The Discipline of Bookpacking

As a kid, I was known to my family as the bookworm. Each book, even the ones I never finished, carried a memory. Over time, I fell in love with the idea of translating culture through character. Now, at twenty years old, my childhood hobby has finally come into fruition.

At first, bookpacking was disorienting. When you are informed about the author’s biographical history, their mindset while writing the book, and its legacy after publication, it already feels like an information overload. The weight of all that knowledge comes to us at once, and we cannot decipher which little voice in our head to listen to. On top of this, paying visits to their homes and inspirational spots, it becomes overstimulating to take everything in while making careful observations to calculate how much has changed and what remains. The geography on a map collides with imaginations, and together, they lead to the discussions in our seminar.

Gradually adjusting to the discipline of bookpacking, I became more encouraged to draw connections between locations and plotlines, creating a bold map of the literary scene. Even with countless speculations, extrapolations, and often naive guesses, I still arrived at many surprisingly satisfying conclusions. In that way, every new book is not just a new journey. Combined with the context I already know and the literary impulses I already possess, it’s a continuation of every journey I’ve ever taken.

I used to be a stubborn student, insisting that I could only be productive if I focused with seriousness in a silent room, like the Doheny Library. However, bookpacking helped me let go of the uptight beliefs. Reading in motion—on the street car, sitting at the staircase leading to the Mississippi River, beside a street musician—all make the story porous. The real and the fictional bleed into each other.

The practice also taught me humility. Not every site I visited matched the grandeur of my expectations. Not every place felt sacred. Sometimes the house was torn down. New Orleans manages to move on faster than its people do. Standing where a story once happened, even if it's no longer recognizable, is a quiet act of mourning. When I read a story in the place where it was born, or where it’s set, I’m giving it my full presence and honoring the world it came from. And then there are the surprises. The places I stumbled into by accident, not because of a reading list, but because I was simply lost, early, or waiting for a bus. They left me with impressions that were stronger than I could have ever expected.

I may not always have the privilege of reading a multitude of books in the cities I stumble upon, but I can certainly be more intentional with my travels. From now on, deciding my itinerary will no longer revolve around the most popular landmarks and the locations with the highest reviews on TripAdvisor.

After this class, I learned that where you read a book matters almost as much as what you’re reading. I may never return to New Orleans again. Or maybe fate would lead me back to the familiar spots. Though it may be hard for me to find new reasons to come here, I also don’t have any valid excuses to reject a trip that takes me down memory lane. In fact, I plan on revisiting our catalog of books a couple of months or even a few years after our trip has commenced, so that I can be flooded with the previous active sensations. I am fortunate because reading allows me to revisit places I’ve loved without the expense of airfare.

Although we never left the United States, the city was sometimes foreign to me. Our month-long adventures offered some strange gifts. After vigorously examining the decadent, licentious, mysterious attributes, we built our own versions of personal mythologies around places, making the departure bittersweet. These corners will live in a hidden spot in my frontal lobe: the shaded paths of Audubon Park, the sleepy façades in Gentilly, or the kaleidoscopic blur of Canal Street.

I plan to extend the traditions of bookpacking, introducing it to every aspect of my life, and continue this critical lens as I embrace more experiences. Whether it’s through art, food, or simple conversation, I want to situate myself as a temporary local in all the novel places. Within the country or across the world, I want to keep building my life this way and move slowly. I will be a reverent listener as much as I am a respectful reader, paying attention to the elements that typically slip through the tourists’ eyes.

The Search for Spirituality in Modern Days

Before Fat Tuesday became the festivity and party scene that it is today, it signaled the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday. I could not have guessed that it had any connection to a liturgical origin. During this period, we are meant to pray, practice abstinence, and give alms. However, many of the well-intentioned observations are lost now. In the biblical stories, Jesus fasted for forty days in the desert to endure the temptations of Satan. This is a noble act as well as a cautionary tale that persuades us to avoid falling into our eternal ruins. This sanctifying grace evolved into the crucial prayers of “lead us not into temptation” and “deliver us from evil”. Nonetheless, this humble and trusting petition does not seem to apply to New Orleans. Walking across Canal Street, you would most definitely think that Christ’s victorious help does not protect the city.

In modern times, we don’t discuss the significance of repentance for sins, simple living, and mortifying the flesh. Instead, most atheist and agnostic people associate these traditions with their larger, overwhelmingly negative impression of Christianity, regardless of denominations. Especially given the current political climate, we become bogged down by arguments regarding the separation of state and church. Religion becomes a scapegoat for those who had malicious intent to begin with. What used to be words of wisdom from the higher powers are not exploited and taken out of context, used to hurt vulnerable people whom Christ once swore to protect. It’s a shame that Christianity in the South turned against itself, forcing people to retreat into rigid roles and abandoning the essence of redemption.

Surprisingly, just when I thought people had forgotten about the importance of spirituality and faith, I came across Binx and his search for meaning. Though we live in an abundance of excess and a desert of divinity, there are still individuals who are wondrous like Binx, aiming towards redemption. We are not debating Walker Percy’s affiliation and whether he would conform to a particular denomination. Instead, we examine how his fictional world reflects his thoughts on the crisis of modernity. Because we are uncertain of Percy’s real intentions behind incorporating the language of salvation, everything is interpreted with some room for ambiguity.

According to Thomas Aquinas, humans may not be able to interpret the interior of Jesus’ mind: “He showed Him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them,' we are not to understand that He saw the very kingdoms, with the cities and inhabitants, their gold and silver: but that the devil pointed out the quarters in which each kingdom or city lay, and set forth to Him in words their glory and estate.”

Binx’s ethereal undertaking does not comply with an organized religion. He achieves harmony with his inner desires in ways that I would not be able to do without the help of the priest, the deacon, and other fellow churchgoers. I’ve always believed that no man is an island, and “praying” alone is rather isolating. Hence, whenever I visit a new city, I look forward to attending the local baptism and other ceremonial events to understand the characteristics of the churchgoers in the town. However, Binx achieves his transcendence in a fragmented world that is vastly different from my community back at home.

In New Orleans, even the typical sites of pilgrimages are converted to town squares full of solicitors and mass-produced gimmicks. The St. Louis Cathedral is no longer as sacred as it once was, and you will not be able to find a silent moment with God, let alone come to some sort of epiphany. We are all responsible for these changes and the erasure of these virtues. Locals and tourists alike, we forego our discipline and stop looking inward for divine presence.

The carnival is a loud distraction from Binx’s search. The genteel veneer upholds Southern pageantry, tradition, and social hierarchy, but beneath the music and masks lies a society still rooted in denial. Amidst the outburst of purple, green, gold, and orange, Binx seems invisible. His unconventional personality makes him too radical to be excluded, but this is not the typical type of socio-economic exclusions that take place in the South.

Compared to most of the other existential novels I have read, Binx’s exploration for meanings is constant yet casual. Despite the characters being placed in a post-war context, transitioning from one era to the next, and losing their loved ones, there is always an underlying tone of patiently discovering new meanings. For those of us who are stuck with the “everydayness” of our lives, we are unable to identify the wonders because we are caught up in the repetitiveness of our routine. However, we can call Binx out for being somewhat delusional with his perceptions of life. Quite the opposite may just be the most acutely aware person out there. He is wise to recognize the boredom and disenchantment while others are still living in pretenses. This is a type of pretense supported by carnival practices, consumption of red meat, and exaggerated costumes. Mardi Gras masks the sadness with its colorful beads and gold-embroidered crowns.

In Audubon Park, we discussed Binx’s experiences with the decline of traditions while sitting under the age-old pavilions. Here, the clamor of parades and crowded cafés gives way to the quiet rhythm of footsteps on crushed shells. The ducks line up like a mini-battalion, waiting for the pedestrians to clear before they can cross the road. Not far from the walking path, the lakes are filled with lily pads and birds I could not name who are waiting for their prey to emerge from the water. This is undoubtedly a perfect spot for National Audubon Society members to observe their beloved birds and other creatures. The long-legged herons stand in meditation, watching closely for the signs of ripples. My gaze is now also locked on the lagoons.

We ran into a group of painters who show up on weekends with full artists’ gear. With a canvas and a couple of pencils, they draw the fountains with lively charms. The Tree of Life spreads its “hair” across the air, all draped with Spanish moss and declaring its uncompromised “king” status among the other live oaks. Sunlight flickers through the dense canopy, dappling the grass with light that moves like stained glass.

In the suburban neighborhood of Gentilly, Binx’s solitude comes more easily than being in the French Quarter. In the predominantly middle-class and racially diverse area, he is less distracted by the merchants and voodoo practitioners, instead simply being with other earnest, hard-working men and women. Witnessing the million-dollar mansions with my own eyes, I can see how these antique buildings can create a false sense of prosperity for their residents. Who wouldn’t want this white “country club” type of life, where you could be at peace with outrageous injustice in society by simply neglecting to see it?

This is my take on Binx’s vague yet urgent quest. He is aware of the benign society that allows its sensual consumerism and dull routine to overshadow authentic living. We can eat beignets, drag our boats through the bayous, or linger in the cemeteries all we want, but these actions are surface-level entertainment in their nature. Reality hides between the seemingly good-looking facades.

The White South provided Binx with a comfortable and contented life. I once thought that could be my home as well, living with good-mannered neighbors, predictable holidays, and hearty meals. But Walker Percy's subtlely criticizes this ease with satire and movies as metaphors. Unlike most of the other protagonists we encountered, who are constantly troubled by various societal challenges, Binx is only disturbed by his boredom. While some people are coping with poverty and racial discrimination, Binx is simply suffocating in his stability and privileges. Therefore, he stages this quiet but resolute rebellion. The final purpose always goes back to his search as he strives to reject the status quo of the “homey, hospitable” South.

Goodbye Orleans, Goodbye my teens

I sit on a full plane, back and neck aching from a nap in the restraining window seat. I’m finally flying home to Hawaii after nearly a month in New Orleans. A flight attendant hands me the familiar Plants and Animals Declaration Form, one all returning residents know by heart.
As a kid, my parents would fill it out for the family. It was the quiet signal that our vacation had come to an end and we were heading back to everyday life. But these past two years, I’ve flown solo from college. I fill out my own form now.

Question 11: What is your age? 

I hesitate. Then slowly, I fill in the boxes: 2 - 0

it was my first time writing it down. 

By the way fate aligned things, the last day of our maymester also happened to be my birthday. I spent the final weeks of my teens in New Orleans, and the first real day of my twenties in the sky somewhere between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean.

Like clockwork, my birthday always makes me reflective. It's a sort of silent contemplation. I start looking inward, asking myself how much I’ve changed since my last spin around the sun.  What parts of me have grown? What regrets do I carry? What do I want this next year to look like?

New Orleans, in its own way, is built for that kind of thinking. It’s a city that wears both its beauty and brokenness on its sleeve. The beautiful galleries, the ferns growing from the crumbling bricks, the thick air filled with the smell of beignets and the sound of jazz. It’s all layered, complex, and unapologetically alive. I spent my days wandering aimlessly, sweating through every step without care. Maybe that’s why so many literary minds found themselves here. The atmosphere is creative and lax. It allows for drifting.

“To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair.”

— The Moviegoer, Walker Percy

And in that way, I was similar to Binx Bolling, the main character of our last novel, The Moviegoer by Walker Percy. It follows Binx just before his 30th birthday as he begins “the search,” a personal quest to find meaning beyond the monotony of everyday life.

In some sense, I know the search pretty well. I’ve always wondered what my life would be like without the burden of routine. I think about what I would do or discover about myself if I had the ability to just be. I know what it means to be stuck in repetition. At school, I am constantly doing more: more work, more commitments, more goals. Back home it’s another rhythm of routine: chores, errands, responsibilities.

But this trip, the time we’ve had in Louisiana, became my search. It gave me a break from my ordinary. I got to wake up with days that weren't entirely planned (outside of lessons). I would take little detours into random antique stores, try a new coffee shot everyday,  and sit on the bank of the Mississippi River, watching the boats pass by. In this space, I remember the joy of pause, just like in the Grand Isle. This made space for other things too. 

It allowed me to think more about my future. This trip fortified my love for pharmacy with our visit to the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum. It also made me think more about where I’d be pursuing my continued schooling. I even found myself looking in Xavier University, a place I’d never considered before. I realized maybe my next steps don’t have to be what I always imagined. 

New Orleans helped me connect with my heritage, too. Haitian influence is everywhere in the city, in the architecture, the music, and the food. It was a marvel seeing such strong ties. It felt like I was discovering new parts of my identity, especially being Haitian in America. It’s one of the first places I’ve seen with the Haitian flag waving around, proudly on display. And I can't describe how warming that felt to me. 

And as much as I enjoyed the city, it’s the people who made it unforgettable. Throughout this trip, I got to meet so many amazing souls who told me their stories and shared a laugh with me. Those kinds of connections made this worthwhile. It wasn’t just the locals, but the ones I came here with too. 

sasquatch spotting

I was really scared I wouldn’t click with anyone in this class. Thank goodness I was worried for nothing! From patio talks in the grand isle to jazz crawls through the city to late night Pizza Luna trips, I found people who made me laugh, who made me think, and showed me new things. They became more than some random names on the email list, they became my friends. 

To me, a good birthday is simple: good food and good company. I was lucky enough to find both. That morning, I grabbed my last batch of beignets and sat at a table to watch people. Towards the afternoon, I made one final trek across the French Quarter to try the hole-in-the-wall spot I’d been eyeing for a while. And that night, our class gathered for one last dinner together, to celebrate, reflect, and say goodbye.

I can’t think of a better place to usher in a new decade of my life than New Orleans, a city that balances tradition and change, chaos and comfort, the old and the new. What a perfect metaphor for this moment in my life.

In the end, Binx never really arrives at some grand, cosmic answer to his search. And I think that’s the point. Life doesn’t always hand you conclusions neatly tied with a bow as much as it would be a great birthday gift. But I’ve come to believe there isn’t one big answer to the meaning of life (other than 42, iykyk). It’s stitched together from smaller moments. The little pockets of joy, of learning, of connection. That’s where life’s meaning comes from. 

I don’t have all the answers yet. I don’t know if I ever will. I’m only 20. 

But I have found a few pieces of the puzzle. I know I want to help people. I know that I want to feel proud of the way I live, not just the things I achieve. I know I want to stay open, to new places, new people, new opportunities in my life. So, as I sit on this plane, completed form in hand, I reflect on my time in New Orleans and on my teenage years, ready to step into this next chapter of my life. 

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

”

— The Moviegoer, Walker Percy

IV WASTE: Washed AWAY

““I had left New Orleans, but it hadn’t left me.”

— The Yellow House, Sarah M. Broom

IV Waste Sign (June 9th)

When we first arrived in New Orleans, we wandered the French Quarter. Originally, it was overwhelming. The sights, the sounds, and definitely the smells were a lot to take in at once. From the humidity, heat, and remnants from the parties the night before, I caught a scent of lemon permeating the entire quarter. How could a city, known for its parties, sweat, and grime, smell so good?

Later in our trip, I had the opportunity to ask someone about it. “Why does the city smell like that?”

She pointed to a sign hanging from the iron gallery above. “That’s IV Waste, they clean the streets each morning.”

IV Waste Truck (June 11th)

Spending a full month in New Orleans changed the way I see traveling. I didn’t feel like a tourist; I was instead immersed in everything around me. It wasn’t just a simple attraction to visit, but a city I had lived in and experienced firsthand. Sure, I’ve visited a variety of places in my life - Amsterdam, Paris, Kenya, Rome, New York, and many more - that all left a strong impact on me. However, I never had the time to sit down with a culture for as long as I did in New Orleans, nor have I learned about a local culture as intensely as this class challenged me to do. Still, it was always the little things that surprised me.

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For instance, take eating. Half my camera roll is filled with pictures of plates - gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish. The meals made by people who lived in the French Quarter, Garden District, or beyond. However, those are all the dishes you expect to eat when in New Orleans. We experienced much more than that.

One of my favorite restaurants we visited was Bennachin, an unassuming spot at first. What was interesting was that it wasn’t serving New Orleans food, but rather authentic African cuisine. The restaurant proudly displayed both its cultural roots and its history, and we learned that it has been a New Orleans staple since 1992. This wasn’t the kind of place you’d go to during your first or second week in the city - but only after you’d lived in New Orleans for as long as we had. It might be the only place in the world where you could find New Orleans-influenced African food, and it was fantastic.

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One of my favorite nights with everyone was our cooking class near the end of the trip. We all gathered around a pot and learned how to make gumbo, BBQ shrimp, and bananas Foster, and it was all so delicious. But during the evening, we started talking about the permanence of New Orleans. Maria Vieage shared how her business was completely destroyed when the levees broke. Louisiana as a whole is still trying to recover.

We asked if she would ever consider moving back to Louisiana permanently. “It’s only a matter of time until the levees break again. Until then, I have one foot in and one foot out.”

It reminded me that, although we were learning about the history of New Orleans, we were only brushing against one part of it. Once we leave and say our final goodbyes, the city will keep moving, and more history will be made. People will still struggle - between beauty, vulnerability, resilience, and risk. It’s stories like Maria’s that leave the biggest impact. That, above all, was the most important aspect of this trip: not walking the streets or tasting the food, but truly listening to the people of today.

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As I sit in the airport in the early morning, I can imagine the IV Waste truck on the streets, washing away the party from the night before. The traces of us, our existence in New Orleans, are similarly being washed away. But that’s okay. This trip was never about leaving a legacy behind. Instead, I’ll be taking with me a deep respect for New Orleans, its culture, a few extra pounds, and a kind of lived knowledge I never could have gained otherwise.

Goodbye, New Orleans. Goodbye, Bookpacking. And thank you again, Andrew! There’s truly no place like New Orleans.

✌️

A City With Many Stories

Classic Building in the French Quarter

New Orleans really is a special place. You can hear that about any city, but the unique history of this one makes it a place that embraces the unorthodox, the decadence, and the eccentricity. After exploring the city for the past three weeks, I feel like I understand it better. More than that, though, I know that there are so many sides to it. I understand that I will never truly know what it’s like to live here.

As we took deeper dives into different perspectives, we were seeking out what was authentically New Orleans. Starting in the French Quarter, we explored the French and Spanish influence, the Cajun and Creole influence, and the history of enslavement and plantations. From the brutality of slavery to the myths of the old white south, there are so many perspectives from which history is told. We were in the same city for three weeks, but we never ran out of new perspectives to examine.

I think this is the most important takeaway I’ve had from this class. If you study history from just one perspective, you are most certainly missing something.

Studying novels instead of nonfiction gives us a closer look at the humanity behind each of these individual stories. What is it like to actually live here? New Orleans is one city, but each person who lives in it has their own snapshot of reality. This is critically important to studying history. Understanding the broad strokes over hundreds of years is good, but it's also essential to put ourselves in people’s shoes. What would it be like to live their day-to-day? Why did they make the decisions they made?

Reading these books and learning about these perspectives has helped make this sector of American History feel more real. Instead of just learning about the events that occurred, we had narratives to line them up with. We analyzed why characters made decisions and placed them in the context of their world. This is crucial when it comes to understanding history and its underlying causes.

Dinner at Café Beignet

Our group spent quite a lot of time in the French Quarter. It is the original boundary of the city and, therefore, the most historic, but now it's the most touristy part of the city. There are people here who lean into the tourism myths, and people who lean into the authentic culture of the city. In reality, I think these go hand in hand. The more we talked to people who live here, the more I found that people usually do both. Because what's more authentic than telling a good story so you can put food on the table?

I don’t look down on Bourbon Street. Sure, the music isn’t “Authentic New Orleans Jazz,” but it’s still the very real people of New Orleans selling a simplified version of their culture for some tourist dollars. And who am I to say that's not authentic?

New Orleans does sell a more watered-down version of its history for the tourist dollars, but that doesn’t mean it's hard to find the real cultural hubs. Towards the end of the trip, I found myself spending much more time past the French Quarter in the Marigny. Often considered “the locals’ Bourbon Street,” the focus seems to be much more on the music and less on the partying. I can understand the appeal of Bourbon Street, even if it’s not for me, but three weeks later, I still don’t tire of the Jazz Cafes I so often find myself in. That might be one of my favorite parts of the city. The people of New Orleans can fully lean into both sides. They lean into the stories and myths for tourists, and they lean into more authentic celebrations, such as Second Line parades.

Second Line Parade

One of my favorite examples of this was when we mentioned to our doorman Sean that we were going to a Second Line the next day. His face visibly lit up as he told us about his car parked right outside that was going to be on display. Here was someone who was both working full-time in the tourism industry and participating in a second-line parade. I now know that it isn’t about being touristy versus authentic; it's about being both. New Orleans is able to embrace tourism and be authentic.

In a way, that's what bookpacking has taught me. There are so many stories, so many perspectives in this city. Just like John Kennedy Toole and Walker Percy had different ideas of the world, even though they lived so close to each other. It would be a mistake to take any one of these books as fact; in reality, these are all just small pieces of New Orleans, many different perspectives of a unique and fascinating city.

“The crowd was typical of New Orleans, a cross-section of the Quarter’s denizens: artists, students, tourists, hustlers, musicians, and plain eccentrics.”

— A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole

“The house was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were green. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana”

— The Awakening, Kate Chopin

“New Orleans is a town of people who not only accept failure but also love it, wallow in it, even take pride in it.”

— The Moviegoer, Walker Percy

“The mythology of New Orleans—that it is always the place for a good time; that its citizens are the happiest people alive… 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.”

— The Yellow House, Sarah M. Broom

Searching for Joy

As we come to the conclusion of our Maymester trip, I feel simultaneously familiar with New Orleans yet aware of how little I have truly uncovered. Spending so much time in a place allows you to immerse yourself in the culture and learn a lot, but it also exposes you to the vastness of possibilities for exploration that you may not have even been aware of before you started the experience.

“The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know”

— Albert Einstein

In The Moviegoer, Binx leads a constant “search” throughout the book to find his purpose in life. I myself have spent a lot of time thinking about my own purpose when I too have walked through the French Quarter. Much like Binx, my time in New Orleans has been filled with moments of contemplation: grappling with my professional goals for the future and setting out my aspirations for connection. Upon finishing The Moviegoer, there was a lot I struggled to understand. Did Binx really find his purpose? Was his search fruitful? Did he achieve success? To find better answers to these questions, I decided to take my own stroll through the French Quarter to step in his shoes for myself.

“I alight at Esplanade in a smell of roasting coffee and creosote and walk up Royal Street. The lower Quarter is the best part. The ironwork on the balconies sags like rotten lace. Little French cottages hide behind high walls. Through deep sweating carriageways one catches glimpses of courtyards gone to jungle”

— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

Unlike multiple times a day every day this month that I have walked into the Quarter from the Business District past Canal Street, this time I decided to enter from the Lower Quarter as Binx initially does. Walking down the Esplanade, I found serenity in the French Quarter - uncharacteristic of what I have known it to be. Hearing the street Jazz music faintly in the distance and the occasional fog horn of the ferry on the Mississippi, I felt at home in San Francisco by the Bay. Only through this experiential learning process of mine did I vividly internalize this area’s relaxed charm, which Binx views as the “best part” of the Quarter.

Walking through the Lower Quarter is nothing like walking down Bourbon street. Meandering through the French Market, I too smelled the roasting coffee that Binx describes. Making my way down Pirate’s Alley and into Jackson Square as Binx did, I too began to notice the tourists “browsing along antique shops or snapping pictures of balconies.” I confess, I may have been one of them.

Only now, with The Moviegoer in my hand, did I notice the “rotten lace” aesthetic of the rustic architecture of years old galleries I passed by. “Courtyards gone to jungle” came alive right before my eyes as I observed the townhouse carriageways being slowly eaten away at by time, and the harsh and volatile climate of immense heat and intense humidity exacerbated by many-a-thunderstorm.

