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.

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.

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.

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.

Old, New, Green, Blue

Something Old, Something New, Something Green, Something Blue

Swamp on the drive to Grand Isle

As we packed into the van at the MSY airport and began our long drive South to Grand Isle, I watched the world outside my window slowly empty of all colors but green and blue. Urban highways became swamps brimming with luscious cypress trees, which eventually gave way to marshes stretching toward the Gulf like fingers as we approached the bridge to Grand Isle. The air grew heavy and familiar - not unlike the warm humidity of my ancestral homeland, Guyana. The Louisiana bayou brought up familiar smells of the bright blue Caribbean sea water and Essequibo River black water I'd come to know, along with similar visions of crops growing on Guyanese rice plantations and bright green shrubbery reminiscent of the expansive South American rainforests. From the start, Grand Isle felt strangely familiar- like something old rediscovered, made anew.

Marsh near bridge to Grand Isle

That first impression stuck with me as we crossed the long bridge and entered the long-awaited Grand Isle. Something felt ancient but timeless in the water and wind, where the fishing docks sagging with the weight of countless hurricanes and the windswept grasses of endless summer days reminded me more of the Legend of Zelda video game I once played than of my real life. This place felt suspended in time, with a memory of its own. Seeing the various fishing boats pass by, I couldn’t help but think of Edna Pontellier stepping off the boat each summer to escape the social order of New Orleans for a more laid back living. As I grappled with what felt like a fever dream in my surroundings, I felt increasingly connected to Edna, who had lived out her own story in this very place. By the time I myself stepped out of the van and onto Grand Isle, I already felt less like a student pursuing her studies, and more like a traveler on the cusp of discovery.

Apart from the timelessness of this place, other aspects of the experience felt startlingly new. As we drove, small talk became vibrant conversation filled with humor and stories of shared and differing experiences. Our group of eight, who had only met once before, began to bond in anticipation of the coming month in shared company. Anxiety and fatigue from our air travel (some of us more tired than others- myself waking up at 3am) slowly dissipated as we succumbed to the awe of experiencing something so unusually fascinating and new. Getting out of the van for the first time, we pulled into Rouses Market where we stalked up the fridge for many collectively cooked family-style meals we would come to enjoy together. In short time, these new friends began to feel like old acquaintances I knew so well.

Beyond interacting with novel natural surroundings we also encountered customs that differed from our own, through experiences like trying venison and gator at the Starfish local restaurant, passing by tractors flying flags of differing political views from our own, or walking down a grocery store aisle dedicated to fishing nets, bait, and bug spray for the bayou climate- items you’d never find in LA. Just like Edna’s experience living between cultural codes- Catholic Creole and Presbyterian, artistic and domestic, complacent and nonconformist - we too found ourselves navigating between worlds: our familiar urban routines, and the slower seaside rhythms of Grand Isle living.

“The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and laughed ; some of them sang… Most of them walked into the water as thought into a native element”

— Kate Chopin, "The Awakening"

On our first morning waking up in Grand Isle, our group of weary travelers decided to head down to the beach to read and relax. Laying on my towel under the sun in 90 degree heat, I opened up “The Awakening” by Kate Chopin for the very first time. I felt like I was on vacation, much like the summer-getaway of the Pontelliers and fellow families. Between each page that I flipped, I could not help but to look up at my surroundings to try and identify what exactly was being described. Whether it be the “sensuous” touch of the water, the “soft and warm” breeze, or the sweet “odor of the blossoms” of yellow jessamine flowers being picked by Edna, I experienced a sense of place more vividly than ever before.

The calm and relaxation of Grand Isle even penetrated into our class seminar sessions as we gathered around the couch for the homeliest classroom discussions I have ever experienced. The maps projected onto our makeshift projector screen (the living room TV) truly came to life upon seeing boats whiz by in the gleaming water outside whilst families and children played in the calm waves. I again felt myself in Edna’s shoes- people watching, observing, and taking in my surroundings before taking on the ocean myself.

“But there was a breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth”

— Kate Chopin, "The Awakening"

Looking deeper, the ocean began to change, revealing what was always there, just hidden beneath the surface. As the waves became more tumultuous, the water turned over hermit crabs hiding in the surf and dragged up seaweed from the depths, exposing action behind the calm. Much in the same way, Edna Pontellier’s carefully cultivated exterior (which she attempted to portray internal peace in conversations with the local doctor) masked a storm of turbulent emotions beneath. Her outward tranquility, like the sea’s glassy surface, disguised powerful currents of unrevealed doubt and desire.

My personal highlight of our stay in Grand Isle however came on our third day; we decided to take a post-dinner, spontaneous sunset swim. The dark clouds in the sky threatened a thunderstorm, the ocean waves initially too intimidating to sink into. After extensively photographing the peach and golden sky however, the gentle warmth in the air and the vibrant smiles of my newfound friends gave me the encouragement I needed to swim too. As I entered the water, I pictured the very waves that Edna learned to swim in- a journey from discovery to demise.

To me the ocean washed away the stress of the past semester and my discomforts of travel. To Edna, it washed away the weight of societal expectations and the more burdensome elements of her identity as a mother, wife, friend and simply as a woman in a time that restricted her freedom. For us both, our first swim in this Gulf water was a fresh start and a newfound freedom. Submerging in the water was my final step in breaking down the intimidation of this new experience, now immersed and empowered to make the most of it. For Edna, the water represented more than an escape: it was her newfound autonomy and claim to selfhood, her final act of defiance, and ultimately surrender.

I left Grand Isle with the ocean breeze still tangled in my hair and the words of Kate Chopin lingering in my mind. This immersive literary and exploratory experience taught me that bookpacking isn’t just about reading about a place you visit, but rather letting its geography shape your understanding of text and deepen your sensation of place. For me, bookpacking in Grand Isle was a convergence of the blue water, the green marshes, the ancient air, and the fresh experiences coming together so thoughtfully through my reading:

• Something Old - the memory of such a historic place, withstanding natural disasters and overcoming negative associations
• Something New - building friendships from scratch and discovering this place together
• Something Green - the strong resilience of this natural landscape, evergrowing and inspiring my growth within it
• Something Blue - the sea full of mystery yet calm that once called for Edna and for this brief moment, me too