Mardi Gras Indians

I received a reaffirming e-mail today from someone who had read my blog, and commented, “Those that think money is what richness is all about, should read this and know that richness in spirit and love will trump money every time.”

What a perfect quote to introduce the spirit-rich tradition of the Mardi Gras Indians, who happen to be some of New Orleans’ poorest residents.

I first heard about the Mardi Gras Indians through my bus driver, Mr. Chuck. He told me a story about a friend of his who had been a Mardi Gras Indian Chief, and had been shot so many times in the stomach that he couldn’t eat solid food.

Apparently, Mardi Gras used to be even more lawless than it is today, and the Mardi Gras Indians were largely responsible.

The Indians are one example of how every cultural tradition that enters New Orleans and stews for a while finds another life, another soul, and eventually becomes a different thing entirely. Like the base of a good gumbo, time on the stove—in the heat and humidity—adds richness and flavor.

So the Mardi Gras Indians took the culture of the Native Americans, brought it to New Orleans, let it stew for a while, and added Mardi Gras. And here’s what you get:



























So why were poor descendents of slaves interested in Native American culture? Back in the days, Native Americans helped blacks from New Orleans escape slavery by bringing them through their tribal network and on towards freedom. In honor of this incredible kindness, black New Orleanians formed their own Mardi Gras Indian tribes, each with a distinctive color costume and pattern of beadwork. Traditionally, Mardi Gras Indians make a new costume every year, and burn the old one after Mardi Gras is over. They spend hundreds upon hundreds of hours each night sewing tiny beads into the elaborate designs that are their signature, and stitching feathers into their towering headdresses.



























Come Mardi Gras, they come out in full force to sing, dance, and compete for the honor of being “the prettiest chief of all,” gold teeth and all. That honor doesn’t come without sacrifice, and back in the days, armed brawls used to break out in the clamor for recognition. Indians would bust out revolvers and battle axes and take a drunken swing at each others feathers, if not shooting each other outright. The fracas would ensue until one tribe said “Homba!” in recognition that the other tribe’s chief was “the prettiest chief of all.”

Eventually, the violence got out of hand, and the mayor of New Orleans threatened to shut down Mardi Gras. The street fights turned into impromptu singing, dancing and beauty competitions, and the great Mardi Gras Indian bands—like the Wild Magnolias —were born.

Always broke and chock full of soul, the Indians come out each year and party their hearts out.

Jazz and Hurricanes

Once there was a hurricane warning and I walked down to my neighbors’ to watch the wind thrash through the weeping willow tree in their front yard. Each branch was being tossed around like a massive strand of hair, while the trunk of the tree stood firm. I started to wonder what the lake looked like, so I walked on top of the levee as it curved around the bayou to Lake Pontchartrain. I couldn’t believe what I saw there.

It was like the circus had come to town. Whole families had brought picnic baskets and sat down to watch the lake surge in its concrete confines. People were riding bikes back and forth, walking along the shore, witnessing the wind at work. It was the best show in a city that never stopped performing. The hint of fury, the touch of danger, inspired.

I thought I heard a saxophone in between gusts of wind. I followed the levee around towards the sound. The saxophone grew louder, mixing with the wind in an improvised duet. I kept walking. Closer. Until I heard and saw a pair of loose white silk pants flapping furiously in the wind.

A man was facing the levee, totally alone, playing his sax into the storm. Wind and jazz and silk pants mingled as I sat in the grass watching. The three sounds took turns, as one grew louder and drowned out the others, then back again.

I watched and listened until he noticed and came over. He talked about his mentor, Cannonball Adderley, as if it were everyday that he came down to the levee to play jazz with the storm.

Unity

I’ve been hearing so much talk about institutional racism this past week on the news—so much anger towards the federal government’s criminal lack of response in dealing with the poor black residents who were left behind.

But what I choose to remember is the unity. True, New Orleans still had largely segregated schools and neighborhoods; economic inequality was readily apparent. But on the depoliticized level of everyday life, food, music and culture were constantly bringing people together.


For me, Jazz Fest was where everyone came together across race, age, and class lines, and forgot all about their differences. I can’t tell you how many times I found myself shaking it down side-by-side with someone’s grandma. No one was too old or too young, too black or too white to participate. Whole families came out to the fairgrounds with toddlers in tow, and intermingled with musicians, vendors, and tourists—always tourists.


