New Orleans, New Me?
- Keely Carroll
- Dec 30, 2023
- 27 min read
This chapter addresses sensitive themes, including suicide, bullying and self-harm. It also touches on aspects of Black American history and slavery. If you or someone you know is struggling with these issues, please consider seeking support from the following resources. Additionally, exercise caution and discretion when engaging with this chapter if you find yourself in a vulnerable state. Your well-being is of utmost importance, and accessing appropriate support is strongly encouraged. Remember, reaching out for support is a sign of strength, and these organisations are there to help. If you or someone you know is in crisis, please contact emergency services immediately.
Lifeline Australia 13 11 14
Beyond Blue 1300 22 4636
Headspace 1800 650 890
Black Dog Institute 02 9382 2991
Kids Helpline 1800 55 1800
New Orleans! A place I’ve wanted to visit for a while, but never did I think it would be under the circumstances it was.
This time felt like a blur. Perhaps it was the readily available weed on every street corner, my jetlag that was still lingering, or maybe it was the daily struggle to get out of bed when my heart was continuing to break. Either way, this time was filled with a melancholic drone that I was struggling to shake, but I still held a determination to “show ‘em!”
I’m not sure what I was meant to be showing, and why I felt that “them” needed to see that. But I guess I’ve always carried this innate need to want to prove myself instead of learning the art of simply living for myself; feeling I need to make something of myself for the sake of the approval of others. It's a universal human condition is it not? A deep yearning for a nod of approval from strangers and the warm embrace and acceptance of our loved ones.
This desire to “show ‘em” could be due to me having always felt that so many people who have surrounded me in prior years, in spaces I have since removed myself from, carry a hope within their hearts that I will fail and that when I do, the smirk on their faces would drown out the sound of Taylor Swift’s Happiness playing in a thousand rooms.
“Tell me, when did your winning smile begin to look like a smirk? When did all our lessons start to look like weapons pointed at my deepest hurt?”
Some may say that it’s all in my head. But let us not gaslight people, or ourselves. What you feel and think from your own experiences is yours to own. Then of course, some may also say people are too busy with their own lives to be that concerned with me – that’s a statement I tend believe. A conditioning from my father perhaps? But despite these thoughts, throughout my life my sincere desire for others has always been happiness, even in the face of their wrongdoings against me. Yet, I find myself entangled in a tapestry of stories where I have been woven and shaped into a character I never volunteered to audition for; let alone to be cast as the lead.
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BULLYING
Even as adults, we experience this. Sometimes it can be so damaging the effects are felt for years. You’re reduced to nothing, made to feel worthless. Cornered into believing the worst of yourself. Yet, still craving acceptance and inclusion. Gretchen from Mean Girls exemplifies this feeling perfectly. The more Regina shrunk her down, the more Gretchen sought her approval.
I experienced this. I felt it, and still do; on a catastrophic and debilitating level.
The impactful influences of external perceptions and judgments from a certain time in my life has cast a shadow over my psyche which has resulted in living in a perpetual state of survival mode. Enduring relentless mistreatment has left me grappling with persistent narratives that leave me with profound questions—about my identity, my intrinsic value, the essence of the person I believed myself to be, and the principles I stand for. The scrutiny of external opinions has led me to question every component of my life, creating a profound and often unsettling introspection.
It is undeniable that when robust negative energy is projected at you and done powerfully, by an entire community of people, it is felt deeply. And now, as a result it seeps into multiple facets of my life. I have been ensnared in an unending cycle of despair with each cruel encounter serving as a heavy link in the chain that binds my spirit.
In order for me to claim my own power back, I’m choosing to speak on my experience for the first time.
Perhaps it gave them a sense of happiness and achievement within their own lives? Or perhaps there was an untapped wound that hadn’t healed so it was easier to place me as the scape goat in their story to make their narrative logical; making me worthy of negative outcomes – karma if you will. It’s very easy to point fingers at people, especially in a group setting where emotions are high, and people are looking for someone to blame. But at times it wasn’t even about blaming me for something. Often it was just to place me as the target for a laugh - making me the butt of the joke.
