St. Joseph’s Night and Super Sunday were my sole reason for this visit to New Orleans, so with a whole Saturday afternoon to myself, I went wandering. One of my many stops was Congo Square.
On this gorgeous and rare 75-degree day, a huge wedding party posing for pictures, tons of tourists taking their own, college students lounging on the grass, and pre-teen boys who’d lost their football in a tree created vibrant little vignettes all around me, but it all seemed awfully… gentrified. I was disappointed that the only place enslaved people were once allowed to gather in New Orleans felt so modern, sterile, and quite frankly, white.
As I continued exploring, my spirit found a bit of comfort. Someone had lovingly placed yellow roses on a relief depicting the history of Congo Square, and in the middle of the square’s biggest rosette tile circle.
But just a few steps from Congo Square in Louis Armstrong Park, a statue in the likeness of the Black Masking Indians’ beloved Big Chief Allison “Tootie” Montana of the Yellow Pocahontas tribe had red roses at his feet. The sudden realization of their significance took my breath away. These roses were offerings to the African orishas. Yellow to symbolize Oshun’s divinity and destiny, and red for Shango, warrior orisha of lightning, thunder, fire, drums and dance.
My historically and culturally significant evening was already leaving bread crumbs.
When I returned the next afternoon for the Congo Square Preservation Society’s reproduction of our ancestors’ weekly Sunday drum circle tradition, the Square had a little more color, but rhythmless tourists interfered with the sense of community I expected, and I slowly edged my way out in search of more authenticity.
Just before I turned away, a stark white flash caught my eye, signaling the arrival of the most captivating African goddess. She stomped into the circle moving to her own rhythm, and beautifully disrupting the whole scene. The other “dancers” cleared away from her orbit inside the drums and the crowd, as she absolutely lost herself in the beat. At least 5 minutes passed as each and every bystander became utterly smitten and totally transfixed by her. Then almost as quickly as she’d appeared, she and two companions (or should I call them attendants?) who looked on with the rest of the crowd, vanished back into the city.
Saturday’s yellow and red rose offerings had been cleared by Sunday, but there’s no doubt in my mind that they’d done their work.
where i wandered:
where joy wanders 