Krewe Jeanne d'Arc, and parades as stories
The first parade of Carnival has only rolled for 14 years, but its model is very, very old.
In mid-December, when moving to NOLA seemed touch and go, Krewe Jeanne d’Arc posted a call on Facebook for volunteer foot soldiers for their parade. I wanted to do it but wasn’t sure we’d be there in time.
As a foot soldier, KJoA outfits you in basic medieval garb and gives you a simple job: banner-holder, prop-wrangler, crowd-interactor. In hindsight, I’m sad I didn’t do it, and that regret was sharpest when I saw this year’s dragon puppet. The last time I wore medieval garb was in high school when I attended Pennsic with my big sis. My SCA name was “Meriden DeMontefitchit,” and I spent the weekend wearing a chemise and an overdress my sister sewed out of curtain fabric. It was good fun.
But watching the parade was good fun, too — it was described to me by a native as more low-key, DIY, and truly local. It mimics a medieval processional and celebrates Joan’s birthday with “costumes and music, characters on horseback, jugglers, knights, stiltwalkers, giant puppets, king cake and handmade medieval throws.”
A visiting St. Louis friend, who saw the parade accidentally (twice!) ended up with a huge haul of throws, including saint cards, books of matches, and teeny cakes wrapped in cellophane. We caught zero throws, because we were stationed near the steps of St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square — where a priest blesses “Joanie on the Pony,” a local teen on horseback — and the crowd is so thick and deep you don’t catch a thing unless you’re smashed up against the actual street barricades.
The next day, Thomas remarked on how different NOLA parades are from what passes for the same in most American cities: units that consist of a waving politician in a Klassic Kar, corporations with a local HQ who send a crew of poor devils to march together in matching golf shirts, or radio stations doing remotes on flatbed trucks blasting butt-rock songs set to “sonic boom.” There’s always a theme, but rarely, if ever, a narrative.
Parade as theater, theater as parade
In the last decade, neuroscientists have documented how storytelling is hardwired into human brains, down to the molecule. NOLA’s Joan of Arc parade is based on medieval pageants, which always told a story, sometimes the entire history of the world. They often included “Géants et dragons processionnels” (processional giants and dragons), which date back to the 13th century at least.
.jpg){kind=link}
These oversized figures are still carried through the streets in Europe and mostly exist in the U.S. in the bastardized version of, say, giant Pikachus, Snoopys, and Bullwinkles floating over the streets of New York during the Macy’s Day parade.
The Joan of Arc parade, on the other hand, sticks to that ancient model of parade as live storytelling — theater, but not really. Each unit in the parade describes a chapter in Joan’s life — her childhood as a shepherdess; her visions as a young teen of Saints Michael, Margaret, and Catherine; the battle of Orleans; her trial in a kangaroo court, led by Bishop Pierre Cauchon; her burning at the stake; her posthumous retrial and restoration; her sainthood.
Each scene features a different krewe, including Skinz-N-Bonez, who play Joan’s corrupt judges; VFW Women Warriors, a NOLA veterans’ group that portrayed Joan’s battalion; and The Chorus Girl Project dance troupe, who are Joan’s angels in the finale. This year, there was not just a dragon, but a géant: an actor wearing a giant papier-mache pig head, playing Couchon.
The most affecting part of the parade, for me, was the trial. Here’s a spot of amateur cell phone footage (I’ll remember to flip my phone horizonally next time):
It felt, in its own way, as moving as watching Carl Dreyer’s masterpiece, The Passion of Joan of Arc — set to Richard Einhorn’s equally moving Voices of Light, a contemporary classical piece written to be performed with the film. Have I ever been moved almost to tears by a parade? I can safely say: never. My thoughts and feelings ran the full gamut as each unit walked by, from delight to shivers. That’s remarkable, because it’s pretty short parade (designed to be friendly, as the krewe says, “to both young and old legs”).
Even in the time of the coronavirus, the krewe (which I was suprpised to discover has only been parading for the last 14 years) found a way to continue the tradition of telling a story:
The krewe is active all year round, too, embracing “anyone with an interest in Joan of Arc, be they Catholic or non-Catholic, artist or non-artist, French-speaking or not. We are an eclectic, authentic New Orleans blend of whimsical and reverent, sacred and secular, spectacular and contemplative.”
And again, they always take it back to the story: they sponsor a collection of Joan of Arc books at the public library, host book clubs and movie nights. And on January 6, they give New Orleans residents the chance to witness the story Joan’s life, or to play a character in the drama. Fingers crossed, I can report back next year on what it’s like to be a foot solider.
Hey, people! Thank you.
Thanks to everyone who subscribed last week. Historiola launched on a Friday, and this week bumps to Wednesday/Friday posts. Hoping to eventually get to Monday/Wednesday/Friday, including multi-part deep dives. I appreciate you going on this ride with me.
If you haven’t signed up already: my partner, Thomas, writes a newsletter called Newbie Orleans, a one-city travelogue told in sharp, funny vignettes including his take on the Joan of Arc parade, spotting Kermit Ruffins at the grocery store and what may be the most outsider-y outsider art shop in NOLA. It’s always a sparkling, delightful read, full of weird adventures and nifty quick takes. You should subscribe!
Welp, now you’ve sold me on the Joan of Arc parade! I’ve been to Orléans, time to come to N. O. for the rest.