But for people pleasers like me we constantly focus on the good even when it’s a collective of negative behaviours. Even when an entire cohort has painted you as the villain.
I’m not a perfect person. Far from it. I've made mistakes and undoubtedly caused hurt along the way. I am human after all, yet despite this I don’t take pride in those errors and failures. I can only give my sincere apologies, listen to who has been hurt and take the lesson from them to try to do better next time. I passionately believe that any wrongdoing I unintentionally caused surely can’t attribute to the treatment I received. In fact, I’m at such a loss for what I’m meant to have done that my confusion has consumed me for years and impacted me in ways that even affects how I interact with those closest to me. As a result, I go to extreme lengths to be the best person I can be to all I encounter, at all costs. It has affected my satisfaction with employment, my ability to set healthy boundaries and knowing when it’s time to graciously remove myself from things that no longer serve me. I struggle deeply to assert myself when I have been wronged and when the slightest mishap occurs, the emotional reaction that follows is debilitating for me.
However, never have I harboured ill will or wished hardship upon anyone, even those who've caused me immense pain. Not even an individual who callously gaslit me into believing I was responsible for my dearest friend's suicide as well as the damaging events to other individuals surrounding that time.
The temptation to name this individual has haunted me for years. I have the receipts of the conversation to this day, and it would be quite easy to put them on blast. I would sometimes fantasise on what people would think if they knew who it was and the depth of what was said. I’ve wondered what they would do, and hoped they would come running to lift me up from that pain. But also, maybe it would have them pause and reflect on their own mistreatment of me.
Maybe there would be some who would regret having said that I made that time of grieving all about me, that I was an attention seeking whore for honouring my darling friend in the only way I knew would resonate for him and would do him justice. Maybe they would embrace me into the planning of important events instead of pushing me out because my ideas didn’t align to theirs. Maybe I would be able to claim back my innocence for the horrific bullying that occurred to another induvial that I only ever tried to protect by standing up to those that strove to tear her down, while facing the same battles for myself head-on. Maybe people would take a pause and reflect if they knew the fall out that occurred from that one incident resulted in the very near loss of another friend through self-harm, which drove me to the same darkness in my life while trying to protect those I could. Maybe they would be regretful at the complete cutting out of friendship circles for their own empowerment. Perhaps they would feel disappointed in themselves that “The K word” became the common slang used in social circles when gossip about me arose. That I resembled a dog. That my private life ended up being written on cards for games and laughed about whenever they popped up on the table. Even those I believed had my best interests at heart would barely flinch when included in such moments or conversations. Maybe they would be apologetic that they didn’t have the strength to defend their friend who was so viciously targeted, and instead allowed toxic words to permeate social events. Maybe they would claim that their lack of strength to defend me in those moments, and instead actively participated in those conversations themselves, was due to fear of retribution, or maybe not. Subsequently, they would recount these stories to me, expressed to me as a show of solidarity. Yet I was still expected to navigate through it all with ease - alone. It was like a lamb to slaughter and every move I made during those years was scrutinized and vilified in ways I never knew possible.
After relentless mistreatment I finally had someone, I thought I could turn to, who I viewed as a safe space. Someone who was familiar with these people and knew in me intimate ways, so could understand me on an emotional level. They presented themselves as being able to be objective and unbiased. They appeared to be removed from the drama and toxicity and were willing to truly help. This person also happened to be someone I trusted, cared for, and even loved (at least at the time I thought that’s what it was, what laugh that is now). I recounted what had been occurring in depth and provided intimate details I hadn’t shared with anyone else. He offered support and a shoulder to lean on and made me feel he was safe to keep speaking with. I was starting to feel like I could come out the other side of it all okay. He lapped it up with ease – this new role for him, a sort of hero in his eyes. He became someone I thought I could finally trust. Someone who finally understood.
But it was this very person who hammered the final nail into my coffin in the cruellest way possible… he blamed me directly for the suicide of my friend.
In hindsight I now see it for what it was. He was absorbing as much information as he could, getting all the juicy details, before turning it all on its head. And in a blink of an eye – that’s exactly what he did. He slut shammed me, blamed me, gaslit me, abused me, and left me in the darkest place of my life.
