Letter from the Gulf: a New Orleans oil protest

The Krewe of Dead Pelicans didn’t show up, but it was like Mardi Gras all the same. The embattled people of New Orleans are so good at throwing public parties that they will seize the viIest of ecological disasters as an excuse for a colorful wingding. Which is just what happened at the worldwide BP protest day on Saturday.

The first to arrive is Lauren Goldfinch, aka Pearly Oyster Queen, a young woman with fake oil dripping down her face. She works for a sustainability consulting firm and rabble-rouses on the side. It starts to drizzle. "I hope some people show up," says the Queen, gathering up her signs and leaving to huddle under a tree.

Another journalist and I wait under my umbrella on the steps next to Cafe du Monde, whose sugar beignets look like they've been dusted by Pablo Escobar. "It was like this at the last protest I came to," he says, rainwater dripping down his notepad. A few more members of the press arrive, including a cameraman who introduces himself as a media producer from the AARP—the American Association of Retired People. I look on as my fellow journalist pitches a piece on New Orleans pensioners who party with the local 20-year-olds. "Sounds great," says the AARP man. "Shoot me an email."

As the minutes pass, momentum seems to be gathering over by the tree. There are more protesters, and signs. They range from the mild ("Love Our Mother Earth") to the militant ("If Its BP's TAKE IT. OCCUPY WHAT U CAN"). The group shuffles towards the steps. A young guy called Dan is carrying a banner and wearing a Sierra Club T-shirt. "They gave us these at one of the first protests," he tells me. "Turns out it's synthetic," he says with a smile. Dan is a Catholic aid worker and a member of the Crescent City Anti-Authoritarians, a group that formed in response to the spill. He wants Americans to use more renewable energy. "This isn't just BP's fault," he says. "I have oil on my hands too."

The protesters are about thirty-strong now and the press is circling. A few tourists stop in the rain to watch as a firebrand in a flower-print dress and velcro sandals rants for the camera. "She's a marine biologist," Dan tells me.

In front of us, a woman shelters under an umbrella with a faux pelican nesting on top. Sarah is a semi-retired graphic designer who meant to leave the US while Bush was President, and ended up moving to New Orleans instead. Since the spill, she's bought a bike and stopped driving her Prius. “Each of us has to figure out what we can do, rather than whine or blame. Despite what it says on my shirt." I look at the garment. "Hey BP—Fuck YOU you fucking FUCKS," it reads.

At the top of the steps, John, 26, is strapped to a giant straw puppet in a suit. It holds a sign that says, “I am not a puppet.” John, who paints murals, sleeps in his car, and eats vegetarian chili, came over from Florida to “pregame” before oil hits his home coast. He says he doesn’t want a replay in Key West of what’s happened here, especially the smell of the fumes in places like Grand Isle. “I was hallucinating by the time we were driving over the bridge to leave there." He hastens to reassure me it wasn’t drugs. “When you have a car spray-painted ‘Liquid Love’ in pink, well, you don’t drive with pot in that kind of vehicle.”

Some have taken costuming very seriously. Rae is a school teacher with a silvery Rapunzel mane. She’s woven a turban of seashells and green chiffon and glued a fake trout to a wooden stick. "It's a work in progress," she says, swinging her fish trident. "Long live the living waters!"

Next to her stands Amzie, a beanpole in a top hat, white beard, and chaps. Amzie is worried about the chemical fumes coming off the spill and collecting in New Orleans. "We live in a petri dish here, we’re below sea level." He notes, however, that there are upsides to such an arrangement. "That's why our jazz is better too. We're electrochemical beings—people are more telepathic musically when it's hot and humid." I ask Amzie how old he is. "65. I'm a member of the AARP."

While we’re chatting, a battle for the soul of the left has erupted down on the steps. "It's the system! The system isn't meant to be the caretaker of the planet!" shouts a greying Marxist in a Hawaiian shirt. Lauren the rabble-rousing consultant tries to drown him out by chanting "Stop the Oil! Save the Gulf!" into the megaphone. "She spoke for 15 minutes at our rally the other week," he says, descending the steps. "This is a joke."

After about an hour and a half, things begin to slow down, and plans for an after party seem to have fizzled. A man dressed as Uncle Sam is standing around taking pictures with tourists. I run into Sarah and her pelican umbrella again, surveying the scene. "New Orleans is a city of individualists,” she says as the press pack up and the protesters wander off. “It’s wonderful. On the other hand, it does make it hard to organize."