All For A Mardi Gras Day Part 1

Mardi Gras is a phenomenon.  It is challenging to relate its details, imagery, and feeling to anyone foreign to the experience.  Last year, I spent several days after the festival scribbling in notebooks and thwacking at my computer’s keyboard in some foggy attempt to explain what I saw and felt, but all of it was unintelligible.  I could have stayed sober, took notes, asked questions, and stood to the side, but Mardi Gras demands participation, and to abstain from it is to misunderstand it altogether, and what fun would that be.

            This year I'd like to creep up on it from a different angle in an effort to explain it.  To write about Mardi Gras in anticipation, to describe the days before it arrives and take part in its preparation by joining a krewe.  There is a favorite song by Dr. John, “All on a Mardi Gras Day,” about the day itself, but it is easy to forget that such revelry requires commitment, spirit, and sweat in preparation for it.  The following posts, turning that phrase, shall be dedicated to that idea, the active anticipation of my new favorite day of the year, “All for a Mardi Gras Day.”  The first post is introductory and explains why I joined a krewe: 

                If you search the internet for the origins of Mardi Gras you’ll get a myriad of possibilities.  The holiday dates back as early three hundred years ago or as late as four thousands years ago.  Some historians link the holiday to Lupercalia, a Roman festival of fertility and spring cleansing that honored the she-wolf Lupa and the forest God Pan.   In my first Mardi Gras, I superficially drew my mythological inspiration from Bacchus, who I always associated with the wild rites of spring and my own desire to drink and be merry and let loose.  But Pan, perhaps, was much wilder.  He was half-man and half-goat. He had a large penis.  He once seduced the moon.  He was audacious enough to challenge Apollo to a musical competition, and according to poor Midas, Pan won.  Apollo gave Midas donkeys ears in retribution.  Later, Pan died, the only God that ever superceded his own limits of immortality.  To celebrate him, Roman men ran the streets naked and slap women’s backsides in stride. 

            Others say that the Catholic Church invented Mardi Gras by creating Carnival season as a persuasive tool to convince Pagans to give up their savage rituals and prepare for Christian lent.  A day of all-you-can-sin merriment before 40 days of piousness.  Carnival’s latin roots are in the word Carneleveman, meaning Farewell to Flesh.   Mardi Gras, as we recognize it today, began on the bank of the Mississippi, sixty miles south of New Orleans, and more than three hundred years ago.  The French explorer, Iberville, landed on the bank, and recognizing that France was celebrating Fat Tuesday, founded the first Mardi Gras in the region, naming the bend of land Point du Mari Gras.   The festival grew over the centuries.  Walking parades featured masked men and mules--instead of tractor engines--pulled the floats.  Even then, the people were wild, and violence almost halted the festivities.  Officials tried to stop the holiday but the people simply liked it too much.  The parades got bigger. The floats got bigger.  Women and black men created their own krewes, fomenting the notion that Mardi Gras stardom is accessible to everyone, not just wealthy white business men from the Garden District.  And now, Mardi Gras, today brings in more than a billion dollars of revenue to the city, cementing its necessity to the people and the government.  All in all, that is long history of partying. 

          My first Mardi Gras was a blur.  It is hard to describe the toll six days of city-wide partying and loss of inhibition takes on the mind and body.  It took days to get my life back in order, and what I was left with was some hodge-podge of incongruous images as memories. Jesus and a female bunny-human standing on top of a hippie van.  An army of revelers with boxes of wine feeding pedestrians on St. Charles Avenue being led by a guerilla marching band and a faun.  A student telling a story about running away from gun shots on Claiborne Avenue while eating a snowball, "I kept running, fast, but I never let go of it.  It was good," he said and rubbed his belly.  A Jew for Jesus rabbi playing guitar on the levee, singing folk songs in the key of G about our sins, "She has super-gonorrhea 3," he sang, and "Is his penis circumsized?/I don't really know"   And a 25 foot long steampunk Trojan horse on Mardi Gras morning. 

        The warhorse was an emblem of the experience.  A singular image that made sense only at Mardi Gras.  Confirmation that all of it was real and unreal.  Two dozen warriors from the Krewe of Ragnarock pushed it through the Marigny and into the French Quarter. It blared rock music and had a cannon that fired confetti and purple smoke.  I tried to board it but a warrior blocked  me with his plastic sword.  "I don't think so," he said. "You'll have to sign a waiver."  I was in no state to sign waivers. 

