Celebration and Sorrow: The Tensions of Mardi Gras and Lent

The word ‘tension’ has been popping up as a general theme in my life lately—accepting conflict even in loving relationships, learning about being a person of generous hospitality with healthy boundaries, emotionally recognizing the difference between being uncomfortable and unsafe—I’m basically learning to accept the cognitive dissonances in life’s tricky and uneasy aspects. Mardi Gras has been over for the past several days, and the parades and the comradely-atmosphere that I’ve experience during the Mardi Gras season kept me distracted from the internal struggle(s) of serving as a YAV Volunteer in the city of New Orleans. In hindsight, however, I find that there was sorrow as well as celebration being pulled at opposite ends on a purple-golden-green colored string.

An older gentleman who I’ve been helping with his homework once-in-a-bluemoon came into our program a few days ago. An African-American, Pentecostal preacher who’s studying at a local Baptist Seminary, he comes into our program once every three weeks or so to get help with his theology assignments, and ever since I’ve been assigned to New Orleans at the YES! Program, he has usually come to me for assistance. My conversations with him have tended to be long and one-sided on his part, although I don’t mind it as much, mainly because I find him to be both simultaneously fascinating and familiar. Having been raised a Pentecostal myself, his assuring and abiding faith in the work of the Holy Spirit today as evidenced by signs and wonders and glossolalia (the scholarly term for “speaking in tongues”—a term I find amusing to say aloud for its numerous s’es and la’s), transports me to a time when I was a child hearing personal, miraculous narratives and sermons in the church I was raised in. Our conversations take me to a previous spiritual landscape where I knew God before I wrestled with God—an easier God to understand. I miss that God, sometimes.

“Are you going to any Mardi Gras parades this week?” I asked him, hoping for an answer that simultaneously… 1), gave a ‘New Orleans’ take on a touristy-popular event in the U.S. and 2), avoided comparing Mardi Gras to a pseudo-Sodom and Gomorrah in custom with his Pentecostal leanings.

“Nah, I don’t go to those parades anymoreI used to be able to handle the crowds when I was younger, but I’m not into those parades anymore.” He said with a light shrug of the shoulders and a dismissive frown on his countenance.

“Back in my young days…”, he explained, “…I remember the police being stationed on the Rex (parade) route with German shepherds at certain posts to keep the black folks away from being seen by the media and the white tourist.”

“Wait, really?!” I asked with a somewhat shocked voice, but with appropriate volume for being in a indoors facility. I had previously imagined that the vicious, racist forms of crowd-control such as utilizing attack dogs were mainly limited to the civil-rights marches of the 1960s out of a paranoid fear of racial integration and a progressive change in southern society—I had no idea that attack dogs were used by southern police departments, let alone in New Orleans, simply out of a purely racist inconvenience. That surprised me. I suppose being whitish in a post-2000 era makes one slightly more unaware of the unaccounted, systemic injustices of the past.

“Oh yes ,indeedy…” he said, wide-eyed and as assuringly as a witness and survivor of blatant mistreatment(s) re-telling a lived-narrative as atrocious and as old as 1789.  “..and we couldn’t fight them dogs back without getting arrested or fined out of our wazoo.”

He took a short breath and stared at the desk in front of both of us.

“Besides…”, he continued, “…Mardi Gras is more of a Sodom and Gomorrah anyway.”


It’s the first Sunday and the fifth day of Lent, and from Ash Wednesday to today, I’ve given up eating sweets and drinking soda until Easter Sunday rolls around when my ferocious appetite might possibly resurrect in full-display along with the Savior. In their place, I’ve taken up running and reading one Psalm a day.

The truth be told, I’ve never given or taken up a practice during Lent until I went to college, and even then I usually faltered and assumed my usual habits and practices, shrug my shoulders and tell myself, “The Lord knows my heart.” If I examined my heart closely back then, I would have discovered that my impetus was driven by a harsher taskmaster of a mental voice whose urge was to make me follow these self-prescribed practices out of a pseudo-spiritual necessity. Since becoming a YAV volunteer, a virtue that I’ve been learning/wrestling with is the virtue of compassion towards self-and-others. This voice of self-compassion has slowly been competing with the taskmaster within myself, but I find that listening to this self-compassion—being driven by a love of self that wishes for me to be in shalom (wholeness), and that doing this-or-that would be of great benefit toward reclaiming shalom, rather than the voice of self-discipline and rugged-individualism that I fetishized as wisdom incarnate up to now—has sustained me thus far when I would have given up on the second or third day of Lent in seasons past. I’m finding joy in the act of abstaining from what my ego craves the most, and in that joy I find the most paradoxical/beautiful aspect of Lent.

