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Alyssa Lee Clear

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Ada LeBoeuf, Summer 1927 Poster

Ada LeBoeuf, Summer 1927 Poster

Ada LeBoeuf, Sensationalism, & the Rise of True Crime as a Genre

July 6, 2019

Ada LeBoeuf: Siren of the Swamplands

"Siren of the Swamplands" was just one of many titles Ada LeBoeuf was given throughout her trial, mostly by The New Orleans Times-Picayune. "The Lady of the Lake," "Small Town Celopatra," & "The Bucolic Lorelei" were a few other standouts. Bucolic Lorelei was my favorite and first choice for naming this series, but I think the terminology is a little dated (when’s the last time you’ve heard either of those words mentioned in casual conversation?), and the swamplands were a big part of Ada’s story, as told by the papers of the time. The writers, it would seem, wanted to set a scene for the tragedy that was about to unfold.

Newspaper reports of the trial could easily be confused with a fictional drama. Along with liberal use of opinion, journalists cum novelists went to great lengths to weave a compelling narrative, satiating their readers’ lust for scandal. Elaborate descriptions of scenery turned the small Louisiana town into a stage set for a lush southern drama. Fully fleshed depictions of each personality allowed readers to see their neighbors as inhuman, but familiar, archetypal characters. Mingling with the abundance of literary techniques were direct quotes and dramatic retellings of moments no one could have possibly witnessed.

Theatrical language and Shakespearean quotes were peppered throughout each article, as if to remind readers that these words and the trial unfolding before them were not about truth or justice, but a reprieve from mundanity, dramatic entertainment that would bring to Morgan City, LA the same notoriety that Ruth Snyder’s execution, a year earlier, had brought to New York.

It's difficult to separate fact from fiction in the case of Ada LeBoeuf, although I hear that Charles M. Hargroder did a pretty great job in a sadly out-of-print book on the crime. (More on this in a moment.) Nonetheless, there was no way that Ada and her cohorts could have received a fair trial. Media always plays a big role in high profile cases, but during the 1920s, in a small Louisiana town, with very limited sources of information, the reporters could essentially have people believing whatever they wanted. And, in this case, what the reporters wanted was a good ending to their story.

I was communicating with a lawyer in Louisiana who spearheaded efforts to re-publish Hargroder’s book, “Ada and the Doc,” in a limited run printing. Due to my own absent-mindedness, I lost contact with her and, unfortunately, I believe I missed my chance to pick up a copy. Still, I’m so happy to know that other people, with much greater knowledge and abilities than myself, are aware of this story and helping it live on. Of all the stories I’ve written, I feel that in many ways this is the most important — at least in terms of education, questioning what we’re told, and remembering the person at the center of any news story. The papers (or wherever you get your news nowadays) greatly manipulate and sensationalize stories like Ada’s, and we follow them, seemingly forgetting the person at the center of it all.

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Sensationalist News, Nancy Grace, & the Rise in True Crime’s Popularity

It’s unfortunately becoming more grim, when you think about the rise in true crime’s popularity. I know, I know, like I’m one to talk! Still, there’s a staggering difference between a quest for knowledge, understanding, and oftentimes even justice for victims and their families and the alternative — a meaningless form of entertainment.

Ideas like this have been floating around my head for a bit now, but it all really wove itself together when I returned home from Crime Con NOLA last month. I learned a lot, everyone was incredibly nice, and overall it’s a fantastic idea. To fill you in, speakers (professors, PI’s, former law enforcement) give lectures about cases they’re working on, criminal psychology, interrogation techniques, etc. As much as I genuinely loved it, I couldn’t help but get a bit of a bad taste in my mouth at times.

I’m going to be completely honest here: seeing someone like Nancy Grace at an otherwise informative, open-minded event was jarring, to say the least. A part of me feels guilty for calling out her specifically, but she’s done the same to so many — publicly condemning innocent people, further tormenting victims and their families, even potentially aiding in some of their decisions to commit suicide.