“Not a single thing do I remember from the first trip but this: the sense of place, the savor of the genie-soul of the place which every place has or else is not a place”

— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

“Whenever one courts great happiness, one also risks malaise”

— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

Nearing these last few days, I have experienced a solemn feeling characterized both by my appreciation for the beautiful experiences this past month, but also by my anticipation of grief for my time here coming to an end. This feeling could be the very malaise that Binx perpetually describes? An unnamed sadness that cannot quite be identified: the weight of parting ways, an uncertainty for what comes next, or a simple loneliness in the solitude of being when walking alone. In any case, it is hard to be sad in New Orleans - there is always something to do, somewhere to be, people to see. These waves of sadness lack permanence, always inevitably dissipating into excitement.

During one of our final group dinners, Professor Chater insightfully shared that “one cannot go through life alone.” He described how it is often the smallest scale actions of giving love that create the most powerful impact. Given the added level of meaning from going through this past month of experiences together as a group, I have found that this could not be more accurate. Though solitude – as Binx and I have both experienced walking alone through the French Quarter – can be calming, it also fuels an awareness of the joy in walking through life with others. In this sense, the presence of connection can only be truly appreciated in moments of solitude where connection is absent.

As I conclude my time here, I've come to a realization that I believe Binx discovered as well: meaning lies in the small moments of joy and the connections forged through shared experiences. Whether it be an activity that evokes a feeling of happiness or simple instances of quality time with loved ones, the total puzzle of a meaningful life cannot exist without each of these smaller pieces from the journey along the way. I now leave New Orleans with a newfound sense of purpose: meaning isn’t about answering the big questions, but about the process of solving each smaller one together.

5AM Goodbyes

It is currently 5AM, and Thalia and I have just made our way to the MSY airport. The early morning and heavy suitcases all feel familiar. As in, our travels to New Orleans just one month ago. But this experience feels different. Instead of arriving with intense anxiety, I am leaving with a heart full of gratitude. This past month has been an amazing experience. 

I am sitting at my gate writing this blog with the same Angel Food Smoothie I had on arrival. It feels strange to be back in this airport to return back to California. My flight takes off in three hours. There is really nothing I can do except fester in my own thoughts. And really, there are a lot of thoughts circling in my mind right now. When I first accepted this Maymester, I had no idea what to expect. I could not have envisioned the impact it was going to have on me. This experience has not only given me memories, but also has encouraged me to look at the world around me in new perspectives. 

Over the past week, I have found myself reflecting about where I come from. I grew up in Redondo Beach, California, which is a beach suburb in Los Angeles county. This city is a place of comfort, safety, and opportunity. I think it is easy to take places of origin for granted, but my time in New Orleans has reminded me just how lucky I am. How lucky am I that my parents sacrificed everything to immigrate to another country for a better life. Every opportunity I have in my life is a direct result of their resilience. 

These thoughts have been running through my brain during this past week in New Orleans. This lingering feeling became especially evident whilst having a cooking class and dinner with Maria Vieages. Chef Maria Vieages was born and raised in Louisiana. She earned a degree in radiology, which then eventually turned into a chef career after her hospital coworkers recognized her cooking talents. She built her culinary career doing pop-ups, but like so many others, her life was uprooted by Hurricane Katrina. A client in California asked her to move out to Sonoma County following the disaster. She made a living there for over 13 years, working for major clients like Jeff Bezos and catering for companies like Cards Against Humanity. Maria has recently moved back to Louisiana where she now does cooking classes and New Orleans style pop-up shops. While the class was intriguing, I found her vulnerability most admirable during our time with her. She shared the hard truths about the devastations of Katrina, and how she lost everything alongside the difficulties of watching her own community suffer.

What struck me most was her contrasts between California and Louisiana. She expressed how California, with all its wealth, has been able to rebuild itself after disasters more effectively and efficiently. Meanwhile, communities in Louisiana are still struggling to recover from their 2005 hurricane. She discussed the lack of investment into critical infrastructure by the government, and how they still continue to neglect the systems meant to protect their vulnerable neighborhoods. Many people were displaced, with no means to return home. And that is when it hit me: how lucky I am.

I am grateful to have been raised in place with resources and a political will to protect its people. I thought about how I was raised with this inherent belief that stability is guaranteed, when in reality, it is not. My parents’ sacrifices allowed me to grow up in a community where economic recovery is possible, and where people’s voices are more likely to be heard. Listening to Maria, I felt the weight of this privilege. But, I also feel inspired by her grit in the face of adversity. Her story reminded me that gratitude is not passive, rather it should drive us to pay more attention to the people around us. 

While California holds its many advantages, Maria also pointed out that the state lacks this one quality: human touch. Despite its size and countless people, there can often be a noticeable disconnect amongst communities. A sense of one collective identity can be difficult to find in California. However, in New Orleans, shared values of community is what closely ties its people together. The people are what makes this city so special. There is a deep love here for one another. 

This has made me reflect on the pain and tensions surging throughout Los Angeles, and across the country. For a country that is so richly diverse, we truly struggle to embrace this aspect as a strength of our nation. We talk about unity, yet remain intensely divided. This is why I love New Orleans. It feels like a bubble of love, where diversity and differences are celebrated. There is a collective identity here, and an unspoken pride about their home. New Orleans has an ability to accept every visitor that provides a true sense of belonging. As expressed by friend Evan from Louisiana: “You’ll find there is nothing else quite like New Orleans”. And he is right, there really is no place like here. 

Acceptance, Birthdays, and the meaning of life.

“What’s the meaning of life?”

Sitting in Audubon, a park opposite to Tulane, Andrew our Professor asked us this hard-hitting question. Binx Bolling approaches his 30th birthday without this answer in The Moviegoer, realizing he’s been coasting through life. Comfortable, but unfulfilled. He begins what he calls the search, looking for a sign, something that tells him he’s alive. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for, only that he needs to start looking.

I turned 19 this week, not 30. I’m not stuck in suburbia or crushed by routine (at least not yet…) Reading Binx however, I started to feel something similar. Not a crisis, but rather uncertainty, that sense that you’re standing on the edge of something: adulthood, direction, or identity. What will come next? And will I be ready?

Jackson Square (Jun 1st)

Halfway through this trip, I gained life changing news. I had originally been accepted to USC with the expectation I would major in Music Industry, but decided my passions lied elsewhere: in Iovine and Young Academy. After a competitive application, portfolio, and interview process, I was left to wait for my decision.

Suddenly, sitting reading in Jackson Square with a book in my lap, I got the email: I had been accepted into my dream program.

I’d imagined this moment for a while, and when it came I jumped out of my chair and definetly made a scene.

The future wasn’t a dream anymore, it was real. This was a new chapter I was able to step into. However, the questioned changed from Will I get in? to What will I do now?

My anxiety didn’t disapear, it only shifted, and my curiosity on how much future would pan out only grew. That feeling hit me hard. My path forward was clearer, but I realized the path wasn’t enough, I had hoped I wanted direction-but instead I wanted connection, meaning, that thing that grounds you and tells you ‘you’re really here.’

(June 8th)

Binx’s journey is never clearly defined, because it can’t be. It’s a hunger for something, a future just out of reach. Or possibly a connection he hopes to get. Or just a feeling that life isn’t slipping out of reach without him noticing.

He’s not lost in the traditional sense, he has a nice apartment and fine career, but he hasn’t been found either. Percy describes this as despair, even though Binx can’t realize it. Binx floats through parties and family obligations like he’s an outsider watching his own life from the outside, never quite in the moment. He starts going to the movies not for escape, but for clues to his own despair.

And, strangely, I get it.

Binx reminds me that life is less about spectacle and more about noticing. Even pocketing his wallet in the morning becomes a moment of importance, one that grounds him, because he sees it all. His life becomes suspicious nad full of possibility. It’s a way of viewing life I tried to carry around the rest of my trip.

Crescent City Connection (June 2nd)

Bourbon Street (June 8th!)

Therefore, when my birthday came around, I paid attention.

We went to a resturant called Tableau, tucked into the French Quarter, likely somewhere where Binx might’ve wandered. I ate pork and oysters, and gourged myself on gnocchi and crème brûlée. I felt like I had an earth-shattering revelation, and not just because of the food (though it helped), but because of the people around me. This entire trip we’ve laughed hard together, shared stories, and have become intamately close as friends much further than I would’ve ever expected. For a few hours, my life was as narrow as the table, and I could feel myself in it, not watching my future slide by from the outside.

Binx searching for that answer tells him that he’s really here. And I felt it.

I wasn’t chasing answers, I wasn’t worrying about what’s next, or what my next greatest project would be. I was just present with the people around me, and maybe that’s what “meaning” is at 19…. not a destination but a moment of connection. A table of people who make the world feel a little less uncertain.

…and yes Mom, I turned 19 on Bourbon Street.

Sorry not sorry!

An imitation of neutrality.

You may celebrate, but only here.

To have no firm political stance is a privilege. To say you “don’t like politics,” to live passively, to let others make choices for you; it’s all rooted in comfort. When you don’t have to worry about your existence being debated in courtrooms, you have the luxury of disengagement. But when you’re born mestiza, when your family is made up of immigrants, when you’re a queer woman, you don’t get to ignore what’s happening around you. Politics aren’t an optional topic for the dinner table, it’s something that impacts the way we live.

In some ways, the city of New Orleans embodies that same passivity. It’s a blue dot in a sea of red. It’s full of people from different backgrounds, ethnicities, economic classes, yet they all are able to come together in a way that outshines their differences. But it also hides a more complicated reality: a place that doesn’t address what’s broken until it becomes impossible to ignore.

New Orleans takes things as they come. That’s part of its charm and also part of its curse. The laid-back, “let it ride” energy may bring people together on Bourbon Street, but it doesn’t push for change when change is needed most. It delays hard conversations. It lets injustices float by with a drink in hand and a shrug in the middle of a hurricane.

Maria—In Action!

During our Creole cookery class with Maria Vieages, we heard stories that revealed this pattern of quiet resignation. Maria’s restaurant was flooded during Katrina, in a disaster where she neither received support from her insurance or FEMA. Her accompanying chef recounted how her own restaurant and condo were wiped out in Hurricane Ida, and she’s never been able to reopen. These weren’t just natural disasters—they were human failures. Failures of systems that were supposed to help people rebuild, that instead left them stranded, left with the stories of heartache but not of support and recovery.

As tourists, we hear these stories and say, “What a pity.” We feel sympathy, maybe even anger, but then we move on. For the people who live here, though, the shrugging continues. “What a pity” becomes policy. The suffering is acknowledged, but nothing is done.

This kind of indifference is echoed in A Confederacy of Dunces. In the opening pages, Ignatius J. Reilly finds himself in an altercation with Officer Mancuso, who attempts to detain him without cause. The scuffle is an attraction of sorts, with “the crowd turning into something of a mob” (pg. 5). As easily as people are quick to tell Mancuso to get his hand off of Ignatius, it turns when Ignatius tells his mother that an old man, Claude Robichaux, defending him was actually the provocateur of the incident, ending in Robichaux’s arrest.

Yes, Robichaux is eventually released. But the damage is done, and no real accountability is taken. Mancuso isn’t seen for the officer trying to fulfill a quota. The crowd never got to see Robichaux’s name be cleared. The system just resets. No one learns anything.

Thee Ignatius Reilly.

This isn’t a one-off event in the novel; it’s the foundation of it. Passivity permeates every character. Mrs. Reilly knows she’s spoiled her son and made a man-baby out of him but does nothing to repair her mistakes. Gus Levy, the head of Levy Pants, watches his company collapse with mild curiosity but doesn’t intervene. Ignatius might be delusional, but at least he acts. Everyone else is content to sit still, to accept their circumstances, to wait for someone else to fix it. Ignatius is the power to act, to create change, but those around him are passive, only able to watch instead of taking that power.

That passive attitude isn’t just fictional. I see that passivity around me now. There are people who would rather not watch while immigrants are ripped away from their children. There are people who would rather say that we steal jobs, instead of realizing that they would never stand in the sun for twelve hours picking strawberries. But worst of all, I see a sea of silence in people who know better but choose to say nothing. he ones who don’t want to “get political,” who think doing their research is too much work, who claim neutrality as if it’s a virtue.

