Home - Olivia Evans

New Orleans.

Home to the bayou, home to culture,

home to the creole cajun food found nowhere else.

New Orleans.

Home to the history and heritage of the south, home to the shotgun houses and beat up cars, home to the old plantations atop the red clay ground.

New Orleans.

Home to the Queen of Gemini and her crew dressed to the nines parading down the street in jubilee for Mardi Gras, home to the friendly faces and smiles galore,

home to the masks of happiness.

New Orleans.

Head downriver towards the mouth of the Mississippi and you’ll find their real story.

New Orleans.

Home to the ninth ward, home to the forgotten with their french ideals, American ways and black lives,

home to voodoo and the origins of soul and jazz music crying out for help.

New Orleans.

Home to the oppression, the oppressed and hate of the south, home to the poor and lost,

home to the city built upon the backs of slaves and bodies of hurricane victims.

New Orleans.

Head upriver towards the gateway of the south, comfortably situated on the Ohio and you’ll find my real story.

New Orleans.

Home to me.

Written from “The Big Nine”

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