NEWS SUPER SUNDAY

Mardi Gras Indians celebrate culture with parade

BY CROSS HARRIS @thecrossharris

On Super Sunday, March 19, the Mardi Gras Indians took to the streets.

In costumes weighing hundreds of pounds, built from great profusions of feathers and beads, the tribes faced off to see who was the prettiest. Traffic stopped for blocks around. Cowbells cracked. Drums beat. Feet stomped. Gripped by their heritage, the Indians chanted, sang and stepped their way through New Orleans as if each song were their last.

“This is our tradition,” Central City local Irwin John said. “It’s that thing we do.”

His sunglasses caught the light as he smiled. Around him, crowds hummed with excitement. He danced a slow step during conversation and lifted his hands to nod at a distant Indian’s whoop.

The beauty of the tradition, however, arises from a history of struggle. When Black residents were excluded from white Carnival in 19th century New Orleans, they decided to create their own custom. Masking was born as a way to celebrate the day and pay homage to the Native Americans who once helped escaped slaves survive in the wilds of Louisiana, according to the Mardi Gras Indian Council website.

At one time, the gangs of New

Orleans also used masking as an opportunity to settle scores anonymously, said former Mardi Gras Indian Council President Larry Bannock in an interview with Mardi Gras New Orleans. Today, Super Sunday is a demonstration of the city’s raucous history and vibrant soul.

The Uptown celebration takes place at A.L. Davis Park. From there, the Indians traced a circle into Central City. Down LaSalle Street they strutted, hooking a left at Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, another at Claiborne Avenue and another at Washington Avenue until a few blocks down, they arrived where they started. The loop was closed. Just as the years passed, another cycle was completed.

Some tribes started their strut on the perimeter. Others radiated from the center and flowed into the parade revolving at the edge.

One tribe shimmied slowly from their start on S. Robertson and third Streets. A few confused motorists drove unwittingly through the beating heart of the celebration, and with the solemnity of a priest, a masker began directing traffic.

Blood red plumes radiated from his person and horns sprouted from the crown of feathers he wore. A hulking Scion Armada insisted on continuing through a barricade toward the park, but an Indian stamped his flagstaff and shook his head.

“No, sir,” he called out. “You ain’t getting past here.”

A horn blared.

“Try it,” he said with a smile, then danced. “I can do this all day!”

Finally the Scion submitted and turned.

The tribe gathered to march north towards the outer route on Claiborne Avenue. So-called Spy Boys and Wild Men ran ahead to clear the way. Behind them, the Flag Boy pumped the tribe’s flagstaff into the air, and behind him, the Big Chief stepped slowly to the beat of drums and feet. His flock’s feathers brushed the faces of onlookers.

As the maskers sang, “Two pak