THE SPIRIT OF MARDI GRAS: THE LEGEND OF TI-SAINTE
by RUFUS PEMBROKE, (ca. 1823)
(Annotations, contextual notes and addenda by Clark Taylor)
NOTE FROM CLARK TAYLOR: I will be releasing subsequent verses of this epic poem through the remainder of the year. This work is in celebration of the 300th anniversary of the founding of New Orleans as the capital of Louisiana, which in 1723 included much of what is now the United States. (All copyrights reserved. Images herein are generated by Midjourney and only serve as placeholders for eventual artwork and images.)
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS
Herein I seek to relate the story of Ti-Sainte, the Spirit of Mardi Gras, known to the French Creoles as "Petite Sainte," and the Haitian Creoles as "Ti Sen"
I have drawn from collected stories of Choctaw, Chitimacha and Natchez elders, journals and documents found in archives of the City of New Orleans, current African slave narratives, songs and lore, neglected or secretive stories told among the creole and mixed-race free people arriving and living in the city as well as Songs and Stories from refugees of the recent slave rebellion on San Domingue.
I have traveled extensively throughout the West Indies, new France, New England and the Gulf Coast regions — as well as up and down the Mississippi river and tributaries. I have spent many years studying a variety of languages and dialects in order to better understand various cultures, some of which are in danger of being lost forever. Indeed, many already have.
I have chosen to write of Ti-Sainte (“Little Saint”) in the form of an epic poem as he deserves an art form commensurate with the subject. The poem is made up of stanzas of eleven lines made to resemble the French rondelle form. As Ti-Sainte was born Jean Baptiste in 1699 to and in a French world, it seems appropriate.
Much of the story focuses as well on his mother, Marie (Lanme’a) Sauvole, (c. 1685-1743) whose exploits as a widowed woman of African Creole descent provide a window into the social structures of colonial France and Spain during this period, but also help to understand the development of the unique culture of Louisiana and New Orleans.
Ti-Sainte lived 88 years before passing into legend. These years (1699-1788) circumscribe the era of the discovery and building of French New Orleans, as well as the city of Mobile and the communities of Biloxi and others so important to the settling of the waterways of the Gulf of Mexico, major locales during the seminal years of colonial America and the early years of American independence.
While the legend of Ti-Sainte continues to live on in the hearts of adults and children alike during the wonderful and mysterious period between Twelvth Night and Ash Wednesday, known variously as ‘Carnivale,’ or the season of Mardi Gras, I think it important to relate this foundational story and clarify once and for all, the life of this now mythical character.
As we know, this very religious holiday season comes to us through the pre-Christian days when pagans celebrated the winter solstice as well as looking toward pre-spring fasting due to the lack of stores from the previous harvest. Nonetheless, the spirit of Ti-Sainte shines with a heavenly, Godly light and brings not just the promise of plenty to come, but of celebrating the true virtues of Christ and the wider values of an inclusive world
And so I give you the legend of Ti-Sainte. may your Mardi Gras season be the grandest and your tables laden with good things. To Ti-Sainte and the joy of freedom!
Rufus Pembroke. Mardi Gras Day, 1823
Prologue
Some say Ti-Sainte was born long ago,
Before the time of worry and woe
When humans were free from rulers and kings
And cared not for riches, or owning of things
Before there was money, soldiers and slaves
Before people paid debts by digging their graves
When all of God’s Children danced by the fires
And worshipped the Heavens through natural spires
When joy followed sadness as dawn does the night
And life a parade of boundless delight
When Freedom was a given and natural right.
The ages since then were metered by Time
Counting the days by the clock’s ringing chime
Empires rose and fell by the score
Never learning from those that came just before
The coins of kings dug from the mines
Paid for their captives and wars of all kinds
Borders were drawn and re-drawn again
As if to hold people beholden within
Forced into tribes all competing for life
Creating a world of anger and strife
Reaping the red harvest of Death’s swinging scythe
The New World, so called, was so much older
Than nations of Europe who acted much bolder
Planting their flags to claim ancient lands
Lived-in and cared for by traditional hands
The tribes they encountered held uncounted mysteries
And kept in their minds incredible histories
Shared with the Earth and Nature’s own time
Rose with the sun which moved so sublime
Arcing across to set spinning the skies
They named the heavens, with different eyes
Calling their legends with dancing and cries.
And herein we see even more ancient folks
Brought out of Africa wearing slave yokes
Forced to do labor under new suns
Dying to enrich the greedier ones
Bringing with them all of their ghosts
Spirits released by pillory and posts
Chanting and songs all saving graces
Helping them survive in horrible places
Relying on stories of their queens and kings
Remembering a time of much better things
Hoping for freedom that only God brings
And to this world came all those seeking better
Lives for the future from the pasts ruled by letter
Conscripted to journeys which took them away
From everyone known, where they couldn't stay
Shiploads of migrants, settlers and convicts
Pirates and traders, priests and heretics
Crossing the oceans and floating down rivers
Living on luck and rich promise givers
Many were soldiers and sailors with orders
To keep watchful eyes on the wealth of the horders
Fortify and fight for newly mapped borders.
These stories unwritten use rhythms and rhymes
Seeking a meaning to good and bad times
What we call myths, they called the real
Animal gods with human appeal
Helped every people to yet understand
Their place in the cosmos, in this land
Everyday was another time on this earth
That sacredly honored each death and each birth
So it came to be that on the New World’s old shore
We find the tribes who gathered galore
And brought us this origin story of yore.
It took the colors of human experience
To paint the One who created deliverance
From the cold Winter, the quickening night
The crack of a whip, the gathering fright
Marrying ancient ways with others thought best
Finding new riches in life's treasure chest
By knowing the shadows as ephemeral evidence
A reminder of one’s own physical presence
Ti-Sainte was given form on this Earth
To bring about joy where there’s a dearth
And so we come now to his sacred birth.
THE LEGEND OF TI-SAINTE
by Rufus Pembroke, (ca. 1822)
The story, the myth, the legend I write
Begins on an almost forgotten night
A few Indians knew what planets aligned
The third night of March, sixteen ninety-nine.
Ti-Jean Baptiste, under a crescent moon
Born not too late, nor a moment too soon
His mother Lanme'a ran heavy with child
And hid in the bayou cane, eyes looking wild
Torches came after her, searching the shore
To catch her up and the infant she bore
She'd been a slave and her son, one more.
The searchers were led by Benjamin Long
Who’d made himself rich doing things wrong
He wanted the woman and her unborn
He claimed as his property, she was forsworn
Her husband had promised to be home soon
Leagues away though beneath the same moon
Long saw his chance, imagine her fright
As he sought to capture her this very night
Her tracks disappeared then into a thicket
The men surrounded her like a picket
She was trapped, only sound was a cricket