         But a year later I found a different way to board the horse.  To pay my dues and join the Krewe of Ragnarock, the revelers responsible for its construction, and for planning its reincarnation in this year's St. Ann's Parade.  It will be a different experience.  I will not be directionless, sporting the go-where-you-wanna spirit, sniffing out trails of fun (a fundog?).  Instead I will have an anchor.  The horse.  Its corrugated plastic head my compass.  But a warhorse is not born but made.  There are 48 days until Fat Tuesday.  And a lot of work to do in preparation for the party.

Check out the Krewe of Ragnarock online for some amazing photographs and background.  http://www.kreweofragnarok.com/

Primary (School) Election Coverage

Note: I rarely write about my job and students because there are instances of teachers who do so exploitatively, and I am sensitive to that.  Nevertheless, elementary school students provide such amazing contexts and perspectives on certain issues because of three of their most common and admirable characteristics:  they are honest, they know what they like and don't like, and they're not afraid to tell you.  Because of this, I really enjoyed experiencing election season with them; their political attitudes are refreshingly antithetical to media pundits.  I hope you enjoy this snapshot of that attitude...   All student names are changed. 

            

 A student's coloring:

           Most of my students were 2 or 3 years old when Obama was first elected.  The significance of electing our first African-American president doesn’t dawn on them in a historical sense, but they are quick to recognize that Obama looks like them—that he is not only black, but he is powerful and black.  He’s a star.  He evokes more ambition than any black musician, athlete, or historical hero has ever presented to them, especially in this early stage of life, when they remain little and dreamy and every opportunity still feels like a growth spurt away. 

            Their teachers were excited too.  We also have our hopes and dreams.  How different is leading a classroom than leading a nation?  To channel this excitement our 2^nd grade team ran a “teacher for president” election   Ms. B ran under the platform that she baked cookies and wanted all the kids to go to college.  Ms. T said she saved puppies and believed in peace.  Ms. W shamelessly advertised that she voted for Obama in 2008.  I ran under the platform that we should have Saturday school, extra homework, less recess, and eat chicken foot soup for lunch every day.  I was not interested in moderate politics, in centrist facades, and soft issues; I wanted the children to understand there were real differences in the candidates and that it was their obligation to vote based on issues instead of who they liked more.

            More than 100 scholars showed up to the polls in their classrooms.  I received 7 votes.  I failed to appeal to my base.  Ms. W won by a slim margin.  There was no recount. 

            The Monday before Election Day I held a more relevant election between Romney and Obama.  I thought back to the 2008 election when  I was working in a South Boston classroom and we had run a similar mock election.  There were two white kids in the class that came from traditional Irish Southie families just outside the Old Colony and Broadway Projects.   They were the only two children to vote for McCain.  Their reasons were clear: “Obama is a terrorist from Kenya.”  “Obama will blow up our country.” 

            The black and Hispanic kids started to pressure me.  “You’re voting for McCain because you’re white.”  I had vowed never to reveal my leanings, but went back on my word to disband their developing theory that people vote for the candidates that most closely reflect their skin color.  I wondered if I would have to play the same role again four years later.

            In my class in New Orleans I told the kids that before they vote they should know more about both candidates and to keep an open mind.  “You might learn something about Romney that you might really like.”  Chance, a bright but squirmy challenge to my daily patience, looked me in the eye, and said “Hmmm…maybe I’ll vote for Romney.”  Then he flopped onto his back on the carpet and pencil-rolled into the girl next to him.  I made him go back to his seat.

            Together we read a profile list from Time For Kids comparing the candidates. 

            “Obama’s wife's name is Michelle.  Romney’s wife is Anne.”  The room was quiet to start but it got louder as went down the list.

            “Obama’s favorite sport is basketball.”  Mild cheers.   “Romney’s is baseball.”  Soft boos.

            “Obama loves pizza and chili.”  Wild claps, Nate, another bright but mobile child, gets out of his seat and pumps his fist.