And it's not just white Americans who remain silent. I know many people of color who choose to look away. It’s especially painful when I see it in my own community, among Latinos who feel caught between two worlds.

When you’re born to parents of immigrants in a land that is not theirs, you are born with a target on your back. You have to speak before others speak for you, because what they say might erase you completely. And yet I’ve seen many first-generation Latino-Americans turn their backs on activism, on community, on culture. I’ve seen them assimilate so well they forget where they came from.

An ideology that many first-generation Latino-Americans identify can be summed up with the phrase “ni de aqui, ni de alla”. In a sense, our assimilation into culture becomes diffused from the moment our parents came here. We are fragments of two cultures, often fluent in neither. I know people who barely speak Spanish, or who are ashamed to speak English with an accent. . For many of these people, it is hard to take a stance on the issues happening currently, because although their parents or grandparents fought for the chance at a better life in the United States, they are scared. They do not want to come off as too much of either side; they do not raise their culture’s flags, or say that they support the president, because they are made up of both things. It is easier to assimilate to one culture, either American or Latino, because we live in fear of persecution from either side.

This fear of being “too much” or “not enough” paralyzes many of us. We try to blend in, to avoid criticism, to be invisible. And in doing so, we become silent when we need to be loud. We keep our heads down while the world decides who we are and what we’re worth.

The backlash we face comes from both sides. On the Latino side, we’re mocked for not being “Latino enough.” ‘Tienes cara de nopal, como no puedes hablar español?’ It comes in mockery of not being Latino enough, of not knowing what it was like to be raised in the country of your people, of not being able to roll your r’s or saying a word in English because you don’t know its Spanish equivalent. From the American side, you are exotic, or you are hated. Your skin is naturally tan, or too dark. It tells you that your authentic food, not just tacos or the Chipotle they think is authentic, is disgusting. Your heritage is “illegal.” The struggle and sacrifice your family endured to be here means nothing to people who think immigration is just a matter of paperwork and patience. . For many of those people who judge us, it becomes as simple as this: your family is full of illegal aliens. They should come here the right way, the way that is infinitely costly and inaccessible to many of us.

This is why choosing no side is not neutrality; it’s surrender. It is the illusion of respectability. It is the path of least resistance in a world that already resists you. We don’t get to be silent. We don’t get to wait for someone else to fix it.

New Orleans may dance through the pain. It may find joy in chaos. But until it demands more, hurricanes, both natural and political, will keep coming.

the storm

“Don’t you just love those long rainy afternoons in New Orleans when an hour isn’t just an hour - but a little piece of eternity dropped into your hands - and who knows what to do with it?””

— Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire

No, not really.

Long rainy afternoons in New Orleans do feel like a little piece of eternity dropping into your hands, but there is absolutely nothing to love about them. Today, June eleventh, marks the fourth time in three weeks that I’ve been completely drenched by a sudden downpour!

When it rains in New Orleans, an impenetrable mass of cloud first gathers in the sky. The extending pillow of darkness asphyxiates the streets, leaving the air moist, dense, and sticky. A flash of lighting seals your fate, and consequent booms of thunder crushes all hopes of safe escape. Water rolls down in strands and panels that shift and billow like a sheer white curtain tousled by the wind. Palm trees guarding the streetcar rails fold forwards and backwards.

It was under such a setting that Serina and I left Café Beignet on Canal Street, convincing ourselves that the storm was easing up: a dreadful case of wishful thinking. What is usually an easy stroll back to our hotel was in fact an almost insurmountable quest. Our umbrellas betrayed us, their metal frames twisting and inverting as if possessed by the wind. They felt less like shields and more like sails, dragging us backwards rather than protecting us. Tired of wrestling the umbrellas forward and afraid of being lifted off the ground, we finally closed them, choosing instead to push forward bare into the storm. Pellets of rain now stung at our exposed faces and arms. The wind hurled water into us with such force that I couldn’t open my eyes, and I had to brace myself against the buildings just to stay upright. This was a typical man-vs-nature struggle and we were at an embarrassing loss. Puddles of water had grown into swollen streams, creeping above my ankles, and I was forced to take off my flip-flops and walk barefoot, hoping that I wouldn't fall victim to some obscure skin disease. My clothes were cold and chafed uncomfortably against my arms and legs with every step. Along the way, we stopped regularly, ducking into whatever hotels would let us in, giving each other quick pep talks in the freezing air conditioning before plunging back into the tempest.

When I finally got back to the hotel, I immediately called my parents.

“Yeah, I don’t think I would ever want to live in New Orleans anymore. The weather here is just… too much.”

Over the past month, I’ve often joked with my parents that I’d love to move to New Orleans. From the buttery sound of jazz spilling out of Preservation Hall to the creamy scent of pralines wafting from Aunt Sally’s, the city feels filled with magic and wonder. Some of my favorite memories were the quiet moments – taking slow walks through the French Quarter on languid evenings after dinner, or riding the streetcar down St. Charles Avenue before wandering through the antique shops on Magazine Street. In these moments, the air was soft and sweet. An occasional breeze would run and disappear down the live oak lined boulevard.

But, as I came to realize, life here isn’t just made of happy times and sunny days. As much as I like to imagine living in New Orleans, the reality is that many people don’t have the privilege of seeing only the beautiful parts. Natural disasters are an inevitable part of life.

Louisiana has been historically ravaged by storms and hurricanes, its communities forced time and again to pick up the broken pieces. The incomplete skeletons of beach houses on Grand Isle still stand as quiet witnesses, telling the same stories echoed by forgotten shells of homes in New Orleans East. At the Katrina and Beyond exhibit in the Presbytère, countless lives and stories are distilled into numbers and short paragraphs. They attempt, yet never fully succeed, to capture the true scale of devastation. There’s just no adequate way to express the horror each person endured nor the collective trauma carried by an entire city.

The aftermath of the hurricane hurt each person differently. During the Creole cooking class, our instructor, Chef Maria, spoke candidly about how her culinary journey was shaped, and nearly derailed, by Hurricane Katrina. “I remember that exact moment,” she recalled, “when they told me that the levee broke.” Water flooded Maria’s New Orleans restaurant and left it in irreparable ruins.

Yet, Maria’s story is ultimately one of resilience and hope. Her life is as flavored as her cooking, buttered with all sorts of adventures. Hurricane Katrina was not the end. After the storm, Maria moved to California, taking on new roles as a cooking instructor and private chef for vacation homes. She spoke of building new connections with clients and sharing her love for food wherever she went. She told us stories about working with celebrities, joking about their quirks and personalities. She eagerly explained the origins of various dishes: how the spices in gumbo were originally used to mask the smell and taste of aging ingredients, and how barbeque shrimp contains no barbeque at all – born instead from two tired chefs improvising with leftover shrimp, determined not to waste any food after a busy day.

In the warm glow of the yellow room, we watched as Maria cooked dish after dish, transforming ordinary ingredients into meals that filled the air with deliciously irresistible aromas. Generous chunks of butter. Whole bowls of sugar. Pan-fulls of oil. Each dish was filled with bountiful amounts of unhealthy ingredients that I couldn’t dare to eat even in a week. Maria’s cooking isn’t about making a healthy, sanitized Los Angeles-approved health meal that I was used to. There’s a certain sense of comfort in her cooking that no salad can provide.

Maria’s story is just one example. In New Orleans, there had been so many instances through which I was able to see the way that people triumphed over hardship by pushing through courageously, sometimes creating beautiful things in the process. They have shown me that deviating from the linear line that you want your life to take on isn’t necessarily the end of the world. I saw defiance against the crushing effects of the storm, a sense of hope and a refusal to lose. Resilience is everywhere – from the books we read to the lives of those we encounter.

Life isn’t all sunny days and happy memories; that’s just a fact. Sometimes, it’s about pushing through the storm and carrying its memory with you, so that when you see someone else caught in it, you’ll know how to help.

Remembering History

Learning about racial dynamics in this class has been a powerful experience, because we have been able to confront realities of the past that are horrible yet important to understand. Professor Chater has been quite purposeful in his teaching of this content on our journey through this learning. As a class, we have enjoyed examining the best parts of New Orleans history and culture through experiences such as The Preservation Hall Jazz performance, but we have also confronted negative history which, while painful, is equally important to understand.

Every time I leave our hotel it is a strange experience. It does not feel like I live here as I do when I leave my house in San Francisco or even my college dorm for that matter. Yet this extended stay feels like more than a vacation where I am simply a guest. In that respect, New Orleans has become my temporary home. This city is so different from every stereotype I've held about the American South, that I often forget about where I really am.

But there are moments when this reality becomes much clearer, where I cannot forget my sense of place. As I think harder about where I am, I process that I am in Louisiana, the American South. When we toured the Civil War Museum in Confederate Memorial Hall, Southern history was on display right in front of my face. I entered with an open mind, channeling my history-buff mindset ready to learn more about the past of this country, my country. I believe that this part of America's past is essential to study and to remember, however through the lens of critiquing proponents of slavery for being on the wrong side of history, not as individuals to be commemorated. I expected that this museum would share the same historical interpretation but I was mistaken.

Rather than framing the historical missteps of the Confederate South as a cautionary tale for our country to not repeat similar atrocities going forward, this museum was glorifying the Confederacy in every exhibit on display. I was in disbelief. Upon observing the museum's other guests however, I realized that many of them authentically felt that this aspect of their history should be celebrated, remembered not as a fallen atrocity but as fallen glory. This divide between our perspectives on history was vividly apparent, leaving me unsettled but curious.

While I recognize that the life of any fallen soldier is a tragedy worthy of remembrance, the complete lack of contextualization or big picture perspective in this commemoration process is what truly shocked me. While recounting the details of fallen Confederate soldiers’ “chivalry” and “bravery” is not inherently inaccurate or invalid, the presentation of solely these aspects of the Confederacy distracts and disrespects the truly important takeaway from this time: the atrocity that was the institution of slavery.

History matters because it allows us to learn from successes and failures of the past, building on what has happened to guide our actions going forward. Thus, a meaningful understanding of history has little to do with the timelines of individuals' lives, but rather the large-scale impacts of how individual and collective action has shaped society. In this context, the story of the Confederate South should not be told without confronting the preservation of slavery at it's core, which oppressed African American people in the most inhumane way. And yet I did not see the word “slavery” mentioned once in any display, much less the atrocity that this institution was. The only tragedies I heard about were the death’s of Confederate soldiers and how prized the remnants of the Confederacy were to their descendants. This omission isn’t accidental – it’s a deliberate reframing. The museum has made a purposeful choice to focus on details that are irrelevant in the grand scheme of things while ignoring the far more painful and important truths of the very history on display.

I’ve always been eager to learn about differing perspectives and lean into new experiences, especially those that challenge my worldview as a San Francisco native where liberal politics are all I've known. I've always been deeply curious about how people come to hold values that differ so drastically from my own. In trying to put myself in the shoes of my fellow museum visitors, I reflected on the deeply entrenched cultural circumstances which are all they know and have likely shaped their views of this history to be celebratory rather than critical. Even so, I don’t feel this justifies the harm that having such selective memory causes.

After visiting this museum, I gained no respect for the perspective of history on display: rather than simply offering a different viewpoint, it wrongfully idealizes a deeply racist past by omitting important information and emphasizing minutia. Much like how withholding information is a lie in and of itself, this museum’s skewed portrayal of the Civil War misrepresents history by not even scratching the surface of the Confederacy’s true historical impact. As one of the last standing places commemorating the Confederacy, this museum holds real influence over people’s memory of the past. Thus, it is that much more harmful when this power to portray history is done in such a unidimensional and selective way. The way I see it, this museum is going against the very goal of studying history: instead of holistically portraying historical impacts to learn from past mistakes, it covers up these very wrongs so that what is most important to remember is wiped from memory.

