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.

✌️

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.

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.

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

Resilience is in the Water

We visited Sarah Broom’s “The Yellow House” that we spent the past week reading. It was a comical thing as we had not come to look for the actual yellow house that still stood on the block, but rather the empty lot of grass right next door which was formerly the Yellow House. As we walked further through this part of New Orleans East however, it was not so comical anymore. Humor gave way to heaviness as we felt the gravity of Hurricane Katrina’s destruction so many years later. Talking to local employees and homeowners, it seemed as though everyone in the area had a vivid story of where they were during Katrina and how it changed their lives in both the momentary and the long term sense. Every other lot on the street was empty, representing a home, a family, even a life that was once but is no longer. The houses that do stand however are a show of resilience like no other, having been rebuilt yet still ever-presently at the mercy of Gulf hurricanes’ impending wrath.

“I had no home. Mine had fallen all the way down. I understood then, that the place I never wanted to claim had, in fact, been containing me. We own what belongs to us whether we claim it or not”

— The Yellow House, Sarah M. Broom

In bookpacking “The Yellow House,” I began to notice a deeper layer in the narrative: the thread of social injustice that runs through the story of Hurricane Katrina. New Orleans East originally developed as a predominantly white suburban area, shifting over time into a predominantly African American community. After the devastation of Katrina, this area– like many predominantly Black neighborhoods – was disproportionately impacted and under-prioritized in relief and rebuilding efforts. It was truly shocking to see that even 20 years later, go-fund-me signs and posters calling for Brad Pitt to “Make It Right” (criticizing the lack of follow through with his relief campaign), still stand in the empty lawns of former homes that are yet to be rebuilt. More than just illustrating the tragic impact of natural disasters, this experience highlighted a form of environmental racism, where race and class influence who is the most exposed to environmental harm and who is left behind in recovery. In this context, water is more than a natural force of destruction- it becomes a symbol of injustice, something to be resisted rather than simply endured.

“I knew that nothing would ever be the same, displaced and fragmented as everything was… they were still reacting to Water. As was I.”

— The Yellow House, Sarah M. Broom

And yet, on the flip side of that coin, water can also be the very fuel inspiring resilience in the recovery from its harm. This complex sentiment in which water holds power over the city and its people while also telling their stories history resounds all around New Orleans. Just a block away from the hotel, I noticed a huge mural by BMIKE depicting an African American man and his child, with the words “Still Here” and “this water tells my story” incorporated into the picture. Much like Sarah’s narrative with the Yellow House, this mural conveys that water and hurricane storms can be seen as a storyteller beyond the threat they impose. The power of water cannot be fought but it can be acknowledged, woven into history in the ways it shapes cultural memory and identity, and somehow embraced. To embrace something that can cause so much harm is to embrace resilience. Thus, I found this imagery across our text and the city itself to be an incredibly powerful reclamation of such an unpredictable natural environment that New Orleanians call home, completely embodying resilience by doing so.

In the context of both Sarah’s relationship to the Yellow House as well as BMIKEs depiction of water telling a story, water forcing resilience may serve as a metaphor for Black resilience in New Orleans– a history marked by racial oppression but also by survival, creativity, growth. Much like how water comes and goes, flows, and is multi-generational yet changes with time, Black stories have developed and changed with time alongside the Gulf’s flowing water. Black people’s resilience helps wash away outdated societal norms, replacing them with new and ever growing cultural traditions, much like how a hurricane forces the society it imposes on to rebuild. Water is complex and while its destruction causes immense harm and tragedy, there is some resilience to be had in starting anew. Destruction reveals the often unrealized importance in what was lost, but it also forces one to move on. This is exactly what Sarah Broom ultimately concludes when the yellow house that she was always ashamed of is destroyed in Katrina.

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

— The Yellow House, Sarah M. Broom

We finished off the day in a secluded corner of the Central Business district where we observed a second mural by BMIKE, this one depicting famous Jazz cornetist Buddy Bolden. Being completely repainted after having been destroyed up to the top of Bolden’s head by Katrina’s water, this mural stood testament to the resilience of the community's ability to bounce back. Not only did this community take the time to repaint the mural, but the mural itself depicts a beautiful history of Jazz music which itself is filled with resilience and creativity. The artistic representation of Bolden’s “insanity” we read about in “Coming Through Slaughter” in intricate details like the bright Sun around his head really helped me to visualize what I struggled to understand whilst reading. Seeing history painted on the walls in such fashion took bookpacking to a new level, going beyond a sense of person and place to highlight its impact and importance with such a commemorative public piece of art.

What once was.

You’ll never understand a city unless you’re from there.

This is how I view tourism—and even the people who move to a city in their twenties, and end up staying. You can visit every iconic location, stroll through the streets, or pause at memorials. But you’ll never fully understand the place, not like someone who was born there. You don’t have anyone buried in the Lafayette Cemetery, or any ancestors who were related to the plantations you visit. In a perverse way, it turns you into a voyeur of pain, consuming history without being a part of it.

