New Orleans: America’s most African city
- Keturah Kendrick
- 6 hours ago
- 4 min read
Mardi Gras’ roots run all the way to the Motherland
Note: This is the first of a series on Mardi Gras and its role in Black communities.
When I was a young adult, a mentor figure declared our hometown, New Orleans, as “the most African city in the entire country.” I was still living in a studio apartment in the Garden District at the time. I’d only ever traveled out of the city twice: a trip to Los Angeles with a homegirl who was from there and a solo drive to Atlanta to see what all the fuss was about. I found his statement intriguing but thought little about it.
Almost two decades later, I found myself living in Africa. Based in Rwanda, I traveled extensively throughout the continent. My mentor was right: I’d had the great privilege of growing up in a city that had managed to mirror West African culture, particularly, in ways that left me speechless. And often, close to tears.
Perhaps the most concrete evidence of New Orleans’ connection to West Africa are the African American masking Indians. Up until the time I was in my late teens, I’d naturally assumed that every Black city had a contingent of masking tribes that came out on Super Sunday, Mardi Gras Day and Saint Joseph’s Night to parade around in elaborate, exquisitely beaded and feathered full body regalia while chanting in the streets crowded with the entire Black community who danced along with them and marveled at the works of art covering their bodies.
Turns out Baltimore, Harlem, Atlanta, Charlotte, Houston — well, none of them did this sort of thing.
The Louisiana State Museum attributes the African American masking Indian tradition to Yoruba spiritual practices and the veneration of ancestors that permeates much of West African religious ceremonies. “The corresponding African religious ceremonies are often communal and performative, involving music, dancing, chanting, singing and masquerading, resulting in participants experiencing spiritual embodiments and transformations. These religions and worship practices are foundational attributes of Black spirituality in New Orleans, and aspects of this devotional style have made their way into carnival traditions.”
Even as a child, I sensed when the Mardi Gras Indians came out, it was more than just a party. Parading and dancing in the streets for hours during carnival season was one thing. It was fun. It was a great way to cheer on your older cousin who played in his high school band and was looking forward to everyone he knew yelling out his name when he passed them along the parade route. However, when any Black New Orleanian made their way to the intersection of Claiborne and Orleans avenues, they understood what was happening when The Wild Magnolias came out or when Big Chief Tootie Montana took center stage to remind everyone that he was, without a doubt, the prettiest. These were not just some silly shenanigans to entertain the masses.
It felt like something much deeper was happening. Though raised as a Christian, I knew that this performance was a form of worship. One that would never happen on Sabbath morning at my local Seventh Day Adventist church. (Though I was never surprised when I saw fellow church members in the crowd cheering on the masking Indians too.) My youthful vocabulary and limited worldview had no words for it. but I knew this was as holy of a sacrament as when we took communion at church.
Scholars of the tradition understand masking in this way too. Though Karen Celestan grew up in Niagara Falls, New York, both her parents were born and reared in New Orleans. She spent many summers visiting relatives in the greater New Orleans area. As an adult, she moved to the city and eventually devoted her writing career to documenting the rich cultural links of African American freedom and celebration customs. For three years, she has interviewed and formed friendships with leaders of the African American masking Indian tribes.
“The overarching deal is the worship of and homage to the ancestors,” Celestan says. Many of those who spend a full year hand sewing a brand-new suit for the parading season attribute their dedication to honoring those enslaved Africans who managed to hold on to vestiges of their humanity despite inhumane treatment. If they survived the Transatlantic Slave Trade and thrived during the just as brutal Jim Crow era, surely their descendants could put every extra dollar and hour they could find into carrying on their customs.
According to Celestan, those who “dress out” fully accept the responsibility of conceptualizing a new suit idea that reflects their ancestry and organizing the next 12 months around bringing that artistic vision to life. It’s taboo to dress out on any of the three major masquerading days with a suit that even moderately resembles your regalia from previous years. Another expectation is that no one else should be the main architect of your suit. Yes, family and friends can assist with some of the sewing. However, the bulk of the design, construction and alteration must be done by the person who will eventually parade in the suit.
When Celestan explains the layers of devotion expected in the masking tradition, I’m reminded of how silly I used to find the seriousness with which my grandmother took the custom of washing your loved ones’ feet before taking communion. She’d scold me if I’d carelessly grab the little bucket of warm water and hastily pour it over her feet. “This is not a joke, little girl,” she’d mumble between clenched teeth. Eventually, I came to recognize this chastisement as her way of communicating that the sacred is to be treated as such — even those rituals that seem “small.”
I’ve never been a part of an African American masking Indian tribe. Throughout all the years of my youth, I was unaware of their connections to my ancestral homeland. What has never been lost on me, however, was the holiness of what often looks to outsiders as the outrageous antics of those larger-than-life characters down in The Big Easy.