            “Romney loves meatloaf.”  A loud, collective groan.  A child blurts out, “oooh, disgusting!”  I don’t mention that we all ate meatloaf two days ago for lunch and it was delicious.

            The room grew louder, a piston of cheers and heckling with each item on the list until we got to the bottom.

            “Obama’s hero is Martin Luther King Jr.”  Nate leaps from his seat and into the air and starts to scream.  Kids bang on their desks and holler in approval.  Chance does a half-twist in his chair and swings at the air in excitement.

              I motioned for them to calm-down.

            “Romney’s hero is….Ronald Reagan.”  The room erupted.  Kids banged their desks in disapproval.  They booed and jeered. “No, Reagan, No!” a girl shouted, mimicking a book called No, David, No about a wild and mischievous boy who breaks all the rules.  It took us two minutes to settle down.  I made them put their heads down on their desks for a few seconds before they colored in their electoral maps. 

            Obama won 23-1 in our class.  Romney’s only vote came from one of the sweeter girls in the class, who can’t yet read, but liked the way Romney looked on our pictorial ballot.

          

           The next day our school was closed because it was a main polling place of the French Quarter.  It was a special school and indirectly has had its hand in politics and history before, having educated Truman Capote, Richard Simmons, and more importantly, Lee Harvey Oswald. 

            I voted at the Holy Rosary School on the Bayou.   I entered through a small stairwell room adorned with extra desks and a small fenced-in statue of the Virgin Mary.  After I voted I noticed a picture of the Pope on the wall. 

            I went to another school to observe other 2^nd grade teachers and take notes.  In one classroom the teacher asked the kids to write about the election.  It was clear they had written about the subject before and some looked tired of it. One girl, though, sat at her desk and thought for several minutes before writing.  Her pencil never left the paper once she started.  “I think Rockobana will win.  The white man will lose.”  Her handwriting was perfect.

The Empire Builder Pt. 1

Eastern Washington

The Empire Builder

            My train was scheduled to leave Seattle at 4:40 pm, but we were all stuck at the Canadian border waiting to be let into the States.  Our bus driver, Jack, was Canadian-Asian, a small happy man that shuffled while he talked and laughed, which was often.  He spoke pidgin English and loved to make grand gestures and jokes.  When I had boarded the train, all my tickets for my trip were stapled together.  Jack tore off the ticket for Seattle then investigated the rest, as if preparing to interrogate me.  His face was serious. He stopped shuffling to look at them.

            “Wes Glacier,” he said.  “Where is that?” 

            “Montana,” I said. 

            “Ahhh,” he leafed through the other stops, Minneapolis, Chicago, Pittsburgh. He lip-read each quietly.

            “An adventure,” he said then smiled at me and handed me the tickets. 

            At the border we waited behind four other buses that were deboarding to have their passports and luggage scrutinized.  While we waited Jack mock-interrogated the passengers that didn’t have U.S. passports.  He held their customs forms high in the air against the light; he stopped shuffling, put his neck back and stood very stiffly.  His face was intensely, cartoonishly serious.  He was pretending to be American.

            “And what you doing in the States?” he asked a fellow Chinese passenger.  He interrogated three Asian passengers with Chinese passports and encouraged each of them.  “You are good.  They will let you in.”  Then he’d throw back his head, shuffle and laugh.

            After we were ordered off the bus, Jack stood with us in line at customs.  The line was long and my train would leave in less than two hours.  A couple reassured me that we might still make it.  

            “I hear we are only an hour and a half from Seattle,” I said to Jack.

            “By plane.”

            “How far by bus?”

            “Two and a half hours.”

            “We won’t make it,” I said.  I was resigned and calm about this fate.  After my last border crossing I could no longer be ruffled. 

            Jack shrugged, shuffled, smiled, “Anything can happen.”  He said this twice more before we boarded the bus.  Then he announced he would make an unscheduled stop in Everett, Washington to drop off the five passengers trying to board the Empire Builder due west.  The train was heading north and we were headed south.  By stopping in Everett, we would head it off before it turned west. 

            A good or bad driver determines the fate of your experience.  Aside from your safety, their job is to get you to your destination, but some drivers are strict about their company policy, and they adhere to every rule, regardless of passengers’ circumstances.  Some drivers are more concerned about staying on schedule then who gets where.  I am not the only one to be left behind for marginal miscalculations, or because of the strictness of the driver. 

