The Mardi Gras Freedom Owl

I woke up at 5 am. I hit the off button and slid out from under the covers. I was excited to start the day because it was Fat Tuesday in New Orleans. I had to be up early to catch the parades. My mom was still snoozing when I got up. But she heard me rustling around, so she got up.

"Hey," my mom said. Do you want some breakfast before you go to the parades?"

I was so excited I didn't think I could eat, but I had to put something in my eager belly.

"Yea, sure, mom," I said with a smile.

She whipped up a smoking plate of grits and eggs with a glass of orange juice.

I ate like I was in the military and ran back to my room to change my clothes. The temperature was a tad bit cooler than usual for this time of year in New Orleans. It was 25 degrees, and the forecast said the temperature would hover around freezing. So I bundled up in my long johns and jeans, two pairs of socks, and the most enormous coat I could find.

I looked like an Eskimo because only a few patches of my brown skin shone thru.

"Edward," my mom yelled from the kitchen. "Mr. Tolliver just called and said he is ready to go." I grabbed my bag for all the beads and trinkets I hoped to collect and bounced my 17-year-old frame into the kitchen.

"I've been waiting all year for this day, mom," I said excitedly. "Mr. Tolliver is cool to hang with."

Mr. Tolliver and his wife lived next door to us. He would always come out on his porch in the evening to sit. I would go outside and look for him so we could talk. One evening a year ago, we were talking about Mardi Gras. I never really went because my dad was always working and never volunteered to take a day off and take me. He was never home, and I missed him, but his priority was work over family time.

Mr. Tolliver was a 65-year-old smooth skin black man who retired from construction 10 years ago. His hands were those of a working man-tough and calloused. He was so skinny that our neighbors nicknamed him "Stick" His eyes were laced with a quiet wisdom.

"I've been to Mardi Gras one time," I told Mr. Tolliver

"Really, just once, and you've lived here all your life." His eyes lit up. "Boy, you're missing sumthing. I get up at the butt crack of dawn every year to go to Mardi Gras. It's the shit, son."

Mr. Tolliver is a colorful old man, I thought.

He turned and looked at me. "Do you wanna come with me, boy?"

"Man, you would take me with you? You must be joking."

"Naw Edward, I mean it. Why not?" He put a bony hand under his chin. "I've been going alone for years. Dolly's health doesn't let her come with me anymore. I miss her hanging with me, but I understand why she can't."

I saw the sadness in his face when he talked about his beloved Dolly. She developed arthritis in both knees and could only walk short distances. "I could use the company, son. My kids are long gone, and they got their own stuff to worry about. I like you, Edward, and you are great company for me on these humid ass Louisiana nights."

"I would love to, sir."

"Alright then, but I will leave yo ass if you're late." A smile shimmered across his face. "You'll watch it on t.v, and I might wave at you if I catch the camera."

His skinny frame shook with a belly laugh that came from the bottom of his shoes.

I kissed my mom while she pushed a 10-dollar bill into my hand and ushered me out the door.

"That's for lunch, and have fun," she yelled.

"Thanks, Mom." And I ran out the gate to Mr. Tolliver's warm and waiting pickup truck.

"Well, son, glad you made it out on time. I was just about to back this beast out and leave you in that pink house you live in." A smile graced his thin lips as he said this snarky comment. I smiled back and buckled up.

We hit the interstate and headed to the heart of Mardi Gras. Unfortunately, we lived in a suburb of New Orleans, so we had to drive about 15 minutes to get to the action.

"I think I am going to take you to the 7th ward to see something special."

"What," I asked with curiosity.

"You'll see, ok?"

"Sure, Mr. Tolliver"

We made small talk as we sped to whatever it was he wanted me to see. I was excited to find out. Finally, we exited near downtown and turned on St. Bernard Avenue. We parked near a pharmacy and got out of the truck. I didn't see much going on around here, but I trusted Mr.Tolliver, so I followed his lead.

I didn't expect him to walk this far or fast at his age. We walked at least three long blocks, and he wasn't one bit tired. We turned onto A.P. Tureaud Blvd. I had never been down here.

"You look like you in a foreign land, son," he said with surprise.

I looked at him. "Yes, sir. My folks don't come to the city much. My dad takes my mom to the French Market or to Krauss on Canal Street, but that's about it."

"You're in for a treat today, buddy. Come on, let's go."

We walked for a little while before he told me to stop and listen. I didn't hear anything at first.

I heard a faint drumbeat in the air. It seemed to float off the Mississippi River. The rhythmic flow settled on me as it came closer. Chanting drifted over the concrete sidewalks and flowed over the rafters of the shotgun houses on each side of us.

