The roads of the Mississippi River snaked before us, a serpentine path that led to the Louisiana Leper Home in Carville. My father, my mother, my husband, and I, along with our two little girls, embarked on a journey 53 years in the making – a homecoming for my father, a pilgrimage for me. The Gillis W. Long Hansen’s Disease Center, once a quarantine site that held my family's dark past, now hosted us as we delved into its archives.
As a writer working on her novel, "King of the Armadillos," inspired by my father's experience with Hansen's disease – once known as leprosy – I had been searching for a deeper understanding of his time at Carville. The journey was bittersweet; my father's visit to the institution was both a chance to rediscover him and confront the past.
Upon arriving, the imposing iron gates seemed to mark a boundary between two worlds. The once-abandoned sugar plantation grounds now boasted neatly manicured lawns and ornate gardens – an eerie juxtaposition with the history of patient suffering that lingered beneath the surface. My husband's hesitation as we stepped through the entrance mirrored my own sense of unease.
The imposing 1930s federal building loomed before us, its walls adorned with a faded logo of the National Guard. As I caught sight of my father gazing down at my two-year-old daughter guiding her up the concrete steps, I felt an overwhelming urge to ask if it was the same place he had once called home. His response – that it didn't smell like a hospital anymore – left me with more questions than answers.
Years later, as I pored over his medical records, fragments of my father's personality began to emerge. He remained stubborn and resilient despite facing excruciating pain due to Hansen's disease. The notes peppered throughout the files revealed a complex individual who could be both cooperative and recalcitrant depending on his mood.
My interest in Carville wasn't just about uncovering my father's past but also delving into its role as an institution that shaped patient culture during a period of social upheaval. Stanley Stein, a former pharmacist from Texas, played a pivotal role in transforming the administration's approach to Hansen's disease patients by promoting education and self-empowerment through The STAR magazine.
When we strolled through the grounds, my father pointed out the dorm room that had been his home for nine years. As he showed me the ballroom where they'd held dances – including one Mardi Gras celebration that featured floats and a barbershop quartet performance by my father's group – the memories seemed almost otherworldly. I couldn't help but be reminded of how far we've come since those days.
It was an evening stroll through the dimly lit recreation center that ultimately led me to understanding why Carville would forever hold a place in our family's history. When my father returned, it wasn't with the isolation and loneliness he had endured years before – instead, he brought us as his proof of life. In this moment, I realized that without Carville, my dad wouldn't be the person he is today, and neither would I.
Looking back on our visit to the Louisiana Leper Home in Carville, it's clear that some wounds can never truly heal but that with courage, resilience, and love, we find ways to navigate them.
As a writer working on her novel, "King of the Armadillos," inspired by my father's experience with Hansen's disease – once known as leprosy – I had been searching for a deeper understanding of his time at Carville. The journey was bittersweet; my father's visit to the institution was both a chance to rediscover him and confront the past.
Upon arriving, the imposing iron gates seemed to mark a boundary between two worlds. The once-abandoned sugar plantation grounds now boasted neatly manicured lawns and ornate gardens – an eerie juxtaposition with the history of patient suffering that lingered beneath the surface. My husband's hesitation as we stepped through the entrance mirrored my own sense of unease.
The imposing 1930s federal building loomed before us, its walls adorned with a faded logo of the National Guard. As I caught sight of my father gazing down at my two-year-old daughter guiding her up the concrete steps, I felt an overwhelming urge to ask if it was the same place he had once called home. His response – that it didn't smell like a hospital anymore – left me with more questions than answers.
Years later, as I pored over his medical records, fragments of my father's personality began to emerge. He remained stubborn and resilient despite facing excruciating pain due to Hansen's disease. The notes peppered throughout the files revealed a complex individual who could be both cooperative and recalcitrant depending on his mood.
My interest in Carville wasn't just about uncovering my father's past but also delving into its role as an institution that shaped patient culture during a period of social upheaval. Stanley Stein, a former pharmacist from Texas, played a pivotal role in transforming the administration's approach to Hansen's disease patients by promoting education and self-empowerment through The STAR magazine.
When we strolled through the grounds, my father pointed out the dorm room that had been his home for nine years. As he showed me the ballroom where they'd held dances – including one Mardi Gras celebration that featured floats and a barbershop quartet performance by my father's group – the memories seemed almost otherworldly. I couldn't help but be reminded of how far we've come since those days.
It was an evening stroll through the dimly lit recreation center that ultimately led me to understanding why Carville would forever hold a place in our family's history. When my father returned, it wasn't with the isolation and loneliness he had endured years before – instead, he brought us as his proof of life. In this moment, I realized that without Carville, my dad wouldn't be the person he is today, and neither would I.
Looking back on our visit to the Louisiana Leper Home in Carville, it's clear that some wounds can never truly heal but that with courage, resilience, and love, we find ways to navigate them.
so i think what struck me most about this story is how it highlights the importance of confronting the past 
. like, my dad had been carrying around this baggage for 53 years and it was only by visiting this place that he could finally let go 
. and it's not just him, but also his family who got to experience this journey together 
.
. it shows that even though some wounds might never fully heal, we can still find ways to move forward and appreciate where we've come from 
.
. like, my dad's experience at Carville led him to become the person he is today, and that's something we can all learn from 
.
. Visiting a place like Carville, where your family lived through something so dark, must be really tough. It's like your dad's trying to process his past while also giving you and your kids a glimpse of what he went through. I'm curious about the complexity of Hansen's disease, how it affects people back then and now 
. The way they promoted education and self-empowerment is actually kinda inspiring 
.
. It's like your dad found this new sense of purpose by showing up for you and your kids, but Carville will always be a part of his story 
. But I love how you're using this experience to explore the role of institutions in shaping patient culture during social upheaval 
.
... but it's awesome to see how far we've come in understanding and supporting each other.
... I'm sure it was really tough for him to confront the past, but it's clear he's at peace now. And I love how you're using this as inspiration for your novel - "King of the Armadillos" sounds like a real page-turner 
! Anyway, just thinking about all these old buildings and grounds made me feel like I'm reading a history book from my grandparents' time... it's wild how fast we've moved forward, huh?
but then i woke up thinking about how much i love old books and libraries 
gotta go visit that new bookstore in town ASAP 
by the way have you tried that new coffee shop downtown? their cold brew is 
but with a lot more heart 
The historical significance of institutions like the Gillis W. Long Hansen’s Disease Center cannot be overstated. 
As I reflect on my visit to Carville, it's striking how the past can both haunt and redeem us. 
It's heartening to see how organizations like the STAR magazine helped promote education and empowerment among Hansen's disease patients during a time of social upheaval. 
It's a testament to the enduring power of love, courage, and resilience in healing even the deepest wounds. 
. It's heavy, man. But at the same time, seein' my dad walk through those gates, pointin' out where he used to live... it was like watchin' a ghost from our family's past come back to life 
. And them medical records? Man, that's some deep stuff. I'm glad we got to explore this part of history together 
. It's clear that Carville had a big impact on my dad, and by extension, me. We don't always know how our families' pasts shape us into who we are today, but it sounds like for my dad, Carville was a real game-changer 
. it's just too much for me.
. I'd rather not think about those kinds of things, you know?