            Jack was a good driver.   He balanced flexibility, personal judgment, and policy, and took it upon himself to make sure we got where we wanted to go.  He asked if there were any objections on the bus to his change of schedule, and while I am sure a few riders wanted to protest, nobody did, because nobody wanted to cross Jack’s good humor and generosity, or because they didn’t speak English. 

Everett Train Station

            “You’re the best driver I’ve had,” I told him when I got off.  He shrugged and smiled and shuffled back onto the bus.  He stood at the front and faced his remaining passengers, told an unintelligible joke in pidgin English then threw his head back and laughed wildly to himself.  Then he drove away.

            The Empire Builder runs 2,206 miles to Chicago from either Portland or Seattle.  I had thought the grand name was due to the location and length of the track, a set of rails that originates in the hub of the Midwest and squirms across frontiers of North America that often still remain unpopulated.  Instead, the train was named after James Hill, the ambitious owner of Great Northern Railway who first laid the track and operated the line.  It takes 45 hours, not only because of the length, but because of the geography, which is formidable in Washington and Montana.  The train can reach speeds of 79 miles per hour, but because of frequent stops and mountains, it only averages 50 mph during the trip.  I broke it up into three segments to enjoy my time on the line, with my first stop scheduled the next morning in West Glacier, a railroad depot just outside Glacier National Park..    

            When I boarded the train, the clouds dissipated and the sun came out, the first time I’d seen it since I left California. 

            The woman in front of me covered her eyes.  “What is that great big globe of light in the sky,” she cried, “It’s blinding!”  Later, double rainbows appeared over the lakes of Eastern Washington, one of the most beautiful stretches of earth I had seen out a window. 

            A representative from the National Parks Service narrated the sights out, the flora and fauna, the waterfalls, and the industrial histories that once flourished at the peak of railroad travel, but are now empty and small. In some cases, the depot was abandoned, now just a sight out the window, a footnote, and not worth the minute needed to stop and start again.

            The natural history was beautiful.  Man’s part in it was violent.   To make a railroad you have to thread rock, carve a line through the earth so that you can pass you can pass through it quickly and safely.  It required a lot of sweat equity, a lot of men paid very little hacking away at the land and rock and guiding crude machines.  It required a lot of dynamite. 

            We passed through North Cascades Tunnel, which is the longest tunnel of its type at 7.8 miles.  It is just narrow enough to fit a train, so narrow that as we entered it, it looked like would crash into its walls.  A guide shined a flashlight out the window.  The tunnel wall was only inches away.  It took Northern Railroad three years, from 1926-1928, to build it.  They used dynamite often.  Even back then, they didn’t just lay the explosives against the rock and light a fuse as I might have imagined.  They used complex machinery to drill pressurized holes then line the holes with explosives. Each detonation gained them eight feet of space.  They used five million pounds of dynamite.  It was not common to document fatalities back then, but it’s hard to imagine the operation was conducted without injury, especially because the tunnel often flooded during construction.  The result was that freight and passenger trains cut 12 miles of zig-zagging from their route and the tracks and trains were less vulnerable to avalanche damage. 

           

             We emerged on the other side of the tunnel and the views resumed.  Great tall ponderosas and lodgepole pines fenced the track.  Firs and cedars lined class-five rapids a few shades greener than the evergreens around them. Wildflowers dot the ferns like periods under the pines. 

            In the Northwest it stays light until almost 10 pm.  I watched the woods out the window instead of reading, writing, drinking, talking.  It looked the way I imagined North America looked centuries ago, before we settled it with cities and towns, paved roads and laid track, blew holes into mountains.  I watched until it was finally night, and it was just like the tunnel, a plunge into darkness.  Except there was no wall inches from the window, but the open range of the Rockies and evergreen forests, the waters still running fast over rocks and fallen pines, all of it there but invisible, and only the imagination capable of predicating the possibilities to see how green it really was, even in the dark. 

            I imagined it until I fell asleep.  When I woke up it was light again and we were entering Glacier National Park, where the peaks were higher and snow-capped,  the lakes bigger and more clear, and I packed my bags and prepared to get off the train again.