I saw several men wearing colorful suits. I was enthralled by their brightness. They continued to come closer. Several of them shook staffs wildly in their hands. They chanted, "We won't bow down on the dirty ground."

"They are looking for other tribes to battle, to see who's the prettiest. The Mardi Gras Indians sew their suits for a year. The entire costume is hand sewn."

"Man, I've never seen this in person. I've seen them in parts on T.V but never up close."

"Yea, Edward, this is the shit right here. These boys be getting down."

"Look at that one in the rear'', Mr. Tolliver

Two little boys in elaborate white beaded costumes were on each side of who Mr. Tolliver called the "Big Chief ." They carried small staffs adorned with feathers. The sleeves resembled wings, and the breastplates had white owls on them.

The drummer in front was not in costume. He pounded out his rhythmic beat as the chant continued up and down the line. He swayed with his drum.

"Big Chief" danced up and down the blacktopped street. His costume was covered head to toe in brown and white feathers. A huge headdress sat on his head. It was stark white like fresh snow, and each carefully placed bead shone sunlight bright. He wore a mask made of brown feathers. Each one fanned out from his face. His sleeves were wings too but more elaborate than the two little guys. Rivulets of brown and white fabric hung almost to the ground. Layer upon layer of varying shades of feathers covered each arm. On the breastplate was another picture of an owl, but this one was brown and white. "Big Chief" looked like the bird on his suit. He was chanting a phrase loudly as he came closer. His chest seemed to puff out bigger every time he said it.

"Tu way pocky way"

"Is that what he's screaming, Mr. Tolliver?"

He didn't answer, so I looked over at him. He was staring at the huge man owl coming towards us. It was like he was in a trance.

I tapped him. "Mr.Tolliver, did you hear me?"

"Huh what," He said.

"Is Big Chief saying Tu way pocky way?"

He looked at me. "Yes, that's what he is saying. Loosely translated, it means get the hell outta my way. It's a battle cry the Indians have chanted for decades."

"Wow, they are a unique bunch."

"Yes, they are."

"Your mind was gone a few minutes ago. You were staring at Big Chief like you were lost."

"It reminded me of something from the past."

"What?"

"well, son……."

But then there he was, Big Chief in front of us. Whooping and chanting.

"I won't bow down on that dirty ground. I won't bowwww dowwnnn on that dirteeeee ground."

The little white owls shook their staffs, chanting "Tu way Pocky way."

I was so engulfed in the Mardi Gras Indians I hadn't noticed the crowd forming around us. It was a sea of brown faces. Skinny, chubby, full-figured, potbellied, and different shapes and sizes poured into the street.

Umbrellas and rags waved in the hands of the young and old. The drumbeat was joined by a band coming up behind the procession. Tubas, trumpets, and saxophones bleated out the sounds of Mardi Gras. Everyone was chanting now and second, lining with the Big Chief.

An old lady gave us two umbrellas. "Are you sure we can use these?"

"Keep 'em?" She said with a wrinkly smile and bounced into the sea of revelers

"Well, boy, let's get at it."

"Yes, sir."

We bounced our umbrellas up and down in our hands, dancing to the beat. The old man had some moves. He slid across the concrete like it was glass. His hands were moving like jackhammers in the air.

We jammed for 15 minutes at least before he tapped me on the shoulder. "Boy, Let go we gotta catch the other early parades."

Once back at his truck, I asked what made him space out like that.

"Well, it reminded me of an old family story. Big Chief looked like a barn owl, and that bird is special to the Tolliver family."

Now my curiosity was eating at me like a ravenous termite. "Why is that, sir."

As the old pickup coughed to life, he winked at me and pulled out into the street.

II

The rest of the day was incredible. I caught a decorated coconut from the Zulu's. I cradled that thing like a baby. Rex came out in all his regal charm. He is the king of Mardi Gras. Every year he officially starts the day.

"Throw me something, mister," I yelled until I was hoarse. I sounded like Louie Armstrong by the end of the day. Mr. Tolliver moved through the crowd like a shark collecting all types of trinkets. He had doubloons, beautiful plastic pearls, and too many other things to name.

After the parades, we moved to Bourbon Street. I was definitely too young for this action, but the ole dude insisted on taking me. The street was sticky, and the smell could send an ally rat to the hills. The crowd was huge. I saw a women show her ta's ta's for a set of pearls around a very drunk man's neck. He smiled and tossed her the beads. I saw several women lift their shirts. The better the beads, the longer the shirt stayed up. This was a NOLA tradition I had never witnessed. Mr. Tolliver looked over at me.

"Don't tell your momma I brought you on Bourbon. She'd ban you from my porch if she knew I was letting you get an eyeful of the after the parade scene."

