Parading and Raining

Last Friday evening, January 25th, was supposed to be the first night of "real" parades in Orleans Parish. ("Real" in terms of full-size floats, marching bands, an array of throws, and so on; Krewe du Vieux may be the official first parade of Carnival, but it's not "real" in the sense above.) Unfortunately, it was a rainy day and got no better as darkness fell. The weather pros on TV tried to make the best of it -- "the front may quickly move through," "it may not rain all night," and the like -- but the fact of the matter is, it was raining all day, and it was planning on raining all night.

Two parades were scheduled, Oshun and Pygmalion. I knew Oshun from 16-18 years ago, when the African-themed krewe paraded through Mid-City and had marvelous Barth Brothers designed floats that were self-propelled, and not dragged by tractors, as almost all Carnival floats are, but I was not familiar with Pygmalion, which is apparently a krewe from another area of the city that at some point in the past gotten permission to parade the Uptown route. (Those fancy floats from Barth turned out to be gorgeous in theory but duds in practice -- the enclosed area for the driver in front tended to accumulate carbon monoxide. As far as I know, those floats were only used once and then scrapped forever.)

I had previously made plans with my sister L, who lives just off Napoleon near St. Charles, to see the parade together. (I had originally thought Big Man could join us and then head to work on Bourbon Street, but it turned out that he got an earlier gig and had to miss these parades.) So in the steady drizzle, I was driving from my house in the lower Lower Garden District to my sister's, and I was concerned that I had not left my house early enough to make the start of the parade, so I dialed my sister on my cell. She answered her phone by saying bluntly, "Are you bailing?"

I was outraged. "Bailing? Bailing? How can you ask me that! I'm on my way now to your house -- don't leave without me." She apologized for jumping to unwarranted conclusions, and said she'd wait for me. She also said it was raining pretty hard by her house. I moved my radio dial to a news channel, to check if the parades had been cancelled, but apparently not. I made it to L's house, using back routes to avoid the traffic and barricades on St. Charles Avenue, and the rain had settled to a light but steady drizzle.

Carrying my new purple folding umbrella, purchased just for rainy parade-watching, I entered L's house, where she and her friend R were doing parade preparations -- fixing alcoholic drinks in go-cups. Thus fortified, the 3 of us (L's husband had bailed) walked down Napoleon to the corner of St. Charles -- not our usual parade spot, but with the weather, we did not want to walk as far as our normal parade-viewing place in front of Sophie Gumbel Guild on the corner of Napoleon and Perrier. The parade had just started rolling as we arrived, with the big police van in front making the corner. If you were not from here, you would be surprised to learn that we were not the only ones there -- there was a large less-prepared group under the awning of the still-closed-since-the-Storm Copeland's, other folks with umbrellas, still others with zipped-up hooded parkas. There was also a clump of glum-looking NOPD with rain ponchos over their uniforms.

We took our place at the barricade next to an African-American family, two adult women, several kids. We all congratulated each other on being "real New Orleanians," the kind who come out in the rain for a parade. "It's our duty," L seriously told the group around us, "these krewes can't have a real parade unless we're here. We owe it to them." We all agreed with this -- we were being responsible, accountable New Orleanians, supporting our fellow New Orleanians in the parading krewe, and not crazy, obsessed nutballs standing in the pouring rain to no good purpose.

And it was pouring down rain. Make no mistake -- this was not a mist or a drizzle or intermittent rain, this was a full-fledged downpour. Our hearts went out to King Shango and Queen Oshun in their velvet and taffeta and rhinestone finery; we fervently hoped there were tumble dryers and lots of warm beverages waiting for them at the end of the parade route. As the king rolled by, I remembered the traditional cry of the followers of Shango in the African Yoruba faith, and I hollered, "Shango does not hang!" I do not know if the king heard all of what I said, but he heard his name, and turned towards me and waved his scepter over me in true Carnival style. I waved back.

We felt so sorry for the school marching bands in the parade. They were all wearing rain ponchos or capes, but the rain streaked down their faces. I'm sure they felt miserable, and the $1200 or so that the krewe gave their schools for their participation was surely not enough for how they felt. Oshun's bands were from some of the city's Creole neighborhood schools, and we saw St, Mary's Academy and Xavier Prep, both all girls, both very good and very wet. We shouted encouragement to them as they splashed past us, "Y'all look great! You're so brave! Thanks so much for being here!" Then L, who walked in parades as chaperone in her days as school counselor, began calling kudos to the parents and teachers marching with the bands. "Yay chaperones! Y'all are so fabulous!" earning grateful and appreciative smiles from the sodden grown-ups as they passed by.

Around the middle of the parade, another friend showed up, who we almost didn't recognize, since he was covered head to foot in hunting gear, waterproof overalls and boots, and a camouflage parka with the hood drawn tight. "How much did I miss?" he hollered over the marching band going by, "I couldn't leave my house, because my wife didn't want me to go!" We scoffed at such caution, and explained it, as we do everything we don't like in New Orleans, by saying his wife was not from here.

A band whose bus had gotten caught in traffic finally arrived, and the police in front of us stopped the parade, moved us to the side, and opened the barricades for the young people running from the buses in full uniform, instruments in hand. We hollered to them, "Be careful! Don't run, they're holding the parade for you! So glad you're here!" and the kids flashed grins to us as they rushed by. It was interesting to see how they must have entered the bus in formations, because as they ran, they just formed up perfectly, in the order they exited the bus. As the police moved the barricade back, we thanked them for their service during Carnival, and one officer said bitterly, "Don't thank me -- I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to." (Usually NOPD officers are a little more gracious when thanked at Carnival, but we cut the guy some slack, seeing how wet and miserable he was.)

When the last Oshun float rolled by, we learned that Pygmalion had been cancelled because of the rain, and we went slogged home, where L's spouse cranked up the gas fire logs in their living room. We gathered around with glasses of wine and told Carnival stories til the rain stopped.

We caught a lot of (wet) beads at Oshun, and we believe it was because the krewe members were so glad to have any kind of crowd at all. My sister is right: It was our duty to be there. Carnival is a kind of covenant between the folks on the floats and the folks on the ground. We need each other to be there for Carnival to happen. And last Friday night, in the pouring rain, we both held our end up.