“Traces of my dead father were everywhere in the house—a door sanded but unpainted; holes cut for windows, the panes uninstalled—like songs cut off right at the groove,” Broom writes. 4121 Wilson Avenue, the house that becomes the Yellow House, is not possible without mapping this lineage. Reading The Yellow House will not exactly resurrect 4121 Wilson Avenue. The Yellow House opens with a map: 4121 Wilson Avenue comes into view as Broom situates her family’s home within the neighborhood that would eventually come to be known as New Orleans East. But, as the reviews said, it is vastly more than that. Sarah M. Broom fits this anecdote into her forceful, rolling and many-chambered new memoir, “The Yellow House.” It’s one I’d heard before, but Broom makes it stick. Broom contends with the impact of loss across many registers. More marvellous than that, these pages might inspire you to sit with your mother, your grandmothers – to ride out to the cemetery and check your dead friend’s plot – to gather with your siblings for an evening on the stone slab where once your childhood home stood. Mae’s reflection, “Blood built up. He had too much blood. Beyond that, Broom tells the story of how one American Black woman wandered far from home, to Texas and Berkeley and New York and Burundi, engaging with the wider world, seeking her place in it, all the while struggling with the persistent grip of home. As Broom traces the house’s history from 1961 to, and beyond, its destruction, she also traces, or reveals, the emptiness of that dream, an emptiness that many millions across America have also realised in the years since. The book answers: all of us. The Yellow House opens with a map: 4121 Wilson Avenue comes into view as Broom situates her family’s home within the neighborhood that would eventually come to be known as New Orleans East. In choosing to begin her story in the world before herself, Broom implicates a host of protagonists and the choices they have made in the processes of world making and, as a result, the world that Broom, the youngest of Ivory Mae’s 12 children, has inherited. To plot, instead, quiet truths that lurk beneath the surface of our myths is a process that requires a particular sense of cartography—one that implicates the people who have made us just as it does the places that deeply inform our sense of self. Logged in as “Look like nothing was ever there,” Ivory Mae says upon reflection as the Yellow House is knocked down after the storm. While there, a local woman tries to convince Broom that she is also Burundian, that she has simply forgotten her language. And it is the death of her childhood friend Alvin, the result of a car accident on Chef Menteur Highway in the fall of 1999, that marks the last season she would sleep at the Yellow House as a resident.
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