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.””
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.”
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.
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.
