cultural resilience.

My spring break journey began with my Hurricane and Rebirth class after finally landing on New Orleans grounds at 9 in the morning. The exhaustion and hunger from the early morning 4 AM flight kicked in while we exited Gate D3 and then retrieved our baggages. My stomach started to turn because I always feared that airport staff would put my belongings onto the wrong plane, but I ended up getting my big, black luggage within a few minutes and no hassle. When we exited the airport and caught our first breath of New Orleans air, we organized ourselves into random groups to catch cabs and head down to our temporary home. It was hot...the humidity overwhelmed me because I had on a black hoodie and wore a flannel over that, which weren’t enough layers to keep me warm back in New Jersey. We hopped on a big white van with “Limousine Service” imprinted on the windows with a phone number. The driver, a tall black man with a heavy New Orleans accent, helped load our bags and luggage into the back of the van.

I remained quiet and kept to myself because I wasn’t friends with anyone in my class, yet. I was actually going to be content with not getting to know anyone, keeping to myself, and discovering what the city had to offer by exploring each jazz-filled street. However, I knew that this experience would be more full and remembered if i take the ti meet these strangers in my class and the locals of the once destroyed city. It was time to step out of my comfort zone of being comfortable by myself, and learn about people: both from this English class at William Paterson University and New Orleans, Louisiana. We quickly came to introduce ourselves in the van despite how compacted we were and being only half of the overall group.

“You’re John, right?” asked one girl with blonde, wavy hair, “We all know who you are because Dr. Mellis always introduces you every time you walk in the class.”

“Yeah...everyone should know my name by now. He always does it,” I said with a smile. Then, we proceeded to say our names and majors as any typical college student would introduce themselves to another college student.

The van driver, Dan, kindly made his way into our introductions, “Y’all have a class together and don’t know each other’s names? I guess y’all gonna get to know each other, now.” We laughed at his comment, and I continued to stare out of the window observing palm trees, a clear sky, and hoping to find something that would make New Orleans stand out from the other big cities of the south that I’ve previously visited. I never thought too much about this trip before coming. There was only one exception, one supreme goal, and one thing I knew I had to achieve in order to feel like Anthony Bourdain on Travel Channel. This was to eat good food. We were assigned readings prior to the trip from our professor, Dr. Mellis, in order to experience the city with knowledge of its history and its struggles during and after Hurricane Katrina.

After we had reached our destination, unpacked, and settled ourselves in, Dr. Mellis had arranged a small trip to The French Quarter. We regrouped outside and followed him on a mile-long walk. I was starving, I didn’t know anyone, and my patience began to run out. I remained quiet and to myself until I made friends with other classmates of my Hurricane Rebirth class because I was, again, the only Asian American in another English class. Most of us were tired and wondered where he was taking us on this mile-long walk. We walked a couple of blocks down to reach the streetcar stop. I examined the array of unique New Orleans homes. Each of them had its own distinctive look and a short front lawn of southern thick bladed grass that extended out to the sidewalk we were walking on. Some of the homes had metal fleur-de-lis ornaments decorating the front doors. Other homes seemed slightly old and less rejuvenated after the hurricane, but most of the homes seemed fresh and illuminated the local street. As beautiful as our simple walk was, I knew it was all just a product of gentrification.

I didn’t know if should’ve looked at each bright home with interest or with disgust. Was I supposed to find some sort of interest in a business opportunity that arose from destruction? It was more than that. What used to be tight-knit communities shared by Black Americans, soon became washed away from the hurricane which allowed many rich white people to come in create something for themselves. In a BuzzFeed article I had recently read, one New Orleans native thought that the culture was going to be extinct. As beautiful as the homes were with their unique use of colors and decorative appearances, I couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t what it used to be. It’s tough knowing that the business of real estate could potentially distort the true culture of New Orleans. This sort of angered me...but, this was something I realized I had to put into perspective as I explored the city.