So as people are talking about rebuilding the city, worrying that the developers will try to gentrify the poor black neighborhoods out of the equation, I say: There is no New Orleans without diversity. New Orleans was built and sustained by poor minority populations.

Even bottom-line developers have to recognize the importance of recreating and maintaining the cultural and ethnic diversity if New Orleans is to regain its status as a tourist mecca. Who would want to visit a city full of rich white Southern eltes?

Soul-Churning Music

In high school, I had a bus driver named Mr. Chuck (in New Orleans, you always refer to an adult as Mister or Miss followed by their first name). I always sat behind him because I liked to hear his stories and listen to him drum on the dashboard. He had been a professional conga player back in the day for a few of the jazz greats, and he turned me on to some really good albums (like the feel-good jazz funk album Blackbyrd by Donald Byrd). Mr. Chuck and WWOZ (New Orleans Roots Radio, now streaming on the Web as WWOZ in Exile from Hoboken, New Jersey at www.wwoz.com) transformed my tastes in music and changed my life.

I moved to New Orleans as a barely adolescent girl from suburban Virginia where the radio played the likes of Paula Abdul and Vanilla Ice—top 100 pop fare that did nothing for the soul. New Orleans music stirred emotions I was too young and inexperienced to identify…until I lived in New Orleans for a few years.

Listening to that music floating out from WWOZ headquarters in Louis Armstrong Park to hang beneath the 300 year old live oak trees covered in Spanish moss was magic. I used to set my alarm to WWOZ and sometimes I'd jolt out of bed in the morning, so transfixed by the music that I had to call in to find out what it was. Slowly I bult up my record collection, which has kept my spirits high in the ten years since I left New Orleans.

You can purchase a fabulous 4-CD compilation of New Orleans music at www.shoutfactory.com. All profits go to the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund.

Lagniappe

My first encounter with the Cajun word lagniappe was in the Times-Picayune Lagniappe (aka Arts & Entertainment) Section. Lagniappe means “a little something extra;” something free or unexpected; a pleasant surprise; a kind gesture. For me the word lagniappe, which doesn’t exist in the English language, marvelously sums up the spirit of New Orleans.

You never knew what was going to happen. You never ruled out any possibilities. In New Orleans, life itself was lagniappe: the fulfillment of the unexpected. Chuckling just for the hell of it. Doing something nice for somebody. Reaching out. Going the extra mile.

Here’s a little story to illustrate: One year I happened to fly back home from college on the day my friends were scheming a birthday surprise for our friend, NaaKoshie. In New Orleans, “birthday surprise” means something a little bit different that champagne and sponge cake.

My friends were building a throne, so we could carry NaaKoshie on our shoulders and parade her through the French Quarter. We wove together a crown from palm frongs and flowers. She wore a sundress and black pumps. We threw rose petals in her path, beat tamborines, and shouted “Viva NaaKoshie” and “Long Live the Queen.” People on the street cheered and joined our procession. At one point, we lowered the throne to the street and a man came up, took off NaaKoshie’s shoes, and started messaging her feet.

Now that’s lagniappe times ten.

My Egyptian Wedding Robe

Me in 1996 at Kaldi’s Coffeemuseum in the French Quarter. I was wearing what I called my “Egyptian wedding robe,” a flamboyant red, green & gold robe that I bought from a transvestite who was having a garage sale on Frenchman Street. I paid $3.00.

Hurricane Katrina

So the Big One finally hit the Big Easy.

Hurricane Katrina gave truth to the urban legend that always shrouded New Orleans in a sense of doom that somehow suited the slow, humid, swampy city I still call home.

I left New Orleans almost ten years ago to begin a process of higher education and careerism that can’t be had in the Big Easy where people sit around and watch the paint peel between sips of daiquiri.

But no amount of education can take away my memories of a place where the people really knew how to let "le bon temps roule" (Cajun for let “the good times roll” and the official motto for New Orleans). Only Katrina could do that, or at least try.

As I watch the news and choke back tears, I’m scanning all my photographs and remembering, trying so hard to remember, to write, what the city was to me and hoping beyond hope that one day it will be again.

But, whatever happens, the spirit of New Orleans will live on in the hearts and minds of people everywhere.