Experiences like these are so foreign to me that I forget I am still here in my own country. In some ways I am ashamed to be a citizen of a place that refuses to learn from its own history. In other ways, I have no identification here as this America is completely different from the one I call home. The truth of my attitude is somewhere in between, in which I can be extremely critical of this museum for opposing my moral understanding of history and blame those that perpetuate this dynamic, all while being deeply saddened that American history can be remembered this way. Even though these aspects of the South could not be more different from how I grew up, this history is still my country's history and, whether bad or good, I feel some level of accountability for making sure it is remembered accurately.

Preserving Jazz

Preservation Hall is a haven for Jazz music. It was founded in the 1960s as a place to preserve the craft and support the musicians as the genre was losing popularity. Today, the historic venue hosts about 60 of the finest jazz musicians on a rotating basis. I remember seeing this night on the syllabus when I was deciding which Maymester to apply to. I couldn’t wait to experience such a pillar of music history.

All nine of us arrived 45 minutes early so we could be first in line for the much more affordable standing tickets. The venue was clearly aware of its image. From painted “dirt” on the windows to the distressed wooden doors with brand new hardware, it feels a little like a theme park in its recreation of a classic Jazz club.

The musicians came out to impressive applause for such a small venue, wearing nothing more than would be expected of any of the other street musicians in the quarter. As they took their places, the trumpet player quietly introduced himself, drawing everyone in. The room got quieter than the French Quarter ever is, with a nearby piano and the newly added air conditioning being the only things competing with his voice.

The music began just as relaxed as the musicians seemed. They almost seemed ambivalent to the audience. This feeling actually gave more space for the improvisatory nature of Jazz. The musicians were in constant communication with each other through their body language and eye contact. There didn’t seem to be a well-established setlist, but they still had smooth entrances and crisp cutoffs.

The music was fantastic. Each of them was clearly very talented, and they all had a chance to be featured as they passed around solos. Yet, there was something that felt different. There was such a barrier between the musicians and the audience. We had all gone to see a “perfect example” of what Jazz is. The musicians played well-rehearsed songs while the audience barely swayed along, only some of them in time. It lacked the exploration and freedom that Jazz embodies.

“You were both changing direction with every sentence, sometimes in the middle, using each other as a springboard through the dark. You were moving so fast it was unimportant to finish and clear everything. He would be describing something in 27 ways. There was pain and gentleness everything jammed into each number.”

— Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

Michael Ondaatje begins to describe this experience in an abstract way. He uses metaphors of rivers, fires, and other wild natural elements, exploring new paths. He describes the messiness, mistakes, and newfound direction that come from these misses. He describes being overtaken by the spirit of the music, with the notes just flowing out. All of these descriptions begin to capture the jazz I thought we were going to hear - music that is an exploration.

This is why Buddy Bolden is revered among musicians. While you won’t find him in the charts or on the radio, his influence is everywhere. This was confirmed in the way band leader and trumpeter Branden Lewis’ eyes lit up when we told him we were learning about him for our class. He was happy to hear about our thoughts on one of the pioneers of the genre, while acknowledging that Bolden was a complicated character.

Something about Preservation Hall lost this freedom.

“He was never recorded. He stayed away while others moved into wax history, electronic history, those who said later that Boldon broke the path.”

— Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

---

A few days later, I found myself on Frenchman Street, sometimes known as “the locals’ Bourbon Street.” Quieter and nestled into the neighborhood, this street is full of Jazz clubs and live music without the souvenir shops. It is full of all kinds of art in a way that feels a little bit less performative. I first stopped into a record shop. It was chock-full of local music. Each table had a record or CD player with headphones for you to “try before you buy,” all under the watchful eye of the shop cat.

A little bit further up the street, I stopped into the Spotted Cat Music Club. I was immediately taken by the soaring clarinet solo I walked in on. Despite its place as a core jazz instrument, I hadn’t heard much of the instrument in New Orleans so far.

There were seven musicians in all, but they all handed off parts like a conversation. They communicated with their notes like a call and response. It was playful. They challenged each other the whole time, receiving audible reactions from the band and audience alike when they tripped someone up. They were hardly mistakes, just new points to jump off of. The room breathed as one the entire time. Everyone was involved, and everyone moved in time, unlike Preservation Hall. This was the Jazz I had been looking for.

Jazz is a genre, but its more than that too. Jazz is a feeling, an experience, a freedom. Preservation Hall has its place. It has preserved, celebrated, and supported the music and the musicians that make the music through difficult times. I still think it deserves the reputation it has. However, the idea of preserving “what was,” is diametrically opposed to the freedom and exploration that Jazz embodies.

“He tore apart the plot - see his music was immediately on top of his own life. Echoing. As if, when he was playing he was lost and hunting for the right accidental notes.”

— Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter

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We need places like Preservation Hall, but we also need places like the Spotted Cat Music Club. We need places for music to run wild, for creative freedom to be celebrated.

Michael Ondaatje describes this in the form of Coming Through Slaughter, as well as the content. He assembles the book like a scrapbook of sorts. It is creative and exploratory; it doesn’t fall into standard conventions. Ondaatje includes standard prose, third-person dialogue, first-person narrative, song lyrics, representations of pictures, and stream of consciousness. This creative form does more than just tell the story; it outlines Jazz itself. We are immersed in the freedom of Jazz and Bolden’s exploration. I found this in the Spotted Cat Music Club more than anywhere else in the city.

Looking for America in a little pocket of Louisiana

I’m looking for the core of America in the most unglamorous neighborhoods of New Orleans. You can tell from this mission that I am not happy with letting the strong Cannabis scents and built-up sewage water define the American culture, especially in this pocket. During my search, New Orleans East offered me what I could not find elsewhere.

You may wonder, what could possibly be found in here that still holds significance more than twenty years after Katrina? Certainly not the property value. Probably not the potential to develop business either. Even the soil is ruined, and the only plants that do well in this ecosystem are wild weeds that need to be constantly plucked. While these objective facts are true, it’s possible to look at the decline and lack of prosperity in the Katrina-affected areas with admiration and enjoyment. This is the type of mentality I derived from Sarah Broom's autobiographical and journalistic writing.

Tracing back two generations to her birth, the book provided me with insights into how far the city has evolved, beyond its most central districts, which offer abundant economic opportunities. Behind Broom’s nostalgia for childhood and mourning for her old house is a deep worry for our inability to settle down. Although her independence came into fruition with the disappearance of the yellow house, she is not exactly celebratory of the demise of this already collapsing building and the traditional values it represents. I know precisely how this bittersweet feeling comes about: when you dream of escaping the town that burdened you, you will come to realize that it is actually the anchor that kept you grounded all along. Without this one reason to stay, you have no roots, and you are just a dandelion being dispersed to wherever the wind takes you. Even when you spread your seeds across the continent, it will never truly be home. Just as she said in an article with the Oxford American magazine: “Did my childhood home fall apart so that something in me could open up?”

Broom searched for her father through the anedoctes passed on by her mother and other people around. Yet she never remembered the limited months they spent together. In many ways, her late father still had tremendous impact on her despite not being a companion in her growth. This is the type of childhood wound and loneliness that dictate the direction you take on for the rest of your life. Therefore, it all became one holistic, spontaneous narrative when I found out Broom is happily married to her wife in New York. I am not surprised she finds this new, liberating lifestyle for herself. The truth is, growing up without a fatherly figure leads to a heavy emotional toll that changes how you perceive intimacy. You start to lose faith in love in a way that is difficult to explain to your mother, who also suffered the same loss. When you are a daughter to a single mother, you can only form attachment and trust with other women. You start to believe in chosen kinship above blood relations. So, Broom’s queerness, romantic love, and creative voice can be traced back to her father’s passing. I am also speaking for myself.

Poor little Broom was not invited to her father’s funeral as an infant. Even though she couldn’t speak for herself as a baby, I could decipher her feelings if she uttered loud cries. By the time my father passed, I was already reaching my teenage years. Yet I wasn’t asked to be at his funeral either. Because there never was one. Never a jazz parade that complements the mourning with poignant music. Never an affirmation that this life once existed. I wish my father could be honored through a sacred possession, or a community-oriented ceremony full of reverence and hope for the afterlife.

So, when we visited the Resthaven Memorial Park, I lingered in front of each unmarked headstone a little longer than everyone else. As the name suggests, the cemetery intends for all its deceased residents to “rest in heaven” after living long, whole lives of suffering. Some souls were lost to Wars (WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, etc), some, I assume, to health issues. However, the cause no longer matters, as they are at peace now. Protected by the delicate carvings of little angels descending from above, or the graceful Mother Maria protecting them with her halo. But for me, the passerby who came by with no flowers to offer, I can only see the spirits in the shape of their stone statues, and hold back my tears while I think about the unnamed souls that do receive fresh bouquets or colorful mini-windmills. I am twenty years old and I still have not visited my own father’s grave.

Coming of age as a teenager in a city very similar to New Orleans, I swung between an idealized image of adolescence and its stark reality. Before coming to America, I had a somewhat idealized perception of what it meant to be a young person in one of the most free countries in the world. Even with various sources of entertainment and celebrations in Orlando, I was surrounded by cultural conservatism against my own will.

The book became a foggy window that enabled me to peek at the underbelly of America. Although we have never lived through these eras ourselves, vaguely restoring them through landmarks and memorial halls helped construct a blueprint for what it was like to live in the 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, and all the way up to the early 2000s. At the same time, not all history exists in carefully maintained museums and polished statues. These well-protected primary sources alone were not sufficient supplementary materials, so we dug deeper from mundane places. Over the past few days, we took multiple walks from the park by Lake Pontchartrain to across the Mississippi River in Algiers. Most of our stroll through the streets ended with getting rained on, either with light damage or completely drenched.

Our drive to the Lower Ninth Ward indicated to me the value of escapism. It became clear why someone like Sarah Broom might prefer environments where upward mobility is possible. You can never find economic fluidity in stagnant places, especially when the stratification is sanctioned mainly by the local government, and the residents are forced to accept any changes for better or worse. Hence, I don’t blame Broom for wanting to run away from the soil that raised her. This is by no means a disrespect to impoverished conditions, yet it’s hard to make do with the fundamental discontent of living in a place that is practically forgotten.

When Broom forgoes her memories of the yellow house, she also forgoes the joy, celebration, and resilience that were embedded in this symbol. As a result, her description of her childhood remained whimsical and optimistic, while the world through her adult lens grew far more realistic yet devoid of hope. The look of the actual Wilson Avenue is not far from her portrayal. Right off the bat, when leaving the highway, our truck was greeted by stacks of tree branches accumulating on the side of the road and houses tormented by peeling paint. The devastation isn’t always visible at first glance. It gradually reveals itself in boarded-up schools, the lack of corner stores, and the deafening silence where there should be community noise. There is no commercial disguise or tourist pretense here—no filtered brochure to seduce with jazzy soundscapes or polished balconies. It’s hard to determine whether the pitiful appearance of the area is due to recovery from natural disasters or simply neglect.

While navigating the Hurricane Katrina exhibits and encountering documented photographs, I was overwhelmed by a mixture of agony, fear, and ultimately a strong-willed determination to prevail. The illuminating TV screen projected videos of dogs floating in the water, waiting for rescues, and cars stuck in tunnels. My first reaction was that these visuals triggered my claustrophobic fear, and imagining the shock of the downstream breaking the window shield of my home and floating the carpet until it rises to the height of my chin made my heartbeat accelerate. However, despite all of the dramatic effects and trauma-centered storytelling, I could still tell that what lies beneath the pain is ravishment for survival and the gratitude to life.

After all, not everyone survived Katrina. Those who passed in August of 2005 didn’t just die from drowning. It was also the lack of food, water, and basic supplies. Poor sanitation. Ineffective rescue routes. The legacy of financial losses continues to be felt in both tangible and intangible ways. Meanwhile, kids who were born that year are exactly my age and becoming the new generation of people who leave their hometowns in pursuit of a “better life”.

The exhibit made it abundantly clear that Katrina is not a point of contention with our mother planet, but rather a result of man-made failures. The dysfunction behind the large-scale casualties provoked me; for the majority of my college education, I had been dedicated to studying urban planning and public policy, approaching the topic from the perspectives of population control in my sociology seminars. Yet, none of the theoretical knowledge was as effective as reading an intimate narrative from a woman born and raised in this place. In Broom’s account, I grasped how the government failed her family and community during the aftermath. During our book packing, I stumbled upon the sites of the housing development projects and was utterly disappointed by the breakdowns that occurred when the water receded.

