We’ve been in New Orleans for a week and I’ve cried on at least five separate occasions. Now, I promise I’m not a crybaby, though I’m pretty sure no one on this trip believes that. The first time it happened was on Saturday, during our visit to the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum, basically every pharmacy student’s dream.
I was beyond excited to go. During my personal research on NOLA, the museum was already on my list of places to visit, so seeing it embedded into the syllabus felt like fate. I genuinely enjoy my major (and I like to think I’m pretty good at it), so I couldn’t wait to explore what the museum had to offer and why it was nestled right into the middle of the French Quarter.
Senior-year Thalia visiting USC!
If you told my younger self I’d be pursuing a career in pharmacy, she wouldn’t believe you for a second. And if you were to ask high school me what I was in university for, she would’ve most definitely have said anything but a science-related major. But after the pandemic, I started experiencing recurring ear pain and migraines. I spent days in discomfort, confused and frustrated as to why I was cursed with pulsating pain in the brain. It came to a head (see what I did there), and I finally went to urgent care. I remember sitting there, clutching my head, thinking, “Please make this pain go away. Please make me feel like myself again.”
The doctors never gave me a clear diagnosis, but I was administered medication that helped ease the pain. It was one of the first times I fully realized and appreciated the impact of modern medicine, how powerful it is to be able to offer someone even a moment of relief. That experience sparked something in me, a fascination with medicine and a desire to help others feel better, just as I was. Once I imagined becoming a pharmacist, I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.
I try to hold onto that feeling, the gratitude and curiosity. I remember how it felt to get accepted into USC Mann, how fun it is to learn new concepts in class, and how rewarding this field can be. But as of late, I’ve found myself in a sophomore slump. I just finished the first semester of organic chemistry, which is not a walk in the park, lemme tell you. This hard semester had cracked my spirits and made me question whether I could actually thrive in this industry.
The museum came at exactly the right time. Funnily enough, I’ve been going through a bout of migraines (#allergywarrior) and had one that morning. But I was determined to make sure that this would not boggle my day down. I perked up at any mention of the museum, and was buzzing with excitement to get in. Stepping into the door brought me so much glee.
The left wall was lined with shelves, jars filled with everything a pharmacist back in the day could ever need. The right wall displayed medications of the past, organized by the ailments they treated. I took a moment to absorb the entire room before honing in on the white placards that described the scene before me.
The museum, rightfully so, was filled to the brim with patrons so I decided to explore the upstairs portion before doubling back to the first room. As I climbed the stairs, I zoomed to a room that immediately caught my attention. I peered through the cases with sheer amazement, completely abandoning the group. Every section in these cases captivated me: homeopathy in New Orleans, the mythical and medical histories of different plants, tools and treatments used by early otolaryngologists.
One particular section intrigued me: midwifery and obstetrics in Louisiana. It emphasized the critical role midwives played, especially enslaved midwives. There was a portion about a particular nurse and midwife, Aimee Potens, a woman of colour born in Haiti who escaped the island on the cusp of the Haitian Revolution. She ended up at a sugar plantation in St. James Parish, where she learned the skills to become a nurse and midwife. Eventually, Aimee became a free woman of colour and continued to serve as a midwife. She later lived in the antebellum New Orleans and raised her children, her second growing up to become a doctor, an activist, and the founder and publisher of New Orleans Tribune, the first Black daily newspaper in the U.S.
Reading her story filled me with indescribable pride. It was a testament to Haitian resilience and achievement, and I loved that it was something memorialized and honoured in this city. This history of New Orleans is greatly intertwined with Haitian history. In 1810, Haitians doubled the population of the city as they sought refuge from the instability post-revolution. Their legacy is woven into the city’s culture, cuisine, language, and traditions.
I spent most of my time in the next room, an exhibit on African Americans in New Orleans, highlighting the early development of Black pharmacy education in the south and the barriers Black people faced in seeking healthcare and higher education. It was a painful but empowering experience. I felt a deep sorrow reading about the systemic obstacles, but also filled with pride as I learned how Black communities fought to overcome them.
The Xavier University College of Pharmacy was established in 1927 and offered a program to provide pharmacy education to young Black men and women. Despite earning their degree, many graduates couldn’t find work due to Jim Crow laws that barred them from internship and employment in white-owned pharmacies. In turn, many graduates, over the years open their own practices, such as LaBranche, LaSalle, and Bynum pharmacies. Many of these establishments, however, were eventually lost to history, closed due to the rise of major pharmaceutical chains or destroyed by natural disasters.
As I stood there reading these stories, I began to tear up. Just then, maybe from a passing car on the back road, I heard the chorus of Micheal Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” drift through the room. And I absolutely broke down. A silent stream of tears flowed down my face as I was overcome with the clarity of purpose: I was meant to be a pharmacist. It felt as if the world aligned to give me this sign. The universe was speaking directly to me. This was my calling.
The pharmacy courtyard
It’s hard to put that feeling into words. But at that moment, I knew. I knew I was meant to be a pharmacist, to help others. I was meant to honour those who came before me by continuing the legacy they made possible. All my complaints about ochem or dreading my labs suddenly felt so silly to me. What a privilege it is to even have those challenges, to be in a position where I can pursue this path at all. Barely a hundred years prior, this opportunity simply wouldn’t have existed for someone like me.
I carried that feeling with me into the courtyard. I sat on a bench facing the fountain, alone, enveloped in this melancholic realization. Surrounded by the beauty of this tiny slice of paradise, I cried again. I love what I’m studying, I love pharmacy. I can’t believe I ever doubted that this path wasn’t for me.
I ended up spending over two hours at the museum, long after everyone else left. Without question, this was one of my favourite moments of the trip thus far. And now, I feel like I have a duty to carry this forward. Being a pharmacist is not just to help my current community but also my way of honouring those who came before me and ensuring their struggles weren't in vain. It's a reminder that my successes aren’t just mine alone, it’s a victory for Haitians, for Black Americans, for every person who fought to make sure people like me could be in these spaces. We all deserve to follow our passions and we will continue to thrive in a world that built against us.
