The Dead Tell Their Stories in New Orleans

I have always been fascinated with New Orleans. Besides being an avid Ann Rice reader, and growing up firmly believing the vampire Lestat is the benchmark for all vampires, the history and lore of the city continuously pulled me. I finally gave into that pull in 2017.

Humidity, jazz music, and red beans and rice met me at the airport. My uber driver, an aging hipster with bottomless knowledge of the music scene literally everywhere in the country, chatted nonstop about recommended entertainment spots throughout the city. As we entered the French Quarter, we stepped into history. The cityscape gave way from sky scrapers and the Superdome to colorful shotgun houses and iconic townhouses with cast iron balconies. We turned at Louis Armstrong Park down St. Ann Street toward our hotel, Place d' Armes. A non-assuming house on the left held a small placard stating that it was the home of Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.

Walking the streets of the French Quarter, one can feel the historical significance of this place. I can picture the times of the Revolutionary War when it was a port for goods smuggled to the colonists, and the War of 1812 when Andrew Jackson made a deal with the pirate Jean Lafitte that led to the defeat of the British. The smells of Creole cooking and the sounds of jazz music pour out of every open door, a testament to cultural melting pot that is New Orleans.

All along the way, ghost stories are told. Marie Laveau walks St. Ann Street and can be seen sitting on her old porch. The Great New Orleans Fire of of 1788 took the lives of the children and headmaster who lived at the Place d' Armes when it was a school. It is reported that the sounds of children playing can still be heard within those halls. And of course, there are tales of voodoo, which is still practiced in the area. New Orleans has capitalized on the romanticism of it all. The Quarter is littered with ghost/voodoo tours and kitschy shops that sell trinkets. Even with this blatant catering to tourism, one must remember that these people lived, and it is hard not to get lost in your own historical fantasy.

I decided to go to the source of these stories - the cemeteries. The cemeteries can only be entered with a licensed guide as part of a tour. The church made this rule in 2015 to prevent vandalism, to which much of the cemeteries have already fallen victim. So early one morning, after a heavy rainstorm had washed the streets, I boarded a tour bus near Jackson Square. The tour guide, Miss Mary, was the real deal. A proper New Orleans lady and native, she literally wrote the book on death in this city.

This particular tour was of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, the oldest standing cemetery in the city, opened in 1789. Miss Mary explained how the burial practice of above ground sites was started to accommodate the large number of dead, the result of a quickly growing city, in addition to dealing with flooding. She pointed out that "our Jewish brothers" are still buried in the ground per their custom. She described elaborate jazz funeral processions through the streets of the French Quarter which carried the remains of loved ones to their family plots. Miss Mary pointed out the tombs of politicians such as Ernest N. "Dutch" Moriel, the city's first African American mayor, as well as society tombs like the Musician's Tomb and the gaudy pyramid which is to be the future resting place of Nicholas Cage.

Musician's Tomb in St. Louis no. 1

Of all the famous New Orleans residents buried at St. Louis No. 1, Marie Laveau may be the most renown. Sadly, her tomb has been vandalized many times. In 2013, it was painted pink and the plaster damaged from the pressure washer used to remove the paint. Her tomb is also covered with dozens of X's from those making wishes to her spirit. Miss Mary let us practice some voodoo of our own. She supplied us with a gris-gris bag, an amulet of sorts meant to bring us luck. Turning around 3 times, we placed our gris-gris on the side of Laveau's tomb and made a wish. Miss Mary cautioned us never to lose our gris-gris or our wish would not come true and we would have ill-luck.

I meandered through the cemetery as the day became hotter. It was quiet there; the sounds of the city lost among the rows of the dead. As my eyes glanced over the thousands of names, I developed a deepening appreciation of this city and its people. They are a people living with the past all around them. And who knows? Maybe the dead are still walking the streets, keeping traditions alive, and making themselves remembered. Even as an outsider, I will not forget them.

"When the Saints Go Marching In" breaks the silence as Miss Mary keys it up on her phone. As we dance and sing our way back to the world of living, the gris-gris bag in my pocket reminds me never to forget how this place made me feel and how these people shaped our country.