Reading The Yellow House by Sarah Broom helped me understand New Orleans through her eyes: a city shaped by memory, loss, and rootedness. Before our group had officially visited East New Orleans and the Ninth Ward, I had gone to a nail appointment with a girl who lived in the Lower Ninth Ward. It was early in the morning, an eight-a.m. appointment, but the air was still thick with the humidity I’ve come to associate with Louisiana. The initial impression of emptiness felt normal: it was Sunday, and extremely early, so I’d just assumed that it was normal. However, on the second visit, the emptiness stuck with me.

A call to action.

We spent the previous week immersed in the bold, bright culture of Bourbon Street and the well-preserved historical districts. But on that ‘tour’, I felt the stark divide. This city was not mine. It belonged to those born here, and to those buried here.

I recognize that feeling. Raised in South Central Los Angeles, I’ve seen the changes. I remember the Village before it became USC Village, when it was University Village. There was a Superior Grocers, a movie theater, and a Baskin Robbins where my madrina always ordered strawberry ice cream in a waffle cup. The Pollo Loco where I got French fries is now a Northern Café. I’ve watched University Gateway shops morph from an abandoned lot to a rotating cast of failed businesses—an overpriced minimalist grocery store, to a CREAM that didn’t last a year, and a sushi place that became a Dunkin' Donuts.

By my junior and senior year of high school, I was walking past homes on 36th Place that were being replaced by bulky apartment complexes for students, buildings with no parking and no connection to the community. The abandoned house behind mine became one of those complexes. And the irony is I never left, so I cannot be so shocked that it’s changed. I’ve stayed, but the changes weren’t made for people like me.

That disconnect, that sense of exclusion, feels even sharper in New Orleans. In both cities, you can measure how much the city “cares” by how well it maintains its streets. In Cudahy, where my cousin grew up, the sidewalks are broken, and the roots of trees push up through the concrete. Accessibility is an afterthought. East New Orleans is no different; overgrown lots where homes used to be, cracked roads that left me carsick, streets that feel forgotten.

What remains of The Yellow House.

It feels selfish to ask why no one has done anything. But eventually, you realize: maybe no one with power ever intended to. The people who live there don’t have the resources or influence to demand better. And when you’re fighting just to get by, there’s no energy left for hope. It’s easier to invest in what’s already thriving than to help the communities that have been abandoned.

In tourist areas of New Orleans, you hardly see any trash. IV Waste trucks roll through, spraying lemon-scented cleaning agents. But step into New Orleans East, and the illusion vanishes. You’re met with cracked sidewalks and scattered garbage. The money that flows into the city isn’t for the people, but for the image. It’s for those who visit, not those who live. The hurricanes stripped so much from these neighborhoods, and no one came to help pick up the pieces. You can see who had to give up after the hurricanes that have occurred here, who had little support in picking up the pieces. Residents were left to rebuild on their own until that, too, became too much. And then, they left.

What remains of Jazzland/Six Flags New Orleans.

That’s the cruelest part. Change makes people feel like they no longer belong. When everything around you shifts, it’s hard to find your place. There is pain in remembering what used to be. When you watch everything around you change, you wonder what your place is anymore. You leave, and the next time you return, the city feels less familiar. The nostalgia that kept you tied there fades. You try to hold on to what you remember, but it flickers like a flame, merging into something new and unrecognizable—a body you no longer see as your own.

My dad raised me alone, hiring a babysitter to take me to school from age four to thirteen. He’d wake up at four in the morning, drive me thirty minutes south down Vermont to her house, and I’d nap for another hour before she got me ready. We’d watch Despierta America as she brushed my hair into a ponytail, and we’d leave by 6:30 a.m. so I could be on time—she didn’t drive, but sometimes her husband would take us and even treat me to Jack in the Box if we had time.

Unlike Broom, I didn’t feel shame in that journey; it felt like a privilege not to be on the 204 for an hour. But I understand her discomfort. The private school she attended left the impression of a place she did not belong her; “We seem, in our car and in our lot, not the match the school to which I now belong.” This is how I feel about the ‘new’ that is coming to Los Angeles—the sleek apartments, the expensive restaurants. None of it was made with my community in mind. It makes people feel like outsiders in their own neighborhoods. Like we should be ashamed for not keeping up.

Never Turn a Blind Eye

Turning a blind eye is a severely common practice in today’s world. If it does not affect me, why should I care? I am no exception to this reality. It is easier to not care about a problem than it is to actually act on it. That does not mean it is right. Sarah Broom illustrates this dilemma in her novel The Yellow House following the disaster of Hurricane Katrina. This hurricane destroyed the Broom household, displacing her family for years. It displaced thousands of families in New Orleans East. Even now, much of the black population has not returned to the city since 2005. President Bush encouraged families to make their long-awaited return to the city to turn it back on its feet. But, how? Many of these communities did not have the financial capacity to return home. Furthermore, there was a glaring lack of support for these families. Specifically, people that originated from impoverished, predominantly Black neighborhoods. This depicted the situation in New Orleans East after Katrina. The government funneled aid to the visible parts of the city, like the French Quarter. Sarah Broom’s neighborhood was not included in these plans. This absence of care was unbelievably present when we visited the Ninth Ward and New Orleans East. Empty lots filled the land, signifying the families that never were able to return home. The land of Sarah’s childhood home was sold away since her family could not afford to rebuild it. Her family never returned to 4121 Wilson Avenue. 

