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February 18, 2006
Random Mardi Gras Memory IV
1993, our first Mardi Gras since our move back to Texas had put New Orleans within driving distance again.
The Mystick Krewe of Comus no longer rolled on Mardi Gras night. The oldest krewe in existence had decided just the previous year that they would no longer hold a parade, rather than give in to the city council's demand that they make their membership rolls public to prove that they complied with anti-discrimination laws and thus qualified for a parade permit.
From my point of view, it seemed like the rich white kids were taking their toys and going home, rather than sharing the playground with the rich black kids like other krewes had done.
So rather than ending on the mystical, sparkling, glorious note that the Comus parade usually provided, the celebrations on the last day of the Carnival season just slowly and drunkenly ground to a halt.
We walked out of the Quarter onto Canal Street that night, and there were just cars. It was depressing, so we grabbed a taxi to head Uptown, maybe get some food and then turn in early for a change.
I tried making conversation with the cab driver. "It's too bad there isn't any Comus parade any more. It feels weird not having a parade tonight to close things out."
And the cabbie, misunderstanding my meaning, responded, "Yeah, those goddamn niggers on the city council fucked up everything for everybody."
And I lost it.
Those of you who remember my drinking days have probably seen me in drunken rant mode. It was like that, only I'd been drinking since before Zulu that morning, I had spent the entire weekend trying to convince Gina that not everything that she saw in New Orleans that looked like racism really was racism, and this dumb cracker-ass cabbie had fucked up all my hard work, and I was pissed.
He got a nonstop earful, a stream-of-consciousness expletive-laced drunken rant all the way from Canal Street to Audubon Park, weaving in Malcolm X and the Klan and Stephen Biko and George Bush and Hitler and probably fucking James Brown and Elvis and the Last Poets, and by the time he finished running red lights to get to our destination and get rid of us I think I had ended up somewhere around the potato famine and Bloody Sunday and wasn't-it-a-fucking-shame-what-the-IRA-did-to-Michael-Collins, and I was still ranting when I paid him and didn't tip him and slammed the door and he called me a fucking asshole and peeled off down St. Charles, probably so he could fuck off back to Harvey and beat his wife and kids.
I vaguely remember asking Gina, "Too much?"
And she said, "No, you did good. He was a jerk."
Posted by ray at February 18, 2006 5:12 PM | Permalink
Categories: [new orleans ]
Comments
Good for you!
Posted by: Tim P. at February 18, 2006 11:34 PM
I second that.
Posted by: Whirly at February 19, 2006 2:06 PM
Michael Collins AND Malcolm X.
Damn, you good, bra!
Posted by: ashley Morris at February 19, 2006 11:23 PM
HEE hee hee hee hee hee hee!!!!
Yes, you DID do good, boy!
There's still plenty of good old-fashioned white Krewe socialite racism Uptown. Did you hear about the broom someone left on Dorothy Mae Taylor's doorstep once, with a note saying something like she needed to get out of politics and go be a maid? You can't tell ME that wasn't a Peggy Wilson supporter...
R.
Posted by: Robin at February 20, 2006 6:47 PM
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