"I won't, Mr. Tolliver. Trust me. I am enjoying every sight I've seen today. And I want to do it next year."

"We will, boy. Trust dat. We will. Hey, let's get some po-boys from "We Never Close" in the East.

"We Never Close" was a po-boy shop in New Orleans East. The sandwiches at this local spot were legendary, and the name was literal because they never closed. Twenty-four hours a day you could grab a po-boy or any other NOLA treats your desired.

It took about thirty minutes to get to our destination. The traffic was slower than a turtle with a brick tied to its back. We arrived at the tail end of the rush, so we waited maybe ten minutes to get to the counter.

Mr.Tolliver ordered a roast beef po boy with gravy on French. I ordered my favorite, a hot sausage po'boy on French dressed with tomato, lettuce, pickles, mayo, and mustard with a classic Strawberry Big Shot cold drink to go with it. We found a table near a window and stuffed our faces.

"Mr.Tolliver?" I asked. "Can you tell me about the barn owl?"

He looked out the window. It seemed his mind was traveling back to a time long ago.

"Son, it's a story that's been handed down like a family heirloom. It's not written down anywhere. But I remember it. It's like my momma told me this story yesterday. It's been passed down since slavery time."

"Really?" Now I was even more intrigued.

"yep, It's about my great, great, grandfather who was a slave on the Tolliver Plantation in the 1850s. The plantation was located in Holden, Louisiana. The story is almost unbelievable. "

"Do you mind telling me the story?"

He turned from the window and looked into my face. "Sure, why not?

"His name was Robert Junie Boy Tolliver. Junie Boy was his nickname because he was born in June, and his smile, they say, was June sunshine bright. His momma died in childbirth, and he had no idea who his pappy was, so he was pretty much alone. He was moved in with another slave who raised him like her own. "

"Man, what a tough way to come into the world," I said.

"Yeah, it wasn't no picnic to be a black slave in the bowels of Louisiana."

"Well," he continued. "Junie Boy was put in the cotton field at 8 years old. Massa Tolliver was a mean ass man that believed if you could talk and walk, you could pick that white gold. He worked the shit outta his slaves from the time the cock crowed and until the last bit of light disappeared from the sky. Junie boy was a huge man with a huge black fro crowning his head. He worked the field like a machine. My momma told me he always led the field holla's.'

"What are field hollas?'

Mr. Tolliver looked at me and smiled. "Those are slave work songs. They were about being free and the pain of slavery. These hollas are what the Blues is based on."

I took a sip of my Big Shot cold drink. "My momma loves herself some Blues. When she is cooking, that's all she plays."

"Yeah, I hear her over there blowing the roof off," he said with a laugh.

"Junie Boy" was popular among the slaves, but the overseers hated him. He was always getting cute with them. They whipped him bloody on many occasions, but he wouldn't stop. They wouldn't kill him because a slave with his strength and size was a valuable piece of property."

"Junie Boy was a strong man. I see where you get it from, Mr. Tolliver."

'Thanks, son, but I don't think I could have taken what he did. Those black folks back then took a lot, so I can be alive at my age today."

"Yeah, I here ya. Those were some mean times."

"But boy, everybody has their breaking point."

"What do you mean?"

"My momma told me that one day Junie Boy was late to the field. So the overseer came looking and found him passed out. He didn't say one word to Junie. He just started beating him. Junie bounced up and looked at the man who cut his back open. My momma told me that he had two choices: either pick up his cotton sack and get to the field or fight back. So he knocked the overseer out with one punch."

Mr. Tolliver was standing by the table when he raised his fist and let a punch fly. "I bet that's how he hit that SOB, son. I bet he put all his hate and desire to get even in that hit."

"I don't blame him. As you said, there is only so much a person can take before their breaking point. I bet he ran, huh?"

"Yes, Edward, he ran like a jackrabbit for the woods. He only had a few moments before more white folks showed up, and if they found this man knocked cold by a slave hand, then Junie knew he would be beaten to death. He quickly grabbed a few biscuits, a canteen of water and hauled ass.

In awe, I said, "That's brave. He was all alone, running for his life.

"Yep, it was. He hid the best he could during the day. He laid under bushes or hid anywhere he could find. Sometimes he could climb trees and stay in there during the day. But he didn't know where to go. So he ran like that for a couple of days. He used the North Star the best he could, but he didn't know anything about going North. But he couldn't stop."

Mr. Tolliver paused for a brief moment.

"Now, this is where it begins to get strange, boy. I am telling you this story as straight as I can. It was told to me as I am telling it to you right now."

As I waited on Mr. Tolliver's next syllable, curiosity was heavy in my chest.

"Junie sensed something was staring at him from a bush across the path. There was a slither of moonlight so he could just make it out. It was an owl, a barn owl, to be specific.

