Bulls Ran the Streets

O, San Fermin

O, patron saint

Guide us through the bull run

The crowd repeats every word. Their leader screams on from above, his head an explosion feathers[SS1] , his cheeks pink with heat.

Protect us with your cloak

So that we may drink together

In heaven forever!

The runners come to their feet, cups raised in silly sincerity.

In the distance, a herd of bulls readies itself, each prepared to deliver on the terrifying promise its horns suggest.

In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti

Amen!

Cheers ring out. A whistle is blown. “RELEASE THE BULLS!” their leader commands. And two hundred roller derby girls wielding wiffle bats skate into the streets.

Derby girls from near and far, with names like Delirium Trigger and Rest N Peaces, descend upon the Warehouse District every summer to play aggressor in the bit of absurdist street theater that is San Fermin in Nueva Orleans.

There are Alien bulls, Medusa bulls, pizza bulls. Boudoir bulls, dragon bulls, devil bulls. Bulls that look like unicorns. Bulls with red wigs and zombie eyes. Bulls covered in glitter, pompoms, fishnets.

Any bull you can (or, more likely, cannot) dream up, it’s  probably rolling towards you, taking aim at your backside. It’s the Crescent City’s take on Spain’s centuries-old tradition–minus the threat of goring.

San Fermin in Nueva Orleans happens every year in July. It’s a three-day celebration of drinking, eating, dancing, and the aforementioned running from fearsome “bulls.”

If you squint hard (or drink enough), it’s just like being in Pamplona. Only here, the harrowing sound of hooves is replaced by the joyful whoosh of skates, the yelps of terror traded in for feigned agony and easy laughs.

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