“What would you like me to say?! It was me who “killed” him because of my stupid choices?!
Would that make you feel f*cking better?”
I exclaimed through exchanged messages where he led me deeper and deeper into a game that he was always going win and come out of on top. That’s what narcissists do. They pump you up, just to tear you down. And in the weeks leading up to this exchange it is precisely what he had orchestrated, knowing full well how reduced, fragile, and vulnerable I was. It was disgusting.
“See?
Playing the victim.
Twisting the stories.
Skewing the discussion.
Shirking the responsibility.
Yes, Keely... its everyone else’s fault.
You had nothing to do with anything.”
This retelling and excerpt are from just one encounter, from just one conversation with just one person during that time. Can you imagine the onslaught I was dealing with? It was palpable.
The very people that have contributed to my pain are the same people I seek validation from, even to this day. But how could I possibly strive to be my best self, when the level I have been aiming for is that low?
Not surprisingly, following these events I persisted. Something that has also affected me in ways I am still trying to process. Before taking my leave from community theatre for what was to be a one-year break, I chose to immerse myself fully – once again to show ‘em! This saw me take on a lead role in one show, a choreographer position in another, and a featured dancer in one more. From south Sydney all the way into the hills, these shows overlapped each other and were all extremely demanding leaving me with minimal time to be a target but also little time to appreciate my efforts, nor to achieve my best work. It was a delicate balance that ultimately failed. The stress overshadowed my ability to appreciate the experience, and I remained a target throughout. All the while I was very much still in the throes of grief, attempting to process what had happened in the year prior, while also working full time in a demanding corporate city job and, if you dare believe it, studying part time in the pursuit of completing a seemingly endless degree. It comes as no surprise that the cumulative weight of these responsibilities took a toll—physically, I dropped to a dangerously low weight, and mentally I was at a tipping point.
As the curtain drew to a close in May 2017, I decided to take a break. I had no choice. It was either I continued as I was despite knowing where that would lead, or I went “cold turkey.” Turkey has never tasted so good. From that point onwards life started to turn, and it would be less than three months later that I would find myself with someone who truly saved me. I thank him for that always and forever. That is something that can never be taken away. But still in a cruel twist of fate, he would also be the very person that would cause my life to burst into flames 6 years later…
It’s been almost 7 years since I took my final bow, but it still feels like yesterday. Despite carrying a lot of scars, that I did nothing to earn, I still have so many fond memories and very dear friendships from this space that I’m so beyond thankful for. They lift me up and inspire me in their own special ways. They also remind me of my worth and value.
For those that sought to tear me down… I’ll continue to preserve their reputations, but don’t be confused by that statement. They know who they are. Cruel treatment that generates pain on that level is never forgotten. The darkness I carry is a wound uniquely mine to bear, but one I never signed up for. I never agreed to be a part of a narrative written by someone (someone’s) who never bothered to understand me. Never bothered to offer kindness instead of harshness, a safe space instead of dismissal. Love instead of ridicule, humiliation, and mockery. Their careless and spiteful words, their actions and lack of action (sometimes more hurtful as it was from those who you thought were your protectors, your safe haven) have impacted me for years, and even to this day still echo within the recesses of my mind.
The thing all these people and stories have in common… the one thing they didn’t rely on was how many times I have risen from the ashes stronger than the time before, and I’m sure they certainly never thought that my honesty would stretch to reclaim my truth in this way, when I finally chose to snatch my narrative back. I will no longer be the one person everyone needs as a crutch to make themselves feel better.
I would be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t speak openly about this to help me build this boundary and release them with kindness to carry them on their way. And so, it was in a hotel room in New Orleans that some of the broken pieces of my life, that were metaphorically shattered on the floor around me, were beginning to draw into itself like a magnet. Prepping itself for catapulting me forward into the life that is mine to claim and own. Which no one can take from me.
BACK TO MY TRAVELS
As a result, New Orleans became a haven of sorts for me. I spent a lot of time in my hotel room, willing myself to move and get out to see things, hear music and be amongst fellow humans. But simultaneously willing myself to stay in a ball, sifting through emotions and traumas wondering how I could survive this latest hit that came from the person I loved the most in the universe.
