By Kalamu ya S Ialways called him Spirit Red. Nothing else. He would dress out in colors so hot they made the sun blush. But I didn’t call him Spirit Red because he was what we used to call marigny, a color something like crushed St. Joseph brick rubbed into a St. Bernard Street cement staircase outside somebody’s unpainted shotgun house. His taut, scarred skin that resembles the color of light from a flashlight has nothing to do with his Indian name. The challenge and intensity of his ways was what he was named for. Some Wild Men run up and down flashing blades in their hands, making you an invitation to step back you had to accept. Not Spirit Red. He never showed a knife, nor the long, long forty-four handgun one of his entourage faithfully carried. He never showed not even a fist. Just his face, his breathing, his eyes—and you saw and stepped back to make way for the jewelled boot of his chief. Spirit Red wasn’t no chief. Wasn’t no spy boy. Wasn’t no wild man neither. He was none of those functionaries in the Indian gang who have various tasks associated with facilitating movement through the streets and insuring safety from attack or disruption by a rival gang. He was Spirit Red—what kept everybody together. “I’m going to get Wingy, man,” he said to none of us in particular early one Fat Tuesday, and started stepping out at an Olympic walker’s pace, heading straight up the middle of the street towards some uptown bricks over five miles away. Caught off guard, a ragged band of accompanists, chanting and sweatSome wild Men run up and down flashing blades in their hands, making you an invitation to step back you had to accept. Not Spirit Red. He never showed a knife. He never showed not even a fist. Just his face, his breathing, his eyes. * Clinton St.—Spring 1990 25 ans cl b ng ragg h times I in t thi n times, I mean s it of him by his them two id St. Jos 1out, on ut, । ras res: , ®ardi he was oving. ras rs colletti arc ing, beating rhyt bottles, an Spirit Red, like a.mobile hum times some behind for a bloc up, then s edwas di wer P s as we sh gang—maybe it was as late as 8:30 a.m. A lot of people be coming out looking for pretty Indians—Indians with lots of feathers and stones on top of stones—but Red be showing how it ain’t just about being pretty. No, prettiness was not enough for Spirit Red. For Spirit Red being an Indian was a deeper thing. Dressing wasn’t about show, you had to have some masterplan to your game. Once 1 watched Spirit Red dress inside before he showed out. He had straps on this part, and elastic on that part. And what looked like all one part was really three parts ingeniously mated. He grinned when I said how hip that was to put the wrist part on top the shirt and the gloves on top of that. And perched on Red’s wrist was a bird with teeth or something in its mouth. Red grinned. He knew. One year Red broke out in a hot pink outfit. Made you think you was seeing a mirage at first, the way them colors would vibrate when you first glimpsed him rounding the corner or jumping up on Mo’s front steps to call Crazy Eyed Clarence on out. Spirit Red would whirl, shout, jump down and start in to walking, again, going like he came. in t Mardi Gras, 1would times p^tthrdre earlyW •mining or late at night. Id see him running. Red didn't jog, he ran, hard. Would make a dog Srop trying p up with him. Red’s body was ways lean. He had his regular name thought of him as Spirit Red. Spirit Red was more a force than a buddy. We didn’t talk too much about anything. I mean what was there to talk about? Red just did what he had to do. He saved his money. He bought his feathers. He made his new suit every year. Working on that costume was a year-round preoccupation, especially after Thanksgiving. Sewing and gluing. Even so, it was more about the practices and the being together. Like on Sundays the whole gang would practice. Be shouting for hours, banging on the bar top and on tambourines, and always wine and beer bottles. Afterwards they’d eat from paper plates. Usually beans and rice with some kind of sausage on the side. And laugh. But really be together, cause the world was always carrying some one of us away from here. For Spirit Red and all the others, being together was the only security and happiness that really mattered. Unlike Indians from other parts of town, Spirit Red had started working with Jerome, a civil rights activist who remains active, organizing kids around sports and black culture, Mardi Gras Indian culture—always stressing education and black consciousness. And the kids responded to the program, especially to Spirit the Red, whose physical development is they admired and whose street ’-smarts and spiritual strength they would often end up emulating. Jerome and them started working with the kids almost from the time a child first could walk to the corner on his own. From early on, the kids were s taught to f Indians. Even though few, any of uff could tell you the meaning i Gras Indian traditions, or bntify the language of the chants, most of us believed in the importance of passing those traditions on. Spirit Red’s dedication was legendary. Although he never went out for being a chief, he was a cornerstone of the “gang,” and, moreover, being an Indian was a major identity in his life. I knew about Spirit Red because I had watched him, and watched people relate to him. Wasn’t ’bout no words or ’bout Spirit Red bragging about how much Indian he was. Spirit Red has definite feelings about the sacredness of Indian culture. Some of the Indians be about money now, about impressing white folks. Red and them didn’t like outsiders, didn’t much cafe who you were. Broke a guy’s camera one time. The cat seemed like he was more hurt behind being rejected than behind his lens getting cracked. And Lord, don’t let no television people come by. Red told them one day that if they didn’t leave, he wasn’t going to be responsiRed didn't jog, he ran, hard, would make a dog drop trying to keep up with him. Red's body was always lean.
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