Introducing my new newsletter about what’s going on this week in New Orleans
For the past few months, I’ve been working at museums in New Orleans. This was a natural progression from my fundraising experience. I’d worked in healthcare and education. I wanted to work at a prominent museum to round out my fundraising experience.
But it turns out that I don’t want to be a full-time fundraiser anymore. I want to work with tourists, travelers, and visitors to New Orleans telling important stories. So now I have a docent-esque role at the New Orleans Storyville Museum as well as a tour guide role at the National World War II Museum, two of the best museums in the city, in my opinion.
Where is the bathroom?
I quickly learned how to clearly and succinctly explain where the bathroom is. I also quickly learned about close by attractions, restaurants, and bars to recommend, as well as which are closed on which day.
But many things change regularly, so I started trying to keep up with which cruises were in the port, which conventions were peppering the city, and which concerts might draw interesting visitors. Now, I want to share that info with you.
News Orleans
News Orleans is a new newsletter condensing the weekly goings-on into one sleek email for the savvy New Orleans traveler, tourist, visitor, or hospitality worker. Featuring live music events, concerts and theater, conventions, cruises, museum openings, restaurant news, and more — subscribe to find the things you might have missed!1
Preview of this week’s edition September 21-27
Alabama Shakes at the Saenger September 23
Vampire Weekend at the Saenger September 24
Big Charity screening at the New Orleans Jazz Museum at the Old US Mint September 24
ACL American Heritage Arriving September 27
Right now, I’m focusing on the things that impact tourism the most in the city. If you’d like to see your event featured, send me a message.
I am aiming for weekly, but may start out monthly or biweekly in the beginning. Just think of when you can say, “I was subscribed to News Orleans when…” ↩︎
A few years ago, my aunt did a DNA test. Her results connected her to all her known family, but then also to some new first cousins. She was skeptical. “We know all of our first cousins.”
But finding secret families through DNA results is a cliche at this point, and it turns out my family is not immune. In the 1950s, for the first time ever, women outnumbered men. Probably a result of so many young men dying in World War II, the prosperity of the 1950s created another phenomenon. Men sometimes decided to take advantage of the situation and have a whole second family. It’s hard to find statistics on exactly how common parallel families were, but every time I mention that my uncle had a secret second family, I’m met with understanding and usually a tale of a similar secret second family in their line.
As soon as we saw the alleged cousins, their features so familiar and so similar to ours, it was clear we had new cousins to meet.
The Ancestors
My Polish family immigrated to New York in 1892. Before New York, they spent some time in Brazil. My great great grandmother was pregnant when they made the journey from Brazil to New York. She had my Aunt Cecilia in October of 1892, but she had my Uncle John and Uncle Walter before making it to New York. I was able to piece together these details through Uncle Walter’s immigration papers. He was the only one who pursued citizenship.
My great grandfather in his military uniform from World War I. According to the New York State Archives, he served from December 1917, when he was 21 years old, to December 1918. He did not serve overseas. WWI draft was initially men ages 21-30. It was expanded to 18-45 in September 1918.
My great grandfather was born in New York in 1896. He had two more siblings after him, Frank and Louise. They grew up in Brooklyn. My great grandfather was exactly the right age to serve in World War I, and he did. One of the only photos we have of him as a young man is in his uniform. I wonder what the Polish family of the first generation American thought of his service in that war even though he only served in the United States. When my family fled Europe, Poland didn’t exist. Documentation lists them as “Polish-speaking Russians” because their part of Poland had been annexed to Russia. I don’t know exactly where in Poland my family lived, but this helps narrow down the region.
My grandfather was born in 1927, and he grew up in the same house in Brooklyn as his father did on Louisiana Avenue. Our Polish name was spelled differently in every census from their arrival until 1940, so that Brooklyn address is how I found my family each year.
My grandfather was a little too young to serve in World War II, but his baby brother Johnny, the link to the new cousins, lied about his age, documented on his draft card. He made himself two years older, which was the same age as my grandfather…and still too young.
Uncle Johnny
I heard stories about Uncle Johnny my whole life. Uncle Johnny was a bit of a troubled soul, from my grandfather’s perspective. He wasn’t motivated in the same way, and I don’t know if we had the vocabulary or societal knowledge about mental health to provide the right support. I’m not sure we have that even now.
