The Discipline of Bookpacking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Search for Spirituality in Modern Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking for America in a little pocket of Louisiana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The yellow house only stand in memories now.

Resisting the Myth-Making

Sunrise by the RIver

The association between the vampire culture and the city makes a lot of sense to me. I never used to think that the birthing ground for something so elegantly evil could be these rusty alleyways and unpolished French corridors, but I come to understand that New Orleans is shared between the living and the dead.

Over the past few days, a thorough investigation into the haunted neighborhood prompted some surprising discoveries. When I first arrived at the Central Business District, I did not take this investigation as seriously. Fresh from our stay at the shore, I am still fascinated by the swampy landscapes and the geographical beauty. But the more I become drawn to the spiritual energy of the French Quarters, the more I feel incentivized to unveil the hidden secrets of this erosive society.

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For multiple days in a row, I woke up early in the mornings to go on exploratory runs. The city is silent (and mostly clean) until 9 AM, then it resumes its usual shimmery delinquency. So, I learned to take advantage of the time before adults decide it is appropriate to start drinking again. Objectively speaking, the downtown is not the best urban district to linger around as a runner. My only goal is to watch the sunrise on the Mississippi River while sprinting freely down the sidewalk. However, even this desire proves impractical with the numerous small shops and vending machines set up along pedestrian paths.

Around 7 AM, I can’t find a single other runner (or biker, anything that involves aerobic cardio movements) besides myself. If this were Los Angeles, I would already be surrounded by a crew of lean and fit 20-something-year-olds maximizing their calorie burn. However, here, I suspect working out is not the norm or the preferred means of killing time. No one else has the desire to exercise outdoors: all the residents here sink deep into their chambers of sleep. Even the charming chirping of birds cannot wake them from their state of coma. This dullness scares me. When I am charging through the blocks utterly alone, I turn back every few seconds to check if I have been followed. If I were a character in a horror movie, my survival instincts would probably protect me until the very end. Making my way past the jazz lounges and painting collections, I noticed it’s easy to grow extremely dark thoughts. The soul-shattering atmosphere here is infectious. Even as an optimistic person, I am starting to doubt the existence of heaven. If the purgatory had a direct source on Earth that offered supplies endlessly, it must be here.

Although the streets smell like a mixture of the lemon-flavored cleanser and strong liquor, I can picture the scent of sweet, dangerous blood staining the concrete dark red. This hint of dark essence is not apparent to the nose; you will only accept the blood existing in broad daylight if you understand the context of the French Quarter. Similarly, you will also come to fear the discrete, run-down storefronts if you have heard whispers about their terrifying owners.

As a long-term reader of Southern Gothic, I pride myself in the fact that I am familiar with the genre as well as its historical backdrop. Compared to other parts of the country, the South is old enough and broad enough that you hear variations of cultural shifts told from the perspective of those who follow the status quo and those who push for changes. There is always a stark contrast between our idealized expectations of the sweet homes and the sharp realities of racial divides and violence. The legacy of this genre is the creation of flawed characters. Dynamic, complex people who battle with their faith, ethical guidelines, and relationship with their loved ones. I find myself drawn to these contradictions, yet I simultaneously resist the magnetic pull. The more the dark secrets make me uncomfortable, the more I sit through detailed depictions of gruesome death, either conveyed in between the lines or on the big screen. I have always loved Flannery O’Connor and Tennessee Williams, who write about the simple rural charm while incorporating dark, surrealist, yet magical elements. Nonetheless, the literature focused on New Orleans is more elaborate than most of the unconventional stories I have read about the decay and madness of aristocrats, peasants, and urban citizens alike.

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Pastel colored front porches

If it isn’t for the fact that each session costs an exuberant amount, I would not be opposed to getting a tarot card reading outside Jackson Square. There are plenty of practitioners who lay out their toolkits with convincing advertisements. As a devout Catholic, I am definitely not supposed to adhere to these “demonic practices”. The spirits they conjure directly clash with my belief system. Under the Holy Trinity, there is no space for the immortal creatures or malicious ghosts. However, to justify my fixation on macabre stories, I justify this as a cultural survey outside of my normal religious practices, hoping that the Church would not be offended by my betrayal as God’s dearest child.

