Spectacle

The candidate was tireless, running zig-zag back and forth across the street to shake the hands of this man behind the barrier here, that group of ladies there. She wore flats and a fuschia dress but ran like a basketball player moving the ball upcourt. Behind her an phalanx of sign-wielders and banner carriers periodically chanting her name. Campaign buttons were distributed, lollipops flung. Bystanders were confused, amused. It was Caribbean parade day on Blue Hill Avenue and everyone was ready for entertainment.

We marched beyond the end of the parade route but there was no turning back, so photographs were taken and the company dispersed---some of them to join the gathering crowd and wait for the main attraction--which came long after the political business was over

Eventually, on its own schedule and pace, the real parade hove into view. Huge flatbeds with huge generator on board and banks of loudspeakers slowly rolled by, the bass making everything in the thoractic cavity ring like a bell. Then, each in their own club with its own theme, ranks of young dark-skinned women (mostly) in coordinated fantasy costumes: huge feathered headdresses, sequined bikinis, bright mixed colors. They danced forward a few steps, stopped, fanned themselves, drank water, were repositioned by many busy men and women wearing STAFF teeshirts, chatted with each other and bystander friends, then, at a signal, moved slowly on.

As if navigating ships, standing in harness but with arms resting on cockpit seat arms, young muscular women and men pulled and spun huge, multi-wheeled peacock fan constructions behind them along the route. From a boss behind the great fans soared flags and banners that put me in mind of the gliders at Kitty Hawk. One club, Zulu Nation, had a leopard spot design on everything, as well as large masks. These spectacular piece of apparatus were clearly heavy; after one of the innumerable stops, it was hard work lunging forward into motion.

Our political sign waving was mostly just spectacle to the gradually assembling crowds along the route. So, for me at least standing in the now crowded sidelines, was the dancing. Yet both were serious enterprises, prepared for long in advance to communicate something. What?  The candidate was driven by an ambitious energy, grasping hands, looking in faces, seeking primary election votes. I get that. But what was motivating the burdened young people tugging their gigantic draught-person powered 'floats' along the road or, naked but fo r their costumes, the dancers inching their way between ranks of spectators along the route? This, I don't understand.

Public rituals are easy to watch and video but what inspires the work that goes into these performances?  In the case of the politics, something about the relationship between power and the people. In the case of the dancing, perhaps an affirmation of identity, of aspiration. We were each others audiences, but did we really appreciate what the other was doing or why?

However, the afternoon was warm and sunny. Everyone was cheerful. There was an incessant traffic of pods of chatty young people up and down the sidelines. There was brisk commerce in fragrant Jamaican meat pies and Bob Marley teeshirts on the grassy verge. Yes, shared public space, public time; but, though I appreciated being among you my neighbors, mysteries remain.