In those moments I would make yet another call to my friends to gain their support while questioning if I had made a mistake. “I need to come home,” “I can’t do this”, “It’s too hard”, “It’s too much”. I had endured all that my mental capacity had and was not sure if it could survive it. Realising I had bitten off more than I could chew by throwing myself into the world (locked in for a minimum of 6 months) all through a million and one tears… the lightbulb turned on. It came in the form of some of the kindest love and most perfect advice I have ever received.
“A hard truth is you’re going to have to go through this whether you’re home or not. It’s just whether you cry on the floor at home, or cry on the floor of a hotel room. Either way it’s going to happen. You must go through it to come out the other side. It’s awful, and even more awful that it needs to and must happen. In a weird way it’s a good thing. But it’s going happen. Even though we’re not physically there with you, we’re here for you. We are all here behind you and rooting for you. You can do this.
These things are really hard when your feelings have always been minimised and you’ve been made to feel less than. Especially when that has happened more than one person should have to contend with. But I promise you, you are having a healthy and normal response to what has happened to you, both with your husband and from others in the past. You have to go through it for it to subside.”
… I was bought back from the edge and was able to move forward – just one more step.
THE CITY
I was lucky to get a front row dress circle ticket to “To Kill a Mockingbird” on their closing night performance. I felt like a hollow shell and not sure I would even take the performance in. Yet, it bought me back into myself. I certainly didn’t need anything to provide a sense of perspective. I knew there are worst things in life to experience, but I also know comparison is the thing that will kill you. One person’s hardship does not define your own. You must allow yourself to feel your pain freely – even if it may seem like spilt milk to someone else (or to yourself). If you don’t tend to the milk, it’s going to sour, with the smell sticking to your skin; especially while travelling - good showers were few and far between!
From what others have told me of their own experiences of New Orleans I had anticipated an assault on the senses, yet it felt as if the world was conspiring to be gentle with me. A new and strange experience. Even the infamous Bourbon Street appeared tame; but perhaps, I thought to myself, I needed to skulk through its chaos after midnight for the full experience. And so, I did. And so, did it.
The onslaught of the senses was a mere fraction of the impact it had on me—complete and utter sensory overload, with a panic attack that promptly followed. It was a total KO from old school Street Fighter vibes. It knocked me back to my hotel room floor, prompting me to retreat until my nervous system could catch a breath.
I gave it a take two the following day, during day light hours only, and my walking led me past beautiful smiles, kindness, and sporadic music I could hear playing in the distant streets. It persisted as I traversed from one street to the next and became a soothing contrast to the night before. My taste buds where then ready to experience the ever-famous Beignet’s from Café du Monde! They were, of course, delicious but oh so sugary sweet!
As I walked them off, I stumbled upon a little witchy shop named 'Hex.' I had a psychic reading that didn’t quite hit the spot for me but was a fun gimmick nonetheless, and a nice touch for the store itself. It held an altar of sorts with images of celebrities and those who have had a positive impact on the world but are no longer with us. The iconic photo of Steve Irwin and the koala stared out at me, as did a portrait photo of Carol Channing – who to me is the White Queen from the 1985 version of Alice in Wonderland. Amongst all the trinkets and offerings scattered across the altar there they were - little glimpses of my childhood and Australia, once again jumping out at me, reminding me of who I am and where I came from.
On the top of the altar was a cauldron where you could leave handwritten letters for your loved ones, maybe even a little hex or two; how very kitsch! I wrote a letter to my husband… I don’t recall the exact words, but I do remember the intent was one of love and kindness and wishing him peace as he moves forward in his life and healing journey. However, I can’t say it wasn’t without effort. Sometimes, you want to continue to be the kindness you project, and sometimes you just want to give people what they have given you. That’s just not who I am. I lead with compassion first, always – but I’ve learnt the hard way that it can sometimes get me into trouble (that’s a story for another chapter). Nevertheless, I left my letter of love in the cauldron, sealed with a kiss, and walked off. But not before feeling a little spark of my internal Practical Magic era, with my fellow witches spiritually by my side.
