On the Sunday before Memorial Day, Mardi Gras Indians and various brass bands meet up around Bayou St. John and march to commemorate loved ones that have passed. I had never been to a gathering, so we went with my folks and Amanda. I was filled with pride and excitement to be able to show the girls (and Agapito) a tradition that is one of the many that makes New Orleans such a special place-- an antidote to the strip mall-ification of America.
Mardi Gras Indians date back to the 19th century, though my Yoruba professor pointed out that many of the costuming and musical elements derive from Yorubaland (i.e., part of Nigeria). The wild west elements were probably introduced with Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show in the 1880s, though local Indian customs had contributed previously what with intermarriage between Africans and local indigenous people (e.g., Choctaw and Houma Indians). Below you can see the intricate bead work depicting a "Cowboy and Indian" scene.
The procession was impressive, with an alternation of Indians, brass bands, and these genuinely creepy men dressed up as skeletons ("don't forget about death, even as you revel"). About 40 minutes into the march, I was hot, sweaty, holding a 24-pound Rosie, and silently analyzing race relations at the event. Then I see this one Indian in bright pink headdress. As he gets closer, I see that his costume is 2 shades of pink- a light pink background with ornately beaded darker pink memorial ribbons and a picture of his late wife who had died of breast cancer. It was one of the most poignant spectacles of heart-ache and triumph I've ever seen. Talk about "I can't go on. I'll go on." I didn't get a picture of him.
At peril of further manipulating your emotions, allow me to direct your attention to the last photo below. These people in blue marched to commemorate the 9th ward and those who died there.
