A New Orleans Funeral
I'm so sick of the regular news right now I honestly don't have an opinion on anything at the moment. I'll just write about a special story that was related to me recently.
I spoke with my best friend in Kansas City a few days ago. A group of my buddies went to New Orleans for a big girl's weekend the first part of July. They had been last summer and had a great time; this year, it was just as fun. As usual, I was invited to join them, but, as usual, I could not go due to my work schedule.
My friend was telling me all about the haunted hotel where they stayed, about the shops in the French Quarter where they browsed, and the cute guys wearing fedoras at their favorite restaurant. "You know, I can say that we actually have friends in New Orleans," she added.
Then she spoke more quietly, her tone almost dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
Friend: "We saw a New Orleans funeral."
Me: "NO WAY."
Friend: "We did. One with the Jazz band in front, a horse-drawn hearse...the whole thing."
Me: "Oh my god. How special was that?"
My friend went on to tell me about the funeral they attended. It was more special than I could have even imagined.
"It was for Allison Montana, Chief of Chiefs of the Mardi Gras Indians. His nickname was Tootie. He was at a city council meeting complaining about the police hassling the Indians during a party that spring when he died from a heart attack, right there in front of the mayor and everything."
Here's a link describing the whole event as it went down: Honoring Tootie Montana
Upon hearing about Tootie's funeral from people in the French Quarter, my friends decided to go to the neighborhood where the funeral parade was going to be, even though it was off the beaten paths of New Orleans for them. I ask if this street is now under water, and my friend confirms as much. It was a poorer neighborhood, and everyone was turned out for the funeral procession. My friends were the only white people there and it was not a problem, no one hassled them.
The spectacle of the jazz band, the horse-drawn hearse, and of all the Mardi Gras tribes dressed in their brightly colored, feathery parade costumes, marching down the street in the insane July heat was something that most tourists don't see every day, and most tourists would never see not being as inquisitive as my friends happen to be. I declared the whole event as some kind of sign from God, the universe, or whatever larger-than-you belief that could be ascribed to such a thing; my friend agreed.
Tootie Montana's passing was the end of an era, and now his New Orleans has also passed away. We mourners can only hope the city reincarnates itself into an appropriate approximation of the place it once was.
I spoke with my best friend in Kansas City a few days ago. A group of my buddies went to New Orleans for a big girl's weekend the first part of July. They had been last summer and had a great time; this year, it was just as fun. As usual, I was invited to join them, but, as usual, I could not go due to my work schedule.
My friend was telling me all about the haunted hotel where they stayed, about the shops in the French Quarter where they browsed, and the cute guys wearing fedoras at their favorite restaurant. "You know, I can say that we actually have friends in New Orleans," she added.
Then she spoke more quietly, her tone almost dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
Friend: "We saw a New Orleans funeral."
Me: "NO WAY."
Friend: "We did. One with the Jazz band in front, a horse-drawn hearse...the whole thing."
Me: "Oh my god. How special was that?"
My friend went on to tell me about the funeral they attended. It was more special than I could have even imagined.
"It was for Allison Montana, Chief of Chiefs of the Mardi Gras Indians. His nickname was Tootie. He was at a city council meeting complaining about the police hassling the Indians during a party that spring when he died from a heart attack, right there in front of the mayor and everything."
Here's a link describing the whole event as it went down: Honoring Tootie Montana
Upon hearing about Tootie's funeral from people in the French Quarter, my friends decided to go to the neighborhood where the funeral parade was going to be, even though it was off the beaten paths of New Orleans for them. I ask if this street is now under water, and my friend confirms as much. It was a poorer neighborhood, and everyone was turned out for the funeral procession. My friends were the only white people there and it was not a problem, no one hassled them.
The spectacle of the jazz band, the horse-drawn hearse, and of all the Mardi Gras tribes dressed in their brightly colored, feathery parade costumes, marching down the street in the insane July heat was something that most tourists don't see every day, and most tourists would never see not being as inquisitive as my friends happen to be. I declared the whole event as some kind of sign from God, the universe, or whatever larger-than-you belief that could be ascribed to such a thing; my friend agreed.
Tootie Montana's passing was the end of an era, and now his New Orleans has also passed away. We mourners can only hope the city reincarnates itself into an appropriate approximation of the place it once was.
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