THE PLANTATIONS
I wanted to ensure I immersed myself in the rich culture and history of New Orleans as much as I could and placing myself in the city provided for this. However, in order to delve deeper into the history of Black America, it would be my visits to the plantation sites that truly offered a profound and emotionally stirring experience that I won’t quickly forget.
My first site visit was to Oak Alley Plantation. You would likely recognise the primary house, antebellum mansion, if you are familiar with movies such as “Interview with The Vampire” and “Primary Colors”. But that isn’t why I was there. Oak Alley Plantation is absolutely beautiful, there is no denying that. The long path, lined with Oak tree’s some 300 years old, leading to the mansion is dreamy and other worldly. The gardens are all perfectly manicured and cared for, and the architecture overall is pretty sensational. But the moment you feel swept away by its charm, you are simultaneously heavy with despair due to the horrific history the grounds contain. Walking through the mansion, it seems frozen in time with its antique furniture; even showcasing some belongings of those that used to reside there. It’s very easy to see how the absolute upper class lived; and that includes the attitudes of the time. Refinery and opulence led the charge, but underneath it all was a very dark, twisted, and horrific dehumanisation of people that were forced into slavery simply due to the colour of their skin.
Whitney Plantation, the second site I visited, was exceedingly difficult to walk through. The primary focus of this plantation, unlike Oak Alley, is the history of the enslaved. The small wooden workers’ cabins where the enslaved were housed, sometimes with their children, were still standing. You could even see the remnants of blue paint that was used to coat the wood. Chipped and worn away by time. We were permitted to step into these cabins, but it was quite jarring to enter what felt like a sacred space, while also witnessing firsthand the ways they were forced to survive. These cabins were still occupied in 1975 when the plantation finally shut down.
1975 was only 49years ago. Take that timeline in for a moment and remember it as you continue reading on.
Haunting me still is the jail cells still in place in the middle of the grounds, which is said to have been used for convict leasing – a process where the enslaved are placed into the cells to be displayed by those looking to buy. Often, this occurred in extreme heat or cold with nothing to protect them from the elements. In times of heat the cells are barely touchable as they were made from iron and steel, making them burning hot to the touch.
The following is a direct excerpt from Whitney Plantation:
The jail onsite at Whitney Plantation was built in 1868 and most likely used for convict leasing. It was found and relocated from nearby Ascension parish. The system of convict leasing is a prison labor system that targeted recently freed Black Southerners during the Reconstruction period following the Civil War. Like slavery, the system of convict leasing required the suppression of empathy, for the conditions in which these individuals worked were horrific. In 1884, a man named Theophile Chevalier was sentenced to five years in the Louisiana State Penitentiary for stealing five dollars. From Baton Rouge he was taken to a swampy railroad camp in the middle of winter, and when the hard work left his shoes in tatters, he was not given any replacements and continued to work barefoot and underdressed. When he finally collapsed from cold, he had to wait days for a doctor to arrive, and as he was waiting one of his feet “dropped off” while the other hung by a tendon; the doctor ultimately had to saw it off using a penknife. Convict leasing literally worked off the feet of Theophile Chevalier, but the Louisiana legislature refused to hear his testimony because in their eyes, the color of skin rendered him inherently untrustworthy.
There are massive iron bowls scattered throughout the grounds. These were used to process and make sugar and molasses from sugar cane. The enslaved would often be horrifically injured during the production process. The horrors of these injuries were so intense that, to those that were sold as property to owners within plantations such as Whitney to work in that production line, it was considered a death sentence.
Other points of mention include the various memorials. One such memorial was a very striking representation of the 1811 Slave Revolt where some 500 enslaved people throughout Louisiana rose up and fought back. Despite their strength in numbers and it being the largest insurgency in U.S. history, their efforts resulted in the death of only two white men. What followed was a massacre of dozens of enslaved men and women. Executed and beheaded, with their heads displayed on poles for other enslaved people to see. This was to serve as a warning and to intimidate the enslaved. The Whitney Museum commissioned Woodrow Nash to create 63 ceramic heads depicting the revolutionaries, which were then placed on steel rods along the pond within the Whitney grounds to represent the revolt and pay homage to its victims.
