Nola

New Orleans is the reason I am who I am. Where most people see it only for Bourbon Street, the French Quarter, and beignets, it stands as the home to my family and my ethnicity.

 

In the Midwest, it seems impossible to escape questions like “What are you?” and “What is your ethnicity?” But New Orleans offers a refuge—a melting pot of Black identities that don’t always seem “just Black.” Life can feel polarized between those who say, “You’re just Black. Stop trying to pretend you’re different,” and others who respond to my simple answer of “Black” with, “I know what ‘just Black’ looks like. You’re not just Black.” (A real quote from a Black person.) It’s a delicate balance between embracing culture and simply existing as Black.

 

New Orleans to me is the missing piece to fill that gap. It’s where everything falls into place. Memories flood back of family trips like a 14-hour drive packed into an overstuffed truck. Peeking through the luggage, my great-grandma’s Mother Mary statue always glowed on the porch. Arriving at 11 p.m., my brother and I would tumble out of the car and wait at her intricately woven metal door. Despite the time always nearing midnight, she’d stay awake just to be the first to see us. The door would swing open to reveal her perfectly styled silver hair and the signature wet kisses only a grandmother could give. Her lower jaw, hanging from a long and full life, would move with each affectionate word.

Her home became the heart of extended family gatherings. Cousins, second cousins, third cousins, and even those whose exact relation was unclear all poured through the front door.

 

Every Thanksgiving visit, I was gifted a birthday party, even though my birthday was weeks earlier. At just two years old, I confidently told people I was three because of the abundant number of celebrations that year.

 

Too small to see over the counter, I remember the symphony of gumbo-making in her kitchen. My great-grandma, grandma, and great-aunt moved as one, seamlessly tossing spices and stirring the pot. The air filled with garlic, parsley, and seafood. When the gumbo was ready, my plate came first. In this home, birth order and seniority took a backseat to the joy of sharing food. My steaming bowl of gumbo burned my tongue and throat, but its warmth spread to my soul. Seconds were always inevitable.

 

New Orleans taught me what it means for food to be made with love.

 

Since then, life has changed. After my great-grandma passed, I had to navigate family life without her unifying presence. No one could replicate her gift for bringing people together. 

 

Now, New Orleans reveals its harsher realities.

 

But the city’s beauty persists. Its warmth, comforting food, and vibrant atmosphere grant my family extraordinary longevity. Reaching their late 90s has become the norm. For that, I’m deeply grateful.

 

New Orleans isn’t perfect. Katrina stole baby pictures, my mom’s wedding dress, my grandma’s house, my great-aunt’s house, and many relatives’ homes. The city exposed the harsh truth that wealth doesn’t guarantee safety, and its government often prioritizes appearances over helping the homeless. Yet amidst the devastation, strangers still smile and say hello. When irreplaceable belongings wash away, memories endure. Perhaps that’s why my 97-year-old great-great-aunt recalls my mom’s first steps or every family birthday. Maybe that’s why my mom clings to clothes and shoes she’ll never use again.

I’m still unsure what it means to be Creole. I don’t speak the language and wasn’t born in

 

New Orleans but in St. Louis, Missouri. I grew up making gumbo in cold weather unimaginable to New Orleans natives. The beautiful French last names in my family tree disappeared when it was my turn. My mother had Jacques; I have Jackson.

 

New Orleans doesn’t claim my birthplace, last name, or residency. But it holds my heart, my home, and my family. It’s the reason I am who I am.