Looking at the vacant lot of what used to be the yellow house affirmed to me that what I study matters. However, at the same time, it unveiled to me the harsh truth that the communities I care about could only receive help if the leaders are willing to acknowledge their importance and protect them with equal force. If only lawmakers did not perceive it as inferior to beautiful buildings with very little utility. If only they cared about the other parts of the city as much as they did for the French Quarter and the Business District. The idiom states that it takes a heart of stone to move an ocean. We also need some incredible virtuous spirits to stop the cascading floods from rushing into the city and breaking through every last barrier of defense. This defense encompasses not only the levee or other material structures, but also the policies in place to support groups that were impacted and displaced.

It’s hard to capture the quintessential aspects of America within a couple of lines. Still, if I had to try, I would say that it is primarily defined by the continuous attempts to find bliss and delight despite the shadows cast upon these communities.

The yellow house only stand in memories now.

What They Want You To Remember.

There is an idea of White Southernism that is deeply painful. It lingers like a ghost—intangible, omnipresent, and unwilling to fade. In my own head, I struggle to understand how it could ever have been an acceptable way of life. It isn’t just about culture or tradition. It’s about a way of thinking, a legacy built on oppression, and the longing for a version of America that many would rather forget—or, worse, return to.

In New Orleans, you don’t see that ideology quite as clearly. The city feels like an island in the state of Louisiana, one of the most conservative places in the country. Driving through Grand Isle, I saw Trump 2024 flags on houses, on trucks, on hats, as if they were family crests. It was an unmistakable reminder: at its core, Louisiana is still very red. Yet New Orleans feels different. It’s messy and colorful and chaotic in a way that feels alive. It's a place where people of all shades live out loud, where history weighs heavy but where culture still finds ways to celebrate itself. It doesn’t feel like the rest of the state.

Visiting the Whitney Plantation was the moment the fantasy peeled away. I’ve never been in a place so steeped in grief. The land feels like it’s still breathing. Still mourning. You walk the grounds and imagine the people who lived and died there—not lived, exactly, but survived for as long as their bodies held out. Enslaved people born into brutality, dying in anonymity, never knowing what it felt like to rest inside the house they labored to maintain. Never knowing the comfort of being seen as human.

What’s nearly impossible to grasp is the perspective of the white people who did live inside that house. Who dined on the porch, entertained guests in high-ceilinged parlors, and passed laws that treated human beings like livestock. And yet, part of being a “worldly person” is trying to understand all angles of history. I tried. I stood in that main house, looked out the windows, and tried to imagine how someone could rationalize that kind of cruelty. But it is difficult to try and empathize with people who fought so hard to keep others beneath them. The mental gymnastics required to call it “heritage” instead of the horror it actually is. And in visiting the Confederate Memorial Hall, I did not last more than five minutes.

My mind raced with a single thought: These men would have hated me. They would have hated my existence, hated my parents for daring to have me into this country, hated the sacrifices my family made to create a better life here. That kind of hate leaves residue. And yet these men are preserved in glass cases, celebrated with medallions and plaques. But for what? For defending the right to enslave others? For fighting to keep families like mine from ever finding footing here?

What’s ironic is that in the end, they all wanted the same thing: the American Dream. The plantation owner, the immigrant father crossing the Rio Grande, the modern white conservative who fears a changing America. They all want some version of security, stability, meaning. But only some people were ever allowed to pursue that dream freely.

In reading ‘The Moviegoer’, I found it much simpler to read than the other books in this course. However, what makes it so simple? It, superficially, reads as a white man who has everything seeking some greater purpose, something that will make him whole. You want Binx to comply, to do as his Aunt Emily advises, to settle into being an adult at his grown age of twenty-nine. But he doesn’t, and what becomes clear is that even within privilege, there’s a kind of desperation. The desire for meaning is universal.

That’s what the White South tries to sell: the promise of meaning through order. It’s an idyllic picture of smiling families, sweet tea on porches, men with careers and women in pearls. A world of roles that fit just right. A world where everyone knows their place. But it’s a fantasy that comes at someone else’s suffering.

As society evolves, that picture becomes harder to maintain. The White South adapts, just like everything else. From the days of men going to college and women staying home, to now where both can pursue higher education, yet are still corralled into gendered roles. College becomes a rite of passage where you’re told to find yourself, only to be expected to shrink again immediately after.

For those clinging to that past, they see a threat in people who refuse to shrink. They see the rise of people of color as a reason their world is falling apart. In their minds, the system was perfect until “others” disrupted it. And so, they fight for that illusion to return. They dream of summer homes on the water, staff they don’t have to pay much, and wealth that feels earned simply by existing. It’s about comfort, not justice.

And that’s what makes it dangerous. That’s why you see such vitriol in conservative rhetoric. The outrage over immigration, the obsession with crime, the myths about stolen jobs; they all stem from fear. Not always hatred, though it often becomes that. But fear, fear of being irrelevant, of losing the privileges their ancestors bled to protect. Fear of looking in the mirror and not recognizing the country they thought was theirs alone.

What they forget is that their ancestors were immigrants too. That they were once called slurs. That they were once chased out of towns. They forget that the American Dream has never belonged to one group, and it never will.

In some aspect, it’s almost a form of escapism. While Binx uses movies and women to temporarily forget his woes, modern white southerners fight for a semblance of power to free themselves from the lack of control in their lives. They are scared of the progress because it is unfamiliar, they are scared of the rise of people of color because it is unfamiliar. They want the romantic life, the stoic one that asks for no more because it already has everything. They want to listen to jazz on Bourbon, without remembering how it came about. They want to have their weddings on plantation homes, without remembering the suffering that has taken place. They want to get into their dream schools, without remembering how displaced and stifled the people of color in America have been. They want to return to a world that was picked by them, without remembering that there are others surrounding them. They want to live in a version of America that is perfectly curated to their comfort.

But comfort is not truth. And comfort is not justice.

All week, I’ve checked my phone and seen headlines from Los Angeles—my home. I recall these Southerners, who wave their Trump flags high, who wish for a return in white pride, and wonder what they would think of me. What would they think of my mother, who immigrated here when she was ten from Guatemala? What would they think of my father, who immigrated when he was seventeen from Mexico? Would they even care that my father spent two days on foot, swimming through the Rio Grande with no material possessions, just to make it to El Paso? Was he wrong for wanting more for himself, for his future?

I know families who would have it worse than me. I am an adult, and an only child, so I would be the only one to take care of myself without my father. But there are families with children who are all citizens, children who would be completely displaced by their parents being banished and labeled as criminals. This was supposed to be about New Orleans, but I cannot make it about anything else.

pain and pride

As a class, we piled into a van and drove out to New Orleans East, right to 4121 Wilson Ave. An empty plot. It was overgrown with lush greenery so thick  we could barely make out the fading numbers on the street curb. Despite it being my first time there, I felt like I already knew the place. I had walked through the rooms that once stood, listened in on family conversations from decades ago, and watched it face the wrath of Hurricane Katrina. That’s because our fourth book on this trip was all about this exact plot of land and the family who once made it home. 

Where a yellow camelback shotgun house once stood, there was now nothing. Even the cypress tree that once remained after the house was torn down was now gone too. What stood before us was simply a patch of land, scheduled to be swallowed by the car yard next door. Without The Yellow House, you'd be none the wiser to the stories 4121 Wilson Ave held.

The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom recounts the life of her family at 4121 Wilson Avenue, a small yellow shotgun house in New Orleans East, a part of New Orleans that rarely makes it onto tourist maps or into public memory. The memoir expands the boundaries of that map, giving a voice to the often erased stories of Black families like hers. Broom preserves the presence of a home that no longer stands, fortifying it in the minds of her readers so that the house, and everything it held, is never truly lost.

Present day 4121 Wilson Ave

““Shame is a slow creeping. The most powerful things are quietest, if you think about it. Like water.””

— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

One of the memoir’s greatest themes is shame, one that is rooted in the systemic neglect and internalized racism. For Broom, the shame takes shape in the yellow house itself.

As the house fell deeper into disrepair, Broom and her family stopped having visitors. She became deeply embarrassed with their home. This drove her to develop anxiety around being seen. When being dropped off by her friend’s parents, she would refuse to let them see the short end of Wilson, pretending she needed to stop at a store and walking the rest of the way home. 

The shame consumed her, to the point the house no longer felt like a place of comfort. But this shame wasn’t something Broom necessarily invented, it was something inherited.

“America required these dualities anyway and we were good at presenting our double selves. The house, unlike the clothes our mother had tailored to us, was an ungainly fit.”

— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

In fact, the first mention of being embarrassed about the house didn’t come from Sarah, but from her mother, Ivory Mae. Being born in 1930s Louisiana, Ivory Mae grew up in a time where her proximity to whiteness brought a certain level of protection and respectability. From this, Ivory Mae internalized the idea that how others saw her, was tied to her worth. So when the Yellow House began to crumble, so did her pride. This was something that was quietly passed down to her daughter.

The beauty of the Yellow house is that Broom doesn’t bury her shame. She writes it into existence and by doing so, she transforms it into pride. Her memoir becomes a reclamation of her home, her family’s story, and the story of a Black New Orleans that otherwise would’ve been lost to time, like the physical yellow shotgun house. 

Through Sarah and through the Yellow House, I was able to know, to feel what once was. As readers, we were able to feel the breath of life on the Short End of Wilson Street, despite it being physically empty. I love that the book allowed me to see a New Orleans I never would’ve known otherwise.

it's made entirely out of hair. INSANE!!

beaded all by hand and never worn twice

And I love the New Orleans I do get to see. Beyond the seventy eight blocks of the French Quarter, to the north lies the Treme. For days, I found myself rushing past Rampart St. and getting lost in the faubourg. The old French style houses parked up next to the modern cars of their residents made for the perfect harmony of past and present, just like the community itself, where generations come together to keep traditions alive and remember culture.

One of my favourite places was the Backstreet Cultural Museum, nestled right in the folds of the Treme. It was the passion project of the late Slyvester “Hawk” Francis that shows his love of his community. The museum tells a story of African American history, particularly in New Orleans, and the beauty and joy that stemmed from hardship. It celebrates so many cultural treasures, from Mardi Gras Indians to Baby Dolls to Jazz Funerals. In short, it shows the vibrancy and connection of Black New Orleans, highlighting the absolute talent, care, and creativity that goes into the preservation and evolution of these traditions. 

Another highlight are the second line parades. It was amazing to see a community come together just to celebrate and have fun.  Second line parades are a weekly event, hosted by rotating social aid and pleasure clubs. Despite the heat and humidity our class struggled with, the neighborhood radiated energy.

People of all ages walked the streets following the band, dancing their worries away. The band’s tune carried across the crowd, whistles and the clinking of glass bottles in tow. People moved to the rhythm: freestyle steps, hips swaying, and head shaking over the uneven terrain. Families and organizations showed up in style with their coordinated outfits. Baby Dolls twirled their parasols, handkerchiefs and sweat towels waved in the air. The smell of food vendors that line the route drifted through the streets. Folks smiled and danced from their porches.

It was warm. It was real. You could feel the spirit of the community, roaring proudly through the streets of New Orleans.

I, of course, went back the next week. And will go again this week too. I cherish every part of it, especially because it’s something I didn’t grow up with. I feel incredibly blessed to be from Hawaii, and I carry a deep pride for my home. But growing up, I didn’t have a strong Black community around me. It left me feeling somewhat disconnected from my Black identity. A big reason I chose to come to New Orleans was to connect more to that part of myself. 

New Orleans is a unique, historically Black city, a mecca of culture, resilience, and joy. It’s a place where so many Black traditions have not only survived but flourished, shaped by history and bloomed through love, creativity, and community. It’s an honour to witness even a small part of it. And I’m grateful for what Broom shared. Her memoir shows a true love for her community, all of it, the pain and the pride. It shows me a part of the city that embraces its scars while dancing through the streets, a place that remembers while moving forward.  Broom’s story, and New Orleans itself, remind me there’s a power in remembering and a pride in claiming every part of who you are. 