Other memorials included striking statues that gave you pause to appreciate your own freedom. The Field of Angels, which was in honour of the 2,200 enslaved children, whose mothers suffered tremendously. One such mother lost 5 of her babies by the time shE reached age 23; 3 of her children dying within one month. The history is unimaginable.
The Wall of Honour specifically focuses on the 350 enslaved people held at Whitney Plantation from 1752 – 1865. These names were collated from inventories, sale records, and manumission documents. Both their West and Central African names can be seen as well as the European names given to them at the time of their enslavement. What was particularly special was reading their true testimonies or stories told from their time at Whitney. Some of these stories show clearly that they were still enslaved at the time or sharing, while some are from those who survived their enslavement and were eventually freed.
It was a lot to take in and it’s very hard to explain the impacts and profound experience without this being a full-scale novel on black American history with a necessary and important deep dive on the enslaved. I feel every victim from that time should have a platform for their story to be told. But as a white female, who is in a position of privilege, mine is not the voice to be heard on such topics. The above merely showcases my personal experience from visiting the plantations and is not a representation of any individual impacted by these atrocities. I strongly encourage you to seek out resources that will educate you on the extremely dark history that we are all attached to. We all have a responsibility to ensure what has been will never be again, and the best way we can do this is through education, advocacy, and conversation. If we find ourselves in each other’s company, ask me more about my experience at the plantations; I would be happy to share.
THE SWAMPLANDS
Delving into the rich history of Black America, soaking in the lively culture of central New Orleans, and immersing myself in the soulful music scene (read on for my experience with this) are all compelling reasons to explore the city, but a hidden gem of Louisiana almost slipped through my fingers! The swamplands are something you must see if visiting this part of the world.
Opting for a standard tour, I found myself entranced by the distinctive landscape. Encounters with crocodiles, diverse bird species, mischievous raccoons, and other swamp dwellers were fascinating, yet it was the towering, slender trees adorned with Spanish moss (known as Tillandsia Usneoides) that truly stole the spotlight. Unlike any scenery I'd encountered before, these trees provided a magical and ethereal experience as we meandered through enclosed water pathways beneath the tree-lined canopy.
Cruising through the swamps for an hour, or so, we reached a surreal stretch where the water was completely blanketed in duckweed, creating a whimsical illusion of a solid grassy ground. As we navigated our way through the various pathways, I noticed that the duckweed would separate with ease as the boat pushed through, and then gently – gracefully – closed itself together behind the boat; leaving no trace of our presence.
The photos from this tour, including a captivating shot of an egret piercing its beak through its prey (I’m immensely proud of that one), were already among my trip's favourites. It's an experience I wholeheartedly recommend and gives you a true flavour of all that Louisiana has to offer.
THE PEOPLE
I encountered some lovely people during my time in New Orleans, as well as some truly remarkable individuals. One standout was Alicia, a phenomenal singer and busker who adopts the professional name "Bluuwise" in homage to her mesmerizing crystal blue eyes, and what I suspect is a subtle nod to the iconic "Old Blue Eyes," Frank Sinatra. Alicia is undisputedly talented, but she also radiated a gentle and kind energy that drew me back daily for her impromptu performances. If you're looking to experience her talent, you'll frequently find her captivating audiences in the heart of the French Quarter, specifically on the corner of St. Peter and Royal Streets.
Sometimes weird things happen in New Orleans too. One night I came across a group of people having some drinks outside a bar. Not strange or misplaced, but couple that with a dog running around in circles off lead, next to a bicycle with a basket that housed a rabbit and a possum, with a half-naked man exclaiming the love he has for his burrito in hand while running down the street… it can get a little weird to say the least.
Take this strange encounter I had with a guy named “Olisae.” He as on a mission, seeking someone to help film a music video for him and his mates. He approached me for help – me, a one-woman camera crew to shoot him and his mate in their car. Now, I'm all for spontaneity, but "stranger danger" kicked in. I triple checked I wouldn’t be required to get in the car - because, well, logic – and once it was established, I'd be a behind-the-scenes Spielberg, I got creative with the camera angles. Using the side mirror to place them in context and throwing in some funky perspectives – I nailed it. Job done.
