There was once a tradition that brides-to-be often wanted to get married at St. Joseph church on Tulane Avenue because of the length of its aisle – the longest in the city (all the better for the girl and dress to be displayed before the tearful but happy congregation).
Built in 1893, the church once anchored a thriving area that bordered downtown. Over the years, as the surrounding area expanded into a medical center, and as the population spread toward the suburbs, the church lost its neighborhood parish; but still has its followers. Each year, in the days surrounding St. Joseph’s Day (March 19), visitors climb the steps to see the St. Joseph altar built for the namesake’s feast day.
Given his biblical status as the husband of the Blessed Virgin Mary who bore Jesus, a situation best deferred to the New Testament, Joseph is one of the big names in the pantheon of saints. Among his titles is “Patron Saint of Sicily,” yet New Orleans may be the city on the globe, even more so than in Palermo, where he is most celebrated.
In one of history’s domino effects, the saga of the Sicilians in New Orleans and the impact that it would have on defining a cultural celebration having nothing to do with Joseph, goes like this…hang on:
After the American Civil War and the freeing of the enslaved people, there were few laborers left to work the fields.
Local agriculture needed to recruit workers from other countries to work here, quite often with the intent of eventually retuning home with some of their earnings. Many, however, stayed.
Sicily was a promising area for recruitment. It was agricultural. Its climate was much like Louisiana’s. It had a Catholic population. It was reachable by ship.
By the late 1890s, the Sicilian population in Louisiana was burgeoning with immigrants. Many would eventually settle in New Orleans, especially in the French Quarter near the produce markets where they found work.
As they assimilated, some opened shop and brought with them recipes from the old country. Among them was immigrant Angelo Brocato who specialized in pastries and ice creams.
Another shop created a sandwich, the muffuletta, which was a New Orleans invention, but that used Sicilian meats, cheeses and, most importantly, olives. A company called Progresso imported olive oil. The kitchens in the this once French city were enhanced by new fragrances such as anise, garlic, tomatoes and mozzarella.
Sicilian groceries were gathering points in their neighborhoods.
Among their clientele were local Black families. Many, especially the Creole Catholics, became familiar with Joseph, who they appreciated as being the patron of workers, but also because, in season, they would see St. Joseph Day altars in the back of the stores. Joseph’s Feast even became part of one Black community’s tradition. There were two days each year when the Mardi Gras Indians paraded; one was Mardi Gras, the other was Joseph’s Day or the closest Sunday to it. Since the feast was always during Lent, celebrating Joseph was like having a one-day pass on the solemnity. Eventually, the Indians’ Lenten Sunday was standardized and re-named “Super Sunday,” but it started with Joseph.
As faith would have it, the Feast Day for the patron of the other Europeans Catholic group in the city, the Irish (Feb. 17), is only two days apart. Both the Irish and the Italians have parades, which happen to fall right in the solemn period of penance. It is good when you have two saints on your side.
In 2006, on the first St. Joseph’s Day after Katrina, we were riding around town just to see if there was much altar activity. In better years, it is common to see homes, many classic shotguns or doubles, or some using their carports, open for visitors to view the food altars laboriously built as thanks to Joseph. I have been to many altars but never to one like what I saw while driving down Elysian Fields that day. At that time many people were living in “FEMA trailers,” small wheeled units provided by the government to compensate for damaged housing. The silver trailers, parked around town, sparkled from the sun. They all looked alike except for one that had a sign on the side announcing a St. Joseph altar within. That I had to see. At the trailer’s steps a delightful Creole lady greeted us. She lived alone in the trailer but was nevertheless filled with enthusiasm. She had baked cookies and cakes in the tiny kitchen, with prepared pasta dishes and had fruits and vegetable as decorations. As is common to all altars, she had a dish of fava beans, one a piece for those craving a little more luck.
Anyone who was living in a FEMA trailer those days had a rough road ahead of them, but blessed were those who had something to believe in.
