Page 21 of She's Like the Wind
The first time I saw someone scream “STELLAAAAA!” at the top of their lungs in front of a packed crowd, I thought they were having a breakdown.
Now, I never missed theStella Screaming Contest.
The Tennessee Williams Literary Festival was one of my favorite weekends in the city. Writers, poets, playwrights, professors, actors, and fans filled the French Quarter, holding on to the unspoken belief that art would save the world.
The festival was a tribute to a man who loved this city deeply, and whose heartbreak bled into every line he ever wrote. I felt that more this year than ever before.
“This is going to beepic,” Aurelie whispered as Jules, one of our crew from R Bar, stepped up to theroped-off area on the street near Jackson Square and took a deep breath.
We were shoulder to shoulder with a few dozen other festival-goers, all squinting under the bright spring sun.
Tourists had gathered too, drawn in by the sheer weirdness of it: grown adults competing to scream “Stella!” with as much tortured, theatrical yearning as they could muster.
“He’s been practicing.” Simone, a painter from Bywater who wore a crown of tiny, sculpted birds, grinned. “Like…in front of mirrors. In the shower. In my car.”
“That’s commitment.” I took a sip of coffee, needing the caffeine as I’d woken up only an hour ago, thanks to yet another crappy night.
At least I didn’t have to open the store today. My part-time employee Kadisha was taking care of Aire Noir while I flitted around the Quarter with my friends.
Each participant got three chances toscreamStella—and the organizers egged them on with dialog fromStreetcar Named Desireor by heckling them.
Jules, number three, stepped in front of the table onto the makeshift stage. He cupped his mouth and let out the most guttural, operatic “STEELLLLAAAAAA!” I’d ever heard.
People clapped. A few cheered. Someone whistled.
“He sounds like a dying alligator in a Shakespeare play,” Aurelie muttered.
“That was his first try. I wonder if he has juice for more,” I mused.
Simone gave me a sly look. “Oh, he’s got juice alright!”
The organizer said something we couldn’t hear clearly, and Jules went for round two. This time he was dramatic but didn’t scream so loudly.
And then, after a pause, he went forgold, cause as he screamed, he went on his knees, a la Marlon Brando, and ripped open his shirt. “Stellaaaaaaaaa.”
There was silence for a beat and then a whole hell of a lot of applause.
“Jules, my man, that was something.” Aurelie clapped his shoulder when he joined us, pumped.
He took the coffee from my hand and sipped, made a face. “How do you drink it this bitter?”
“’Cause I’m hardcore, baby,” I replied.
Simone hugged Jules. “You’re so gonna win!”
He didn’t win, but he was one of thehonorablementions, which he took as a win. Jules was positive like that.
After the contest, we wandered across Jackson Square, past the tarot readers, the street musicians playing swing under the iron balconies, and the scent of fresh beignets curling through the air like a delicious love letter.
I knew every crack in the sidewalks, every faded sign, every alleyway that felt like a secret.
New Orleans didn’t apologize for who she was. She celebrated it. That’s why I’d stayed—built my life here.
When I first came to New Orleans, I’d worked, like so many others did, in the service industry. I bartended while I went to community college—not because I had a clear plan, but because I knew one thing for certain: I wanted something that was mine.
How did I have the courage to dream that big when I had nothing? Who knows.
Maybe it was survival.