Everyone Must Know Buddy Bolden

“EVERYONE MUST KNOW BUDDY BOLDEN”

I came to New Orleans with a deep love for music, but not much of a jazz background. My roots were in blues and folk guitar, and most of my musical education either came from players in that genre, or learning by ear, writing songs, and jamming with my friends. (I was even guitar club president in high school!) I did spend about six months in a high school jazz ensemble, but I never quite spoke the language. While others around me seemed to be fluent in the technical, swing rythms, chord substitutions, I clung to what I was comfortable with, like the good ol pentatonic scale. Theory always felt like a world I never was eager to hop into.

Jazz as a result has always held some kind of mystique. It was something I deeply admired but didn’t fully understand. The students in that ensemble felt like they operated on a different plane than me, effortlessly communicating in ways that I couldn’t. I loved listening to Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Chick Corea, Hiatus Kaiyote, but my relationship with their music wasn’t at all technical. I could feel it, but I could never explain it.

Coming to New Orleans as the birthplace of Jazz, I felt like stepping into the language that I’ve never fully grasped. It was intimidating, but I was only here to listen and observe.

“Everyone must know Buddy Bolden”

— Branden Lewis, Preservation Hall, June 4th

Branden Lewis

Our first night in the heart of New Orleans, we were in search of two things: food (of course!) and good music. We followed the sound of a live band spilling out of a little cata-corner of Bourbon Street. The food was really good, our first taste of New Orleans food, and the music felt like what we had expected: classic songs and jazz standards we recognized. We thought we had struck gold.

We came back a few more times after that. The band never changed, and neither did their set. We realized quickly that the food, although good the first few bites, wasn’t the epitome of New Orleans food. We realized this place wasn’t a hidden gem, but a tourist trap for the unsuspecting. The music, although good, stayed on the surface. It wasn’t what we were looking for… We were still on the surface.

We were sitting outside of Preservation Hall, anxiously awaiting the jazz performance ahead of us. As we were waiting, a local man came by and laughed at us: “Why are you waiting to listen to music that puts you to sleep?” I wondered if the performance would disappoint.

Preservation was a wonderful exploration into the historical roots of Jazz. Dating back to the 1950s, it became “the most iconic Jazz Club in New Orleans.” Personally, I was enthralled, and so were most people in the room. People got up to dance (and importantly tip!), and you could tell they were all professionals in their craft. However, was it the Jazz I was looking for?

After the show, we all had the wonderful opportunity to talk to Branden Lewis. He asked us why we were here, and we told him about our bookpacking. We had been reading Coming Through Slaughter, so Sam brought out the book for him to see. We asked if he knew Buddy Bolden. “Of course, Everyone must know Buddy Bolden!”

Preservation Hall With Brendan Lewis! (June 4th)

Buddy Bolden Mural (June 2nd)

Coming Through Slaughter was one of our most interesting books. The writing is manic, often requiring a pass over or two to fully understand it. It’s written sporadically, much like the unravelling of Buddy Bolden himself. The writing style is intentionally sporatic not only to represent his mental state, but also the state of jazz. It’s not something that’s supposed to inherently technically difficult or emotionally distant. Instead, it’s the raw lived experiences of everyone around us. That’s what it was trying to tell us.

Walking the French Quarter once again, I heard a trumpet. It wasn’t a band, wasn’t a venue, just a woman sitting alone at a Cafe table outside of Envie Cafe, one of my favorite cafes in the french quarter. There wasn’t an audience, no tips, just a woman and her horn. The sound wasn’t polished, it was raw and real. Most thoughts weren’t finished and she didn’t seem to practiced. Even though the sound wasn’t too pleasing to the ears, I realized I had found it what I’d been looking for.

I hadn’t found it on a stage or in a historic club. Instead, I found it on the streets where people lived. And here in New Orleans, she refused to be silent.

In the end, I didn’t find a technical mastery of jazz or a new appreciation for its theory. I didn’t leave speaking the language fluently, but I will leave hearing to it differently. I’ve come to understand that it’s not just something to be played on stages or in sheet music. It’s human. Born on the streets from unheard voices. People like Buddy Bolden who try and play not just for recognition but because they have something uncontrollable they need to let out.

Branden Lewis was right. Everyone must know Buddy Bolden! That’s because he’s the epitome of jazz- imperfect, improvisational, and deeply human, although flawed. Bolden’s legacy lives not in the clean picture perfect new orleans that tourists come for, nor does he live in preserved performances. Instead, you can find him in the raw notes drifting from cafe corners where music is messy and live, unapologeticaly free. That’s the Jazz I was looking for, and the New Orleans I’ll carry with me.

“The music was never seperate from the man.”

Transcendence of Music

I do not understand the technicalities of music. I do know how to read sheet music. I do not play any instruments, and I definitely do not have a good singing voice. Honestly, the list of what I can’t do musically could go on. 

BUT, 

That has never stopped me from loving music. Music is for everyone, transcending geography, time and even language. It is fascinating how it can connect people all over across the globe. Through music, I have bonded with my parents, my friends from other states and countries, and even strangers. This is one of the reasons I have come to love New Orleans. There is an undeniable friendliness that exists here, especially in the musical context. Here, you do not need to be a musician to be part of the experience. 

---

Road Leaving Rural Louisiana

For some context, I was raised under parents who indoctrinated music into my daily life. Specifically, my fondness towards country music has been influenced by my parents. It has always been funny watching people’s reactions to my Asian immigrant parents’ love for country music. Friends would often do a double take when they realized my mom and dad sing along to Garth Brooks, Luke Combs, and Morgan Wallen. Thus, the idea of coming to Louisiana excited me. It would give me the chance to hear my childhood music on the radio stations. Whilst traveling around the state with my classmates, we dialed to every station possible to hear some good ole’ country. Luckily, we came across a variety of stations like “Cajun Country”. As expected, I was joyfully singing along to these songs. However, I was the only one in our small sprinter van to know all the lyrics to these songs. That did not stop me from my singing. 

As our trip went on, we moved away from the stillness of rural Louisiana into the bustling environment of New Orleans. The city pulses with one defining sound: jazz. Unlike the country music I was raised with, jazz was unfamiliar territory to me. While I intended to seek familiar country songs, I was suddenly immersed in the sounds that encapsulates the very identity of New Orleans. Over the past couple of weeks, I have truly enjoyed indulging with this new musical style. I have always considered myself to be adventurous in my musical tastes, and this experience has pushed this quality further. Country music tends to develop its stories in a straight line, while Jazz flows in a manner that surprises its listeners. It is intensely expressive, and I can feel the raw emotions that exude from the musicians. And really, this has been the beauty of this Bookpacking experience: opening myself up to new sensations that challenge the regularity of my life at home. 

First Night @ Cafe Beignet

My first exploration of Jazz was at Cafe Beignet on Bourbon Street. It is a touristy location that sells gumbo, jambalaya, and of course, beignets! Our eight person group gathered at the tiny metal tables, listening to the band playing. The band, a trio of older musicians, played with an effortless energy that filled the air. I did not recognize any of the songs, but I did not need to. Jazz has an inviting nature, in which anyone can listen too. This moment illustrated the way Jazz is an expressive art form that fosters human connection. Sitting and listening to music with my newfound friends was a sweet experience. We often come back to Cafe Beignet to enjoy the music.

Recently, Andrew took us to Preservation Hall. Located in the heart of the French Quarter, the venue has continued traditional New Orleans jazz since 1961. The musicians who perform here range in ages from mid-20s to early 90s. Unlike other jazz spots, Preservation Hall felt incredibly authentic (maybe because we were not allowed to have our phones out)! Our 45-minute set was led by Branden Lewis, who plays the trumpet. He has been leading the world-renowned band since 2022. My favorite moment came when the bassist stepped forward to both sing and play. The experience was moving as he provided an extremely soulful performance. By the end of the performance, the congested room was alive with laughter, dancing, and smiling. This felt like a genuine jazz experience. 

After the band finished, Richie wanted to purchase a t-shirt. While we were waiting around, Branden Lewis approached our group, having noticed my “USC Trojans” shirt. He started to converse with our group, asking about our class and what brought us to New Orleans. Branden proceeded to share his own journey into playing the trumpet. He encouraged us to continue pursuing these new experiences. Our conversation eventually turned to discussing our novel Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaajte. Lewis emphasized that “everyone should know Buddy Bolden,” recognizing Bolden as a foundational figure in New Orleans Jazz. Artists like Louis Armstrong credit Bolden for being an early influence. While Bolden’s influence is undeniable, Lewis also acknowledged that he was a controversial character during his time. This is a topic we have discussed in class, regarding his behavior toward women and aggressive outbursts. Despite this controversy, it is evident how deeply rooted Buddy Bolden is in the New Orleans Jazz community.

It felt special to talk with the lead member of the Preservation Hall band. It tore down this barrier between performer and audience, highlighting how music is truly universal in its ability to connect people. More than that, this encounter has embodied my experience thus far. Music is the true identity of this city. It brings together a diverse community and creates a shared space for everyone. Whether it is the jazz echoing through the French Quarter, or strangers complimenting my Grateful Dead hat, or the Cajun Country radio station, the musical sounds that travel through New Orleans invite connection. To me, jazz reflects the resilience and spirit of this city, flowing freely and bringing people together in unexpected ways. I am deeply grateful to explore this new experience. It has furthered my belief in the ways that music connects people. 

A Theory of Resolvable Conflicts

“Up the levee. Five miles, ten miles, fifteen miles. Winter or summer. I went with him one Christmas morning I remember. Mile after mile and all of it just the same. Same old brown levee in front, brown river on one side, brown fields on the other.””

— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

I have a theory that human beings have a tendency towards conflict – that without a manageable quantity of conflict, life would never feel complete.

Here is a graph that illustrates my theory, where the optimal amount of happiness-maximizing conflict is not zero:

Many instances of human behavior and preferences seem to illustrate this theory – our absorption in a thrilling action movie, our love for adrenaline-pumping roller coasters, or even our passion for watching competitive sports. These activities tap into an instinctive, primitive part of the brain. They offer an escape – an electric jolt of excitement that the monotonous drone of modern life fails to provide. Yet in all of these experiences, safety is assured. We know that none of these moments of stress are truly permanent or, in another sense, truly real. The pain and conflict they evoke are temporary and contained, superficial and governable.

Solvable conflicts hence give life meaning. I call this my Theory of Resolvable Conflicts: conflict reveals to us the beautiful fragility underscoring life itself. Controlled instances of pain stand out like neon paint on the white piece of cloth that is our boring lives, and this juxtaposition makes us realize that we are alive. There is no better feeling than feeling alive, and as such, we hunger for resolvable conflict.

The book we’ve been reading this week, The Moviegoer, perfectly captures my theory in action. The novel follows the journey of Binx Bolling, a 1960s New Orleans stockbroker, as he embarks on a search for life’s meaning. This quest draws him into a variety of pursuits – from engaging in fleeting love affairs to seeking excitement in films. Binx describes his search as “what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life,” a desire to “be onto something” beyond the mundane. In many ways, his yearning for meaning drives him to seek experiences that disrupt the monotony of daily life. His search, in essence, encapsulates the hunger for resolvable conflict that I am describing.

In my own life, too, I seek resolvable conflict through running. Growing up, I loathed the exercise. I hated the feeling of sweat running down the sides of my face and seeping into my clothes and hair. I hated the feeling of dragging my feet with every step as I embarrassingly stomped down the streets like an elephant. At some point, though, my relationship with running changed. I could still feel my heart pounding with exhaustion when I ran, and I could still feel my body burning with heat as my breath shortened – yet I came to love running for the way it made me, and everything around me, feel so real. Running emerged to me as a point of collision between a search for profound meaning and an embrace of the ordinary.

In fact, running is so mundane that it transforms the world around you into something that is not. When I run, the scenery starts to roll past me like rear projection in an old movie, as a car breezes past a whimsical backdrop. The cypress trees blend into a giant mass of green, and the Mississippi River blurs into a smooth surface as I cruise down the riverbank.

