Denise Augustine: Divinely Protected in the Tremé
August 2026Did the charms cast to protect her as a child in the Tremé help save her life more than thirty years later when she met a serial killer?
~ by Denise Augustine
This project is made possible in part by a grant from the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Foundation, Inc.
This project is underwritten in part by Kelly & Linda Baker
This project is underwritten in party by Rose Ali
This project is underwritten in part by Rosemary James, volunteer Managing Director of The Pirates Alley Faulkner Society
I grew up in what is now known as Tremé. When I grew up it was the Sixth Ward, nothing that fancy. These beautiful balconies where I had cousins in the French Quarter – we actually stood on stools and hung our underwear and towels there. The Quarter wasn’t that beautiful, either, at the time.
1135 Chartres Street in the French Quarter, late 1930s, by Frances Benjamin Johnston, Library of Congress
Of course, I was christened and confirmed a Catholic in a house full of Voodoo practitioners. My mother was an only child. Of four sisters, my grandmother was the only one to produce a child. I, on the other hand, am an only child to my mother when she had me at the age of 35. To say I was spoiled by these women is an understatement.
My older cousins from my grandmother's brothers always looked at me side eyed, because I was always somehow ritualized or rubbed down with something or blessed or brought to the priest. I mean, the protective forces around me could take on an army, even today! I know that I am divinely protected, because nobody could possibly go through that much head washing and foot washing and rubbing down with oils and perfumes and not be protected.
Growing up in Tremé – or the Sixth Ward – I’ve come to realize, this was a communal place. No child was hungry, because you ate wherever you played. Whoever’s house you were at, that’s where you got your lunch from.
I remember the mother would say, “Go across the street, tell Mr. Joe, ‘Give me 10 cents of luncheon meat and 10 cents of cheese and tell him that I gotta feed eight kids.’”
“And send me a French bread, and put it on the book.”
Denise Augustine’s mother at the age of 18, courtesy Denise Augustine
Now, the book was the side of a carton of cigarettes with your family’s name on it. Mr. Joe would write and give you a receipt. My grandmother used to say, “Look, bring me my receipt!” in case Mr. Joe was padding the amount.
Anyway, these beautiful women, kind and loving, did the good Hoodoo work. Somebody’s husband wasn’t acting right: they would bind him in love to bring him home. And I can’t tell you how many times before dawn we walked to the river to drop a package in it.
I like to tell people Voodoo is a religion; Hoodoo is what we do. There was always baby jars, because we made sweet jars out of baby jars. Women would come to my grandmother’s house, and I would have to go in the back and play. They would tell her their problems. Mr. Joe provided my grandmother with the smallest brown paper bag to provide these women with body washes and sweet jars and whatever Hoodoo that was made.
I went to Phyllis Wheatley School, opened in 1957. It made Architectural Digest, it was so beautiful. It was raised about 17 feet off the ground. It had nine classrooms across one side, and it had a pond in the middle. Whoever created this school hated children! It never would have passed an OSHA inspection! We used to hang our heads down off the side. How no child died, I will never know.
Model of the Phyllis Wheatley School, FEMA
Well, growing up that close to the French Quarter, I’ve always been the person to love dangerous situations and Decatur Street was as dangerous as it could get. There were nothing but prostitutes and sailors on Decatur Street – and some of the best Chinese you have had in your life, that you could get for a dollar and a half. And whenever my family made Italian sauce – or what we called red gravy – I volunteered to go to Decatur Street to get the bread.
I always loved a little bit of “This ain’t right, but I sure do love it!” So, somebody had to go with me because they knew I could get caught up in a minute in something wonderful. Even at the age of nine or 10, I was curious about these streetwalkers. I love an after-5 dress, and I loved the way that they were free. The hair was big and wild, and the lips were red.
And I said, “That’s what I’m gonna be when I grow up. I’m gonna have that kind of freedom!” And so, Rebellion was my first name, and Not-So-Smart was my second. Like I said, I was divinely protected.
And Lord, when the hippies came to town! They tried to put me in Saint Mary’s Academy on Orleans Avenue. I lasted as long as it takes a snowball to melt in hell. Every hippy was singing hippy songs in Jackson Square. And nobody could sneak out of school faster than me. The nuns probably told my mother, “Don’t waste your time.” So, I winded up going to a public school and graduating from Clark.
Mike Stark, center right, in this 1968 photo by Michael P. Smith, ©Historic New Orleans Collection, 2007.0103.4.950
My saving grace is I liked to read. If you told me to read something, I’d read it. All school was at the time is you’ve gotta give it back to them. And I could give it back to them, as you can tell.
And so, growing up, I wanted to be one of those women. At 17, I got my first apartment at 641 Dauphine Street. Baby, I was fast as a shiphouse rat! They didn’t have to tell me but one time, “If you think you grown, get out of my house.” I was out of there so quick, I left fire on the street!
And I don’t know how they thought I was older than I was, but the rent was $75 a month, and I could make it because I lied about my age, and I got a job in the Quarter. And then, I don’t know, I was able to talk my way into things and people just looked at me and opened doors. I’ve been lucky.
I had a hippie house in the Quarter, and I had people coming from Europe and sleeping on my floor. I had so many people coming in and out, that the rule was you’ve got to tie the red ribbon on the door to let me know you’re there. And I had about 15 keys throughout Europe. I don’t know how I survived, let’s say that.
I felt no danger, I never met really bad people until later in life. And so at one point, I got a job as a cocktail waitress in the Hyatt Hotel on the 32nd floor. And baby, I was not big as a flea! The biggest thing on me was my feet and my hair. I was making money to pay that rent, and by that time, the rent is like $125 a month. I was making more than that a night.
And then, I decided to move out of the French Quarter. I moved all the way back to Mid City. Because at that point, how much rum and Coke can you drink? And so, I’m gonna save my liver and my soul, and I moved there.
And the very first bad person I met, I didn’t even recognize. I didn’t learn to drive until I was 35 years old. Who needs a car in the Quarter? You have and A&P; the post office was on Iberville; you walked to the library. I did not leave the French Quarter for five years! Didn’t occur to me. There was nowhere to go. The only time you left was to go to the airport, to go to Europe. Roundtrip, $150 to Spain.
Anyway, I get in the taxi. There was this hippie guy by the name of Russell Elwood driving the cab.
He looked back at me and said, “Hey, Denise.” I said, “Hey.”
He said, “Do you want to smoke a joint?” By that time, I had smoked a whole forest in my life.
I said, “No, honey, I don’t do any drugs.”
And he looked at me and he said, “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” And I said, “Yes, I am.”
And three months later – he was a serial killer – he was found to have killed 17 women and he was dumping their bodies on Airline Highway.
So, I say this: All that rubbing me down, I survived the French Quarter and a serial killer.
