You know the song: My flag boy and your flag boy were sitting by the fire / My flag boy said to your flag boy, “I’m gonna set your flag on fire.” Simple handclaps carry its harmonies, and a DIY drumbeat featuring a Coke bottle and an aluminum chair makes up its patchwork percussion. The song has made its way onto the Rain Man and Hangover soundtracks, been covered by the Grateful Dead, and was recently revived (or destroyed) with a rendition that blew up on TikTok. But, much like the culture it was born from, the song’s roots run much deeper. The flag-boy battle speaks to a centuries-old story of Black resistance that’s still embodied by the Mardi Gras Indians of New Orleans. It’s a testament to resilience, a declaration of pride, and a reminder that, there, even conflict can be transformed into art.
Just over two months into 2025, and it’s already been a hell of a year for New Orleans. On January 1, revelers rang in the new year to tragedy when a terror attack claimed 15 lives and left 57 injured. Three weeks later—as the city was still in the throes of processing its grief—a once-in-a-lifetime blizzard buried the streets in near-biblical swathes of snow. Not for the first time, the Big Easy has had it hard. But even when the going gets tough, New Orleanians are known for taking it in stride. And each year during Mardi Gras, they take it to the streets.
For Mardi Gras Indians—or Black Maskers, as many practitioners now prefer to be called—resilience isn’t just woven into the culture metaphorically; it is painstakingly and patiently handsewn. During the annual Mardi Gras festivities, some 40 tribes flock to the streets in a battle of beauty over brawn, where violence is swapped for vibrancy and creativity trumps conflict. Armor is formed of towering feathered suits, adorned with beads and sequins and weighing up to 150 pounds. Bead by bead, maskers take months crafting intricate tapestries, rich in symbolism and allegory, before constructing them into ceremonial garments ready for war.
The tradition dates back to the 1700s, but there’s no neat way to trace its lineage. It’s a vibrant cultural practice shaped by African, Indigenous, and Creole influences, much like the New Orleans that Big Chief Demond Melancon grew up in. “It was a gumbo,” he remembers, “a mixture of all kinds of ethnicities and people of different races—and everybody loving each other.” And like any good gumbo, the tradition simmers with far-reaching flavors that unite in New Orleans.
When Melancon started masking some 30 years ago, the accepted story of the Mardi Gras Indians started with the slave revolt. Masking was seen as a way to pay homage to the Native Americans who assisted enslaved Africans in escaping via the Underground Railroad. This is what Troy Young was taught; he’s Big Chief of the Algiers Warriors, who was born into the culture via his parents and grandparents and wore his first suit at the age of two. “But as I got older and did more research, I just felt like that was fake,” Young says.
Back then, suits were often embellished with images of bloody battle—decapitated heads, slaughtered bodies, spurting blood—upholding a racist depiction of Indigenous people as savages. And after meeting Native Americans at Jazz Fest, Melancon realized many felt they were being made a mockery of. “I did my last piece [depicting that storyline] in 2008,” he says, “because I knew that Indigenous people are not savages. That’s a story that was told to us, and it was a lie.”
This revelation resonated with many maskers and instigated a shift in the culture fueled by intellectual and historical curiosity. “People study now to put the suits on,” Melancon explains. And when they do, they trace the tradition back to its African roots: Benin’s masquerade traditions, Haiti’s spiritual resistance, and the maroons who carved out freedom in Louisiana’s swamps. These escaped enslaved people created their own culture in defiance of the Code Noir, French colonial laws that tried to stamp out African spirituality in favor of Roman Catholicism.
Masking culture incorporates everything from Yoruba spiritual symbols to Ghanaian Adinkra patterns, Haitian Vodou iconography, and Egyptian motifs—a material anthology of Black diasporic history. Young’s work now illuminates marginalized histories, like his 2024 Lost Tribes of Florida suits in royal purple. “There’s enough killing going on in the world,” says Young. “I try not to promote that through my suits.” Queens like Cherice Harrison-Nelson bead family histories into their suits, including stories of ancestors who were enslaved. In 2020, Queen Tiara Horton of the 9th Ward Black Hatchet created a Black Lives Matter suit featuring Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin, and the Obamas, proving that this centuries-old tradition remains a vital medium for contemporary expression.
“These ceremonial roles serve more than pageantry,” explains Nigerian American stylist Alexander-Julian Gibbson. “They are about healing, protection from the unknown, and communion with the spirits. The suits they craft tell stories—of history, of survival, of the here and now. Their narratives honor the past while claiming space in the present. Each design is a declaration of identity and a testament to artistry and pride.” (Drawn to these rich cultural tapestries and the stories behind them, Gibbson traveled to New Orleans to style this shoot.)
The artistry of these suits rivals any haute couture collection; they’re both wearable art and living history. And the art world is finally taking notice. Melancon’s beadwork has earned him exhibitions at London’s V&A and Berlin’s HKW, placing his intricate narratives alongside works by the master painters he studies and mimics: Caravaggio, Kerry James Marshall, and Rembrandt. Last year, Queen Tahj made history as the first artist to design an NFL Super Bowl logo, using traditional beadwork to bring this centuries-old craft to millions of new eyes.
But for every masker getting their flowers, dozens more remain in the shadows, their artistry largely unrecognized beyond their community. Most still juggle full-time jobs and family responsibilities while spending countless late nights hunched over beadwork. In post-Katrina New Orleans, where gentrification continues to push Black families out of historic neighborhoods, maintaining the tradition grows harder each year. Suits can cost thousands in materials alone, and to the real ones, no shortcuts are allowed.
“Spending money because you don’t want to put the groundwork in, paying people to make that suit for you—that ain’t how it goes,” Young explains. “I create my suit, I build my suit. I’m the brains behind my suit.” This devotion transforms craft into spiritual experience on Mardi Gras Day. “When I step out, it’s a different feeling,” he reflects. “All that I’ve been working on all year is done. The spirit has jumped from my needle and thread to inside of me.”
The culture runs on pride rather than prizes, as Dominique Dilling Francis of the Backstreet Cultural Museum explains: “It is nothing but a whole bunch of bragging rights. This is all done for honor, respect, tradition.” For today’s practitioners, this honor carries responsibility. Each suit must tell a true story; each design must carry meaning. Each year must outdo the last. “Once you put them big-boy shoes on, you can’t take ’em off,” Young affirms.
“I don’t want to be teaching the wrong thing,” he reflects. “I have people that trust me in my tribe. They trust my leadership.” Each year, as the spirit jumps from needle to thread to masker, the tradition proves itself not just alive but evolving—shaped by the hands that keep it, questioned by the minds that carry it, and transformed by the hearts that love it.
In this story: Creative direction and styling, Alexander-Julian Gibbson; hair, Allen Tater Pazon; makeup, Michela Wariebi; fashion assistants, Sheneque Clarke and Taylor M. Lewis. Special thanks to New Orleans Co. and Backstreet Cultural Museum.