Commentary: My parents put New Orleans and its racial hierarchy behind them. I went looking for it

My niece got married last month in New Orleans. "Got married" is too tame a phrase to describe what happened: It was a celebration that was up on its feet almost immediately and didn't sit down for the night.

Moments after the exchange of vows, the venue's doors were thrown open and 150 guests spilled out onto Tchoupitoulas Street, where a New Orleans brass band waited. And just like that we were transformed into the kind of joyous spectacle the city is known for - whooping, dancing and waving handkerchiefs and fringed umbrellas in a traditional yet funky second-line parade. I had on the wrong shoes - spike heels, which I took off about 10 minutes in - but