Faith on Their Shoulders: Mt. Carmel in Brooklyn

"I try do this every year. For my grandfather, for my mother, for Our Lady. I don't care how heavy it is."

— A man in a tank top, sweat pouring down his face, hands gripping the Giglio.

^{Photo by Lorenzo Gonzalez}

Walking through the crowd, you didn’t just see devotion, you felt it.

Families lined the sidewalks. Old women clutched rosaries. Teenagers in matching shirts directed traffic and threw candy. But at the center of it all was the Giglio, a towering wooden structure lifted and carried by dozens of men, swaying rhythmically to the beat of a live brass band.

It wasn’t just a performance. It was a promise.

^{Photo by Lorenzo Gonzalez}

The Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Festival in Williamsburg isn’t a photo op for tourists. It’s a tradition going nearly 120 years strong that has outlived waves of gentrification, cultural shifts, and changing skylines.

And still, every July, the neighborhood comes home.

You could feel the pride in every chant, every drumbeat, every drop of sweat running down the men’s backs as they lifted the Giglio again and again. Their hands were calloused. Their shirts soaked through. But their faces were lit up not just with effort, but belief.

Walking beside them, camera in hand, I started to realize it wasn’t just about carrying something heavy. It was about shouldering memory. The statue of San Paolino they lifted wasn’t just wood — it was a vessel holding their ancestors, their faith, their roots.

And maybe more importantly, it was a reminder that some parts of Brooklyn don’t fade quietly. Not when they’re carried through the streets, feet moving in rhythm, trumpets echoing off brick buildings, pride held high in the summer heat.

As the music swelled and the Giglio lifted once more, a boy near me yelled to his dad,

"Can I do that when I’m older?"

His dad didn’t look down. He just nodded.