The story I remember most vividly was at a funeral. After the ritual portion of the funeral, Uncle Johnny decided to go across the street to a bar to get a drink. They watched him walk away and never saw him again. Uncle Johnny walked off the face of the Earth. It happened before I was born, so I never met Uncle Johnny or knew anything but these stories that were passed down.
But I grew up knowing my dad’s cousin Glen, Uncle Johnny’s son. Cousin Glen is a character who is very fun to be around. He’s gentle and calm now, but I understand that is different than his youth. We always looked forward to any random visit from Cousin Glen, and we’re still just as thrilled when we get to see him today. Like my dad, who moved as far from New York as he could be comfortable, Cousin Glen also moved far away. It took several more states before he got comfortable, and he’s a West Coast resident now.
As recently as 2017, when we decided to get together in Key West (before we knew about the new cousins), Glen was still asking where his father could be.
Potential Relationship: First Cousin
In 2020, my aunt bought DNA tests for Christmas. My grandmother did one and so did she. My grandfather died when I was seven years old, but my aunt’s test would reveal his family. When first cousin matches came up, she thought it was a mistake because she makes it a point to keep up with all of her cousins, even though they are scattered across the country now.
But Cousin Rose, Glen’s half-sister, was looking for us — the family she didn’t know yet.
The Reunion, Florida, 2023
The new cousins live in Florida, so as soon as it was safe enough during the Pandemic, we planned a reunion. The new cousins weren’t the only cousins who live in Florida now, so we also reunited with some of my second cousins on that trip. We drove around the Gulf anticipating our new cousins. Some nerves, but comfort in knowing we’d all be together, excitement at seeing those we hadn’t for awhile, relief at the ending quarantine. Emotions mixing like static, dulling and distracting.
When Rose and Pauline showed up, looking so much like our cousins, the static started clearing. We learned middle names we did not know. They learned about step-parents who seemed like strangers on their Ancestry family trees. We each had pieces to the puzzle needed to see more of the picture.
The campground where we met in Florida was hosting an eagle in a prominent nest with her babies. She embodies the scrappy American spirit of the immigrants seeking better opportunities on stolen land…without which my family doesn’t exist.
Eagle with its nest, Auburndale, Florida, March 2023
After we marveled at our shared physical features, they fell right in with our family like it had always been. And I guess it always had been somewhere even when we didn’t know it yet.
Let’s Do it Again, Long Island, 2025
This summer, we decided to do another reunion, this time on Long Island. My dad grew up on Long Island and two of my aunts, my grandmother, and a slew of my first cousins still live there. One of my aunts generously hosted us at her house where we had planned activities for the whole weekend, including line dancing, an ice cream truck, crafts with my mom (a famous Faceobok crafter), a movie night, and fireworks. We spent time on Long Island during summers when I was growing up, so seeing the lightning bugs and needing a jacket in the evenings (while my family complained about the heat) were very nostalgic for me.
Several of my cousins and my sister decided that we should be ancestors one day too. I’m diligently filing all the family secrets so that I can be the aunt with the stories and backstories everyone needs to know.
My cousin’s baby (my first cousin once removed) with my niece. They turned nine and 10 months old.
One of my favorite activities was a trip to visit the Suffolk County Vanderbilt Mansion, Museum, and Planetarium with a private tour from my step-uncle who is on the board of the museum. This was the summer home of William K. Vanderbilt, the great-grandson of Cornelius the railroad magnate. Cornelius was known for connecting railroads for one continuous journey, a far more convenient way to travel than constantly changing trains and buying tickets in each small town. William spent his days traveling the seas trying to find new species, and many of the specimens he brought back are now on display in the museum.
The mansion, built right on the Northport Bay so that Vanderbilt could park his yacht in the front yard, was nicknamed The Eagle’s Nest. William apparently struggled with his purpose as the descendant of someone with such a prolific biography. None of the species he found were new. His was the third generation of wealth, the generation who tends to lose the wealth.
The Eagle’s Nest now has two giant eagle statues at the entryway from Grand Central Station in New York City, the city that called my ancestors home.
My step-uncle Steve leading us to The Eagle’s Nest on a private tour. Kristin (Michael’s partner), my mom, my cousin Michael, and Sue (Cousin Glen’s wife).
