Three years into this adventure, I walked in my first Mardi Gras parade. I signed up as a volunteer foot soldier in the Joan of Arc parade. This parade kicks off carnival season, aka Twelfth Night, aka the first day of king cake, and is a beautiful, moody walking parade through the historic French Quarter.
My partner and I were assigned flame costumes—arm and leg wraps decorated in sequined orange and yellow. We carried the banner “Burned,” part of the parade’s narrative (“Called,” “Judged,” “Legacy”) about Jeanne d’Arc’s brief and courageous life.
After a quick stop at the Jazz Museum to admire everyone's costumes, we arrived to line up about 6pm for a 7.30pm start. Bagpipers were playing in the parking lot. It was a warm evening, in the 70’s and humid, but folks were dressed festively and milling around, good-naturedly guiding everyone to their costumes and gear. We said hello to King Greg (all hail), killing time in between two cars with his phone, then a friend held the banner saying, “I am not afraid.” After checking in, finding another friend, and getting our wristbands, we gathered our gear and lined up.
There is a lot of waiting, and standing around. This is parades.
It was a chance to chat, look around at the costumes and listen to bands practicing, to meet new friends and enjoy a balmy, beautiful evening, the CCC bridge lit up in Mardi Gras green, purple and yellow.
Eventually it was 7.30 and we rolled, the director Antoinette walking the lineup to make adjustments (we were somehow missing a tunic but oh well).
The Jazz Museum folks looked great in their blue cloaks, accompanying King Greg.
When you’re in a parade you don’t get to watch it; but it was awe inspiring to walk the city streets, each sidewalk lined with eager viewers. We were not the main attraction so it was fun to watch the excitement over the gorgeous costumes and clever signs and images; one of the drumming judges ahead of us, a tall, dour-looking man in a white wig and black robe, periodically pointed a bony finger at a woman in the crowd and cried loudly, “She’s a witch!” or “Blasphemer,” super dramatically, and mostly folks laughed and went along with the bit. He always handed them a throw, and then stalked along looking for his next victim.
We got photographed, good-naturedly yelled at (“Burn the witch!” “Noooo!”), twerked and stunted on. I met Michelle, a bartender in the Quarter, who carried the banner behind us; and Kate, a red-haired Heretic.
At the end we un-costumed and headed to the museum for the Hot 8 Brass band, a Hi-Do king cake, and another 90 minutes of good times.
