In the Rest of the Country, It Was Tuesday--Part Two

Among the many peculiarities of New Orleans culture, probably an inheritance from the French, is the affinity for faux royalty. Krewes, the organizations that put on Mardi Gras parades, often have kings and/or queens. The two most important are Rex, who presides over the final parade of Mardi Gras day in the city, and Zulu, who rules over the eponymous krewe that marches first thing Mardi Gras morning. Zulu is a remarkable organization, formed as a response to the all-white nature of Carnival in the 19th and early 20th centuries. It's a black organization, whose members adopt a float costume that mocks the stereotypes of black people popular back then: blackface, fright-size Afro wigs, grass skirts (!). Zulu's king arrives in town by boat from upriver, and the arrival has become a big deal, surrounded by an afternoon of music, food booths, and, farther down the riverside, a mask market. It fills the time that previously was occupied, for tourists, by the question, "What do we do till the Orpheus parade?" A friend and I went down to the riverfront to watch the Zulu king's arrival, a moment notable for the appearance on the stage of Mayor Nagin, introduced to the crowd, in an echo of his campaign slogan, as "our mayor". The black woman next to my friend turned to him and said, "He's not my mayor." Nagin did his usual
job of proving why public speakers should write their remarks. In my friend Mark's favorite passage, the Mayor said "This event takes us back to the way New Orleans used to be and the way it is today." The president of Zulu then proffered the parade's most valuable souvenir, a decorated coconut, to the Mayor, to the sound of virtually no applause. On the other hand, the Zulu king delivered a short address that was well thought out, well written, and moving. Maybe royalty isn't such a bad idea.

The Orpheus parade, Monday night, was a return for me to the street side of the parade transaction, though the experience of having ridden tamped down the usual contagion for beads, transforming it into a simple hands-up to prevent being clanged in the head. Orpheus is a totally mixed parade, men and women, black and white, and its floats were beauties. Between floats, some great marching bands, one with a fabulous lead dancer, came by. It's worth reminding outsiders once again that all this happens without a shred of commercial signage or
vocalizing. The Rose Parade and the Macy's parade, even if they weren't now primarily staged for TV, are essentially subsidized by the companies for whom the floats are yet another form of advertising.

The floats in Orpheus were themed around Greek gods and goddesses who, last time I looked, weren't selling anything.

Mardi Gras day, contrary to what television tells/shows you, is celebrated in so many different ways, in so many different parts of the area, that it's impossible to participate or observe even a small fraction of the craziness and merriment. My wife and I have adopted the St. Anne's parade as our personal way to start the day. It's a totally walking parade, no floats, and it's a free-form event--no membership required, just join the parade--though there are occasional bursts of organization, dedicated to deciding which street we'll march down. Royal Street is the traditional route, taking us through three neighborhoods to the end point at Canal Street. But St. Anne's is about the unabashed creativity of the neighborhoods that provide its participants. You can be in the middle of the street, walking along to the music of the Ducks (sic) of Dixieland, and not see a human who looks remotely everyday no matter where you look. This year there were several takes on Anna Nicole, a group of fifteen Dreamgirls with notably hairy arms, and at least two tributes to Vince Marinello, the former sportscaster who was incautious enough to have left behind an incriminating to-do list when his wife was found shot to death. But the overwhelming content of St. Anne's is rioutous color and evidence that people have spent a heck of a lot of time with hot glue guns. In modern-day New Orleans, that's the gunplay we like to see.

In the afternoon, friends and I walked over to the Backstreet Cultural Museum, a shoestring monument to the African-American culture of the city, where some Mardi Gras Indians usually drop by to dance and chant. The big chief of the Congo Nation and his entourage came by shortly after we arrived, the chief in a huge white headdress and costume, and a young boy in a similarly impressive brown costume. Masking as Indian is an African-American tradition more than a century old, and it's important enough to the local culture that the chief and his party left the museum and marched along Governor Nichols Street where a women easily in her late eighties was sitting in her window. They stopped and danced and chanted just for her, then moved on down the street. A world away from what the world sees on Bourbon Street.

And, even that has changed slightly for the better. The new company with the trash-removal contract has taken to spraying deodorizer on the streets the mornings after. At least until the contract expires, Bourbon Street may never smell like bodily functions ever again.

A remarkable thing about Carnival season is that when it's over we return to normal as if waking from a dream. The bizarre thing about this Carnival season is that the normal we're returning to is far from normal, and the dream seems even sweeter as it recedes.