I’m looking for the core of America in the most unglamorous neighborhoods of Louisiana’s Capital. 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 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 them 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 this spirit of continuous attempts to find bliss and delight despite the shadows cast upon these communities.