“This is some real gentrified shit right here,” a classmate said as he pointed to a modern, red brick. A couple of us, a diverse group of students who’d eventually become close friends, agreed with him.

“Word…” we replied. When we had reached the stop, Dr. Mellis handed us our “Jazzy Passes,” a one day streetcar pass so that we could travel across New Orleans. It was pretty much the Metro Card of NOLA. Other students were wondering what my ethnicity was, and I wasn’t surprised because many people can never tell with their first impression. “You look Puerto Rican or some type of Spanish,” one of the girls said to me. I took pride in the fact that I didn’t look Asian. Maybe, it was because I always felt I wasn’t cool enough growing up because I was Asian. My chinky eyes only implied that I was either good at video games or could masterfully solve every problem on your calculus test. I didn’t want those connotations, anymore. So, I was bit more satisfied with who I was because I didn’t look as Asian or Filipino as I should.

My first time riding a streetcar/trolley was in Toronto when I had visited family. Toronto’s streetcars were plain, dull, and the inside looked like a New York subway train. New Orleans streetcars were vibrant. It matched the city’s liveliness that I later experienced. The streetcar we rode was a polished dark green on the outside with red-brown borders on the window sills and split-opening doors. I was very fascinated by the vintage aesthetic that it preserved inside and out. As soon as I stepped in, I took a good look at my surroundings. There were ads lined up next to each other above the windows promoting the numerous amount of festivals and parades. The seats were benches of wood with a polished, glossy finish and metal beams to support it from breaking so easily. I was still fairly shy around everyone else, so I found an open bench and sat alone. My attention from inside the streetcar officially shifted out onto Clairborne Street. With the window open, I watched cars and other New Orleanians as we slowly passed by. I took the headphones out of my ears to get a full experience of the commute to The French Quarter. With prior knowledge that New Orleans was a vibrant and lively city, I wanted to hear every little bit of noise I could on my first commute around town. The houses had a large amount of brick steps that narrowed as they got closer to the front door, and large columns. Beads and necklaces of all colors hung from electric wires, balcony railings, and tree branches indicating that Mardi-Gras had passed, and I can only imagine the chaotic enjoyment that oozed throughout the town.

When we had reached the French Quarter, we got our first taste of New Orleans when a large group of us decided to eat in a café right next to Jackson Square Park. Everyone seated themselves with whoever they thought they’d be most comfortable with. I was quiet but was extremely observant. Everyone seemed to already know who they’d get along with for the next eight days except for me, so I sat in the middle in silence from my exhaustion and hunger while I waited for a conversation to assert myself into to make some friends on our first day of the trip. When my gumbo arrived, everyone’s eyes had shifted to me.

“John, you’re so lucky…” a number of them had said. I inched the small soup cup closer to me and took a spoonful of rice, a piece of crawfish, clam, and the dense, rich broth. It was my first official taste of cajun food, and I had completed my one and only mission: eat good food. My cravings and hunger were more than satisfied, but I urged for more when I finished my meal. Although New Orleans was known for its food, its liveliness, and its music on every corner of every bar, I still felt that this trip needed to give me something more meaningful than its glorious culture and lifestyle. The satisfaction I was able to fulfill on the first day soon drifted which left me wanting something more than a delicious bite of Cajun food.

On the fourth day of the trip, we had a volunteer work at 9 AM. Our Uber rides took our small groups throughout the Lower 9th Ward, which was the area that was the most affected after the levees broke from Katrina. It’s been more than a decade, yet there were so many houses that crumbled and rotted from from monstrous waters of the Mississippi River. It reminded me too much of The Philippines, where my parents grew up. New Orleans wasn’t full of shacks and huts made of metal sheets and wooden planks like The Philippines, but the ruins of the Lower 9th Ward made me feel just as sympathetic as I did for people in my parents’ native country. We awaited the owners of a small two family house for about nearly two hours. Some of the guys tried peering into the windows hoping someone was in there hearing our endless knocking on the wooden door. It was a dark, grey day and the heat of the south became a windy, brisk setting for us. We started to become impatient waiting in the chilling winds while trying to fill our empty stomachs with granola bars and Pop Tarts. Finally, the middle-aged couple had arrived and opened the door to welcome us into a photo gallery in development.