Her work is the pinnacle of sensationalism. It ignores facts and law and, under the guise of “victim’s rights,” it slithers on by while stomping on the people who’s lives fuel its existence. It’s the sort of work that turns real events involving real people into a colosseum of grotesque entertainment. It is work that cares for no one, ignores human rights, and mocks tragedy.

I’m not talking about making light of tragedy either — I’m on board with that as a coping mechanism. I make jokes about depression frequently, not to undermine it, but so it feels less scary, so I can cope with it. Humor is a tool a lot of us use, and it’s a wonderful thing. Sensationalism is not. Sensationalist news definitively mocks tragedy, focused on its own singular mission, it cares only for itself, taking out anyone who stands in its way.

Sensationalism doesn’t care if it hurts people, if it kills people, it cares only about propelling itself forward. It doesn’t care about truth, because taking time to discover the truth is time that could be spent talking, concocting baseless theories, and pretending to be knowledge about things it knows nothing about. 

And I know I’m calling her out by name here, but really, it’s everywhere. She’s just a face for it.

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The Ethics of It All

I’ve struggled with my fascination with true crime, particularly as its risen from a niche interest to a marketable industry. But I see all the good that comes with that — people aiding in searches, digging up information, actually helping solve cases. That’s an incredible thing. Our desire for knowledge, to understand the motivations behind why people do what they do, these are the things that help us move forward as a society. 

We learn behaviors, we learn to be more cautious. And, my hope anyway, is we learn to be more introspective, to recognize our own inner demons, and switch our behaviors. Because, as I’ve discussed with many of these women, crazy circumstances can fall upon us, and if our minds aren’t prepared for them, we can never really be sure what we’re capable of.

These, I believe, are ethical reasons to obsess over true crime. To find the truth. To know it in all the strange forms it takes. We mustn’t forget that there are actual people at the center of these stories. Condemning someone on a public forum, with no evidence but a gut feeling and a personality trait or two that you find unsavory, treating victims and all those close to the crime as mere props or background to the scandal — these behaviors are nothing short of wicked. We should explore the darkest recesses of the human mind, but we shouldn’t allow ourselves to succumb to them.

Recommended reading/where I found a lot of my info on Ada Leboeuf & the coverage of her trail:

The Penalty Is Death: U.S. Newspaper Coverage of Women's Executions by Marlin Shipman

A Flood of Evidence: Great Mississippi River Flood of 1927 uncovered man's brutal murder By Mara Bovsun for the NY Daily News

