further and further away from the city, I noticed homes and stores being more spaced out and how the vast landscapes were endless. You could say that I was already experiencing a bit of culture shock due to the assorted sights and sounds we were being introduced to on our mini road trip. The radio proved to be a crowd favorite with some true country gems like “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” by Kenny Chesney to accompany our drive. It felt like a true Louisiana welcome, and so far, this tune in particular has lasted with us ever since. 

Finally, we arrived at the house that we would be staying at for the next few days. I vividly remember the first night of our stay. The wind was relentless, the rain pounded heavily on the roof, and thunder shook the house while lightning lit up the night sky. It has been a long time since I’ve experienced a storm like that. I’m glad I got to witness this marvelous display of nature because the sun was shining the following morning.

“The morning was full of sunlight and hope.””
— Kate Chopin

Before coming on this trip, I was looking forward to revisiting Kate Chopin’s The Awakening for the first time since high school. Obviously, a lot has changed since then, including myself and how I see the world. Rereading this novella on Grand Isle was a real treat since I could put myself into the perspective of Edna and the other vacationing upper class members of society and observe the charms of the island. However, when we began to explore the beach, restaurants, and markets, the questions I kept asking to myself were “How was this considered a desired vacation spot?” and “What is it about Grand Isle that makes people stay and live here?”.

To say the lifestyle of locals on Grand Isle is different to what I’m used to back home in Southern California would be a complete understatement. It is a complete 180 of what I’m used to back home. With only one main road, it is exactly what you would imagine when you hear the words “small southern town”. Each day in Grand Isle, I noticed new characteristics of the town each day. It sounds cliché, but it really did feel as if time moved slower. As a full time student, it is hard to find time to simply enjoy some free time, so at first, it was hard to adjust to my new schedule because I honestly did not know what to do with myself! 

“It was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but exchange remarks about the heat, the sun, and the glare. But there was a breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into a froth… The beach was very still of human sound at that hour.”
— Kate Chopin

During one of our seminars, we discussed Edgar Degas’ paintings from when he was in New Orleans and how he captured Creole society at the time. These paintings really resonated with me because of how candid each painting was. It is impressive that each one captured ordinary moments in time, similar to how we capture photographs today. These paintings reflected what I saw for myself in Grand Isle, watching the locals out on the water in their boats, driving their golf carts around town, and eating at restaurants. In many ways, you could draw parallels between the lives of current Grand Isle residents and Chopin’s vacationers from the 19th century. I appreciated the relaxed atmosphere and learned to love the “mundane” on the island. 

The aspect I loved the most about Grand Isle was the tight-knit community I observed between the local residents. On our final night, we grabbed dinner at Tommy’s Place. It was one of the few restaurants on the island, but just like any other place on Grand Isle, it held a certain attraction to it. It was not packed with people, but there was enough to make the place feel lively. Just like our dinner at The Starfish, it was clear that our group was from out of town. Curious stares looked our way while we ordered, and one gentleman seated at the bar started a conversation with us and he told us his story of why he moved to Grand Isle. A friend of his offered him to make $200 a day restoring homes from hurricane damage and he has been there ever since. He was super friendly to us and the others seated at the bar. As I watched other people there, I noticed that everyone seemed to know each other, emphasizing the beauty of a small town. To simply put it, everyone looked happy and very carefree while chatting amongst themselves or singing along to the music. 


This environment is what made me fall in love with Grand Isle. In The Awakening, this place serves as a character in its own right since Chopin’s vivid descriptions bring the beach to life. I was grateful to see its natural beauty while also indulging in idle activities and just taking it slow.

Quest for Happiness in Grand Isle

An interactive wall in Houma that I wrote on: “Before I die, I want to define happiness.“

A petite house named “Therapy” in Grand Isle

As I embark on Bookpacking Louisiana, I am on a journey to define happiness. My days in Grand Isle were the beginning of this rather never-ending pursuit. I inspected every person and object through a magnifying glass, searching for bits of happiness and I found happiness sprinkled all over Grand Isle. In my little pursuit, the street names caught my attention first. As we entered Grand Isle, slowly getting near our destination, I expected names with great historical narratives but what I witnessed was rather surprising: Strawberry Lane, Orange Lane, Fig Lane, Cherry Lane. It seemed fantastical as if hundreds of the said fruit would drop from the sky as we passed each lane. Life was simple. 

