A community’s choice of idols speaks volumes about its culture. Tampa’s elite chose Jose Gaspar, a mythical Spanish aristocrat who inexplicably became a pirate and went by the girly name “Gasparilla.” Take a look at the official history. It is utter horseshit. The story of his suicide is too silly for me to rephrase. According to the myth, he never invaded Tampa at all. In fact, the legend originated in Port Charlotte.
Ye Mystic Krewe of Gasparilla may sound like the name of an obscure herbal tea, but it is the name of Tampa’s elite club, today comprised of 700. And once a year, they dress up like pirates, sail into Tampa Bay and invade their own fair city on parade floats. Then they make a lot of noise, shoot off guns and throw useless trinkets to the proletariat lining the street below.
Besides its questionable status as an authentic celebration, Gasparilla differs from Mardi Gras in other important ways. Mardi Gras celebrates the city’s diversity, with Krewes of many ethnicities and themes. Tampa’s elite was rich, white, Southern, Protestant and exclusive. Tampa’s Latin population didn’t get involved until the door cracked open for the Gauchos in the 1950s and St. Yago in 1970.
The Super Bowl came to town in 1991, and Gasparilla was to be held the day before. Nationwide scrutiny of the ritual spurred public pressure for the Krewe to integrate. The NFL became uneasy about hitching its wagon to a segregated parade. A coalition of activists threatened to boycott Gasparilla and the Super Bowl. Ye Mystic Krewe bitterly canceled Gasparilla that year in a storm of controversy, looking more like the Sunshine State’s chapter of Ye Ku Klux Klan. The city threw a half-spirited event called Bomboleo and the pirates stayed home. It literally rained on the parade that year.
The good ole Gasparilla boys grudgingly accepted black members after Bomboleo bombed. The 1990s saw a proliferation of new Krewes. Some are actually comprised of women. Many became more involved in charities to soften their images, especially Ye Mystic Krewe. In 2004, the Gasparilla boys tried to exclude other Krewes from dressing like pirates. It only brought more negative publicity.
All the squabbling at the top neglects the fact that this self-celebration requires the participation of the masses. Over the years, the lively, largely wholesome Gasparilla traditions began to take on deeper shades of debauch and indulgence. Rowdy boozers changed the tone of the event from a celebration of order into a mass bacchanal. It’s not just the pirates who are drunk these days.
A reveler’s bad behavior is ironically appropriate for what we’re expected to celebrate: a Spanish pirate’s fictional invasion of our city. Many cheer with a lusty, drunken delight that makes the authorities squirm: it's too close to the ranting of a real pirate, the jeers of juvenile delinquents, or grumblings from the restive lower classes. Instead of reinforcing the status quo as intended, Gasparilla can unleash primal passions that threaten order and decorum.
[image-1]With all of the drinking and tomfoolery, there is a danger of citizens forgetting why those guys started Gasparilla in the first place: to celebrate different sets of rules for different classes of people. The City of Tampa says it will crack down on the hooliganism and flagrant swashbuckling activities that Gasparilla encouraged in the first place. Underage boys and girls inspired by Gaspar’s example will be arrested; so will people openly drinking in the plundered city. Coolers are banned while well-provisioned parade floats and yachts drift by.
The beer vendors know what time it is. Remember your place: Buy a seat, buy a beer, and just catch the fuckin’ beads. Only pirates drink for free!
