‘Holding the torch’: Big Chief Victor Harris of Fi Yi Yi shares healing through Black masking tradition
Victor Harris, Spirit of Fi Yi Yi and Big Chief of the Mandingo Warriors, shared perspective on loss, healing and cultural legacy learned over 55 years of masking Mardi Gras Indian.
By Alexis T. Reed
The sewing room where Victor Harris, Spirit of Fi Yi Yi and Big Chief of the Mandingo Warriors, works is a beaded and feathered paradise decades in the making.
“You could throw me in a jungle and I could make a paradise out of it without anyone telling me what to do,” Harris said, standing in the room at his Upper 9th Ward home. No instructions needed, he added.
In early December, the table at the center of the room was covered in every type of bead you could imagine as well as piles of cowrie shells, which Harris always uses to decorate his hand-sewn suits. The cowrie shells — once used as currency in Africa — pay homage to his African heritage, he explained.
You can see and feel the fullness of his life in the family members who stop by to check in and the photos on the walls, which follow the 55 years Harris has masked Mardi Gras Indian. An ornate mask sewn with cowrie shells with green and orange feathers greets guests in the front room of his home. Most of his sewing — detailed patterns of beads in reds and greens and blues — travels straight from his mind to the needle in his hand, he said.
“You can’t draw it. You can’t duplicate it,” Harris said. “You have to love it in order to create it.”
Harris has been sewing since he was 12 years old. He started masking when he was 15 as a flag boy in Big Chief Allison “Tootie” Montana’s Yellow Pocahontas tribe. (Harris still refers to Tootie as his Big Chief.)
Today, Harris is one of the most recognizable chiefs in the city and a community leader. He’s like a pastor: Always needed, requested and available. He’s lived to see the loss of loved ones and tribe members. He’s seen disinvestment, erasure of greenspace and over-policing in the city’s Black neighborhoods.
The past year has been especially tough. The COVID-19 pandemic has brought death and isolation to New Orleans. Harris also mourned the death of his niece Kim “Cutie” Boutte, Big Queen of the Spirit of Fi-Yi-Yi, in August 2020. Boutte, 55, was shot and killed by a stray bullet after a gunman opened fire on a group of people attending a funeral repast in New Orleans East.
Sewing has been a source of strength and healing through it all, Harris said. He is used to sewing alongside other members of Fi Yi Yi at his home. This year he sewed his 56th suit at home alone and called his tribe members on the phone to check-in daily. As Mardi Gras 2021 approaches, he sees himself as “holding the torch” of Black masking culture, he said. The culture is medicine, he added.
“You can’t forget where you come from and who you are… Culture means a lot,” Harris said. “It means everything. If you’re living without culture, then where are you from?”
Lede New Orleans Fellow Alexis Reed sat down with Harris to talk about growing up Black in New Orleans, changing neighborhoods and the COVID-19 pandemic. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
What was it like being Black and living in New Orleans in the 1950s and 60s?
VH: Equality and justice just wasn’t for us. We couldn’t even stand on our own corner or in front of our door. They would take us to jail just because we were Black. When we would go to Mardi Gras parades [as kids], white folks would throw beads at us. If there were beads on the ground and we would go grab them, white folks would step on our hands…
Education was cut short for many of us as early as 7th grade because we had to get jobs to help our families survive. Stores like Woodward’s only allowed us to be employed as janitors. Under [Civil Rights leader] Jerome Smith’s leadership, we boycotted Woodward’s until they would offer us other positions. Many Black people stopped shopping there, so it closed. It was located on Rampart and Canal streets where the Hard Rock Hotel collapsed. We couldn’t even use their restrooms and we had to get on our knees to drink from the water fountains that they allowed us to use.
You noted construction of the elevated I-10 over Claiborne Avenue as a turning point for displacement of local Black communities. Can you explain more?
VH: I-10 took away homes, neighborhood bars, restaurants, oyster houses, music classes. We had everything on Claiborne Avenue. It was like Black Wall Street in Tulsa, Okla., before it was burned down by white people. There was a neutral ground with big, beautiful oak trees. It was like Central Park to us. Each family had their own tree where they sat and picnicked and other families respected that. We played football and baseball there and that was a Mardi Gras Indian pass we traveled on Mardi Gras Day…
The government didn’t want us back here after Hurricane Katrina. Only homeowners could afford to come back. My wife and I were insured homeowners, so that’s what helped us. They boosted housing costs then created Section 8. That’s why Black people are living off of the government now. Take away Section 8 and see where our people will be.
What has the past year been like for you?
VH: I call my tribe everyday while we’re sewing from home. Losing Kim, my niece and Big Queen, has been more impactful than COVID-19. People loved her and she was always helping people who were in need. She was electrifying and the life of the party. Everyone misses her. My other queens are still crying. One of the spy boys said, ‘I don’t know what I’ll do this year because Kim would come to my house and keep me awake while I sew.’ I will honor her this year because that is how we will keep her spirit alive.
What role do women have in Mardi Gras Indian culture?
VH: The Big Queen is always supposed to be beside the Chief. The Queens dance, too. Traditionally, before you get to Mardi Gras Day, women play the greatest role of all. They feed us. My wife cooks while the tribe is sewing and she says, “Y’all want anything else or need anything else?” It means a lot. We’re usually down there sewing six, seven, sometimes 12 hours a day.
They also put their money up to help afford supplies like glue and beads for suits. These suits are very expensive. Miss Joyce, Tootie Montana’s wife, sewed the majority of his suits because he worked a full-time job.
You and other Big Chiefs have decided not to mask this Mardi Gras. What are you feeling right now?
VH: It hurts me to say I can’t go out this Mardi Gras. It’s a hard pill for me to swallow. It’s like being stabbed in the heart honestly. But it’s the right thing to do not to mask. If I come out hundreds of people are going to follow me. It’s dangerous to be out there knowing what’s happening right now.
You’re still sewing a 56th suit, though. Why is it important to keep sewing?
VH: Masking is spiritual to us. Some people think it’s a parade. It’s not. It’s a godly thing to me. I don’t go out there to drink or get loaded. People use something we do for what they want to do, but that’s not the cause. As the Spirit of Fi Yi Yi, I’m compelled to do certain things that some people might not understand…
I am sewing today. They say there won’t be a Mardi Gras. I’ve been masking for 55 years, longer than any Mardi Gras Indian in the history of our culture. I’m not stopping this year. That’s my leadership role — to spiritualize people and give them hope and joy.
Alexis T. Reed is a senior Interdisciplinary Studies student at the University of New Orleans and a UNO-Japan Program and Benjamin A. Gilman International Scholarship Program alumna. She is a Fall 2020 reporting fellow at Lede New Orleans. She also serves as a board member at the New Orleans Youth Alliance and a working group member for the New Orleans Youth Master Plan. Her passion is to improve the quality of life for Black New Orleanians because “we deserve a lifetime in New Orleans, not #OneTimeInNewOrleans.”