On Lundi Gras (the day before Mardi Gras), my YAV housemates and I went to the Orpheus Parade on the iconic St. Charles Avenue, where large mansions of French Architecture were decorated with purple and green-colored lights, purple-golden-green beads hang off from the palm trees and phone-lines, and the famous street-cars closed due to the influx of locals and tourists waiting to see the grand, elegant floats drive by with their plastic novelties ready to be handed or thrown over from these floats.

I’ve never been a fan of large crowds—I’ve tended to, in the past, let myself exteriorly and inwardly shrink as I become surrounded by other selves needing to take up space and breathe the same air. My mind wandered as I stared all the plastic that would need to be recycled and cleaned up. The transcript from my previous conversation with the black, Pentecostal preacher played in my head as I glanced around me—looking at the droves of people, and thinking about the amount of homelessness and poverty in this city that I’ve already encountered, and I’m out here celebrating.

Celebrating what? I inwardly pondered. What purpose does “celebrating” hold? My mind played these sentences in my head on repeat.

The large amount of plastic beads littering the streets are certainly no help to our already-damaged eco-system.

The entire New Orleans economy is mostly based on the influx of dollars from Mardi Gras, thus why there’s no investment in the growth of industries and why poverty is so rampant…

It seemed like Mardi Gras was no-thing to be cheerful for.


The parade began, and I could hear the sound of a jazz-band playing a quintessential New Orleans, jazzy tune. High-School bands were out on the avenue showcasing what, I’m sure, they’ve rehearsed consistently for weeks. The drums brought me back to the present moment and out of my mind as I heard a steady rhythm keeping beat for each of the musicians to follow. It reminded me of the human heartbeat, and how I’ve always hypothesized that musical rhythm originated from our ancestors hearing their own heartbeats. I laid my middle and index fingers on the vain in my neck to feel the pulse.

I exist. 

The thought came. To celebrate because I exist. I’m here. My housemates and dear friends are here. My family is here. My friends are here. Here.

Life is struggle. Lent reminds us of that. My first celebration of Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Louisiana reminded me that I exist, yet I am not alone in existence. My family and all the communities that I am apart of share with me the struggle of living, but also the breaks of joy that come in the duration of the struggle. Perhaps a birthday isn’t merely a marker of one’s trip around the sun with all the fixings of cake and balloons, but is a celebration of one’s exit from a safe, warm womb, and an entering into a harsh world with a bunch of people blowing party horns that seem to squeal, “Hello, you’re in this with us, but we’re here too.” 

My birthday is on July 16th, and since Lent will be over by then, I might eat some chocolate cake and let myself exist with some peeps.


 “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

-Ecclesiastes 3:1-4 (NRSV)









A (Reflection) from the Mirror

In the late morning (about 11 am or so) after taking a shower, I stepped out of the tub and looked at myself in the mirror. A small beard is taking shape on my countenance, and my white, jiggly belly reminds me that I need to get rid of it before my sister’s wedding come January. I stared into the reflection of my brown, almond-shaped eyes and thought about all the events in my childhood, youth and college-years that led up this moment where I’m stark-naked and nudging myself to run a bit more and eat New Orleans cuisine a bit less. The reflection in the mirror was clear and nearly free of blemishes (I had the responsibility to clean our upstairs bathroom for this week).

The people who I share this house with serve as a mirror of sorts (perhaps I serve this purpose to them as well). Every group and individual conversation, every action performed, every word spoken, every miniscule interaction that reveals one’s inner intention, reveals to me the aspects of myself that I simultaneously take pride in/hide in revulsion from. I recognize that they have the dilemma of having stains and specks that hinder them from seeing me clearly, but I also recognize that I have the same human dilemma of having numerous stains and specks that keep me from seeing them clearly. God knows that my thinking patterns and my mode and paradigm of human interaction are not always rooted in the unconditional love of which God is particularly noted for being. It is sometimes rooted, I am sensing, in self-defensiveness of my ego and in the unworthiness I experience in the seeking of love and affirmation from others.



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“”I’m stuck here with the man in the mirror…” -Michael Jackson” -Miguel Petrosky


These specks and stains follow me as I go on my day-to-day routine of assisting on-staff teachers with the seemingly minuscule to-do items of copying pages, creating folders, searching the internet for teaching resources, while also helping adult students by going over their homework for the day, sounding out words with them from a Magic Tree House book, teaching a student how to find a common denominator of a fraction, and an assortment of other daily activities. During these interactions, some teachers and students shared with me their stories of how they got to where they are now– narratives themed with starting fresh/new birth, childhood abuse and endangerment, lack of familial and community support–stories that are wide-ranging and far apart from each other, but also sound as ancient as the words being taught and learnt in the classroom.

