Children of the Realm

In New Orleans, the indoctrination of children into the rituals of Carnival begins practically at infancy. People from all walks of life cherish photos and memories of being dressed up in costumes lovingly sewn by their mothers. And something about the archetypical sounds and sights of the parades--the rhythmic excitement of marching bands, the vividly colored storybook floats and the mysterious riders showering beads and baubles into the outstretched arms of cheering throng--sinks deep into the population's psyche. So much so that even in one's advancing years, long after the childhood thrill of Christmas morning has faded, the mere sound a drum roll heralding the approach of a parade can bring tingles of anticipation and, if only for a fleeting moment, summon the lost innocence of youth.

Costume closets, king cake parties, watching parades from atop festively festooned ladders and wielding butterfly nets to snag airborne trinkets--all are part of the experience of growing up in Carnivaldom.  And if all this weren't enough to induce allegiance to the festivities, there's the fact that the children of the realm are freed from their studies--not just on Mardi Gras, but for the better part of a week.

If there's an occasional downside, it's one that children the world over can relate to: parents with all sorts of fancy ideas about using a festive occasion to show off offspring to their supposed best advantage. In his memoir Under a Hoodoo Moon: The Life of Dr. John the Night Tripper (St. Martin's Press), Mac Rebennack says that his mother was "cool" although she was always, "pushing me to be with society-type people. One year she finagled to get me into a kids' Mardi Gras ball. She did me up a costume, a little prince's outfit or some such thing: I was getting into the get-up, but when she hit me with a wig I freaked. I hollered, threw the wig across the room and refused to wear it; she had to do a lot of calming me down before I let her put it back on."

But mama, who had a business making hoop skirts for girls and women who attended Carnival balls, would seem to have triumphed in the long run. In fashioning his conjureman Dr. John persona in the late 1960s, Rebennack took to wearing elaborate headdresses and plumes, and necklaces of bones and beads.

"One woman, Sadie Hayes, made me a suit of alligator, snake and lizard skin with chamois in between to hook it all up.," he recalls in his book. "When I put on that uniform, I looked like Frankenstein coming down the street. When this stuff started coming apart in pieces, I had to start hanging around taxidermy shops big time, scavenging new material to help put things back together."