Our hotel is right next to St.John the Baptist, so on our way to class, we often passed by families in their Sunday Best attending Mass together. The women are adorned in exquisite white lace veils, and the men are dressed in their formal suits. Compared to their devotion, I feel out of place in my pajamas, and more importantly, I am absent from Mass. Instead of facing the Father and asking for a full-scale exorcism, I let the tiny hateful spirits prowl about within me.

Since I can’t engage with the demonic rituals in a close capacity, the next thing would be chasing them down through a haunted tour. With immense curiosity, we approached the highly commercial and almost theatrical experience with an open mind. I have previously taken similar trips in Savannah, Georgia, and this tour essentially reminded me of the same atmosphere: under the hues of the night sky, it’s hard to tell what is staged and what is real. Every creaking of metal doors and wind blowing through the oak trees can be seen as the spirits at play, and the mansion on St. Charles Avenue looks more appealing than ever.

The most recent version of the story as a TV Series

The tour guide’s voice becomes distant. I am now captivated by the steel galleries, illuminated in neon lights at night. The historical architecture begins to blend with the reflection of the disco ball, revealing the sinfulness of typical nighttime activities. Indeed, I am not referring to visitors like myself. The guide’s narrations of the horror stories begin to merge with my prior knowledge of mystical beliefs and other grotesque acts that have occurred in the area, including the iconic characterizations of Louis and Lestat. To fully understand the context of Interview with the Vampire, for several nights, I went down the rabbit hole of researching Anne Rice’s Immortal Universe. After hours of browsing synopses and reading about the franchise, I could tell that she had a complete vision for her vampire lovers. Although the Interview was the first book published more than fifty years ago, the most recent iterations of the vampire stories came out just a couple of years ago.

Similar to many fantasy authors, in Rice’s literary and cinematic series, there is no absolute definition of good and evil. At first, I found her lack of moral stance to be slightly unsettling. Although I never overcame this slight disgust and unease, I came to appreciate this ambiguity as I learned more about crime and justice in the city. Portraying ethics is challenging when there is little lawfulness in the town to begin with. Most of the tales the guide depicted to us have no factual evidence; they are either oral traditions or exaggerated speculations that have been disseminated and reproduced through iterative processes, such as these commodified walking tours. Nonetheless, even though the stories are not reliable recollections of the bloody tales that have taken place decades, if not centuries ago, they are vivid demonstrations of the rampant criminality that is somehow normalized in this area. This is the moment my pre-law knowledge comes in handy. As an international humanitarian law student, I am not particularly invested in forensics or capital punishment. Yet, my basic instincts remind me that the casual and frequent homicides and sexual offenses are tied to corrupt businesses and weak governance. After all, it’s easy for us to blame the murders and assaults on unnamed spirits and fearful presences, as opposed to looking inward to find the human beings who have committed these unspeakable acts. Therefore, relating the historical backdrop of New Orleans to my modern critical judgment, I have a bold theory that there is a chance the entire vampire culture is a scapegoat for a legal system that lacks integrity and rigor.

I bought more books at the bookstore

The newest novel produced by Professor Everett who taught me fiction writing. He is now known as one of the most brilliant African American authors of our century.

This is how myth-making occurs and becomes extremely successful. Those who retell the stories intentionally blur the line between fiction and reality, disorienting the audience until we too lose the ability to distinguish between ancient rituals and human nature. Under the disguise of twisted desire and eccentric power dynamics, such as the type of servant-master relationships described in Rice’s novels, I suspect that the core of these strange tensions actually has to do with the great injustice of the real world. Throughout the tour, I constantly made notes of the stories that involved wealthy, upper-class white perpetrators torturing their supposedly subservient affiliates of color. To me, noticing this pattern is not an afterthought but a spontaneous habit. Though most of the other participants on the tour outside of our group did not even flinch the slightest when they heard the grotesque descriptions of the perverted individuals tormenting their victims, I felt a sense of uneasiness trying to imagine the helplessness of those wounded or killed in the incidents. Is it really possible that every single one of the stories here is tainted by supernatural forces? What if the driving motivations have nothing to do with possessions or blood-thirsty impulses, but rather just a sense of hatred so strong that it compels someone to kill?

Pulling back to the realm of reality and the burden of staying pragmatic, I have to reject the theories emerging in my head. Observing the other amused (and potentially tipsy) patrons, my outcastness is clear even on a tour we paid for. The eccentricness of my mind prevents me from being agreeable, or at the very least, a regular listener who can endure through an hour tour without raising a series of questions that evolve from “where is the supporting evidence?” to “what is the social-cultural implication of this guilty sentence?” My skepticism all came from an earnest place, but it was driving me mad. When you have a stomach full of doubts, no amount of homemade gumbo or delicious seafood boils could fill the hole of eagerness. So when my stomach growls with a funny sound after only having two meals a day, it is also my body protesting for being given unsatisfactory explanations.

I guess we will never know whether the ruthless killers were proven to be small-minded, discriminatory syndicates, because I didn’t want to bring it up to the guide. It’s not that I didn’t have the nerve to open up a potentially unpleasant conversation. There are some grievances and deep frustrations that are hard to communicate verbally. I am fearful that no matter how much I try to explain the discrete social hierarchy embedded in the vampire fiction and the subtle tone of racial dispossession, it’s easy to dismiss and rebuke these angles of interpretation rather than leaning into them. After all, one may easily overlook this perspective by categorizing the sanguinarians as a product of a niche subculture. But this is not the type of underground rebellion that should be celebrated. In fact, the marginalization of these unspoken norms provides more reasons for the hedonistic individuals to conceal their true intentions under the name of deviance. But I concur we ought to call it for what it is. Some criminality extends beyond secret societies and loosely regulated lifestyles; they are fundamentally motivated by the desire to commit wrong without being held accountable, finding excuses through the myths passed down through bonfire circles and witchcraft.

Strolling around the French Quarter on a rainy day, I let my thoughts drift away with the monotonous sounds of the raindrops and feel that I have been transported back to the past, when people wore high collars and flat caps; or even earlier when carriages were stumping through the cobblestone; maybe even earlier than that, when chains robbed against each other as enslaved people walked through the headquarters of human trafficking commerce. These images, though far less intriguing and mesmerizing than the brothels and blacksmith bars painted in Rice’s novels, feel more intimate to me.

The Sorrow of the South

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This May, I didn’t come to the South because I was curious about the miles and miles of swamp and the thick stench of the waves.

No. I returned to this rotten place buried in my personal history because I needed to test if the adolescent version of me was still alive somewhere in my body. The one who willingly traverses through the turbulent storms of thought. The one who admires the fallen palms. The one who clings on with youthful convictions. I was never fond of this dormant self, but she whines to the gust of wind by the waves, waiting to be summoned at the right time and place. I am familiar with tip-toes around the hundreds of lakes in one region, wildlife knocking on your backyard's door to disrupt civility with harmless invitation. But I have never lived next to the bayous. Under the gloomy, overcast sky, I know the haze is not supposed to be the norm. Nostalgia blooms as I enter the southern towns after three years of separation. Somewhere, beneath layers of adult resignation, she is as sharp as the ambitions I hold today. The Southern cities need not greet me as a traveler because I am indeed a ghost coming home. Perhaps the reincarnation of the desperate housewife or the duplicated spirit of the woman who drowns with the weariness of her fate.

The State of Louisiana sounds like my name. The European roots overlapping in their linguistic variations, suggesting me, the embodiment of the name, could be just as unkind and cruel as the land obtained from an epic purchase. Hence, reflecting on this experience, I am also looking inward. If I was not born into the household I came from, I would not receive this given name full of expectations and foreigness. I would not resonate with the poor Louisiana overcoming glamor and a troubled portfolio of stories.

At the young girl's core is an utterly discontented ideologist frozen in time. I am fearful that she knows about things I’ve tried to forget. Keep in mind that this consciousness would not exist without Brontë and Woolf, my well-revered “founding mothers” of intellectual discoveries—literary giants who revealed to me the required courage of being a woman. Tired of browsing through hundreds of pages daily, I developed an apprehension against the didactic lessons embedded in feminist literature.

