In Memoriam Miss Antoinette K-Doe

Last weekend I attended my first Second Line, a uniquely New Orleans street parade centered around a big brass band and characterized by unreserved dancing, singing, and general celebration. Second Lines are traditionally spontaneous and can be elusive—the starting point usually isn’t advertized—and sometimes the only way to catch one is to serendipedously be in the right place at the right time and, of course, to join in!

In this case, the Second Line was a “Jazz Funeral” for Antoinette K-Doe—the widow of Ernie K-Doe, famous New Orleans Rhythm and Blues Singer—who died of a heart attack on Mardi Gras morning. A local celebrity, “Miss Antoinette” was an earlier returner (Oct. 05) and a huge presence in the rebuilding of the city after Hurricane Katrina, supporting recovery efforts in many ways, from cooking up pots of gumbo that served hundreds of volunteers and community members to opening her lounge to local musicians struggling to find work. She also triumphed local rebuilding organizations like Hands On New Orleans and Katrina Corps.

The event was quite an experience—the music great, the dancing fun—and I had been looking for a Second Line since soon after I arrived and learned about the spontaneous, elusive celebration. However, I found myself feeling somewhat uncomfortable that day. The turn out was diverse, from close family and friends coming from the funeral to complete strangers who stumbled upon the procession and joined in (and who may not have even known what it was about). It is the last point that made me pause. I didn’t completely fall into the second group, as I was aware of the situation had accompanied a friend of Miss Antoinette’s to the parade, but ultimately I was an outsider—only having lived in NOLA for a little over a month and never having been lucky enough to meet her—as proved by the fact that all the information provided above I learned from friends and from reading about her online. On that note, this New York Times piece provides a nice description of the powerful woman and her importance to the city.

There I was, a relative outsider, parading in a t-shirt and shorts amongst the black-clad people who had known and loved her best. On the one hand, it seems that this diversity of people and motivation is the beauty of the Second Line tradition, but that day, I mostly felt the oddness and unease of this quality. I felt borderline voyeuristic and quite out of place entering into this ritual of the people who knew and loved Miss Antoinette.

However, the people who organized the Second Line made it public and no one betrayed disgust (self-consciously, I was looking for it) at the participation of outsiders like me. On the contrary, they seemed quite caught in the celebration and glad to be among others—whatever their connection or non-connection—in honoring the life of this incredible lady. Which, as a result of this provocative experience, I have learned more about and now, too, can recognize and honor. Though still thinking, this last point has helped me to reconcile my initial unease and, for now, I'm content to celebrate Miss Antoinette and all she did and, even in death, will continue to do for New Orleans.