Show Me Your Beeds!
Mardi Gras Gets Wild in San Jose
Story by Hercules // Photos by Angel Luna

This story is true, but for these purposes we are going to change the authors name, and in the third person call him "Hercules" (name selected by author).

Mardi Gras in San Jose is an annual, informal, tradition that happens in downtown every February. Those celebrating Mardi Gras take this chance to indulge in their wildest fantasies - sex, drugs, and violence. Every time something exciting happens, and this year was no exception.

Well, this fella decided to go out to downtown   San Jose,   to see what the Mardi Gras was all about. He parked on 4 th street close to San Fernando, diagonal to the library. Young folks would walk by every few minutes, wearing beeds and being loud. He started building himself a blunt. He liked to be spiritual on these occasions, and tonight he would spectate more than participate. As he was rolling it, a hellbird-helicopter announced its presence above, making news of the delicate matter of affairs at hand.   A few seconds later the sidewalk beside his car was packed with young pedestrians making a party,   and getting corralled by police on motorcycles and loudspeakers.

“Move…Keep moving! Let's go” said the San Jose storm troopers. One of the walkers must have said something, because the loudspeaker   blared, “Well if you went home you wouldn't   have to do this.” He sounded like a stereotypical whiteboy --   square and haughty.

He finished rolling the weed with a certain satisfaction.   It seemed like the whole SJPD squad passed by him in slow motion, pushing his peers, yet nobody noticed his illegal activity.   He meditated and hit the pavement.   He could feel the sex, violence,   and confrontation in the air. He noticed a lady friend of his, a Black sista. They talked some and she asked him where his friends were with a funny face. She couldn't understand why he would be out alone. She was with about 10 giggly girls, all wearing skirts and make up. He offered her some weed and they smoked a little.

He moved on to the bigger crowds on Santa Clara street. The sidewalks were packed with homeboys of all colors and cultures. The majority were Chicano-Nortenos, flamed out and fullblown, making it known that they were running the show. There were Paisas (native Mexicans) Blacks, Vietnamese, Filipinos, Cambodians, Whites, Samoans, and everybody else, even Asian Indians. Most of the homeboys looked gangsta, with fight in their eyes, and females on their minds.   The crowds were as large as 30, and 40 people.   My sisters looked very nice, displaying the appropriate skin despite the cold night. My brothers and I were comfortably dressed in the latest urban-Hip Hop attire, warm and ready for lost queens to make themselves be seen.   Hercules was glad to be among his peers, but he could also sense the fakeness among them – fronts and facades come like ID's in San Jose's nighttime entertainment culture. Despite this, the environment was raw, and young gangsta-warrriors were ready to fight at the drop of a dime.

The police department was ready to fight, too, in their riot gear of helmets and 4-foot batons.   Some appeared to enjoy their power, and our fear, while others were just doing a job, and didn't get off on controlling the crowds with demeaning stares, shouts, and gestures.   There was a squad of about 10 in front of Chevron alone, bunched together with their sticks in hand. On the corner of 3 rd and Santa Clara there were   4-6 cops on every corner.   At one point during the night they started roughing up some poor man, putting their cold sticks on him. It looked like 20 helmets were going to work on this one man. The crowds booed in disapproval.   Someone would occasionally shout, “Fuck the Police!” in defiance,   and throw an empty water bottle at the cops on motorcycles.   This made him happy.   What he didn't know, however, and which explained the cops' oversensitivity, was that last year's Mardi Gras gave San Jose riots, and the destruction of businesses. This same fire was in the air, so the SJPD riot squad and the cities young warrior-gangstas were facing off.  

Just before he left, this chocolate-caramel queen started flashing the crowds of homeboys for beads. He didn't know that this was a part of Mardi Gras – a part he didn't particularly agree with.   She went across the street to give a show. The fellas started howlin' and hootin'. She was gorgeous,   and her chocolate-coconuts were the center of attention.

She started walking away with some fella. Hercules followed, to try to talk to her. He slowly approached them, asking her why she did it. “It's Mardi Gras…it's okay.”

Her partner inserted, “Some dudes want to be disrespectful and touch without paying, but we gotta work, and make our money.” This fool was her boyfriend -- skinny,   pale, Chicano with a Black accent.

Hercules responded, “Then ya'll must be broke.” They weren't.   “You mean to tell me that you'll show me your breast right now?” he asked her.

The dude answered for her, “If you have beads, you got some?” He had a necklace of thick, brown seeds – close enough. He took them off and passed them to the dude. She lifted everything and big, dark-brown nipples came tumbling down.   He never had a woman do this, in such a casual way,   in the middle of the night, in the middle of the street. He didn't like it. He thought to himself, too many queens feel like this, and they're missing something. Besides feeling bad, he tried to laugh.