New Orleans roars back with start of Carnival after truck attack. But don't call locals 'resilient'

Just a few blocks away, people wept and laid flowers and crosses at the site of a horrific truck attack that killed 14 people only six days earlier. A memorial to the dead stretched for half a block.

"That's a hard thing. How do you reconcile that with having a parade?" de Alteriis said. "Here's how we reconcile it: We chose hope."

Countless times in the past week, politicians and outsiders have praised the city for its ability to bounce back. New Orleans has faced tragedy again and again, perhaps more than any other American place.

Locals wince when people praise the city's "resilience." They say they're exhausted at being asked to endure the systemic problems and inequities and government failures.

Mark Schettler, a veteran bartender, said he prefers to think of this parade, and all the ones that will come after it, as an act of defiance that inspires others to follow, to act. That, he said, is what the city needs most right now.

"We're so sick and tired of having to be resilient. How about for once things just work?" Schettler said. "But as long as I have two middle fingers I will always be waving them around defiantly."

Stop calling it resilience

Schettler watched the parade from the Double Club on Chartres Street, at a party reserved for people in the service industry. It was his 39th birthday — he had a stack of dollar bills pinned to his chest, a New Orleans birthday tradition — but there was a bittersweet tinge to the celebration.

Schettler grabbed random people at the bar and quizzed them: What's the R word that you hate the most? Most knew the answer right away.

"Resilience?" said service industry worker Andy Pratt. "Pay us! We're sick of being resilient."

"It's not fair to be judged by your ability to navigate trauma," said Dominic Hernandez, the club's co-owner with his wife Cierra.

"It is so dismissive," said Cierra Hernandez.

"It's honestly insulting," said Rafaela Lopez, a tattoo artist and bartender.

They were given little choice but to keep moving: Bourbon Street reopened a mere 36 hours after the carnage, before all the bodies had yet been identified by the coroner. The Sugar Bowl was delayed, but by less than 24 hours. Officials, eager to move forward, plugged the upcoming Super Bowl.

Many people who work as waiters, bartenders or dancers in the French Quarter had to go back to work the day after the attack.

Still grappling with the bloodshed in their streets, some said they felt forced into a state of resiliency by leaders prioritizing those who visit the city, over locals' need for time and space to heal. Louisiana relies on tourism, with 42.6 million visitors in 2022 generating $17.1 billion.

To them, resilience is not a compliment. It's a forced state of being that requires nothing of anyone but the people who are hurting.

Dressed in leopard print with glitter sparkling all over her cheeks, Lopez said the only real resilience is in the support that the community has for itself.

"The only people who take care of each other is us," Lopez said.

Someone brought out shots for the table, and they all raised a glass. They laughed and made a toast: "To resilience, y'all!"

A city marked by tragedy

It's been just 20 years since Hurricane Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast, and in the decades since there have been more hurricanes, the BP oil spill, and spasms of violence. The city had the highest per-capita homicide rate in the nation in 2022. The numbers have decreased in the years since, but residents still say violence is so ingrained in city life, they're often numb to it.

On New Year's Day, just hours after the carnage on Bourbon Street, the owner of a Vietnamese supermarket was gunned down in a robbery. Thanh Vu, a mother of six and widely known as Ms. Maria, was described to the local media as a "beloved matriarch." Two others were killed in separate shootings that same day: 19-year-old Kayron Hall and 41-year-old Percy Baytop.

"Things keep happening here — hurricanes, floods, now a terrorist attack. We're just expected to dust ourselves off and keep going," said New Orleans native Julie Laskay.

De Alteriis said she still has post-traumatic stress disorder from surviving Hurricane Katrina. She spent months after living in a makeshift shelter with her elderly mother, her son and two cats, and still gets pangs of fear when a bad storm rolls in, a compulsion to check in with friends – the same instinct she felt after the attack on New Year's Day.

Some people have criticized Mayor LaToya Cantrell and Chief of Police Anne Kirkpatrick for leaving the French Quarter vulnerable on New Year's Eve; the city was in the midst of replacing the steel barriers, leaving a security gap that gave the attacker an entry onto the street. The mayor later admitted she remains unsure if the expensive new barriers would be able to stop a similar vehicle attack.

If not resilience, then what?

The parade marched on. It was a motley assembly of hundreds of volunteers, smaller than in past years, from retirees who had participated for nearly two decades to twentysomethings who signed up on a whim for the first time ever.

Spectators expressed gratitude for the knights, monks, angels and others who had donned their elaborate costumes in near-freezing weather: "Thank y'all!" "Y'all look so great!" "Gorgeous!" Strangers smiled at each other, friends reconnected and hugged along the route and the warmth of the moment seemed to hold the city together.

Hannah Miller held a sign reading "I love you New Orleans"" with little lights around it.

"Tonight felt almost like a protest or a rally," she said. "Because love is bigger than fear."

It felt, some said, like a light in the darkness.

Wren Misbach, a marcher dressed in a silvery tunic, viewed it as an act of service to the city she loves.

"We take care of ourselves here," Misbach said. "We rise again, we live to fight another day, we put ourselves back together."

Yasin Frank Southall and his friends celebrated in a most New Orleans fashion: Pouring out free hot toddies and slicing king cake for anyone who passed.

"Going back to normalcy is really important. It's about tradition, it's about love," said Southall, a 42-year-old community engagement manager for a housing organization.

As the parade wound to a close, Kathleen Ford, a 56-year-old realtor draped in a pink and white coat with a bejeweled felt crown, called out to the marchers: "Pray hard!"

She had to be here tonight despite the cold, despite how tired she was of bouncing back ever since she lost her house beneath 10 feet of water after Hurricane Katrina. A former French Quarter resident, her favorite bar was just a block away from where the attack happened.

This parade, she said, isn't about resilience. It's about the city, and what it means, its beauty, its pain, its grit.

"It's what we do, it's part of our DNA, my DNA," Ford said. "It's the soul of my heart and soul of New Orleans."

As the parade ended before her, a procession of angels brought up the rear, their white-gloved hands clasped in prayer to the tune of Hallelujah.

They marched through a flutter of confetti and flashing blue police lights.