I came at Mardi Gras originally with the view of an outsider. We had family friends in the river parishes of South Louisiana that we visited every year of my childhood (usually in February) for what I could only assume, at the time, was the magic that permeated the place year-round. Nobody told me at first that it was a holiday. I just assumed everyone in South Louisiana gleaned their nutrition from steaming piles of shellfish heaped onto newspaper-lined picnic tables and danced in the street to marching bands while shiny coins and beads rained down from the heavens. Eventually I pieced it together, but the magic remained. Some kids had Disneyland—I had Thibodaux at Mardi Gras. It’s funny to recall now, but in the moment it was the most surreal and wonderful thing; I looked forward to it for 11 months every year. Another anomaly that befuddled my tiny child brain: drinking. I came from a Southern Baptist home in Alabama with a father whose family had a nasty lineage of alcoholism, so I never saw a beer in the fridge. No knowledge of a daiquiri (drive- thru or otherwise) existed in my universe. My mom has never been much of a drinker (save for the occasional Singapore Sling) but my dad allows himself to imbibe a few beers when out fishing with friends.
One particular Mardi Gras, he allowed himself much more. My brother and I had been hounding my parents for months for stupidly expensive tennis shoes. Rightfully, they denied us, on the basis of it being totally ridiculous to cough up $200 for a pair of shoes for a human whose feet were growing at an astonishing rate.
Cut to the parade: Dad has a bit too much, gets a bit too loose, as down the street comes a band. My normally reserved father begins to boogie and demands that my brother and I join in.
We sheepishly decline, still very aware of our foreigner status in this weird, magical world of Mardi Gras. He says the only words we need to hear: if you dance, I’ll buy you those shoes. BAM. Commence the boogie. And commence the worst hangover I ever witnessed someone have (before college, that is). I will never forget my mother’s hissing, insistent words as he hung over the toilet the next morning: “You did this to yourself and I don’t feel the least bit sorry for you. Get your ass off that floor and take these kids to the mall. We don’t make promises we can’t keep.” And that’s how Mardi Gras once granted me a $200 pair of Adidas that I quickly grew out of. Pure magic, you see?! So here’s to keeping that magic alive. Have a happy, safe Mardi Gras!