But this time, the journey is guided by the sensuous book by Kate Chopin—my introduction to rebellion and the possibility of defiance. In a weird sense, her awakening is mine, too. Revisiting the great classics on ordinary summer days in Grand Isles for more spiritual and metaphysical wake-up calls to liberate the thoughts from the caged minds. The thickly textured sand begins to infiltrate the spine of the thin book. Grains of sand wedge into the plastic covers. The skeleton of my precious book becomes softer than usual. Moisture slowly deteriorates the physical binding as my fingers flick through the bound pages. To this day, my lungs are still not accustomed to the humidity that dampens my hair into a wet, soggy rag that vaporizes the last bit of my sanity. The water drops in the air decorate my face with a layer of fuzziness; I became constantly draped in a coat, insulating my skin from the outside world.

The pelicans line up in militant formations as they cruise in the humid air. The great migration shouldn’t be a rare sight to the children of the wild, but, too bad, we are products of the ruthless concrete jungles. Lying awake beneath the birds with great precision, I despise us for our chaos. We utter with wonder as we dip our toes into the shallow beaches blocked by fences made out of seaweed. I was patiently waiting for the rattlesnake to make an sudden appearance in the wetland. They happen to be more shy than the human explorers.

There is something uncanny about arriving in a location that has recently been redefined on the map; to some, we are standing by the “Gulf of America. It's a territorial rebranding that I can’t get myself to agree with. At least in my taxonomy, it is still undeniably the Gulf connecting to Central America. This open coastal region invites prosperity, exchanges, and soft mantles with the margins of the Atlantic. I can't even begin to talk about Confederate America, and the scars it leaves behind. Only it feels like today we are re-creating the supremacist separatist system in a sinful way; we are accepting a new empirical instinct, the renewed conscience of the selfish emperor. The scroll around the town becomes too painful when I am hyper-aware of the importance of statehood. This body of water is no longer apolitical and neutral.

The Symbol on My Arm

Everytime I miss the taste and sensuory attacks originating from the sea, I look down to find my waves tattoo gracefully, permanently implaneted on my arm. She is the testament to my determination: when I reach the end, I will not integrate with the soil but engulfed by the waves.

Scientifically speaking, the particles that run through the Mississippi River and the ocean are pretty similar. Sharing the same chemical composition, how disparate can they be? However, putting the technicality aside, one is the birthplace of civilizations, while the other is the agent of destruction. The River introduced the historical trading networks that dictated modern-day economical glory. At the same time, the Atlantic is the goddess commanding death at the palm of her irritable expressions, roaring with storms and occasionally the deathly hurricanes that reveal the dark side of motherhood. We all become witnesses to the unspeakable rage she endures as she relentlessly unleashes chaos on every roof, deck, and watchtower. The Atlantic is never the weeping mother we presume: she terrifies me as the killing machine that erases with joy. This is a deeper love from the creator to the mankind. We hide at the sound of thunder pulsing, but we fail to recognize this is the type of love we struggle to identify admist the trials and tribulations of our evolution.

When the waves of exasperation subsided, I heard Edna’s cries from afar. Am I the only one who is noticing the sorrow? The waves that drowned her still echo along these shores. As each hurricane peels back another layer of history, I am left to sift through the wreckage of the boats and the death of a woman who needed to escape from her cult of domesticity. The desperation that caged her for a lifetime. I want to find Edna and tell her she was not wrong and offensive for exploring what her heart desires. I want to gently rub her back as she unload her soul and reborn into a freed pelican.

Mourning over the loss of innocence, Edna’s womanhood repeatedly pulls me back to the sticky marrow of my childhood fears. I never want to succumb to her pain. I never want to lead a plain life that is carefully constructed by a loving suffocation. The excuse to kill me slowly, masked by the disguise of affection and care This isn't it, this could never be me. At the end of the day, I am lucky enough to have been born in the 21st century, carrying forward my ancestors' good wishes. On top of that, fortunately, I have the power to write and run outside of my confinement by writing determined words that elevate me above sensuous weight. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that women used to vanish under the heaviness of their social roles. We keep mistaking existential contemplations for romantic longing. Why can't we accept that the tragic ending is not a projection of loneliness? Why can't we comprehend that drowning in the sandy waves is returning our body to the generous, giving planet that granted us this life in the first place?

