New Orleans pulled me west from my momentum east. I wanted to stroll down Bourbon Street, enjoy some jazz and gawk at the famous French Quarter. I’d seen, read, heard, and imagined too much about Mardi Gras to pass up this opportunity to visit the apex of American debauchery. After catching an early morning ride to the north side of town, I decided taking a city bus offered the easiest path to Bourbon Street.
Morning brought rush hour. An invasion of people started showing up at the bus stop. Every person trekking in was black, and most were women. My bushy blond hair and blue backpack stood out—just a skosh. Standing in a place so foreign to my upbringing spurred a feeling of accomplishment. I envisioned a headline in the UW school newspaper, “Northern White Boy Stands at Bus Stop With Southern Black Women, and Congratulates Self.”