I can certainly see that society relies on the written word exclusively. Growing up, I read books both as a means of escape but also to better understand the reality of which I dwelled in. To see students struggle reading and sounding words like, at, tree, book, and live out-loud make me reflect on their lives outside the classroom where all signifiers of society–traffic directions, instruction manuals, food labels–anything pertaining value is expressed in the mode of the written word, as well as my own ungratefulness for my family and education that I do have. Hearing their narratives told through the mouths and minds of these students reminds me that there is value in the oral transmission of information, that I will forever be a student–being transformed by the hearing of the word and not merely reading it, and the common yet always-profound theme of resiliency in the face of hardship and despair.


Around two weeks ago on a Friday evening, I went to Touro Synagogue on St. Charles Avenue. Judaism has always fascinated me–I took a course, Intro to the History of Jewish Thought during my sophomore year of college, and I’ve always admired Judaism for being a religion focused more on human conduct and ethics rather than on human belief and dogma (it seemed almost liberating to think of not having to deal with the complexities of the meaning of the Trinity, how to understand Jesus as simultaneously God and human, and doubting the Evangelical mantra to “believe the Gospel to get into heaven”…etc.). This admiration for Jewish thought has never left me, and along with my discovery of Jewish ancestry a few years ago, I wanted to go and experience a Shabbat service in New Orleans.

The entrance to the Synagogue was heavily guarded by the New Orleans police that Friday evening. Two lines were formed; one for the members, and one for those visiting. Police had to scan entrants into the Synagogue with metal detectors before one could enter the building. Incidentally, it happened to be the first day of the Jewish New Year of Yom Kippur called Kol Nidrei (meaning “all vows”). The service was dedicated to the releasing of all vows unfulfilled and all promises broken before the start of the new year in the Jewish Calendar.

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The rabbi’s homily, unexpectedly for me, transcended the concept of vows and promises to include the evolution of firmly held beliefs of a once-solid worldview in the age of post-Truth. Her honest, self-depreciating, classic Jewish humor made me laugh-out-loud, and made me reflect on my theological vows during my Pentecostal upbringing, how I theologically left-behind the promise of American Christianity, how I came back to follow, unfollow and follow again in the cycle of the way of Jesus, and my sense of disorientation with the world around me.

The continuous process of deconstruction and reconstruction has the propensity to leave an empty vacuum of direction, and my knee-jerk reaction is to find the absolute claim based on reason and human experience, and hold on to it for dear life. I sometimes wish that the human experience could be simplified by a few variables and solved for X. It’s perhaps this paradigm–this vow of finding an absolute claim–will forever be unfilled and shattered, and perhaps I will learn to be okay with it.


About a week when I first arrived here in New Orleans, I went to visit a predominately African-American church, the Historic St. James African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church. Throughout my life, the churches of which I belonged to (both the Pentecostal church during my youth and the Presbyterian church during my undergraduate years) were made up of predominately white congregants. When I was initially accepted into the YAV Program, I wanted to use my YAV year to purposefully examine the intersections of race, class and religion through a faith lens (which is one reason why I wanted to be placed in New Orleans–the other minor but important reasons being the delicious food and beautiful music). I knew from my past studies on history of race and U.S. culture that the AME church was one of the first historically-black, Protestant denominations–that it has a rich history of not just spiritual uplift for its congregants, but also delved into political activism, education, the pursuit of social justice, and served as a cultural and communal center for its members in each AME church. The fact that Historic St. James is the oldest AME church in the deep south piqued my curiosity, and so I took a public-bus to visit their 10:00 AM church service.

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I was overtaken with nervousness on the bus-ride to the church service. The memory of seeing coverage of the Emanuel AME Church massacre on the news in 2015 haunted me on the bus-ride. My only claim to being considered a person of color is from my half-Puerto Rican father, and although my name is “Miguel”, I’m a heavily freckled individual with a serious melanin deficiency–I cannot recall a moment in which I was mistreated or discriminated against because of my ethnicity. I was deeply afraid and unsure of how I would be perceived by the people within the congregation when I walked in their space in the midst of national racial strife and tension.

As I approached the entrance of the church, despite the racial tensions occurring throughout the United States, there were no police scanning for weapons, no long lines differentiating between guests and members; the entrance doors were merely left open. I walked into the foyer and was greeted by the ushers with the typical, southern-religious, Sunday-morning greeting, “Hello, God bless you!.” I sat in one of the pews on the left side of the sanctuary, around six rows above the back row. I sat there quietly as I waited for the service to begin. Some older women of the congregation greeted me with a “God bless you!” along with a hug and kiss on the cheek (a typical New Orleans custom, I’ve been told). Some men came, shook my hand, and proceeded to perform the quintessential “bro-hug.” My fears were relieved for the moment.