“This is the place to which I belong, but much of what is great and praised about the city comes at the expense of its native black people, who are, more often than not, underemployed, underpaid, sometimes suffocated by the mythology that hides the city’s dysfunction and hopelessness.”

— Sarah Broom, The Yellow House

The signing away of the yellow house illustrated the systemic neglect of these areas by governmental institutions. The Yellow House no longer exists, it has recently been sold to the car junkyard. This neglect is a prime example of turning a blind eye. After Katrina ended and news started shifting to other topics, so did the sense of urgency to support those affected. People in power and the greater public of New Orleans largely disregarded the suffering of low-income families. However, Sarah’s work does not let us forget this. Through The Yellow House, she forces us to confront what happens when society collectively decides that certain problems and people are not worth investing in. She calls us to pay attention, even when it is inconvenient. 

Over the past two weeks, I have found myself relaxing in CC’s Coffee House in the French Quarter, the very place where Sarah Broom once worked. I usually order some type of over-priced iced coffee, along with a bagel (cream cheese costs an extra $1.05…ugh). Yesterday, as I sat here mindlessly sipping my iced mocha, I realized I was the exact person the Broom alludes to in The Yellow House: a tourist who only associates New Orleans with the French Quarter. Prior to reading the memoir, I was blissfully unaware of the other neighborhoods, like New Orleans East. I never paid attention to these impoverished communities that live in the shadow of the French Quarter. This realization mirrors the broader issues that Broom discusses. Money pours into transforming the city so that it is appealing to outsiders, while little of that revenue is directed towards rebuilding the areas that define the true identity of New Orleans. So, what does this dilemma say about the city, or us, when the communities that need the most care remain hidden from view?

Resthaven Memorial Park. This is where Sarah’s childhood best friend, Alvin, was buried after his death in a car accident on Chef Menteur Highway. His grave remains unmarked, with no headstone, or physical remembrance to commemorate his life. At the entrance of the cemetery, a massive stone stands to honor the Haydel family. It stands proudly next to a tiny podium that reads, “In memory of the unknown infant and all other victims of Hurricane Betsy, September 19, 1965, that will never be forgotten”. It is unclear if the Haydel name is in relation to the owners behind the Whitney Plantation. Regardless, the symbolic nature of this juxtaposition is striking. The grand memorial directly next to the anonymous victims’ marker relays a deeper story about who gets remembered and who slips into a historical silence. It is an illustration of the racial inequality that is etched into the very landscape of this city. Names like Haydel are preserved while lives of the most vulnerable, like Alive, are completely forgotten. 

This imagery instantly transported me to the Whitney Plantation and to the film, 12 Years a Slave. Watching this movie was emotionally taxing, showing intensely gruesome scenes based on a true story from Solomon Northup. I found myself wincing and desiring to look away. But, that is the point. It is supposed to make viewers uncomfortable. History this brutal is not meant to be digestible, it is meant to reveal the realities of our nation's past. At the Whitney Plantation, reading firsthand accounts from enslaved people who lived to see 1865 was haunting. Even after the Emancipation Proclamation, the fight did not end there. Freedom did not equate to equality. The struggle continued, and still does, for Black communities to claim spaces in an unjust world. This was evident while visiting the William Frantz School, where four young black girls had to fight for their spot at school. 

Our group visited places most affected by Hurricane Katrina, including the abandoned Six Flags. This land, once known as Jazzland, has been recently bought by Elvin Ross under another company. He took us around the empty lot. While the buildings are completely destroyed from the flooding, Mr. Ross sees potential. He plans to transform the area into a filming lot that doubles as a space for corporate retreats. His vision is ambitious as he plans to develop a multi-purpose filming space, a family recreational area, an eSports area, villas, etc. It was inspiring to witness a New Orleans native be passionate about addressing the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. It felt more so about reclaiming a space repeatedly written off by others. Mr. Ross expressed how he believes finishing Jazzland is important to the surrounding community as it is one of the final steps in rebuilding the city. 

While the Yellow House no longer stands and the land is being absorbed into a junkyard, the memories and stories still remain. Sarah Broom’s memoir forces readers to witness the people and places that society often chooses to ignore. From unmarked graves to forgotten neighborhoods, Broom reminds us that memory holds power and that silence is an active choice people make. Thus, we each hold a responsibility to not turn away when atrocities are being performed. We owe it to communities like New Orleans East to never turn a blind eye again. 

The Gold House

“There was the house we lived in and the house we thought we should live in. There was the house we thought we should live in and the house other people thought we lived in. These houses were colliding.””

— Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House

There’s a house in the New Orleans Museum of Art. An actual house.

When you enter the second floor exhibit filled with modern art pieces, you will see it.

It stands 14 feet wide, 14 feet long, and 13 feet tall – a life-size replica of Abraham Lincoln’s childhood log cabin. Its wooden exterior coated in gold, the house gleams warmly under the cold museum light.

Peeking through the opening of the window or entering through the doorway, you’ll see layers and panels of ordinary objects, all rigidly and compactly welded together in thin, neat lines not unlike the stripes of the American flag. The floor is laid with coils of shackles and chains. The fireplace is veneered with bricks of iPhones and iPads. The wall is divided into angular, geometric chunks filled with repeating objects – soda tabs, pills, keyboard keys, metal springs, seed cotton, candy, lightbulbs, telephone cords, railroad tires, corn – all clustering together like pieces of mosaic. The entirety of the house is painted gold, apart from sections of the wall that are constructed with hunks and wedges of black, lusterless coal.

This is Will Ryman’s 2013 sculpture America, a large-scale installation that critically reflects the industries and economies that have shaped the United States. From the brutal institution of slavery which has laid the foundations of this nation to to the gleaming prestige of today’s tech giants, America captures our nation as a glorious crystallization of generations of blood, sweat, and tears. Overwhelmed by the lustrous glow of the house, I found it easy to overlook the individual components composing it. It’s hard to focus on that one seemingly negligible, yet absolutely crucial, question: what has been the true cost of building such a beautiful structure, and by extension, our nation?

To me, this sculpture was a striking synthesis of everything we explored over the past week as we confronted New Orleans’ history of trauma and horror. Faced with the grotesque realities of slavery portrayed in 12 Years a Slave and in our visit to the Whitney Plantation, my prior image of New Orleans as a leisurely city of French delicacies and beautiful art crumbled. Accompanied by Sarah Broom’s words in The Yellow House, which echoed through our travels, I felt my own ignorance laid bare and called out by the very voices I had overlooked: “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.”

In many ways, we live in America, this gilded house of gold that is both New Orleans and the nation itself. As a young girl growing up in China, my parents and I looked across the Pacific toward this country, imagining it as a land of opportunity and dreams. From afar, we saw a place wrapped in mythologies of glamour, romance, and dazzling opulence: a house that, from the outside, seemed to shine with promise, drawing in those who longed to know what it might be like to live within its walls.

But America’s interior tells an entirely different story. Only those who built its doors, its frames, its walls and ceilings, can speak to the unpresentable scraps and discarded remnants hidden beneath its glittering surface. Only those who live inside can describe the pungent stench of cheap plastic, the gritty scent of coal embedded in its foundation and its walls. The story they tell is solemn, stripped of illusion. No veneer of gold can change this fact.

The French Quarter is a thorny rose dyed red with blood, flourishing atop the bones of unnamed victims buried deep within its elevated ground. In desperation, we tell ourselves that tormented souls haunt the streets at night – as if mystifying their suffering could soften its brutality, and granting them the power to haunt might offer some form of poetic justice.

These terrors from the past gnaw into our present. Like termite holes digging deep into the wood beams of an old cabin, memories and attitudes linger on in the form of mindless “plantation weddings” and tasteless scarf designs of plantations that line the Mississippi River. Again, I was reminded of what Sarah Broom wrote about New Orleans: “The historicized past is everywhere I walk in my daily rituals—to get to the store or to the gym on Rampart Street or to my car to visit with Carl. Historical markers are everywhere you look—underfoot and on buildings.”

Yet through it all, the story of New Orleans is one of resilience. In a world where all seemed lost, courageous African American communities found hope through various forms of art.

Hope is a set of vodou dolls that carry good luck, health, and happiness for family faraway. Hope is a gospel song echoing the words of Exodus, singing of faith and liberation. Hope is a Mardi Gras Indian costume adorned with colorful beads and lively feathers, a valiant expression of identity and heritage. Hope is the sound of a trumpet in a Second Line parade, where laughter rings out and the community gathers.

On the white walls of the museum, a two-line quote by Kenyan-American artist Wangechi Mutu stood out to me: “An artist is a healer. First, they heal themselves, and then they try, bit by bit, to heal others.” Even in the darkest of times, art offers not only solace but also strength – it is not only a means of expression, but a chance to rewrite narratives and shift perspectives. Just like renovations to an old house can transform it into something new, our understanding of the world, our shared home, can also evolve and change with art pieces like America and the Yellow House

I really have faith that art and courage has the power to make the world a better place!

Historical & Fantastical

“... I felt an extraordinary ease walking on those warm, flat pavements, under those familiar oaks, and listening to the ceaseless vibrant living sounds of the night ”

— Anne Rice, Interview with a Vampire

Arriving in New Orleans was the culmination of weeks of anticipation - and it did not disappoint.

Recovering from bad news in a state of despair, New Orleans immediately lifted my spirits. From the moment we stepped out of the van, the city’s vibrant energy was palpable. I would soon come to experience this through many cafe work sessions, walks through the French Quarter, and rides on the street car. Everywhere we walked, the inevitable sound of Jazz music echoed in the streets, and the delicious aromas of Southern cooking wafted through the air. Celebration, festivity and livelihood permeated every aspect of life here.

I was immediately struck by the cultural richness of the community, an intricate tapestry of traditions and lived experiences, too intertwined to distinguish each disparate origin. On our first night, we carefully made our way from our hotel in the business district, past Canal street and into the famous French Quarter we had learned so much history about. Walking down Bourbon street, we played the part of tourists, snapping our fair share of photos and taking it all in. Day and night, it buzzed with life. We explored different shops brimming with energy, and enjoyed the upbeat rhythms of drummers in the street. It was refreshing to hear accents of every kind and to see people of all ages and skin colors engaging in festivities together. With every bar we passed by, the music shifted: Country morphed into Hip Hop, which melded into live Jazz singing, becoming Caribbean Soca or Reggae and back again. The sheer variety of genres spanned in five minutes was an experience like none but my own eclectic playlist. Within this first exposure alone, I could tell New Orleans was a city inclusive of anyone with something for everyone to enjoy.

On our third day in New Orleans, we attended a Second Line Parade in the Tremé. It was Jazz, it was community and it was culture, concentrating the livelihood throughout the city into one affair of togetherness. It reminded me of my vibrant experience attending Caribana in Toronto, the largest annual Caribbean Carnival outside of the West Indies, filled with similar extravagant floats and costumes, live musicians and dancers, and DJs mixing familiar tunes with original beats. While this parade was smaller in scale and grounded in NOLA Jazz rather than the Soca music I grew up with, the sentiment was the same: community coming together around a shared joy for life through culture, music, and festivity in unison. I was amazed to find out that during NOLA parade season, this is a weekly tradition!

“The power and proof of the vampire was incontestable, so that the slaves scattered in all directions”

— Anne Rice, Interview with a Vampire

The more we continued to explore, the more apparent the mystical aspects of New Orleans became. Filled with tradition and history, every monument holds a story and every story holds legend and lore, encouraging the imagination to wander. Meandering the French Quarter by day, we learned about the complex historical significance of places like Jackson Square and industries like healthcare by visiting the Historical Pharmacy Museum. Going on a walking ghost tour at night, we passed by many of the same places, only now learning about them from the vantage point of the fantastical – through gruesome stories of vampire attacks and truths of past horrors like enslavement. Some of these traditions solicited oohs and ahs, filled with captivating creativity, while others revealed deeply problematic aspects of New Orleans’ past. Interview with a Vampire walks this fine line conflating historical trauma with the fantastical, where Anne Rice often mindlessly discusses the relationship between vampires and enslaved people on a plantation, with enslaved people being treated as disposable by vampires that feed on them. The lack of criticism of this particular dynamic leads me to read this as racism of the writer rather than the writer’s descriptions of racism.

We explored similar themes at the intersection of the fantastical and the historical when our class went to see the movie Sinners. This spontaneous excursion “film-packing” rather than “book-packing” gave us yet another vivid view into Southern mystical tradition. It was surreal seeing this movie at the Uptown Prytania Theatre: the exact setting of one of Ignatius Reilly’s eccentric adventures in “Confederacy of Dunces,” and the exact theatre where the movie’s original screening occurred (much of which was also filmed in Louisiana). This movie was a beautiful and thought-provoking expression of culture being shaped by various melding influences. It showcases the vast excellence in African American musical tradition from its African origins to the present, but also alludes to the complexities of colonization through unique intricacies of both Irish and African roots coming together to form genres like Country music. Here, vampirism is seen as a metaphor for liberation from a racist society where, despite being the antagonists, vampires are a community bridging gaps of race – not powerful white characters who benefit at the expense of enslaved Africans. Unlike Interview with a Vampire, this film authentically depicts racism as a tool to critique rather than replicate it.

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

— Anne Rice, Interview with a Vampire

After just one week of experiences, I have encountered culture in every corner of New Orleans. I've gone from emotional exhaustion after confronting painful traumas of its past, to joyful anticipation energizing me in the face of its ever-present vitality. I have found New Orleans to be one of the most multifaceted places I have ever visited. It mirrors what I strive for: a balance between joy and responsibility, indulgence and reflection. This city makes time for the craziest fun but always cleans up in the mornings, washing or “lemon-freshing” the streets, getting back to business ready to constantly start anew. With each new day comes new experiences, yet the memories of the past never fade. There is always something to reflect on and always something to anticipate.

Vampiros de cultura.

After a few days of rest and relaxation in Grand Isle, our little group of bookpackers arrived in the New Orleans’ Central Business District, settling into our hotel rooms. Despite its nickname, “The Big Easy”, I’ve found very little about it to be easy so far.

I’m used to the organized chaos of Los Angeles; the ruckus of a melting pot. I know which bus will take me where, how to navigate the streets depending on which neighborhood I’m in, and where to go for a cheap meal nearby.