The Luck of Family
There are a few lessons that I’ve learned from the saga of our new family. First, family is the luck of the draw, and we don’t all get a good hand. It seems like I’m among the most lucky, though. Some of us have famous ancestors who created things we still use. Some of us have infamous ancestors whose mistakes we all learn from. Some of us just have ordinary people who traveled three continents to ensure that their descendants could prosper, and it’s up to us to remember them and tell their stories.
A lesson we all have to learn over and over is that this time could be the last. One of my second cousins who we saw on that 2023 trip with the eagle’s nest has passed on. Another story to preserve and cherish. Another ancestor to honor. As we’re reminded every Mardi Gras, it is later than you think. Ash Wednesday gives us another version: remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.
Finally, expanding family, whether by blood or choice, results in more. More people to know, more stories to share, more memories and hugs, more opportunities to love, more souls to eventually grieve.
I often wonder what the ancestors would think of us and how we tell their stories. I wish I had more to remember, and I would love for them to correct my mistakes and misunderstandings. But I have no doubt they would recognize the things they passed down — our dimpled chins, hooded eyes, and insistence on remembering.
Five days after the Bourbon Street Attack, I managed to make my way to the French Quarter. I had a mission to get some footage for a video I’m working on about Storyville. As I crossed Bourbon Street, the brass band nearby started playing “I’ll Fly Away.” Everyone’s mask melted a little. Everyone, just barely holding it together, a little closer to the breaking point. I saw and gave less bright smiles.
In a January 6 article for the New Yorker, Paige Williams got to follow Frank Perez around for the day. Frank is my tour guiding mentor and a true culture bearer for the city. She captured this interaction:
A drunken man wearing Mardi Gras beads greeted him with, “What’s up, family?” Perez didn’t know him. The guy said, “Let me tell you something. This motherfuckin’ scene that we went through? You don’t have to be Black, white, whatever. Love us. Am I correct?”
“You’re absolutely right,” Perez told him.
“I’m American, homie.”
American. Not some strange foreigner with different culture and different values, but American. So many people keep questioning, why New Orleans? We’re just down here minding our business eating beignets and making a roux, swirling a Sazerac waiting for crawfish season. We’ve got no tall buildings in your way and no obnoxious billionaires spoiling the vibe. Why would anyone want to bother lil ole us?
Eight days after the attack, I went to a talk in the French Quarter entitled, “The Royal Street Corridor: America’s Most Literary Neighborhood?” Question mark necessary as so many will scoff. Dr. TR Johnson, a professor at Tulane, thoroughly and beautifully explained that the 13 blocks of Royal Street in the French Quarter have been home to the people who produced the greatest American literature, a claim true of no other 13 blocks in the country.
Many of them were not from New Orleans, but came here, let the city change them, and then changed the rest of the world with their writing. The big ones — Walt Whitman, William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Kate Chopin — did their most important work while in New Orleans or after their experience in the city, specifically the French Quarter.
In the LGBTQIA+ History of New Orleans class I took with Frank, he shared the revelation that the beginning of Leaves of Grass can be found in the notes Walt wrote as he left the city in 1848. Dr. Johnson confirmed this in his lecture. He also explained that Faulkner, nearly a century later, was an ordinary Victorian poet until he came to New Orleans and started transforming into a Nobel Laureate. Tennessee Williams himself said that he wrote half of his best work in New Orleans. The Awakening by Kate Chopin is the fifth most assigned book by a woman in college literature classes.
The most startling nugget he shared though was that Abraham Lincoln, the man who would sign the Emancipation Proclamation, spent time in New Orleans. He came down the Mississippi on a flatboat, like so many other young men, in 1828 and 1831. The site of open slave markets disgusted him and changed him. A truth that would eventually change America. The harbinger.
Beloved Bourbon
Unfortunately, insomnia meant that I knew about the attack almost instantly. I saw a post on social media from a dancer on Bourbon Street explaining their experience. It didn’t sink in.
My partner woke up a few hours later, “Someone drove a truck through Bourbon Street!”
“I saw,” I replied, still not quite grasping that it was a terrorist attack. I pulled up the live local news on YouTube, and spent the next 15 hours trying to parse the information they fed me. When they started detonating IEDs in the French Quarter, I started to understand. I drank whiskey from a dusty bottle on my bar. Bourbon.
