The Freedom of Mardi Gras

You really can’t explain Mardi Gras. You have to experience it.

Yes, there are spectacular costumes with intricate details and lustrous sparkling colors.

And yes, the marching bands are a phenomenal symphony of sounds; the revelry a spectacle. (See the St. Augustine Purple Knights)

The creativity, with its awe inducing attention to detail and purpose, is unmatched. (See Mardi Gras Indians)

But there’s something else.

Like the spirit of many things - it cannot be contained or captured.

For 20 something odd days, the city of New Orleans transforms into a magical, mystical world. 

Mardi Gras miracles happen. 

When you show up in the street for Mardi Gras, it doesn’t matter who you are, what you do, or where you come from.

It’s not uncommon for people to welcome neighbors, friends, and even passersby into their homes. And if you’re lucky, they might even let you use their bathroom - an amenity that is hard to come by in the thick of Mardi Gras.

Families follow long-held sacred rituals. Krewes gather, sometimes in-secret, to plan and party extravagantly.

There is a spirit of liveliness that cannot be emulated. So much so, that every year on Ash Wednesday, the day following Fat Tuesday, you can feel the low, dank energy throughout the city after the carnival high has dissipated.

The freedom of Mardi Gras is exhilarating.

---

A little Mardi Gras attire to welcome the arrival of our son, Jaad.

---

My son, Jaad, is a Mardi Gras baby.

He rolled into the world like a king on March 1, 2022.

He was due on February 26, as it approached, there were no signs that he was ready to arrive. So I asked my doctor if I could do The Mardi Gras a little bit. She said walking is good for expectant mothers.

And walk I did.

I basked in the love of friends and strangers alike as they rubbed my belly and gave me blessings. I wanted the spirit of Mardi Gras in him.

I’d like to believe it worked, because Jaad is one wildly fun, high-spirited little boy. And if I had any doubt, he has been spotted trotting around the house buck naked with his Mardi Gras beads on. Some kids have security blankets, my kid has security beads.

But this year, I know Mardi Gras will feel different for me.

I will take my son to parades because I know he will be delighted by the exuberant sights and sounds; point out the costumes and floats to him; hoist him onto my shoulders and show him how to catch those coveted throws.

But in between the beautiful blur of Mardi Gras, looming in my mind will be the children of Palestine.

Because despite my best efforts, this war has shadowed every aspect of my life. From putting a hold on grief to finding meaning in the holidays despite so much needless agony.

It’s impossible for me to see the abundance and privilege in my own son’s life, without being acutely aware of the suffering and deprivation of Palestinian children just like him.

So, I will try to temporarily shake off the thoughts that have haunted me for the past 115? days, the painful irony of being surrounded by festivity and revelry, when their reality is grim and unfathomable.

Try to imagine an existence where they can experience joy without the threat of danger hovering above and around them at every turn.

Wish that they were lifting their arms desperately to the sky for toys and beads, rather than flour and water.

I will say a silent prayer.

And when the parades end, and the bands recede, the costumes are put away, and the streets are swept clean, I will go back to dreaming about a future where children in Palestine are as free as the spirit of Mardi Gras.