Maybe that’s why I feel so disoriented in New Orleans; it reminds me too much of Downtown LA. The unfamiliar morphs into the mundane with the snap of your fingers. There’s the unhoused sleeping on the sidewalks, and thick, warm air that you can’t quite escape. Both cities seem caught in the cycle of appealing to the ‘newcomers’: cafes with no prices listed, hotels plopped next to one another, shops that appeal to the niche of the city. However, being born and raised in Los Angeles confirms my belief that my city is being gentrified, I’m not quite sure if New Orleans has always been this way.

Eating out while staying in a hotel for three weeks is not for the cheapskates, such as I. Nearly every meal so far has cost me $20. This is more than I’d hope, but there seems to be an unspoken rule when it comes to being a tourist and spending without hesitation. You’re not just buying food; you’re paying for an experience you may never have again. That’s not too bad, as I have been personally victimized by the Hailey Bieber smoothie, but it adds up when you’re not working during this trip.

When you go somewhere as a tourist short-term, there’s a different level of control than when you’re a long-term tourist. It’s easy to spend because you don’t know when you’ll be back; you need all the memorabilia and will eat all the local food. You become aware of the façade. The urgency to collect souvenirs or eat ‘authentically’ fades into a quieter realization: it’s all available, over and over, from the ‘I Heart NOLA’ shirts to the beignets. The city wants you to spend, to believe in the illusion it casts. That’s the American cycle of tourism. You’re never just seeing a place—you’re consuming it. 

This awareness surprisingly came to me before we had officially arrived in New Orleans, while on the Cajun Pride Swamp Tour. The tour guide, who was friendly and full of jokes, pulled out the tour’s big showstopper: a baby alligator, who was to be passed around for anyone on the tour to ‘pet’. Its mouth was bound with what seemed like a bandage, safe for any liabilities and ready to take pictures with, like a party favor.  As our boat wound through the seemingly endless swamp, he called into the trees at every stop with a startling “AY-YUP”, summoning the conditioned wildlife with treats. Racoons, boars, and gators came out of nowhere to feast upon fistfuls of marshmallow and dried corn, all urbanized versions of themselves. Everyone there was trying to get something out of the other; the tour guide hoping to make some tips with his story telling, us tourists who wanted to immerse ourselves in the culture, and even the animals hoping to be fed. Perhaps we have not inherently caused interference with the animals’ way of life, but we’ve fed into it. We have smiled ear to ear, ooh’ed and ahh’ed at the creatures, held the baby gator, who was separated from his mother, while having our picture taken. As tourists, we are feeding into the economy that lets opportunities like this continue.

In this system, we are complicit. Our wonder feeds the machine. In Interview with The Vampire, Louis reflects, “Never in New Orleans had the kill to be disguised. The ravages of fever, plague, crime—these things competed with us always there, and outdid us.” Just as he fed on humans, tourists feed on the curated versions of local culture. The city does the same thing, needing to thrive on tourism and in doing so reducing the value of its culture. Louis saw New Orleans as a place where he could disappear, where horror mixed with beauty in a way that hid his darkness in plain sight. He was invisible because the city made room for monsters, because it had already learned to sell its suffering.

New Orleans, like LA, confuses origin with invention. In LA, I know what cultures shape the city—Latino and Asian communities have built it, and the American version has diffused it. Here, the history is more entangled: French, Spanish, African, Creole. Colonialism left its fingerprints everywhere, from architecture to cuisine. Maybe that’s why fast food seems strangely absent. You’re meant to eat gumbo, po’boys, and beignets. If you don’t, you’re “not doing it right.” You’re not consuming correctly.

As a group, we’ve been to various places north of the Mississippi River, yet not too north as to meet the lake. I cannot say I know New Orleans, because I have yet to know all of it. This is how I feel about people who have ‘visited’ Los Angeles; you do not know Los Angeles if you haven’t traveled South of the 10, or East of the 110.  

Louis’s love for New Orleans was always conditional, even if he does not acknowledge it. He could admire its decadence without ever being a part of it. The city cannot love him because it does not know him; if it did, it would reject him. Tourists enjoy the city the same way Louis does: from a distance. We don’t get to know the full truth, only the filtered version that we can tell friends and family about. We crave intimacy without responsibility.  

Perhaps, like Louis, we too are feeding off this place—its food, its stories, its tragedies polished into spectacle. The city dances for us, and we smile for photos. And when we leave, it will reset for the next group, the next “easy” experience. But nothing here is easy, not for the people, or the gators, or the culture.

Through the Eyes of a Vampire

91 degrees. 70% Humidity. Endless walking. Drenched in my own sweat. Doing everything to escape the heat. 

Why would THIS city be a vampire’s dream?

Anne Rice, a New Orleans native, chose to set her hit novel Interview with The Vampire in this vibrant city in the early 19th century. The gothic story follows Louis Pointe du Lac through his journey of vampirism. Louis escapes to New Orleans with Lestat after their identity is revealed. The city becomes their long-lasting home, where they house their ‘daughter’ Claudia and live as a family for around 65 years. We, the readers, gained insight into their safe haven wandering these streets. The ‘family’ resided in a home with a beautiful gallery, a prominent structure that we pass by daily. While Lestat chose NOLA for its practical advantages, Louis developed an emotional bond with the place he called home. So, I ask myself again, why choose New Orleans? 

This question echoed in my mind as I stepped foot into the smothering heat. I constantly found myself in a pool of my own sweat, seeking any form of air conditioning during our walks that seemed to last an eternity. This, most definitely, was not the breezy Grand Isle we had spent the last few days in. Yet, I find myself completely enamored with this city. The first night, our cohort journeyed down to the French Quarter for our first indulgence with jambalaya and gumbo. We walked aimlessly through the town for hours, witnessing the lively community present in the Quarter. From street marching bands, to perpetual jazz, to the sultry air thick with secrets, the Crescent City dances to a timeless rhythm. This singular night shifted my entire perspective: New Orleans is where a vampire’s soul is most alive. 

The city embodies the very essence of eternalness. It is a timeless city – surviving hurricanes, fires, and wars, refusing to fade into history. It births a breeding ground for the coexistence of past and present tales, catering to creatures who live for an eternity. Living in the shadows of a sleepless city, vampires are not subjected to survival, they are capable of fully indulging in the intoxicating forces that make New Orleans. As expressed in our seminars: it is a city of vices. It invites anything and everything. There is no doubt that this fulfills a vampire’s innermost desires. Similar to Louis, I find myself forever tethered to this high-spirited culture. 

“There was no city in America like New Orleans… a magical and magnificent place to live. In which a vampire, richly dresses and gracefully walking through the pools of light of one gas lamp after another might attract no more notice in the evening than hundreds of other exotic creatures”

— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

Centuries later, I am interacting with these very streets, and living in the magic described by Louis in the early 19th century. The second night there we wandered into Bourbon Street, infamous for its constant inebriated visitors and wild revelry. Immediately we encountered jumbo, multi-flavored daiquiris and glittering beads! It was disappointing being the only 21 year old in our group ;). The moments spent on Bourbon reflected the ageless nature of New Orleans; a magnificent location filled with an air of flamboyancy from decades prior. It became clear how easily a vampire could move through these streets at night. 

However, it is not just the celebrations that linger through these streets. A grotesque history continues to prevail beneath these overflowing crowds. There is no hiding the scarred history of deep racism that the city wears. The very buildings we brisk by daily hold more memories than we can imagine. During our Ghost Tour of the French Quarter, our guide took us past Madame Lalaurie’s mansion. Through the various fictional stories relayed through the night, this one was horrifyingly real. This story is stained in my brain for years to come. Known for her cruel, torturous behavior towards countless enslaved people, Madame Lalaurie is a remembrance of the pain embedded in the city’ past. Her home still stands strongly on Royal Street, a haunting reminder that New Orleans is not just the beauty that meets our eyes. 

The very streets thousands of tourists step across today carry the bones of forgotten people below its surface. There are no named graves for these enslaved people. Their blood, sweat, and tears have built the very physical and metaphorical foundation of New Orleans. Our group walked through the Business District, witnessing buildings that used to be slave pens. There is no ignoring the truth that confronts us. Thus, the Crescent City cannot be fully understood, or truly loved, without truly acknowledging this history. Its attractiveness is inseparable from its suffering, and its spirit is shaped as much by resistance as by its festivities. 

My experience in New Orleans thus far has illustrated the answers to my question. New Orleans is the perfect setting for all types of creatures, vampires included. I share Louis’ deep affection for the seductiveness of New Orleans, yet it is impossible to to escape the darker truths that Anne Rice mindlessly overlooks. In her novel, Rice depicts vampires in their murderous form, especially towards enslaved people. She encapsulated the visual beauty of New Orleans while simultaneously neglecting the city’s development through racial oppression. Similar to Louis, I feel unbelievably drawn to the chaotic nature and vibrancy that the city brings. I will live my life in search of a place that matches this energy. In contrast, I carry the truths of NOLA’s painful past. Its enchantment and charm is undeniable, but so is the history that shaped it. Everything in New Orleans is eternal – from past to present.

walking through the quarter

“I had a vision of him from long ago, that tall, stately gentleman in the swirling black cape, with his head thrown back, his rich, flawless voice singing the lilting air of the opera from which we’d only just come, his walking stick tapping the cobblestones in time with the music, his large, sparkling eye catching the young woman who stood by, enrapt, so that a smile spread over his face as the song died on his lips; and for one moment, that one moment when his eye met hers, all evil seemed obliterated in that flush of pleasure, that passion for merely being alive.””

— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire

At 9 pm on Friday, I dropped off my roommate Nicole at the Shrek rave.

