I wasn’t even supposed to be in New Orleans that weekend.

I had a client shoot scheduled in Los Angeles the following week, and just thinking about hopping from Austin to New Orleans to Los Angeles was overwhelming. My travels thus far have taught me that when the planning is already too complicated, it’s time to reconsider. Things just work out… or you’ll find out the hard way when they don’t.

Still, what if the next year took me further than just a day’s drive from New Orleans? I was torn.

Then my shoot was pushed back a week.

And my resource manager strongly encouraged me to take my first vacation of the year.

So with things clearly working themselves out, I took that cosmic gift at face value and decided to go.

It was literally the week before. VERY short notice to go so far for so long, but here we were. So much had fallen into place that the least I could do was put in a little effort to seal the deal.

Easier said than done, OF COURSE.

Because that weekend was also St. Patrick’s Day and the Italian St. Joseph’s Parade too, so reasonably priced places to stay less than a week out were SCARCE. A few local friends have graciously extended their standing invitation, but this trip called for a very particular vibe.

For St. Joseph’s Day and Super Sunday, Treme (or the 6th Ward, as my new friends taught me later) or Uptown were a must.

So I begrudgingly increased my total booking price, swearing I wouldn’t do this rookie shit again. But it brought me an absolute gem. This home was just a few blocks from the New Orleans African-American Museum and its Third Saturday celebration, around the corner from the Backstreet Cultural Museum that preserves suits and artifacts of Black Masking Indians past and present, and literally across the street from St. Augustine Catholic Church, the oldest Black Catholic parish in the country.

SOLD, TAKE MY MONEY.

Friday night, I drove in. Saturday, I went wandering. As soon as I stepped out the front door, three older ladies struck up the warmest conversation with me and made sure I’d be back later because “the Indians gon’ be runnin’ all through here ta’nite.” I asked where, and they looked around as one of them swept her arms one after the other, “All up and down here. One of ‘em live right back there.” A couple houses behind me, an Indian suit was laid out behind the slats of a worn wooden gate I’d peeked into earlier that day. I was thrilled that I’d get to see it up close without going far, and that my investment in this house was already paying off.

Now with something worth being back for, I hurried off to a full day at the NOAAM, roaming Armstrong Park and Congo Square, and shopping the boutiques on Royal Street. I finally stopped to grab a bite to eat when things turned tragic. I’d left my vax card in the car, and the few places I’d actually want to eat in the Quarter all required it. Since I refuse to settle when it comes to food in New Orleans, the temperature was dropping quickly as the sun dipped into the Mississippi, and my shoe choice could definitely have been more sensible, I headed home hungry instead.

Mentally salivating over all the options, I autopiloted my way back. Only a block away, my culinary reverie broke when I looked up to see a petite but powerful presence standing on the corner of Governor Nicholls and Henriette Delille like an oracle in my path.

She wore a teal blue silk slip, moccasins, and a simple blue bandana on her head, and even without knowing exactly who she was, I definitely recognized what she was, and was so starstruck that I can’t recall how our conversation began, only that it quite simply and very effortlessly did.

Still, she shifted and shuffled anxiously as she watched other tribes starting to show up and show out. Hers hadn’t arrived yet, and I didn’t have anywhere to be, so we just talked. I asked which tribe, and I’d barely gotten the question out before she raised her voice loud and proud to respond, “CREOLE WILD WEST, CREOLE WILD WEST!!”

Straight chills.

Here I was casually holding conversation in New Orleans’ oldest Black neighborhood with a matriarch and culture bearer of the oldest tribe of Black Masking Indians.

We kept chatting at the corner while she waited, but as more and more feathered headdresses began appearing on the streets, I could feel that she wanted to get out there too.

Just then she turned to me, “Would you mind assisting?”

I’m certain my jaw dropped while I grasped for a response that could even begin to encompass both my surprise and gratitude.

“I would be HONORED. OF COURSE,” I gushed. Hardly my most eloquent moment, but whatever. I floated behind as she led the way to her car.

Almost directly across from the Tomb of the Unknown Slave, I became her handmaiden.

I choked back tears as I cradled her hip-length micro-locs, braided on both sides and sheathed in silk and gemstones, guiding them through her neckline as she pulled on her suit.

I fastened her jeweled collar, then kneeled at her feet to secure the ties at her waist.

I held my breath as I hooked each of her delicately beaded panels to the rows of eyes sewn across her shoulders and chest.

She placed her crown, and I helped straighten it.

Over and over, I thanked her for this blessing because of all the things I imagined would come of this trip, THIS had not even entered the realm of possibility.

Somewhere along the way, I asked her if the Indians always come out in the 6th Ward since I’d expected the St. Joseph’s Night festivities to be Uptown.

Not all of them, but “this my old ‘hood,” she replied. “I grew up right there. That whole bottom level was my house.”

I followed her finger as it pointed directly where we’d just stood.

“Ms. Rukiya, NOT THAT HOUSE RIGHT THERE?”

She nodded.

“The pink house on the corner?!” Honestly, she was perfectly clear the first time, but I was so dumbstruck I had to be doubly sure. She nodded again.

“Queen, I’m sorry, I just… I’M STAYING IN THAT HOUSE.” I pointed again.

“That’s the one! Used to be a lil’ black cat come sit out on the church doorstep, and I’d look out the window in the mornin’ to see my lil’ cat friend just swishin’ his tail…”

I’d looked out that window to the church steps myself, counting the bells tolling that morning and wondering how many souls over the centuries had paused their lives in homes long gone from these ancient streets to do the very same. A few hours later, here I stood with one of them.

But I didn’t say all that. Instead, I joked that after revealing all of these secrets, now she was telling me she was a Black cat lady too?! We laughed together over her finishing touches.

Now fully dressed and utterly transformed from the mysterious oracle at the corner to the proud peacock, Big Queen Rukiya went to dazzle her growing court of onlookers. She danced and sang in the tradition of her Black Masking and Chahta Indian ancestors, she graciously posed for pictures with anyone and everyone who asked. And when any Black woman complimented her suit and the beautiful beaded lady she’d created there, Big Queen was quick to respond, “This is for us! This is for US!”

As I’d dressed her, a vibrant trio of Black women came upon us and I quickly befriended them as we watched St. Joseph’s Night come alive around us. When I told them how I’d not only helped dress Big Queen Rukiya, but also learned I was staying in her former home, one of my new friends thanked me. At a bit of a loss for words, I asked why.

“Because you must be doing something very right for the ancestors to have given you this blessing.”

And that’s when all the tears I held back in the presence of the Queen finally came pouring. Because I knew that in a few moments with all of these women from separate paths that crossed at exactly the right moment, my soul had been seen, this journey and my storytelling had been validated, and the whole of the universe undeniably confirmed that my footsteps are leading exactly where I’m meant to be.

(P.S. I noticed later that Big Queen Rukiya does indeed make an appearance in my 2020 post about the Black Masking Indians. See her, the history of the Black Masking Indians, and many more Black American stories past and present at my other blog, TheAmericanBlackstory.com)

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where i wandered: