On Super Sunday, March 19, the Mardi Gras Indians took to the streets.
In costumes weighing hundreds of pounds, built from great profusions of feathers and beads, the tribes faced off to see who was the prettiest. Traffic stopped for blocks around. Cowbells cracked. Drums beat. Feet stomped. Gripped by their heritage, the Indians chanted, sang and stepped their way through New Orleans as if each song were their last.
“This is our tradition,” Central City local Irwin John said. “It’s that thing we do.”
His sunglasses caught the light as he smiled. Around him, crowds hummed with excitement. He danced a slow step during conversation and lifted his hands to nod at a distant Indian’s whoop.
The beauty of the tradition, however, arises from a history of struggle. When Black residents were excluded from white Carnival in 19th century New Orleans, they decided to create their own custom. Masking was born as a way to celebrate the day and pay homage to the Native Americans who once helped escaped slaves survive in the wilds of Louisiana, according to the Mardi Gras Indian Council website.
At one time, the gangs of New Orleans also used masking as an opportunity to settle scores anonymously, said former Mardi Gras Indian Council President Larry Bannock in an interview with Mardi Gras New Orleans. Today, Super Sunday is a demonstration of the city’s raucous history and vibrant soul.
The Uptown celebration takes place at A.L. Davis Park. From there, the Indians traced a circle into Central City. Down LaSalle Street they strutted, hooking a left at Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, another at Claiborne Avenue and another at Washington Avenue until a few blocks down, they arrived where they started. The loop was closed. Just as the years passed, another cycle was completed.
Some tribes started their strut on the perimeter. Others radiated from the center and flowed into the parade revolving at the edge.
One tribe shimmied slowly from their start on S. Robertson and third Streets. A few confused motorists drove unwittingly through the beating heart of the celebration, and with the solemnity of a priest, a masker began directing traffic.
Blood red plumes radiated from his person and horns sprouted from the crown of feathers he wore. A hulking Scion Armada insisted on continuing through a barricade toward the park, but an Indian stamped his flagstaff and shook his head.
“No, sir,” he called out. “You ain’t getting past here.”
A horn blared.
“Try it,” he said with a smile, then danced. “I can do this all day!”
Finally the Scion submitted and turned.
The tribe gathered to march north towards the outer route on Claiborne Avenue. So-called Spy Boys and Wild Men ran ahead to clear the way. Behind them, the Flag Boy pumped the tribe’s flagstaff into the air, and behind him, the Big Chief stepped slowly to the beat of drums and feet. His flock’s feathers brushed the faces of onlookers.
As the maskers sang, “Two pak e way, two pak e way,” they parted the crowd like a wing through the wind.
“Oooh, I’m a pretty mother f-!” one man said as he threw his head back and laughed. “Two pak e way, two pak e way,” they stepped into the distance, “Two pack e way, two pak e way.”
Back at A.L. Davis Park, Flag Boy Sleepy of the Red Cheyenne waded into his heavy costume with the help of several hands. “It’s all about the Indians,” he said. “It’s the beauty of the culture and coming out, getting to meet everybody and checking out who’s pretty.” He looked into the distance as two men fixed his costume.
“Today, we challenge each other with our art,” he said. “And with our art, we shake hands.”
“You know the story of chopping off the head?” Sleepy pointed. On the front panel of his costume’s skirt, thousands of beads were sewn to depict an Indian wielding a hatchet over a cowboy on the ground. “The Indian there is chopping off the cowboy’s head,” Sleepy said.
On another costume, the tree of life was sewn. “We had a lot of loved ones that passed away,” the creator, Flag Boy Al, said. “I just wanted to do my suit as a tribute. You know, to show them respect.” Beside the tree, one Indian reached up toward the sky and another kneeled, looking down into the river of beads. Beyond, deathly black feathers shuttered in the wind.
The tradition of masking is mostly handed down through families. Flag Boy Al’s father masked. Now he does, too.
But 40 years ago, the tradition was slowly dying out. Fewer and fewer young people sewed costumes. Fewer and fewer strutted. So, in a vie for resurgence, the tribes came together to form the Mardi Gras Indian Council—which continues to this day.
“I’ve been masking since I was two years old,” Flag Boy Al said. “We need more participation. We need more Indians to come out each year.”
Meanwhile, the infant sons and daughters of Mardi Gras Indians were held in their mothers’ arms. Atop their heads were coronets of smaller feathers. And during the parade, a toddler fitted with an aura of plumes and shine wobbled down Washington Avenue, sucking her thumb.
Through their chants and steps and ebullient dress, the Indians are passing on their heritage. The new guard took up the flagstaff, as the old heads traced a path through Mid City they’ve known all their lives. They danced on the ragged streets of New Orleans, some of them by walker and wheelchair, over potholes made deeper with time and construction that flays the loop.
Soon, new heads will wear the crowns of feathers that look as light as air but weigh heavy on the temples. The streets they stepped through will pose new bumps and old pitfalls, but they’ll be the same streets.
When the strut ended, the Uptown Skull and Bone Gang sang.
“We’ve come to warn you before you die, you better get your life together. Next time you see us, it’s too late to try. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” they sang with a dance. “You best straighten up before you come see us.”
The ornate beadwork of a Mardi Gras Indian with the Red Cheyenne tribe shines in the light of A.L. Davis Park on Sunday, March 19, 2023, New Orleans, La .