"It was strange how it looked at him, but he didn't think anything of it. He struck out again by the faint light of the moon heading north. He picked his way through the thick brush the best he could as he followed the star. But as time went on, the clouds became thicker and obscured the star. He was in a thick grove of trees when he lost his direction. He knew he was lost, but he didn't have time to figure it out. He was a fugitive slave, and slave patrols were all over Louisiana. He had to move. Left, right, or straight ahead were his choices. He went left."

What a hard way to live, I thought. You have no rights because you are less than human. This man was running for his right to exist, and it could be taken in the blink of a white man's eye.

"Junie was on the trail for a few miles before he saw the barn owl again. It was sitting in the middle of the trail staring at him like last time. A piercing stare that seemed to see his soul. He looked at the owl briefly and tried to walk around it. But it kept blocking his path. It would move when he moved. He tried to run past the bird, but it would fly into his face trying to stop him from moving. This went on for a few minutes before he heard the sound all slaves dread-the baying of bloodhounds. The owl was still flapping about his head. This was strange behavior because owls are solitary and don't really interact with people, but this was no ordinary bird."

"Really, this owl was doing all of this, Mr. Tolliver."

"This story has been told by several generations of my family, and it's always the same. No matter who you talk to in the Tolliver family, besides maybe a few minor variations, it always the same."

He looked at me with a seriousness I had never seen before. There was no humor in his eyes.

"Alright, I catch your drift, sir. I want to hear the rest."

"Every time Junie Boy tried to run, the owl flapped those big ass wings in his face. It seemed the bird was trying to guide him in a certain direction. He had to go because those baying hounds were getting closer by the minute. He ran back the way he came with the owl on his rear end. If he tried to stray, it was back in his face, flapping and blinding him again. He ran until he got to a lake he didn't recognize. The barking of the hounds was farther away, not far enough. He jumped in the lake. He thought the dogs might lose his scent at the water. He swam like a catfish to the opposite shore with an owl flying overhead."

Mr. Tolliver paused to take a sip of water.

"He leaped out of the water and ran into the thicket. He pushed all night with that owl leading him. His new friend would beat him up again if he went the wrong way. He never heard the dogs again. For at least three more days, he and the owl traveled together. Junie Boy came upon a clearing on the third day with a few huts scattered about. Several people milled about the make-shift community. From the clothing they wore, he figured they must be Indians. He didn't know if he should approach, so he decided to keep on moving. When he turned around, there was his feathered buddy again flapping his wings in his face. The owl hadn't let him down yet, so he went to the village. When they saw him, they greeted him with open arms. Several other enslaved Black people emerged from huts and welcomed him. It seemed the Indians or Native Americans were helping other runaways escape to freedom. They helped him get to Illinois, where he started a family."

I was speechless.

"Mr. Tolliver, that owl saved his life and led him to freedom."

"Yes, it did, Edward. He said the owl might have been his dead momma leading him. He never knew her, but he always felt she was watching over him."

"Thanks for sharing that with me, but one day you must tell me how the Tolliver's returned to Louisiana."

"I will, boy, and trust me, it's a tale too," He said with a wink.

We jumped back into his trusty pickup and headed home.

When we arrived back in our little suburb, Mr. Tolliver told me he wanted to show me something in his house. I had never been to his home because we always enjoyed talking in the night air.

He opened the door and took me to the den in the back of the house.

When we flicked the switch in the room, I was amazed at what I saw.

"Wait," I said, is that a painting of what I think it is, Mr. Tolliver."

"Yes, son, it's the barn owl."

"Who painted it?"

"Junie Boy did?"

"Huh, yes, that painting is over 100 years old. It's been passed down for generations. I consider you a grandson, and I wanted to share it with you."

"He looked at his watch. You better head on home, son, so your momma doesn't kill this old man."

"Yes, sir," I said and headed home.

III

I left New Orleans after college, but I returned every year. I had to see Mr.Tolliver whenever I was in town because we would sit on his porch and talk about how many Mardi Gras we went to before I moved away. It was always a good time.

Several years later, I heard he developed Alzheimer's and barely recognized anybody. The last time I saw him, he wore a bathrobe and slippers. He was in a rocking chair. The old spark had left his eyes, and he didn't know me. I sat with him for a while, but it was hard not having my friend to talk to.

I patted the same hands that were jackhammers all those years ago on A.P. Trueaud gave the once strong man a hug and walked out the door.

Six months later, my momma called me and told me he was gone. I wept like a child on the phone.

I miss my friend, but I hope he found a good parade in heaven, and those hands are dancing again. I hope Junie Boy greeted him at the gates with an owl on his shoulder.

The End