I’VE WRITTEN some here about my summer trips to Louisiana and just how and why New Orleans became part of my yearly ritual as a child.
The old luggage tag from my mother’s old train case.
It wasn’t, however, until I was fully grown that I understood just how significantly New Orleans had marked me — both inside and out. Nor did I realize how much it mattered within my being.
Consequently, in the last few years, after a very long time away, I have been trying to make up for lost time. An editor and friend of mine had a conversation a couple of years ago that finally (just a few weeks ago) worked its way into an essay.
The piece went live this week on Zòcalo Public Square. You can read the piece here.
One of the first streets my early forebears lived on in New Orleans
native to the place 