The Death of Betty Williams, Part II →

Current Character


Tree climbing in heels, Christmas edition ❤️🎄👠 . . . . . #alwaysinheels #nevergrowup #heelsforever #climbingtrees #treeclimber #treehugger #fromthe60s #60sstyle #vintagestyle #santastyle #vintagefashion #vintagewardrobe #thrifted #thriftedwardrobe #thriftedstyle
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at him to care, to realize I loved him, the children loved him, to realize he was brilliant and strong and capable, to stop wanting to die. He had so much to live for. Our lives were full of meaning. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands between his legs, his eyes empty as they started at me, silently begging: “stop trying to save me.” ... #pinup #pinupgirl #lemonprint #backseam #vintage #vintagestyle #vintagegirl #femmefatale #storytelling #truecrime #crimedrama #depressionawareness
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and ref
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and reflecting it back into the darkness. A futile attempt at illuminating something so much more vast and encompassing then they could ever be. After the shattering of glass, the frantic scrambling through the bushes, the screams into the nothingness surrounding me, there was only silence. I was the only one making noise. That stagnant night air had wrapped itself around the car like a blanket, like the blanket wrapped around Cork, who, the entire time, had been silently burning alive, too sedated to move, too sedated to feel, too sedated to scream.
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weeken
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weekend, but I do hope you will.’* I couldn’t have loved the man more. But he never could see it — not the love and admiration I harbored for him or all the wonderful qualities in himself that made me love and admire him. He saw all his faults and shortcomings. He saw my overspending and blamed himself for not making enough money. I loved Cork so much, but none of that love could ever make him love himself. Do you know how difficult that is? To see someone you love and cherish just ... falling apart ... right in front of you. *Fabricated: Lucille’s father recalled the note Cork sent to Lucille & it’s general sentiments, but the exact wording isn’t documented.
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I can’t deny that. There was just ... always something more. A dress that made me feel beautiful, a home that felt special, another man that looked at me like I meant something. That’s always been my downfall, I guess. Nothing is ever enough. I want it so desperately until I have it. Then I don’t know what to do with it. I convince myself that this time it’ll be different, this time it’ll satisfy me, this time I can stop looking. Just this once. But then I have it, and I’m still empty, and something else comes along and catches my eye and I start the longing process all over again.
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good&rdq
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good” or “bad?” A court decided I was bad, as did a prosecutor, a couple detectives. But you take the fragments of a terrible accident, and the fragments of an imperfect life, an imperfect marriage, an imperfect person, you toss them into a binder and you read the worst parts of it all. Anyone can seem terrible when you only look at their flaws, can’t they?
Here’s a hastily-made hyper dramatic “trailer”/bts for my upcoming story, based on the life & trial of Lucille Miller. Look out for it after the weekend! 😘 In the meantime, a little background on the premise of Lucille’s story & Arsenous Apple Pie in general: Now’s as good a time as any to address this. These stories, while rooted in true crimes, are told from a perspective I couldn’t possibly understand. I pull from films, from interviews and articles, from observations and life experiences, and I try to create stories that do more than describe a crime. The crimes become a lens through which we view human experiences, taking the most severe actions & emotions present in humanity, exploring the deepest and darkest aspects of our minds, and ruminating on the things that push us to that place. That being said, I don’t always believe in the guilt of the convicted women I portray — something I try to make clear when appropriate. Nonetheless, they’ve been pushed to an extreme place, and are facing tragedy, demons, or a cruel court of public opinion. I believe there is always a great deal to learn from researching these cases, especially when you attempt to mentally put yourself in that position. In the past, I’ve told stories from the point of view of someone suffering with depression or some form of mental illness, as it’s a perspective I’m acutely familiar with. With Lucille, I decided to flip it, & show a person deeply in love with and hopelessly trying to save a husband suffering from depression. Much has been written about Lucille Miller, including “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” a highly-regarded essay by the great Joan Didion & “A Mother’s Crime,” a touching piece for the Los Angeles Times by Lucille’s own daughter, Debra Miller. Many people harbor opinions on Lucille’s crime, her character, and her life. This was true when it all went down in the 60’s, and remains true to this day. For better or worse, this is not one you’ll have read before. 💋, Miss Arsenous Apple Pie
Epilogue: 
And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate.

I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woma
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woman. But again, facts be damned, right? History wants what it wants, and all it really wants is a good story. So many lives, reduced to nothing but grocery store gossip and dinner party conversation starters. In a rare instance where someone seemed to realize the gruesome nature of a trial becoming mere entertainment for the bored masses, Arthur Brisbane of the San Francisco Examiner asked, "Does a great State deserve to have on its records the first hanging of a white woman, or a black woman, either?" It all depends on who you ask, Arthur, it all depends on who you ask.
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel better by insisting I loved their attention. Stoic, uninterested, and defiant in court, I "giggled" for the press and "entertained" in my jail cell. They truly seemed to have convinced themselves that not only did I enjoy the attention, but that they were somehow doing me a favor by making me into a celebrity. Or perhaps they just saw this as the pinnacle of their careers and weren't concerned with mere fatal casualties. Facts be damned, they wanted a good story, and a good story needs a good ending. A good ending, it seems, never does include a living antagonist.

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