Kiran Elfenbein

In my writing, I tend to veer on the side of indulgent nostalgia. I usually find myself leaning into romanticism in my attempts at expressing a deep longing for home, a simultaneous mistrust of it and how those feelings have shaped parts of my existence at Bowdoin. Often, I wonder how my own recollections of the South, and of her effects on me, map onto those of you who may be reading this, whether you share my exact experiences or not.

Since leaving, I have begun to search for pieces of the land where I grew up in most everything I do. This I believe to be a universal experience. The grass is always greener—when you leave home, you want it back, or, at least, you want parts of it back. The sound of your childhood best friend’s laughter, the smell of the best dish your mother makes that you can’t find anywhere else, the honeyed twang of your grandfather’s accent. I think that in my own life, it’s born of some desire to hold on to a part of myself, or a part of my family, or home, that I have started to feel more and more disconnected from where I stand now, hundreds of miles away.

It’s only natural then that in combating this neverending nostalgia, this unyielding yearning, I search for pieces of home in my hobbies too. Recently, I have been drawn to modern interpretations of the Southern Gothic. The Southern Gothic is as it sounds: an artistic genre marked by macabre, Gothic elements, set usually against a decaying Southern backdrop. It transforms what is ordinary and typical into uncanny reflections of the South’s lingering ghosts.

If you are interested, I must recommend AMC’s “Interview with the Vampire.” The series, which is initially set in Louisiana, explores the intersectionality of queerness and race, among other things. I consumed it voraciously. Next, I tried out Anne Rice’s novels, on which the aforementioned television series is based. While not as good as their counterpart and certainly lacking in several regards, I was nevertheless enthralled by Rice’s writing. Her descriptions of New Orleans, the city where half of my family is from and that I grew up visiting, as fragile, decadent and haunted, drew me in.

The front cover of my copy of “The Vampire Lestat” is a picture of a street that I have walked countless times, near Bourbon Street. Holding it feels like holding a memory. Even the fact that I cannot love the novels in their entirety, but only for certain pieces of them, is a strangely pleasant reminder of the cognitive dissonance I tend to employ when thinking about home.

Over winter break, during my first few weeks back in America, I finally watched Ryan Coogler’s film “Sinners.” If you have somehow avoided watching it, you should change that. I won’t spoil the film, but it also falls within the Southern Gothic genre, and like “Interview with the Vampire,” blends themes of racial injustice ingrained in the South with supernatural elements. Its setting is Clarksdale, Miss., which is a five-hour drive from my hometown, and a place I am admittedly much less familiar with than New Orleans. “Sinners” and “Interview with the Vampire” are similar in that they both use gothic motifs to explore themes of race and power, particularly using vampirism as a complicated method of attempting to escape societal oppression. Both are also set against a distinctly Southern backdrop and embody within them a distinctly Southern feeling.

The film and television series both paint a picture of the South that I felt resonated with me deeply. The South is a place of exploitation, of oppression and of profound contradiction. It is also a place of resilience and joy. It’s a place that you leave, a place where you return and a place that you carry with you in your heart always. All of this to say, I have recently found a love for the Southern Gothic. “Sinners” and “Interview with the Vampire” tell stories that need to be told in ways that are exciting and experimental, and especially to anyone hailing from the South, important to hold on to.

I think that it is always a pleasure to find a piece of media that represents your home, to be able to compare portrayed experiences with lived ones, to show it to your friends and say, “I’ve been there.” I think that it can feel like holding on to a piece of something left behind. If you take anything away from this installment of my column, I hope it is an inspiration to try out the media I’ve just waxed poetic on and to give flowers where flowers are (absolutely) due.

Annie Allen is a member of the Class of 2027.