Zig-zagging between a crowd of Puss-in-Boots and Lord Farquaads, I began to make my way back to the Lafayette hotel. There was something absurdly funny about this scene, and somewhat embarrassing too. I felt incredibly out of place in my plain navy top and boring denim shorts, like I had forgotten to dress up during spirit week of high school. I was a blatant intruder amongst a group of vibrant and distinct characters, all a part of a cohesive narrative that I missed out on.

A while ago, the sun had made its flamboyant exit from the sky. These saturated streaks of yellow, orange, and pink were long gone by now. Golden residue of sunshine lingering from the sunset had gradually receded upwards from the buildings, crawling up brick by brick, to reveal a novel scene. Like dimming lights before a long-anticipated performance, the world darkened and hushed to signal the start of a mesmerizing show – a spectacle of decadence and vivacity that played out on the ornate stage of New Orleans with unwavering flair every night.

In the ashes of the day, a neon phoenix of green, yellow, and purple fluttered to life. The Parisian elegance of the French Quarter died; what came back after a strenuous process of resuscitation was something more congruent to the gilded strip of Las Vegas, a vampire of a city ravenous for anything that shines and moves. New Orleans had arisen from its languid afternoon nap. Pastel-colored townhouses, cottages, and shotgun houses blinked awake, their windows brightening like attentive eyes awaiting every action in the streets below. Streetlights illuminated the pathways, casting spotlights onto the eager faces of each passerby.

I started down Decatur street, a modest alley occasionally disturbed by obnoxious motorcycles whose engines roared loudly and convertibles from which exploded pompous music. The songs would always be either upbeat country or angsty rap, their bassline forcefully pumping down the street and their rhythm pouring into every crevice of the atmosphere. Echoes of the loud music resonated through all the air in the vicinity of the vehicle, remaining in place long after their source had fled the scene.

Most of the cafes and galleries lining the sides of the streets were closed by now, their windows morphing into one-way mirrors. They were survived, or rather succeeded, by little oyster restaurants and quaint bars whose dimly lit interiors nevertheless beckoned at hungry, thirsty, or curious passersby. Affectionate couples strutted with arms sweetly linked like pairs of ducks swimming leisurely in a pond. Middle-aged women trotted forward with their girlfriends on the other side of the road, as if not a day had passed from their college years, when the naive light of girlhood softened all the sharp edges of life and rendered everything into a rosy song that one could not help but dance to.

I soon arrived at the edge of Canal Street. I stood and stared into the shifting waters of traffic. The wide road that extended endlessly onwards resembled a river much more than a canal. Incessant streams of cars whizzed past, their movement forming a current of lights. I could easily envision the scene as a long-exposure photo, the headlights and taillights of each car merging into one continuous line that goes on, and on, and on.

As I kept walking, though, I couldn’t help but feel so alone. Despite all its noise and glamour, New Orleans seemed, to me, an incredibly lonely place. The vulgar posters of barely-dressed women and the crude signs symbolic of different alcohol types on Bourbon Street masked a deep layer of melancholy that spread across the whole city.

Between the cracks of pathways separating clusters of buildings was a tired musician heaving a weighty guitar over his shoulder, soundlessly returning home after a long day of performing. At the other street corner, an old man battled the clamor of sensuous night clubs with the graceful music of his lone saxophone. A homeless man lay on the ground with his dog, basking under glowing signs of strip clubs that promised euphoria and a night of happiness to each passerby. On the curb across from him sat a waitress, smoking a cigarette and staring dully forward at nothing in particular.

In the words of Louis, the somber vampire who recounts his lengthy life in the novel Interview with the Vampire, New Orleans was “a magical and magnificent place” in which “a vampire, richly dressed and gracefully walking through the pools of light of one gas lamp after another might attract no more notice in the evening than hundreds of other exotic creatures”. This was a city of pleasures as much as it was a city calloused by overstimulation. New Orleans at night was a heavily processed meal drenched in an unnameable diversity of seasoning and sauces, such that the natural taste of food had become obscured and completely unsearchable. It was a distracting mass of noises, smells, and attractions that grabbed at your attention with overwhelming strength.

In the morning, the LEMON FRESH truck will wash away the dirt and grime, returning again an appearance of cleanliness to the city. As white bubbling tides of soap flow out from under the truck and crash onto the grey curbs of the sidewalk, the stinging smell of artificial lemon and chemical cleaning solution will replenish the streets. New Orleans will once again be safe, for now, from the multifaceted stench of cigarette smoke, trash, alcohol, and other miscellaneous substances. The cycle will continue day after day, even as tourists leave and return, even as taller buildings and newer car models appear one by one to take over the changing city.

The rest of my walk was a sequence of small alleys; I made my way through the artsy but sleepy Magazine Street and crossed over the more modern Poydras Street, arriving finally at the Lafayette hotel again. The grassy square was quiet. Desi Vega’s Steakhouse emanated its candlelight into the dark night. Inside, fancy customers and sharply dressed servers in black suits shifted around noiselessly like actors in a silent film or puppets in a dollhouse. For now, it was time to sleep. My tired legs begged for the softness of my bed– good night, New Orleans!