Running amplifies the sensations of life. I feel as if my life is not my own but that I am looking at what it could’ve been if everything had been a movie. The director has purposely chosen to film this shot from the point of view of the character that is me, bringing organic movements and unstable shakes to the camera to accentuate this subjectivity of experience. Even the sound quality seems enhanced. The humdrum nature of the run itself and the growing fatigue crawling up my body force me to turn my attention to all the people and all the things around and beyond me. I can see sheepish teenagers reluctantly taking a photo of their excited, lovey-dovey parents. I can see elderly couples holding massive Styrofoam boxes filled with aromatic shrimp po-boys and gumbo. I can hear the loud honk of the steamboats and feel their obnoxious flute tunes creep up on my nerves. I can see love locks and Mardi Gras beads clinging to the metal railing of the dock in an eternal embrace.

As I wrap up my runs, moreover, a feeling of invincibility and infinity always washes over me. In these moments, when I am drenched in sweat and my legs hum in soreness like worn-down machinery, I can feel the world brimming with dynamism. Running sharpens my senses and makes me acutely aware of the life that is within and around me. The ground beneath me is solid. The air is palpable with every breath. The glow of the Crescent City Connection casts shifting images onto the dark waters that prance as if they are shivering.

I feel like I can do anything. Nothing can touch me. In the comforting drone of the night, music still rings and lights glitter. After a run, everyday problems seem weightless and powerless. The physical ache lingering from the run stands in stark contrast to daily stressors – homework, essays, job searches, responsibilities – rendering worry about them almost absurd. They become ghostly itches, scratching faintly at the surface of my being, unable to reach my soul or even leave a mark on my body. They are just a background buzz.

The world has returned from a film into reality, in which I am a real person free to make my own choices, intertwined with everything that happens around me and everything that I can feel, touch, and grasp. The world pulses with wonder and life. It is a beautiful enough place just to exist in and walk through, and the possibilities are so endless. Running kind of provides me with a sense of purpose standing parallel to Binx's in the end of The Moviegoer: maybe purpose is found through experiencing the mudane and facing it with courage, maybe its about enjoying a run towards no particular destination, but admiring all the beautiful things and people you are lucky enough to have by your side along the way.

"Innovating" New Orleans

“Innovating” New Orleans

“No place to go now but into deep ground.”

— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

In most of my classes, we’re told to “live in the future.” That’s how innovation gets framed, constantly looking ahead, dreaming up what doesn’t exist yet, and figuring out how to make it real. It’s a mindset that values new ideas, new tools, and as a designer and builder, I’ve leaned into that forward thinking impulse.

But this time, we’re asked to do the opposite.

This assignment wasn’t about disruption, creation, or invention. It was about digging into what’s already been lost, taken, or erased. We were focused on New Orleans, a city filled with complexity: a place where grief and joy live together, where memory bleeds through the cracks demanding to be seen. That tension shaped the heart of our journey.

Whitney Plantation. (May 30th)

We began by examining the roots, the literal and historical foundations of New Orleans, built on the backs of enslaved people. Interview With a Vampire, 12 Years a Slave, and Toni Morrison’s Beloved are all remind us again and again that innovation in this city did not begin in happiness or joy. Instead, it began in violence and exploitation.

Bracelets Left Behind in Remembrance (May 30th)

Walking the grounds of the Whitney Plantation was already emotionally heavy. The air was thick with memory, full of unforgiving stories about violence and horrible atrocities. You can read about slavery, learn about it, watch films, but to stand on the same soil felt all the more powerful.

Scattered throughout the plantation were statues of enslaved children, meant to honor the real enslaved kids who lived and died on the plantation. Most had little offerings at their feet: bracelets, earrings, hair ties. These were things visitors had left behind in remembrance.

The one that struck me the most was a statue of an African American angel holding a baby in her arms. In typical Western iconography, angels are almost always depicted as white. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Black angel before. Beside her was a small teddy bear, an offering someone had left behind. That’s when it all became too real. Grief was still being felt and processed, decades later. Someone had felt something and chose to leave a piece of that emotion behind. Maybe it was a parent, trying to connect with the loss in the only way they knew how.

Angel & Bear (May 30th)

Whitney Plantation (May 30th)

The Yellow House’s Curb (Jun 2nd)

The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom is a memoir about her family, her home, and the neighborhood that disappeared after Hurricane Katrina. The neglect, the false promises, the fact that the house was poorly built from the start. Broom’s mother bought it with such hope, only to watch it fall apart. By the time the levees broke, the city had already failed her.

Visiting the site where the Yellow House once stood was eerie. The pavement was cracked, and the address was hidden under overgrowth on the curb. The very tree described in her book, still standing just a year prior, was now gone. It was almost like the house had never been there at all.

While the Yellow House had been erased, in contrast, Jean-Marcel St. Jacques, a local artist, had been collecting salvaged wood from the wreckage of Katrina and turning it into sculptures, much like altars. These pieces of wood carry memory in every cracked plank, each one a fragment of another Yellow House that might’ve existed. Many are once again surrounded by scattered jewelry: bracelets, rings, left behind by visitors like offerings. It reminded me of the Whitney Plantation. Different spaces, different histories, but the same language of remembrance.

“We were here, and we still are.”

As someone who wants to design for the future, that hit me hard. How can we truly innovate for a place or a people if we don’t know what they’ve already survived? It’s impossible.

Jean-Marcel St. Jacques’ work (May 28th)

Later that day, we met someone who saw something different in the ruins: possibility.

Elvin Ross, a film composer and creative entrepreneur, took us to Jazzland, an old theme park that had been abandoned after Katrina. Most people see a ghost town, but not Elvin. He saw a fresh start, a new project.

He walked us through his vision: turning Jazzland into a film studio, resort, and corporate event hotspot. He was so open with us talking about the pivots, setbacks, and constant reworking. It was almost inspirational.

However, I couldn’t help wondering: Can something new really honor what was never fully realized? It’s so easy as an entrepreneur to dream big when land feels abandoned. But that land holds the weight of a dream that never got to occur. When Elvin speaks of revival, replacing the old with the new, I find myself caught between admiration and hesitation. Can a new dream really rise from an old one that never had the chance to live?

Thalia in the Wreckage of Jazzland (Jun 2nd)

Destroyed Building (Jun 2nd)

I’m someone who’s constantly thinking about what to build next, and I came to New Orleans with the same mindset. However, I’ll leave now understanding that innovation doesn’t start with invention, it starts with listening. Walking the ground and recognizing whose stories were never told, whose homes were never built, and whose dreams were never realized.

To design mindfully for the future, we are forced to confront what was lost in the past. Acknowledge it, mourn it, and learn. It’s hard but it’s necessary for ensuring innovation can mean anything real. Cities may flood, my houses might fall, but memory, if taken care of, ultimately becomes it’s own kind of structure: one we are able to build on.

“The facts of the world before me inform, give shape and context to my own life.”

— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

Voices of the city

“It was clear that the French Quarter and its surrounds was the epicenter. In a city that care supposedly forgot, it was one of the spots where care had been taken, where the money was spent. Those tourists passing through were the people and the stories deemed to matter. ”

— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

When I first arrived in New Orleans, the French Quarter was dazzling. Its pastel buildings, quaint galleries, and endless live music felt like walking into a movie. But as the days went on, that sparkle wore off, and I could finally see past the glitz and glamour. Underneath I saw the cracked pavements, the uniformed workers wiping off sweat from their brows from standing in the heat, and a city selling itself bite-sized portions. This was much harder to romanticize. 

Everyday we trek through crowds of tourists in search of something “authentic.” But the more I looked, the more I saw how much of the French Quarter was made to perform, to please, and to sell. It really hit me during the ghost tour. 

It was exactly as our Professor described it, absolute “touristy schlock.” At first, I played along. I’m not one for spooky stories, but they’re some easy fun. However my tune changed when the guide shared the tale of little boy ghosts who supposedly stole women’s undergarments at the Andrew Jackson hotel, just minutes before launching into the brutal story of Madame Laluarie, a woman who tortured and murdered enslaved people in her mansion. 

I was stunned. How could these two stories, one comical and the other rooted in real, traumatizing history be on the same tour as if they were equally trivial? It felt so disrespectful. 

At the same time, our class was diving into the deep-rooted traumas of slavery that underpin New Orleans’ history. It made me re-evaluate my thoughts of the city. There was such a contrast, the curated whimsy of the French Quarter versus the weight of the city’s heavy history. How could a place whose story and history has so much pain attached to it, be repainted and rebranded as a city of mystic and partying?

A picture I took of the Voodoo Museum gift shop. No words.

The same discomfort resurfaced at the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum. Vodou (spelled the correct way) is a deeply spiritual practice and an intertwining of Afro-Haitian traditions with Roman Catholicism. But here, it was reduced to dolls, trinkets, and love potions, with no effort to explain the difference between Haitian Vodou and Louisiana Voodoo. Even the usage of “Voodoo” felt like a slap in the face, fortifying the long history of demonization of the religion that was used to justify slavery, uphold white supremacy, and stigmatize Black religion. 

The lack of these explanations and the gimmicky nature of the museum disrespects both versions of the religion and furthers the misrepresentation of it as a whole. 

““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, The Yellow House

What I was seeing in the Quarter was painfully familiar. It reminded me of Waikiki back in Hawaii, another place that unfortunately rebrands culture for tourism that further silences much of the true history and story of the area. Everything becomes repackaged, commercialized and inaccurate to make it digestible to the palate of a paying customer.

Sarah M. Broom, as a resident of New Orleans East, is able to capture this paradox beautifully. In her book, The Yellow House, she makes many points that show the story of New Orleans that is shared is not the story of its people.  The myth of New Orleans not only misrepresents the city, it erases the hardship, injustice, and the very people whose labour and culture are being sold back to tourists.

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As a class we visited the ruins of Jazzland, an amusement park in Eastern New Orleans decimated by Hurricane Katrina. We were honoured enough to receive a tour by Elvin Ross, the founder of the production company e.ross studios which now owned the land. He showed us around while sharing the details of reconstruction for the space.

Walking through the overgrown attractions, I started talking to Mason, the project manager. We went on commenting on the scene around us before he asked where I was from. When I told him I was from Hawaii, we immediately bonded over our shared frustrations. He told me of the city post-Katrina: long-time residents were displaced, corporations buying up land from desperate locals, and the subsequent jacked up prices, a problem also happening back home.

I asked him to voice his thoughts of the French Quarter, and he said plainly, “It ain’t all that.”

I agreed. 

He said the true culture of New Orleans lives outside of the Quarter: in second-line parades, in the music, and in the voices of the people who live here, not just the craziness of Bourbon Street. He seemed pleasantly surprised when I told him our class already knew of these things, and were joining in. 

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Another great voice belongs to Brandon, the elderly man who manages the Royal Pharmacy. I finally was able to catch the shop open, and learned the reason was because he was the only one working there. As I sat on a stool at the soda fountain bar, he told me, half-joking, that a pelican (the state bird!) hit the shop’s wall during a storm when he was born, dropping him into the arms of the owner’s wife, and he's been there ever since. 

I told him I was a pharmacy student and he shared that the Royal Pharmacy hasn’t had a licensed pharmacist for two years, since the last one retired. In fact, there are no pharmacists in the French Quarter currently, not even at Walgreens or CVS. We chatted a bit about life in the French Quarter. He complained about the maintenance of the historical look, the smells of the streets, and, of course, the tourists.

“Tourists never wanna hear the real history of this city. Spoils their vacation.” 

That part.

In The Yellow House, Broom writes of a New Orleans that exist in fragments, a memory of a place thats been paved over and priced out. The New Orleans I’ve come to know is a layered and beautiful city full of joy, rhythm, and resilience. But when it’s history is packaged for mass consumption, what’s left out is authenticity, the people who shape the city, and their stories.

That same complicated feelings Broom expresses is what, I too, feel. As a visitor, I can’t pretend to understand it all. But I can choose to look beyond the dazzling lights of the Quarter and listen to the real voices of the city, the ones ever-present and waiting to be heard.