I no longer claim the Catholic faith as my own, and possibly never did. My anger and resentment toward the institution of the Roman Catholic Church have faded over the years, most likely due to my age. Admittedly, however, I still harbor certain resentments and unhealed wounds regarding that venerable (?) icon of my past. Those resentments are largely to do with the church’s unyielding loyalty to misogyny, and its stalwart homophobic posture. More recently, the protection and harboring of pedophiles has been maddening, particularly when they did nothing to counter the pubic narrative that equated pedophilia with homosexuality. They will have to live with that; they are paying through the nose in legal settlements related to the pedophilia scandal, which seems fitting. The Archdiocese of New Orleans is officially bankrupt largely for that reason, and a 91-year old former priest was just arrested for sexual abuse of minors in the 1960s-1970s. Bless me father…or not.
Although I am extremely distant theologically from institutional Christianity and the so-called “organized” religions (many of which are anything but religions and should be classified as political organizations, but I digress), I really have no philosophical argument with the heart of Christian faith. I simply do not believe the accepted Bible is the literal word of a deity; it was written by human males based on their own self-interest. More oppositional is my belief that the historical figure we know as Jesus Christ is not necessarily a divinity, and even if so, that he is representative of the sole divinity of the Universe. Those are fighting words for most Christians, but I never get an answer when I ask what “God” needs with a nuclear family. At this point in my life, though, I am more than content to keep my theological leanings and questioning to myself. It’s really none of anybody’s business.
Regardless of all that, Catholic habits are sometimes hard to abandon. I still don’t eat meat on Fridays. I still call on Jesus Christ and plead “Lord have mercy” in a foxhole, when the chips are down. Christmas and midnight Mass are meaningful theological statements, as is the Epiphany although I’m not sure I’ve ever accepted them as the literal events I was taught. But, there’s something that feels sacred about them. Mardi Gras is similar for me, and perhaps that’s just a product of the culture of my home town. The whole increasing frenzy from 12 Night to Mardi Gras is like nothing else in my experience. Ash Wednesday not so much, Lent even less, but the revelry of Mardi Gras is something else.
This year, Mardi Gras seemed to loom larger in my reality than it has in many, many years. I was glued to live cams on Bourbon Street and videos of parades. Some of that could be a bit of homesick, but it felt deeper. I was thoroughly fascinated with the traditions behind the mirth and wild abandon, and those are not simply religious traditions but social statements. Maybe it’s because I’ve been contemplating the Isabel Wilkerson book Caste: The Origins of Our Discontent, or maybe it’s just the next step in my constantly evolving effort to come to terms with racism and social justice in current times. Whatever it is, I am constantly unsettled when reframing things from my earliest and most innocent memories as the often ugly realities they are.
The experience of Mardi Gras as a child was all about fun, and making noise. Catching beads and doubloons, eating until you were sick, no school, going to the bathroom behind the open doors of parked cars. The bands, the floats, a sensory cornucopia. Costumes and candied apples, and my favorite caramel popcorn. The Mardi Gras Indians were always a treat, and we never questioned the meaning or significance of that. It was somewhat like Halloween in February – you got to suspend reality and get tons of candy. What’s not to like?
Since moving away from home I am still unaccustomed to having no limitations on travel or business on the the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of Mardi Gras. New Orleans shuts down entirely for those days, and you’re a fool if you think you can get around that. Folks prepare for it like a hurricane, which is exactly how it functions. Parade routes will detour you, stores will be closed and supplies will have sold out long ago. The only difference might be that you are likely to have electricity, but the rest of it should be treated like a camping experience. It’s just a part of living there, and you deal with it. Tourists love it, of course, because they can go back to Peoria or wherever they came from, knowing that what happens at Mardi Gras stays at Mardi Gras..unless you manage to get filmed with your tatas or your weenie hanging out trying to score beads. That never goes away, as so many have been surprised to discover, but you only live once.
But, back to why year’s celebration brought up such issues for me. Watching the live streams of crowds and parades was entertaining, and caused me to reminisce about the past again but that was fine. Some of the floats were incredible works of art, and I have always loved seeing that. Marching bands always have a special place in my heart, since my father was a band director when I was a little kid. I know how much work goes into marching, and how much skill is actually required to play and march in cadence. It’s not as easy as people might think. The crowds seem to really appreciate the music, and that feeds the musicians, and I like to see that. That part of the experience is probably the most genuine, and the most diverse – neither age nor race nor gender really matter. People get into the rhythm and groove to the beat until the next float comes. You’re probably deaf by that time, but nobody really cares. It’s an ad-hoc community that wants to be there and knows its reason for being. Nowhere else does this happen in a high crime city.
Juxtapose those crowds and that diversity, however, with the elitism and exclusivity of the old line carnival krewes. That’s where I was struck dumb seeing the incredible contrast between the party and the royalty behind the party. The krewes are social organizations, chartered businesses, that host parades. Their dues-paying members plan the parade, selecting theme, contract float construction (which is impressively expensive), arrange for bands and float drivers, route permits, security, float riders’ costumes, and the all important throws – beads, doubloons, commemorative plastic cups, etc. Participation in some krewes is more expensive than others, but the cost is not for the faint of heart.
The financial requisites of a Mardi Gras krewe is a complicated layer of the class hierarchy, but when it comes to the old-line krewes like Rex, there’s a lot more at play than simply money. For many, it’s lineage and heritage, it’s legacy, and it’s bestowed privilege. If your mother was a queen of Rex, it would not be outside the realm of possibility that you could have the same honor. If your brother was a page, keeping the trains of the royal gowns unfurled at the ball, the odds could very well be in your favor to be chosen for the same honor. There is really no merit involved; you are chosen. In the upper realms of the patriarchy, this is how things are done, and expected. What reason would there be to change that?
If these sorts of arrangements do not constitute caste, then nothing does. You are born into a role, it is your birthright, you have done nothing to earn it. Those who do not share your genetic profile will never be a part of this, no matter what they do or who they are. This is how European monarchy has always operated, and the Mardi Gras krewes emulate that fixed hierarchy perfectly. If that was limited to fantasy once a year, it might be seen as merely quaint, but those lines of influence project much farther than a single night of the year. In Crescent City society, as in more formal monarchical lines, caste membership assures one of an entitled and privileged life regardless of anything but your birth certificate.
Can we recover from this birthright caste, from the overwhelming loyalty to entitlement and expectation? It seems unlikely that we can without some destructive cataclysm. Caste has become a system, and systems take on a life of their own that is dedicated only to self-survival. Once the system develops infrastructure, it becomes a toxic virus that mutates at will and is nearly impossible to destroy. Once it infects the genetic code itself, I don’t know how it will ever be rooted out.
Perhaps that is our work, though, to overcome the instinct for perpetuation of that which has always been with us – the addiction to comfort, greed, and power. It’s a tall order, and many of us see no reason to aspire to such a lofty goal. And therein lies the rub. We’ve got to have the ability to dream again, to imagine a world without our toxic past and devoid of hatred as a default. Oppression has muted so much of our potential to dream that we may need to build up that flabby muscle again, igniting a spark of inspiration from the depths of chaos if not absolute nonsense. We can imagine our way to a better genome, a better way of being, whether we understand what a genome is or not. Recovery work is never easy, but you have to admit the old way doesn’t work any longer. Understand that you’re going to be uncomfortable for a time, but the end result will be life beyond anything you can imagine. Understand that change is not the enemy and that not moving will keep you stuck in the misery you most want to escape. Understand that you do not understand, but move anyway. Understand that it’s going to take a minute, but have faith that we have not come all this way for nothing. It’s going to be OK.
The Sound Hole 