Many people will claim that locals do not go to Bourbon Street, but half the victims were locals celebrating a renewing year. I know how beloved Bourbon Street is, even to my own family. My parents met at Pat O’Brien’s, a tale as old as New Orleans itself. My father is one of those people who came here and never managed to leave. For the record, so was my grandfather. And my great-grandfather.
Evolution
Bourbon Street has evolved. My mom remembers a time when you dressed up to go to Bourbon Street. It was an elegant affair where husbands brought their wives to dinners and shows. Even before my mom, the French Opera House, seat of New Orleans society of the turn of the 20th century, was situated right in the middle of Bourbon until 1919. The area slipped into a slum around this time until the 1920s and 30s saw a revival of art and literature in the French Quarter. In the 1940s, admidst the literati revival scene, the first gay bar in the United States opened on Bourbon Street, Lafitte’s in Exile.
In the 1960s, Jim Garrison became district attorney and made a name for himself in several ways. One of his imprints was his crack down on crime on Bourbon Street. One version of this tale appears in The Last Madam by Christine Wiltz. Another in Cityscapes of New Orleans by Richard Campanella. Seems that Garrison’s efforts to drive out crime drove out the underground businesses that sustained the classy drinking establishments people dressed up to go to. Once sex work and gambling were run out, the dollars they drew didn’t come. Turns out those were the true source of income for the classy bars, and soon dives and strip joints replaced them. My mom remembers when the swinging legs at Big Daddy’s were an actual woman. Drinking on the street instead of going into the sticky floored bars became the norm.
During my childhood in the 1990s, Bourbon Street was sleazy, but still a tourist site. Every time family visited, we walked down Bourbon Street. As an adult, we still make a pilgrimage to Pat O’s for a drink and to thank the booze gods for my parents’ marriage. One of the first times I stayed in a hotel in the French Quarter was when I was about 17 years old. I came with a friend to a singing competition, and we stayed at the Astor Crowne Plaza on the corner of Bourbon and Canal.
One night during college, we decided way too late to drive to New Orleans to go to Bourbon Street. Once we arrived, one of my friends realized they didn’t have their ID. We were barely even 21, so there was no hope of getting in any bars. We drove back to Baton Rouge while the sun rose. I moved to New Orleans in 2008, and the transformation to adult Disney land had begun. They took the swinging legs down that year, but you could still find bars on Bourbon playing porn on every tv screen.
I have impasto smears of memories of Bourbon Street the night the Saints won the Super Bowl in 2010. My partner was there that night. He was new in my life and was the catalyst for our venture to Bourbon Street. “We have to go to the Quarter!” Everyone had the same idea. More people than any Mardi Gras I’ve experienced, a wall bricked with smiling faces and loud WHO DATs. The gravitational pull of the whole world latched onto Bourbon Street. So many bad things could have happened that night. But everyone was so deeply joyous that only someone intent on terrorizing…
America, Mirrored
I’ve taken a lot of friends to their first taste of Bourbon Street. I try to remember the wonder they experience as their senses are assaulted and beckoned simultaneously. Dr. Johnson ended his lecture about Royal Street with a thought about how New Orleans is the mirror the rest of the country uses to see who they are, an idea explored in A Hall of Mirrors by Robert Stone, an idea I’m still trying to understand. Another guest chimed in saying that while other places have become more homogenized in the age of the internet, New Orleans has maintained a unique identity that feels more like home even if you’re from a thousand miles away. Kind of how we can’t understand terror or joy until we’ve experienced the opposite.
At points in history, New Orleans was the biggest city in the South, the largest slave market in the country, the largest community of free people of color before the Civil War. New Orleans is the home of Folgers coffee and Domino sugar along with jazz and gumbo. We get more rain than Seattle, send a lot of crab up to Maryland, and I’ve certainly heard far more stories about lovers meeting in New Orleans than Virginia. But New Orleans isn’t really known for any of these superlatives like other places.
Thirteen days after the attack, I started a part time job in the French Quarter. I have never seen the French Quarter from one perspective. The French Quarter has always been frenetic, always in motion, hyperactive and slow simultaneously, no where to stop and no where to pee. As I approached the building contemplating this, the familiar echo of someone yelling at their demons filled the narrow street and a flicker of fear ran through me, the closest to terror I felt the whole day. I’ll be reading A Hall of Mirrors between shifts and reflecting on the remnants of the greats as I sink deeper into the swamp, with joy.
