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On a sweltering June evening, a crowd forms on the corner of Orleans Avenue and North Miro Street in the Trem茅 neighborhood of New Orleans. When the trumpets, tubas, and trombones lift up and wail, people start marching.

Men in white T-shirts drenched in sweat; women in hospital scrubs and housekeeping uniforms having just come from work; an 8-year-old with a bright orange shirt and a bleached blond flattop, armed with a tuba twice his height, move in tight steps to the rhythm of the brass band.

Handkerchiefs swing proudly in the air, doubling as sweat rags. The group makes it around the block and stops in front of a tan shotgun house where a man in a wheelchair uses his arms to raise his body in the air. He drops down and spins his chair, keeping pace with the beat of the song.

Amid the crowd is a sprinkling of matching T-shirts, red and black, with a pastel portrait of civil rights icon Leah Chase, the 鈥淨ueen of Creole Cuisine,鈥� printed front and center. To an outsider it might look like some kind of spirited birthday party for somebody鈥檚 grandmother. But people aren鈥檛 here because 96-year-old Chase made it once more around the sun. They鈥檙e here because she just died.

It鈥檚 called a听second line. The term refers to dance steps as much as to a syncopated rhythm that originated on the streets of New Orleans, says Helen Regis, associate professor of geography and anthropology at Louisiana State University,听in . More technically, she says in the article, 鈥�second line means the followers, or joiners, who fall in behind the 鈥榝irst line,鈥� composed of the brass band and the social club, which typically sponsors the parade.鈥� It鈥檚 become an umbrella term for .

Today, people are here to honor Chase鈥檚 memory and to celebrate her life. There may be an extra pinch of fanfare because of Chase鈥檚 legacy, but fundamentally this is how New Orleans deals with death.

Malik J.M. Walker is a chaplain and adjunct professor at New York University who has written on the ;听he was also born in the New Orleans area. 鈥淭he majority of people in New Orleans鈥攅specially Black folks鈥攈ave had to encounter death and mortality in very specific ways, and it鈥檚 all around us,鈥� he explains. 鈥淭he city itself, the humidity kind of hangs deep with the scream of our ancestors.鈥�

It鈥檚 one thing when an elder dies, he says, someone who has lived a long, full life, like Chase. 鈥淚t鈥檚 another thing when you鈥檙e 16 years old and your friend is killed suddenly because of some dispute鈥攂eing in the wrong place at the wrong time.鈥�

This resonates with Trenice McMillian, who for 13 years has been making T-shirts with her husband鈥攎uch like the memorial ones at Chase鈥檚 second line. The couple also makes life-size printouts of people that can be propped up to make it look like the person is standing.

The McMillians started doing it for birthdays. 鈥淏ut then somebody came and asked if we could do it for someone who had just passed away, and it just took off from there,鈥� she says. People bring what she calls 鈥渓ife-sizes鈥� to family reunions and weddings, to dance and take pictures with. Sometimes the deceased will show up in 2-D at their own repass.

McMillian鈥檚 business, Platinum Graphics, is in Central City, the neighborhood with the in all of New Orleans, according to a 2015 crime analysis. New Orleans鈥� murder rate is eight times the national average.

鈥淭he city itself, the humidity kind of hangs deep with the scream of our ancestors.鈥�

There are seasons to her business, she says. In the spring it鈥檚 mostly for graduations. In the summer, when school is out, there tends to be a here, as in many U.S. cities, so she鈥檚 mostly printing memorial products.

McMillian recalled four friends听who听once brought her a picture of their group. The friends kept bringing in that one picture to be printed on T-shirts and funeral programs when one of them was killed, 鈥渦ntil they were all gone off of it.”

When the last one, Sadiki 鈥淒iki鈥� Navarre was shot in 2013 at age 24, McMillian printed four to five life-sizes of Diki and about 300 shirts. 鈥淗is funeral [and repass] were right up the street from the shop, but I refused to go,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 hard when you see them every birthday and every celebration, and then they all just get picked off.鈥�

Memorials like Chase鈥檚 and Diki鈥檚 came about out of necessity. During Reconstruction, when a Black person died, there was no chance of getting any kind of memorial like those held for White New Orleanians, Walker says. So Black communities would hold a kind of 鈥渕ock鈥� state funeral, incorporating West African rhythms and syncretized dance. 鈥淲e had to master the form and go beyond it,鈥� he says.