Aftermath of hurricanes on Grand Isles

Witnessing the destructions first-hand

Professor Chater casually brought up the fact that people here grow resilient to the frequent hurricanes. With this knowledge, they don't attempt to build stronger houses with more durable materials. Rebuilding over and over would suffice. The offhand comment helps me mourn the losses of those I have never met and could not name. Despite the hurt, I can confidently proclaim that it is the divine feminine in its most terrifying form, creating a cycle of prophetic language and retrospective reckoning. Looking back at the yellowing scrolls of history, every hurricane can be traced back to the ruins of these local establishments. And how much has humanity’s documentation been able to capture? This is a generational passage. I don't even need to talk to the locals to imagine their hurt. I don't dare to ask them about their rituals for picking apart and sensationalizing things they used to love deeply, places they used to reside from within.

Far too few of us learn our lessons about the inexplicable dangers of the mother planet that birthed us and, concurrently, is capable of taking away our livelihoods. Too torn down to be habitable but just astute enough to be recognized as the aftermath of recurring natural disasters that seek to swallow half of Earth’s landmass. The erosion of dirt and soil is not nearly as detrimental as the decimation of a culture that once meant searching for utopia. Despite wanting to know about the Creole people, despite wanting to learn more about the decomposition, we all silently agreed not to disturb the grief embedded in the soil. Hundreds of years later, the Mississippi flattens out the wrinkles of despair. My question is, do you ever wonder if the Gulf feels guilty for its (un)intentional murders? I can still taste the deceased flesh and blood in the valient raindrops.

When I was a teenager, stuck in the great sunshine state, every rainy season was accompanied by hurricane warnings, days off from school, and emergency evacuations. I didn’t use to understand the extent of damage people suffer from these calamities. In late September or early October, I can’t remember exactly when my schoolmates and I would break the curfew issued by the city and meet up to dance to music during the early waves of downpouring before the real hurricane came around to distort the Spanish architecture. We danced on the edge of disaster, a dumb vocation. My unshakeable joy from "dancing at the center of the hurricane" is the prelude to the great losses. I was rude to assume the unexpected holidays can be exhilarating and not a threat by any means. Occasionally, I heard the news of my friends’ friends losing their houses, caused by falling trees and hitting the electric wire, which turned into burning wood and bricks, then eventually nothing at all. But it all felt like a story happening to someone else at the time. Amidst the peaks and valleys of college, I am occasionally irritated by the encounter, fantasizing the peaceful afterlife if the flooding has looted me as opposed to those underserving of the blessing of the human demise. They make plans to survive, I create my agenda to exit, to perish, to decay with the spiteful rain.

My favorite architectural feature

The secret courtyards hidden among the buildings

The disappearance of the fishing community in Jefferson Parish showed us the unpredictability of the force of nature. One moment, you are harvesting oysters and trading sugar cane with the French-speaking neighbors; the next, their absences strike as a deliberate attack. When we gaze towards the abandoned porches, the docks also gaze us back. The scene is empty as if the entire village has collectively decided to withdraw and never return: they are now nothing more than distant memories in old maps that attempt to capture their presence along the sovereign water. In the drowned township, there used to be many other young women like myself, starring ajar into the lonesome coast across the body of water, hopefully confused, astonished by the lives they may possibly lead in the future.

I have yet to understand the connection between the cursed motherhood and my beloved planet that births my wild self-possessions. Why do you provide us the nutrients and liquids, then easily abduct the subsistence away from us? The sea takes in anything the world is not willing to protect, which makes me fear one day I too would be swept and collected by the waves.

Over the past few days, I have been haunted even thick into the night. The imagery of the Spanish moss attached to the ginormous oak trees keeps invading my dreams. I picture myself submerging just below the surface of the stream, floating with bursting air bubbles suspended in murky water, tangled in green laces. The epiphytic flowering plant is entangled with the gnarly tree branches swinging side by side in the tropical wind. This vision became an evident contrast with my nightmares of apocalyptic plots wiping out humanity with one touch. As much as I tell you I resent the South. As much as I proclaim I could not stand it. As much as you get the sense I need to escape. I find myself engulfed by her embrace upon my exile. The young girl is alive and well now, no longer kept in the eloquent, high towers of etiquette and madness. This is just the beginning of the revival, and I know without a doubt the blueness of my past, our collective past, is still coming for me.