Olisae, or "O" as he insisted, thanked me profusely and then smoothly transitioned to his pickup attempt. Ladies, let us all roll our eyes together, shall we?!
As you've probably gathered from my what I’ve expressed in the prior pages, I was in a very vulnerable state. O, with his charm cranked to eleven, started showering me with compliments. Now, try to visualize this: a very tall, handsome African American man telling a very short, very white, Australian woman, still carrying her COVID weight, sweating, and rocking frizzy hair from the NOLA heat and humidity, that she was one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen.
Confused? So was I.
Amidst my bewilderment, his compliments and an offer for a date somehow wore me down. In my vulnerable state, I spilled the beans—not the classic "I have a boyfriend" line, but the unfiltered truth. I explained that I was at the beginning of an incredibly challenging separation and not at all interested in dating, and just here to enjoy my travels. He persisted, and eventually, it just seemed easier to give him my number. A hug and a thank you from the infamous “O” and off I went, expecting it to be the end of the story.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't. Cue an abundance of messages. From waking up to “Good morning, beautiful” to asking how I slept, what my plans for the day were, did we have a date later? And on and on they went. It was like a rom com gone wrong. I tried to keep it cool, and sent a nice message, effectively saying “thanks… but no thanks” and all the best. I thought it would end there, but his messages were more persistent than a mosquito in the Bayou!
This is not a dramatic retelling of my abduction by any means. The long and the short of it is I had to hit the "block" button, and would you believe it, he tried again with a second number. It was at that point my people pleasing mentality was thrown out the window. Looking back, what I considered at the time as rude and aggressive, was very tame and pretty on par for an Aussie chick who knows how to hold her own. But hey, sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do, and I haven’t heard from him since.
And so, concludes the tale of O/Olisae; the persistent charmer of New Orleans. The lesson? Next time, I'll pack my camera, my wits, AND a neon sign that says, "I'm not interested.". But also, it’s ok to say “no”. And that should be more than enough for a man approaching a woman who is on her own.
To balance out that peculiar encounter, I also crossed paths with the most beautiful family while capturing photos of St. Andrew’s Cathedral during sunset. It was a mother and her two daughters, and although their names have slipped my mind, the joy of our conversation lingers and what can only be described as a meet cute. I saw the mother struggling to get photos together, so stepping in yet again to offer help with film/photography of some kind, I offered to capture some shots of them together. This sparked a delightful conversation that stretched over 30 minutes as we marvelled at the setting sun.
The youngest of the girls was so full of energy and vibrancy and took a strong liking to me - pleading with her Mum to let me visit in Texas and pleading with me to come visit them! It was really pretty darn cute. I would have gladly exchanged details if the mother had been open to it, however she seemed hesitant. Consider a mum with two young girls, freely giving out her personal information to me, someone who is harmless, but a stranger, nonetheless. Respecting that, I didn't want to push, as I didn't know enough about their story.
This little encounter brought the biggest smile to my heart and completed my day beautifully. It served as a genuine reminder of the kindness that exists in the world—often from complete strangers. This marked the first time during my travels when I felt assured, I was on the right path, and it emphasized the importance of remaining open. In life you are going to encounter all kinds of people. Some who resonate and some who don’t. You might meet individuals like "O," harmless yet lacking an understanding of boundaries and an understanding for the safety women must have at all times.
There may be moments you wish you hadn't experienced, or people you never crossed paths with and those that will make you question your self-worth. But then there are special little glimmers, and people, who feel like your kindred spirits. The ones you just know are right for you that remind you of who you are, what you’re worth and the pure excitement you can provide to a little girl’s day with her big sister and Mother, all from a little photo at sunset.
THE MUSIC
Without a doubt, NOLA truly is a symphony of music. The city's rich history of jazz and music isn't just something you feel; it's something that envelops you at every turn. Even a leisurely stroll down its streets immerses you in a vibrant tapestry of street performers, each contributing to the city's melodic heartbeat. Despite the brevity of my trip and the emotional turmoil that often confined me to my hotel, I managed to soak in the essence of two exceptional music venues.