In fact, this theme of simplicity was clear throughout every experience on the island. Almost every house had a creative name ranging from Shrimp Dipping to Therapy to La La Land. One of our main takeout spots was Jo-Bob’s. Now, you might be wondering who Jo-Bob is, probably the owner of the place who has been a local for 60+ years and served the people of Grand Isle proudly for all those years. No, Jo-Bob is a cat. A fluffy gray cat that lives in its own little cat nest by the entrance and who occasionally walks down the stairs to greet incoming visitors. Life was simple.

“The flowers were like new acquaintances; she approached them in a familiar spirit, and made herself at home among them.”
— Kate Chopin

Although Edna was mostly preoccupied with figuring herself and her emotions out, she slowly became aware of her surroundings as well. In the midst of her first awakening, Edna walks around the house she has lived in for years as if she has never seen it. She looks at the world from a different perspective that allows her to become more aware of her surroundings, rather than walking blindly through life. This is part of Edna’s pursuit of a sense of identity much like my pursuit of happiness. 

“A bird with a broken wing was beating the air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the water.”
— Kate Chopin

Edna’s greatest realization, in my view, was learning to spend time alone, self-reflecting. She realizes she does not want to live by societal expectations. She disobeys her husband, exclaiming that she is no longer one of his possessions, becomes less attentive to her kids, and moves into a separate house alone. She finds herself resisting societal expectations, like a bird with a broken wing, fluttering around. My time at Grand Isle was nothing short of these profound self-reflecting moments. There is something about the place, whether it’s the waves that hypnotize you with their calming yet chaotic reverb or the pelicans that fly above without a care in the world. It slows down your mind. Life was slow in Grand Isle. Life was simple.

Pelicans flying over Grand Isle

“The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.”
— Kate Chopin

View of the Gulf of Mexico from the porch in Grand Isle

As much as Grand Isle felt like an escape from reality, glimpses of pressure and responsibility kept creeping in. But for the first time, I was not worried about doing work besides reading. I am someone whom people might describe as a workaholic at times but it was almost like my mind was in rebellion of my usual state. I did not want to work and I didn’t. I just wanted to make my cup of coffee, make an omelet, grab my Kindle, and sit outside and read, with the view of the ocean. This is so not me. My mind doesn’t slow down. In fact, I feel very uncomfortable when I have to slow down. In anything. I thrive under pressure. I am stressed when I have nothing to do. But on the third day in Grand Isle, the sea was calling. Solitude was calling. So, I listened. I took a towel and started walking towards the beach. Alone. As I was getting close to shore, a flock of pelicans fluttered by, as if applauding my strides into solitude. And so, I laid my towel down on the damp sand and I sat, staring into the blue and serene abyss. And the feeling of utter discomfort crept in. How could I just sit there and not think about the million tasks I have yet to finish? How do I silence my mind? I needed a distraction. Of course, I picked up my phone but instead of opening social media, I called my brother. And the feeling of comfort slowly started coming back. But I was too engulfed with the idea of being alone on a deserted beach so every conversation centered around that. The longing for quiet was growing a bit too loud. “I have to go. I’ve got some thinking to do,” I told my brother and proceeded to end the call. I watched. I watched the waves crash in front of me, one after the other. I watched the pelicans stop by and mistake shells for food. I watched the clouds and their pensive movements. Life was simple.

A pelican enjoying the sun in the Gulf of Mexico

I felt people staring at me and judging me. I looked around. No soul in sight. I looked back at our house. Everyone was inside minding their own business. I felt like Edna. Here I was, engulfed by my thoughts while people were watching a movie in the main house, just as the rest of the family was dancing in the main house in Edna’s universe. It felt like a movie scene. I felt like an “other.” But over the past year, I have grown to love being an “other.” It is almost a signal that I’m staying true to myself. I am speaking my mind when need be. I am staying silent when need be. I am disengaging myself from conversations when need be. I’m not sure if Edna ever felt fully comfortable with herself besides those last few moments. I long to not only reach this point of comfort but live with it and figure out its many complexities. Life was not simple.