“Y’all ain’t ready to do no work for sure. Dr. Mellis, where’d you get these kids from?” he said in a sarcastic tone. I was fed up. Although I understood the his humor right away, I didn’t appreciate the two-hour wait and the jokes he made about us.

“Oh, don’t listen to him! He don’t know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout.” his wife said to lighten the mood after seeing our cranky faces. She showed us some of the photos on the walls. The one that caught my attention was the photo of a small, young black boy peering through two pieces of wood. What made this certain piece so special was that it was damaged from the flooding waters of post-Katrina. In class, Dr. Mellis had shown us a number of similar photos, but I somehow felt the weight of seeing this water damaged photo. I gazed around at other photos and spotted a non-damaged one that looked very similar to the photo of the little boy. It was the original picture in black and white with the the wavy stains of purple and blue distorting its image. My head kept turning 180 degrees, jumping back and forth to compare the original photo and the water-damaged photo. It was the first moment I placed myself into deep thought on the trip. In that moment, I wondered what was so unique and important about that photo where I felt its weight and power on me. I couldn’t tell myself that it was just the power of art. There was something about the photo itself, and I stared into the damaged eyes of the boy’s as if he had given a message to me about the city’s struggle. It didn’t haunt me, but it made me feel the same remorse I felt seeing the poverty stricken families of The Philippines when I was fifteen. Yet, the weight of this photo still burdened me because I couldn’t figure out its message that I had to decipher in my head.

On the last day, I took a personal trip to Cafe Du Monde which was my last and final objective to fulfill the satisfaction I get from eating amazing New Orleans food. It was a famous NOLA spot known for its scrumptious beignets. It was right across from Jackson Square Park in The French Quarter. I purchased three for my early morning breakfast, one iced cafe au lait, and took a generous bite out of the sugar-dusted, fried ball of dough. After I had finished one, I took a stroll alongside the murky waters of the Mississippi River on a wide cobblestone walkway and, again, placed myself in an introspective moment to reflect on everything that I’ve seen on this jazz-filled city. When I realized it was time to head back and pack up, I called myself an Uber to get back with the rest of the group. I thought, again, about the water-damaged photo of that little boy and still tried to figure out what it was about the photo that seemed to beg for me to open the message in a bottle it had given me. My Uber driver, Walter, was a large black man who I realized was going to be the most kind-hearted person I’d meet in New Orleans from the moment he welcome me in his mini-van. I asked him about Hurricane Katrina and where he was. I’ve heard many stories of people floating on wood outside of their houses and families staying at the superdome. Walter was one of those thousands of NOLA locals who had been deeply burdened by Katrina. But, his wife’s story was the one that that broke my heart. He began to talk with a little more emotion, and I could see his ready to release tears of sadness.

“All seven of my wife’s sisters died during and after the hurricane. You see some people were so stressed out and didn’t know how to start their lives over that some just died,” he mentioned. My eyes widened as I stared at his coffee thermos in his cup holder and remained silent with grief. Walter began talking about how his family moved on from their struggles and began new lives for themselves. He was a strong-hearted person that bled warmth and positivity.  His testimony was just what I needed to decipher the message that I received from that photo at the Lower 9th art gallery. So, I remembered the image of the curved bold lines of blue and purple that layered across the boy’s face as his eyes redelivered the message to me. It was telling me to always remember the photo, this trip with my class, and Walter’s story. The water-damaged photo was the embodiment of the city and its struggles. Behind the city’s liveliness was the strength of thousands of New Orleanians. When the levees broke, the Mississippi released water all throughout the city damaging not just buildings, homes, businesses, and all the physical belongings of people, but the water damaged the morale and hearts of these thousands of people. However, they remained kind and hospitable to each other. What the photo represented was NOLA’s resilience after Hurricane Katrina. Even with the waters rushing in and destroying everything in it’s path leaving homes still damaged, New Orleanians embraced their culture even more. There was still an extremely heavy presence of jazz and live music flourishing throughout the streets which made me walk to the beat of every kick of the bass drum and feel nothing but a smooth trickle throughout my body as the trumpet player’s notes blessed a passerby’s ears. There was still that glorious Cajun food that graced the palates and taste buds of many food lovers...even those with seafood allergies could feel the jealousy and envy for those who were fortunate enough to experience New Orleans’ unique flavors. There was still a great, fat lump of kindness and southern hospitality towards each other which showed me an extremely humble side of New Orleans natives. What they took pride in was the uniqueness that is New Orleans. This is what New Orleans culture was to me because it was something that waters couldn’t wash away and wipe out. The photo represented their resilience because the people of the lively city didn’t let the waters of destruction and gentrification take away their identity. Through the water damage of the city’s kind inhabitants, you can still see their tight grip on who they truly are. Many natives of the amazing city didn’t want to leave because NOLA was there home. Although they became broken, their foundation to rebuild from was the culture they had instilled in their hearts. However, the message didn’t stop at teaching me about the culture’s resilience. It started to make me wonder about my own culture.

My struggle is far less extreme than what a New Orleanian had gone through after Hurricane Katrina. However, I soon came to realize why I had been reminded of what I had seen in The Philippines when I first encountered the ruins of homes in New Orleans. I am a first generation, American-born, Filipino child. In a strange way, being born in America was already the beginning of my own gentrification (without the real estate and profit). My father always wanted to instill his Filipino traditions and culture in me. I guess he failed because I can barely communicate with him in his own native language, Tagalog. However, I knew I wasn’t the only one. Many of my cousins and friends seem to have strayed away from Filipino culture and traditions and just seemed so “Americanized.” It’s not that we denied our identity as Filipino Americans, but we just seemed more heavily  attracted to non-Filipino culture and traditions. Naturally, this created a large cultural gap between my father and me. This could be the same  for many first generation, American-born children. Occasionally, I wonder if a word of Tagalog or any Filipino dialect will be spoken and if Filipino food will even be served in the homes of future Filipino American homes. Our own “water damage” was being done by not anyone else but ourselves because so many of us chose to be counterculture towards our parents’ native countries. Am I, as a person of Filipino ethnicity, supposed to instill that culture in heart? It’s a very complicated issue in my life because I mostly choose to be counterculture towards Filipino culture, yet I worry that I am not culturally resilient through the “gentrification and water damage” of being born in America. What New Orleans has taught me that I should not shed my identity as a Filipino in America. The reason why New Orleans is so unique in culture is because there is no other place that can fully emulate and encompass the lively city...it stands out from other big cities like New York and Atlanta. To be culturally resilient doesn’t mean outside force has to drive you out of what you truly are, but it’s the driving force to remain who are truly are.

Essentially, that specific water damaged photo of that boy represented a number of things to me. The boy symbolized true identity and the true culture of New Orleans and my Filipino heritage. The water damage symbolized gentrification, gentrification’s unintentional attempt at breaking up the cultural community of New Orleans, and the shedding of Filipino culture for a wide number of Filipino Americans.

I had initially came to New Orleans with one mission: eat good food. However, I came back home with the satisfaction of deciphering a message that a boy had given me through a simple picture. There was so much more in store for me to discover in New Orleans as a college student. There was a lot of effort involved in uncovering the city’s lesson for me because each bite of delicious gumbo and beignets weren’t enough to fulfill the satisfaction I should have gotten during the trip. When I had hopped on the plane back to snow-stormed Newark, New Jersey, I had realized that New Orleans gave me so much more to chew on.