Through the Water
by Joshua Ellison · 11/16/09
All over town they were talking about a funeral.
With a friend, I walked on a Saturday morning through the Tremé, often called the oldest black neighborhood in America. The flood added another layer of rot and debris to an already decaying place. We found the funeral home just near Claiborne Avenue, once a vibrant street with tall trees before the highway was routed through the city. Now, there are only pictures of trees painted on the piles of the overpass, which blocks out most of the light. Outside the funeral home, a crowd was gathering while the family and close friends had their service inside. Still a few blocks away, we could hear drums reverberating against the concrete.
The deceased was part of a Mardi Gras Indian tribe, one of New Orleans’ great vernacular traditions. Small bands of working-class black men have taken part in this ritual since at least the mid-nineteenth century. They parade through the streets in elaborate, hand-sewn costumes—it’s called “masking Indian” here. The outfits are a kind of fantastical riff on the traditional warrior uniforms of Native Americans, blended with distinctly African forms of visual storytelling. It’s a competitive and deeply masculine tradition, though the terms of engagement between warring tribes are virtuosity in sewing and construction, and the sheer majesty of the imposing and colorful creations. Every year a new suit is required, and the men invest thousands of dollars and countless hours in the spectacle.
The rite is animated by the spirits of the dead—something that resonates in both African and Native-American spirituality. When the Indians hit the streets, they are bringing the ancestors along with them, and they are also asserting their own place in the continuity of time and their city.
The Indians were out that day, their bright colors almost blinding under the punishing sun. Th ere were hundreds of others around, too: neighborhood people, numberless photographers, college students, uptown folks. Everyone gathered around the back door, the drummers in front. As the mourners filed out in procession, they were received by a chanting horde. The song was an old Indian anthem: We are Indians, it started. And we won’t bow down.
The coffin was put in the hearse, which pulled slowly towards the street. It was enveloped by people as it moved, some pounding along in rhythm on the car’s roof. With perfect timing, a brass band—all teenagers in denim shorts and oversized T-shirts—appeared on the corner of Claiborne. As the parade headed down the street, behind the band, more people arrived and came out of their houses. Some were dancing, others furiously documenting; some were drinking, and many just socializing. Along the way, we passed more burnt and flood-gutted houses, but plenty others that were patiently and lovingly being made into homes again.
Because there was no official permit—part of an eternal power struggle between the city and many of its residents—the parade only went a few blocks. The band stopped in a grassy lot outside an empty school building. An elderly woman had already fainted from the awful heat, but a hundred or so people still danced on the uneven ground, an acrobatic style with fast footwork.
The furious dancing, as the coffin was being laid in its tomb nearby, is part of the funeral, too. In this corner of New Orleans culture, your day of birth is called “sunrise,” and your last one is your “sunset.” This was an exultant moment, reclaimed from the shortness of life, while the sun was still high overhead.
