Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel and St. Paulinus-Giglio Feast

Hey everyone, welcome back to *Brooklyn Echoes*, the podcast that keeps the borough’s legends and memories alive. I’m your host, Robert Henriksen.

In the vibrant, ever-evolving tapestry of Brooklyn’s Williamsburg neighborhood, where cobblestone streets once echoed with the footsteps of Italian immigrants and now buzz with hipsters sipping craft coffee, the Giglio Feast stands as a timeless beacon of faith, community, and sheer physical endurance. This annual spectacle, formally known as the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel and St. Paulinus, traces its roots back over 1,500 years to the Italian town of Nola, where legend tells of Bishop Paolino (St. Paulinus) offering himself in exchange for captives taken by North African invaders around 410 AD. Upon his triumphant return, villagers greeted him with lilies (gigli in Italian), birthing a tradition of parading elaborate towers adorned with flowers. When waves of Nolani immigrants arrived in Brooklyn in the late 19th century, fleeing poverty and seeking opportunity in America’s industrial boom, they carried this devotion across the Atlantic. The first Giglio procession in Williamsburg dates to 1903, organized by the fledgling Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, blending religious fervor with cultural pride in a borough teeming with factories, tenements, and the aroma of simmering ragù from kitchen windows.

By the 1950s, as Brooklyn emerged from the shadows of World War II with GIs returning home, baby boomers filling playgrounds, and the Dodgers still calling Ebbets Field home, the Giglio Feast had solidified into a cornerstone of Italian-American life. The war had disrupted traditions—many young men were overseas, and resources were scarce—but a resurgence came in 1949 with the dedication of a new church at Havemeyer and North 8th Streets, replacing one destroyed by fire in the 1930s. In the ’50s, the feast expanded under the parish’s organization, drawing thousands to the July celebrations. Picture the scene: streets lined with red, white, and green banners, vendors hawking zeppole and sausage heroes, and brass bands marching alongside floats. The highlight was always the “lifting” of the Giglio—a towering, 65-to-75-foot structure weighing up to four tons, crafted from wood and papier-mâché, topped with statues of saints and festooned with lilies. Over 100 “lifters”—burly men from the community, clad in white shirts and caps—hoisted it on their shoulders using synchronized chants of “Uno, due, tre!” led by a capoparanza (head lifter). It danced through the streets in a rhythmic sway, symbolizing the bishop’s boat returning to shore. For kids in poodle skirts or crew cuts, it was magic; for adults amid the Cold War anxieties and suburban dreams, it reaffirmed heritage in a changing city.

The 1960s brought a golden era of abundance, with Williamsburg’s Italian enclave thriving amid Kennedy’s Camelot and the Beatles’ invasion. The feast grew more elaborate, incorporating a “boat” float alongside the Giglio, carried in a similar fashion to honor the saint’s maritime legend. Parades featured Turkish marching bands—a nod to the invaders in the story—and fireworks lit up the night sky over the East River. Attendance swelled as families from across Brooklyn and beyond joined, turning North 8th Street into a carnival of rides, games, and religious processions. Yet, beneath the joy, shifts loomed: the Verrazano Bridge opened in 1964, easing suburban exodus, and civil rights movements stirred social changes. Still, the Giglio’s lift remained a rite of passage for young men, building camaraderie and strength in an age of muscle cars and moon landings.

Into the 1970s and 1980s, as Brooklyn grappled with fiscal crises, blackouts, and white flight—Williamsburg’s factories closing, graffiti blooming on subways, and crack epidemics casting shadows—the feast became a defiant anchor of stability. Italian families dwindled as newer immigrants from Latin America and Asia arrived, but the Nolani descendants held firm. The 1970s saw innovations like adding live music stages with doo-wop and disco acts, blending old-world hymns with modern beats. Economic woes meant scaled-back fireworks, but the core ritual endured: the Giglio’s dance, now sometimes featuring women in supporting roles amid feminist waves. By the ’80s, with Reaganomics and yuppie incursions, the feast adapted to gentrification’s early whispers—artists moving into lofts, drawn by cheap rents. Yet, it remained a family affair, with lifters passing the torch to sons, and the church’s basement serving as a year-round hub for planning. Tragedies, like a 1980s lift mishap injuring participants, underscored the physical risks, but reinforced community bonds.

The 1990s and 2000s marked a renaissance amid Williamsburg’s transformation into a hipster haven—warehouses turning into galleries, rents skyrocketing, and the L train ferrying in young creatives. The feast faced challenges: fewer traditional lifters as demographics shifted, leading to recruitment drives and even hipster volunteers by the 2010s. In 1993, the Giglio reached new heights—literally, at 72 feet—drawing media attention and tourists. The 2000s brought post-9/11 unity, with the 2002 feast honoring first responders. Modern touches emerged: LED lights on the tower, social media promotion, and eco-friendly materials. Yet, purists maintained the essence—no motors, just human power. Attendance hovered at 100,000 annually, blending old-timers in gold chains with newcomers in ironic tees, all united by the spectacle.

Today, in 2025, the Giglio Feast endures as a UNESCO-recognized intangible cultural heritage contender, running for 12 days in July with processions, masses, and the iconic lifts on Sundays. The 2020s brought pandemic pauses—virtual feasts in 2020—but roared back with record crowds, symbolizing resilience. Now, amid luxury condos and vegan eateries, the Giglio dances on, carried by a diverse crew of lifters reflecting Brooklyn’s mosaic. It’s more than a festival; it’s a living bridge from 1950s stoop culture to present-day inclusivity, reminding us that in a city of constant reinvention, some traditions lift us all.

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