The first jewel, a hidden treasure recommended by my Mum, was Kermit’s Treme Mother in Law Lounge – a little speakeasy style bar nestled within Treme. Treme is celebrated for its jazz clubs, soulful eateries, and cultural hubs honouring African American and Creole heritage. Arriving a bit early to the start of first gig, I cooled myself down with some much-needed water. The day had been an expansive adventure – from ethereal swamp lands to the opulent garden district, through the serene Louis Armstrong Park and it wasn’t over yet! But my legs were in need of a rest, so this served as the perfect pause in the late afternoon! The sheer magnitude of the day made my experience at Kermit's even more poignant as I relished the opportunity for some people-watching. Heartwarming scenes of old friends joyfully reuniting, families coming together in laughter and fellow solo travellers exploring the city's musical charms, just like myself. It was a testament to the universal language of music and the unifying spirit that defines the soul of New Orleans.
It was well and truly worth it as I was sat right next to Kermit Ruffins himself, a spectacular jazz trumpeter, singer, and composer. The surreal experience unfolded in the intimate setup of the bar, almost making me feel like I was intruding— that was until all the regulars flowed in, and the true sense of community came to life. People danced with no care, joined in the singing, and surprise guests accompanied the just-as-brilliant pianist leading the charge for the evening. I had the privilege of meeting Kermit’s grandbaby and extended family members, all while he played on. Throughout the night, a spirited vibe took hold, and amid the music, laughter, and carefree dancing, you'd often hear the cheeky refrain 'That’s Jaaaazzzz' playfully tossed around. The crowd, me included, embraced it with a wink and a laugh – a perfect description of the entire atmosphere of the evening.
Finishing up my final night in NOLA I managed to scrape into to see the sheer brilliance that is Preservation Hall. It quickly became apparent that it is the epitome of what I understood New Orleans to be, and I felt transported to another time. No video recording or photography was allowed, so in keeping with this, I’ll keep my experience discreet as it’s really something special to experience without influence. However, maybe my wrap up video has a little music captured via audio recording… it doesn’t give too much away for the experience itself, as their level of skill means you aren’t able to tell it apart from a studio recording. Preservation Hall - absolutely something not to be missed when visiting NOLA for yourself – and the perfect ending to my time with this beautiful city.
THE CONCLUSION
New Orleans has clearly emerged as a profound source of solace, contributing significantly to my ongoing journey of healing. To encapsulate this chapter, I’ll leave you with some reflections that could prompt your own introspection.
Isn’t it weird to consider how so many different versions of you exist in other people’s minds? Some may see you as a reserved person who rarely speaks. While others might see you as someone who never stops talking. Some may view you as kind or caring, while others interpret you as cold and distant. Some may even see you as timid.
As I share my vulnerabilities, some may find inspiration, while others might label me an attention seeker. Some may feel that it’s more important for me to use this platform I have created to deep dive on striking, historical narratives. While some connect more to direct retellings of the experience of self as it helps them with their own struggles and hardships. Some seek healing. Some seek education. Some simply enjoy a good read. The nuances of perception are endless.
The truth is, the image others hold of us is a subjective illusion, shaped by their experiences, beliefs, and values. Conditioning from their environmental influences as well as their learned fear, their greed, and other ego traits which is always specific to each individual.
Understanding this, the question becomes, does their perception of you really matter? Does it define our true worth? This relates to both positive and negative perceptions, because at the end of the day all that matters is what you think of yourself and what you know of yourself. To move through each day as best you can and end it by being proud of the human you are.
I’m incredibly proud of myself and how I move through this life. I think I’m an awesome human with so much to give to so many and I know there are a lot of people who hold me very dear.
Of course, in saying that I do know that what I have to offer isn’t for everyone, and that’s ok - I’m not for everyone. That’s not a slight on myself either.
I’ll say it again… I’m not for everyone.
It’s an acknowledgment that what I have to offer is precious and valuable and I won’t cheapen it by giving myself to everyone. But I will continue to be vulnerable and share some of my story.
It is an honour to know me, to really know me, and if you’ve read this far… now you know a tiny bit more.
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