The service began. The jazz-organ played spiritedly and the drums kept rhythm as the congregation sang together songs without the use of the hymnbook or a projection of the text on a screen. The music was so lively that I couldn’t fully pick out the words of the songs being sung, but the atmospheric energy and the beat kept me clapping and swaying in sync with the rest of the congregation.


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Me officially joining and being introduced to the congregation of Historic St. James AME Church

The sermon began. As the young guest minister articulated his main points, with “Yes sirs!” and “That’s right!” flowing from the congregation in a call-and-response, homiletical exchange, I caught the glimpse of an infant girl sitting on the opposite side of me on the right side of the sanctuary. Her beautiful, moistened, large brown eyes stared into mine for a moment as a smile began to form on her countenance. I contemplated what her life would look like when she grew older–how she would perceive her reality and those in it and surrounding it. For the moment, there were no stains and specks left overtime to alter her perception of myself. At that moment, I can only guess that she merely saw a person.

I only wish that my specks and stains would be fully removed to see as clearly as she did. So far, my young life has stained and speckled my vision from the residue of getting older–receiving new experiences, meeting new people and forming new relationships, reading books, watching television, living in the environment of which I was raised, and being blessed and deeply hurt throughout those moments in time. The words of the classic hymn Amazing Grace, “I once was lost but now am found; was blind but now I see” have me questioning what am I actually seeing post-Blindness. How do I know that I’m not blind in some aspects of my life? How can I remove the log in my eye so that I can take the speck out of someone else’s?


This is what I am seeing in the mirror.


Playing Jazz by Ear: Musings from My First Five Days in NOLA (New Orleans, Louisiana)


“There is a house in New Orleans; they call the YAV House…” were the (in)appropriated words from a popularized, 1960s folk-rock, “House of the Rising Sun”, that I quipped/sung immediately following the first encounter with some of my fellow New Orleans YAVs as we travelled by train together to our orientation week in Stony Point, New York. When I was younger, that particular song, along with memories of the media providing both visual depictions of Mardi Gras celebrations and news coverage of Hurricane Katrina in 2005, as well as verbal depictions from well-intentioned, hear-sayers as being “sin-city”, formulated my perception of NOLA as a city with high crime and shameless debauchery, while my personal infatuation with Louis Armstrong and Gumbo simultaneously constructed in my mind an untouchable aspect –a mystique of New Orleans that would, until now, remain untouched in my own psyche, given that I barely travelled growing up, and I had never once set foot in the state of Louisiana.


I’m now twenty-three years old and a recent college graduate. Never once would I have thought, even a year ago, that I would end up living and volunteering in the heart of the Capital of Jazz. As I travelled throughout the city within the past few days, there were many images and sounds that have already formulated and altered my perception of the city–street musicians playing quintessential, New Orleans jazz; tents underneath busy highways, sheltering the homeless from the humidity and heat; beautiful buildings designed in classic, 18th century French architecture, along with houses painted in bright colors of the different shades of purple, yellow and green; and a middle-aged black man riding a bicycle with a cooler filled with beverages attached at the back of his bike near the Basilica of King Louis, only taking donations for his cold, refreshing drinks because of merchant regulations within the state of Louisiana. These formulations in my mind will frequent my consciousness as I begin to volunteer as a instructor in adult literacy and education with the YAV program. This blog, I hope, will serve as an introspective record for my church and my friends and family of my volunteer work within the YAV program, and how the work that I’ll be doing and the day-to-day living will continuously shape and alter my understanding of New Orleans in the eleven months that I will be serving here.
I love to play Jazz. At the talent show during my week of orientation with all the YAV volunteers with whom I’ll will be serving across the U.S. and the globe, I took requests for hymns from the audience, and I played them on the piano with improvised, augmented and diminished chords thrown where I thought would sound most appropriate. It serves, I feel, as an almost-perfect metaphor for how I live. My spirituality and my values have already written my melody, but life’s circumstances and my decisions are the “jazzy” chords that shape and color the melody. Serving in the YAV program was certainly a “jazz” chord that I hadn’t previously expected, and as I continue to serve here in New Orleans and write this blog as my perceptions and ideas of New Orleans are continuously being shaped, I’ll still be continuing to do what I’ve been doing so far (literally and figuratively). . . playing it by ear. IMG_8046