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Mardi Gras
Krewe of Saint Anne's Parade
I recently made my first visit to New Orleans just in time for Mardi
Gras. I’d always wanted to go, but warnings of wading through frat boy
puke gave me pause. This year, however, I had a feeling things would be
different. And, though I had no previous experience to compare it to,
from what I understand it most definitely was different. With only a
fraction of the usual number of hotel rooms available and a city
nowhere near functioning at pre-Katrina levels, the festivities were
lower key and laden with locals. Oh, and no frat boy puke!
On Fat Tuesday, I was privileged to march in the Saint Anne’s Parade,
an old-school walking parade that originates in the Marigny, weaves its
way through the streets of the French Quarter through Jackson Square up
to Canal Street to catch the arrival of Rex and perhaps snatch a few
beads. Then the crazies regroup and stroll back past Jackson Square and
to the Mississippi, where those who’ve lost loved ones over the past
year sprinkle their ashes into the river. Since the last few months
have been filled with so much loss, this seemed especially poignant.
The Society of Saint Ann is a Carnival walking club originated in 1969
by Henri Schindler, Paul Poché and Jon Newlin. Through the years
it has taken on additional mobs of participants as well as a certain
gravitas. The hula hoops wrapped and draped in colorful, glittering
ribbons are one of the parade’s trademarks and they were gloriously in
evidence on this bright Tuesday.
The collection of marchers was a mixed bag of artists and costumers,
drag queens and families, lifelong locals and expatriate New
Orleanians. It was an incredibly beautiful day, with the sun shining
bright and temperatures soaring up to almost 80 degrees. That, of
course, encouraged near nudity, though no one was out-and-out obscene.
It was more a matter of cleverly exposed skin.
There were oodles of fags and radical faeries, including a few familiar
faces from Manhattan! Everyone displayed a sexy sense of humor touching
irony, and there were plenty of amusing visual puns.
Many of the costumes were particularly timely, reflecting the locals’
feelings about FEMA, government officials and politicians.
Some participants created glamorous garments from MRE packages or the
omnipresent blue tarps that covered everyone’s roofs. I was impressed
by the way they transformed such tragedy into fashion.
So many of the outfits weren’t specific, they were just wild explosions
of color and texture. It was truly a celebration of excess! Their
commitment was from head to toe, with spray painted, glitter splattered
or multicolor footwear.
There were nods to local historical lore as well as references to global carnivale celebrations.
I met one especially colorful couple from San Francisco. Between the
two of them there were more rainbows of rhinestones, lame, pom-poms,
ruffles and feathers than I’d ever seen in my life! Even their shoes
were festooned with frills.
One trio of scantily clad queens was working a Vegas showgirl group
ensemble. The most magnificent of the three sported an enormous plume
of feathers, sprouting from a rhinestone base perched on his bald head.
When I asked how the hell the thing was attached, he chirped, “With a
suction cup!” Genius! All three of them were carrying
rhinestone-encrusted canteens, no doubt filled with some sort of
suitably fortifying alcoholic beverage. Even their “fag hag” had one!
If I’d had to bestow an award for most amazing woman’s costume, it
would’ve gone to the beautiful woman in the early 18th century Georgian
gown. Her panier was filled with confetti, which she reached into
through ruffle-trimmed slits. Each panel of her dress was ribbon-edged
and hand painted with a New Orleans-specific piece of art: a map of
Louisiana, a string of Mardi Gras beads, an oyster with a pearl, a
fleur-de-lis. She was completely breathtaking and I could not stop
telling her fabulous she was!
Many costumes featured creative use of Mardi Gras beads, with bejeweled corsets the favored canvas.
From beginning to end, I was completely amazed by the exuberance of the
marchers. Most of these people had lost so much. I spoke with one
gentleman who has been displaced to Manhattan, of all locales. He
explained that he’s living in a halfway house for recovering addicts,
where he’s saddled with a curfew, and while he is certainly grateful
for a place to sleep, the man is no teetotaler! And since he isn’t in
recovery himself, it seems especially cruel to inflict not only
restrictive hours but a 12-step program and all that entails. That’s
adding the insult of sobriety to his already extensive injuries.
Everyone I spoke with was grateful for our business and especially
excited to host New Yorkers. It seems as though there is a somewhat
symbiotic relationship between the two cities, both of us having
suffered such earth-shattering tragedies. The one thing they all wanted
people to know was that New Orleans is up and running and that they
will rebuild. So go down there and visit. Spend your money. Personally,
I can’t wait to return!
[Written March 2006]
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