Since Hurricane Katrina in 2005, an听 flocking to the city has increasingly embraced this tradition. After a 28-year-old massage therapist was struck by lightning and killed in 2016, her friends organized a second line through the Marigny and Bywater neighborhoods. A in 2017 by a mostly White, Star Wars-themed parade group spurred intense debate on , so much that the troupe dropped 鈥渟econd line鈥� from the name of the event. Other lines planned for out-of-town celebrities like David Bowie and Prince have been met with both .

But Walker says second lines have been appropriated for decades. 鈥淲e could talk about that being a slap to its origin, but at the same time, I believe that the generosity that [kind of] funeral teaches meant that we were not going to 鈥減atent鈥� it,鈥� he explains. 鈥淵ou have this society that functions on the basis of exclusion and folks that had to share for survival鈥攆rom the [slave] ship onward.鈥� Walker thinks that the instinct for openness and sharing applies to second lines, too: 鈥淏ut if you鈥檙e gonna actually play the music and walk the walk and dance the dance, you gotta learn that lesson.鈥�

“If you鈥檙e gonna actually play the music and walk the walk and dance the dance, you gotta learn that lesson.鈥�

It鈥檚 difficult to pinpoint exactly what that 鈥渓esson鈥� is. But artist and parade leader Katrina Brees, originally of Massachusetts, may have learned it this past year. In June 2018, Brees鈥� mother, Donna Nathan, purchased a gun after Googling 鈥済un stores鈥� and then shot and killed herself under what is known as the 鈥淭ree of Life鈥� in New Orleans City Park.

Brees has been in Louisiana since 2002, and her mom joined her two years later after separating with Brees鈥� father. Nathan loved dancing and music and costumes and art. 鈥淚 think she got to be herself in New Orleans,鈥� Brees explains. 鈥淔ree in her spirit and her creativity and her humor.鈥� But she also became an alcoholic here, where many bars are open 24/7 and you can drink in the street.

In her trauma, it didn鈥檛 take Brees long to decide on two things she could do. Within 48 hours, she started working toward a law that would give people like Nathan the option to by registering for a special list.

“It鈥檚 almost like the second line is your community just lifting you and forcing you to realize that you will have good times again.鈥�

Her second action was fulfilling what she thinks may have been her mother鈥檚 last wish. Shortly before her death, Nathan had written 鈥淒ANCE鈥� on her Facebook page.

鈥淚t seemed like a command that it was time for us to [celebrate],鈥� Brees says. She accompanied her mother鈥檚 ashes to Massachusetts for one funeral. 鈥淚t was horrible. The only thing they really knew how to do when someone died was to roll lunch meat into platters,鈥� she says.

Back in New Orleans, she planned a funeral at the Tree of Life. Friends blew bubbles; a group danced around the tree. They lit candles and burned incense. 鈥淣ow when I think about her death, I think of this epically beautiful scene filled with so much love and support and energies and mother nature,鈥� Brees explains.

Friends and family met back up at the Maple Leaf, a bar in uptown New Orleans. The Lagniappe Brass Band played and the crowd strutted down Oak Street, circling Nathan鈥檚 home and looping back to the bar where the party continued.

鈥淚t was probably a hundred degrees in July and that people would just stop what they were doing to show support 鈥︹�� Brees trails off. 鈥淭here鈥檚 so much in that medicine. It鈥檚 almost like the second line is your community just lifting you and forcing you to realize that you will have good times again.

鈥淵ou will feel love and joy and you鈥檙e not alone.鈥�

The night after Chase鈥檚 first second line, a crowd of about 300 is at it again鈥攊n her honor鈥攑arading down Orleans Avenue to the interstate. A brass band plays a slow dirge, and a group called the Baby Dolls steps along slowly, adorned with bright yellow, green, and purple silk dresses and matching parasols with feathers flying off all sides.

The traditional gospel tune 鈥淚鈥檒l Fly Away鈥� floats down the avenue above men carting coolers of soft drinks and beer. The same week, 23-year-old Nia Lassai is shot and killed just around the corner from where Diki鈥檚 funeral had been held. New Orleans music legend Dr. John dies of a heart attack. The people mourn and parade again and again. 鈥淚f you listen very closely, there鈥檚 an intangible scream that鈥檚 going on constantly,鈥� Walker points out. 鈥淕rief is just treated as a feature of life.鈥