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In a community centre in Montreal, fabrics slide between hands and wrap around heads, transforming into crowns. The maré tèt, born from a colonial law in Louisiana imposed on Black women, has become a symbol of Caribbean heritage, transmission, and sisterhood, a legacy carried by the laughter of the women gathered for the workshop.
On the fifth floor of an unassuming building in Côte-des-Neiges, a unique workshop comes to life. From the outside, there are no hints of its existence: on the ground floor, a community library and silent hallways, but upon exiting the elevator, the atmosphere changes.
When entering the premises of Femmes du monde in Côte-des-Neiges, we are immediately struck by the warmth of the welcoming atmosphere. Children are nestled in their mothers' arms, while conversations intertwine, as varied as the languages that carry them. Some are lively, others whispered, sometimes filled with painful confidences. Here, week after week, a network of mutual aid and solidarity is woven between women who come with their stories, their struggles, and their scars.
On this first Thursday in August, about fifteen women gather around Christchna Pierre, one of the centre’s coordinators. In a back room, glass-walled and flooded with light, the workshop tells the story of the maré tèt, as it is called in Caribbean Creole. First, the facilitator traces the history of the headscarf, from the plantations of the Americas to the streets of today, blending painful memory with cultural re-appropriation. Then comes the hands-on part, where each movement elicits laughter and exchanges, transforming the workshop into a genuine moment of sharing and collaboration.
From enslaved Louisiana to the streets of Côte-des-Neiges
In 1786, in colonized Louisiana, society was governed by strict racial codes. These rules applied to a population in flux: enslaved people, migrants, and free People of Colour, the name given to Black people who were born free or emancipated. Among these measures, one law stands out, revealing the social tensions of the late 18th century: the Tignon Law, which required free Black women to cover their hair with a headscarf.
At that time, New Orleans was governed by Don Esteban Miró, a representative of the Spanish crown. According to Caroline M. Dillman, in her book Southern Women, interracial relations—often forced and nonconsensual, though already forbidden—exacerbated social tensions, particularly with white women. The birth of mixed-race children made this racial mixing, which colonial codes sought to contain, even more visible. The number of free Black women was increasing, along with their desire to integrate: they wore refined dresses, precious fabrics, and dazzling jewelry.
Given this context, the governor ordered free women of colour to cover their hair and renounce any show of ostentation. This decree had two goals: to limit what authorities perceived as an "attraction" encouraging interracial relations, and to visibly remind Black women, even free ones, of their assigned social inferiority. In response, these women reinvented their hairstyles. They played with height, colors, and styles, sometimes adding jewelry to enhance their creations. This act of resistance and creativity has been carried on to this day.
The laws surrounding slavery and the status of free people varied among colonial powers. Spain relied on Las Siete Partidas, an ancient legal text not well-suited to the realities of the Americas. After 1685, French colonies applied the Code Noir, designed to regulate the lives of enslaved and freed people. As for the English colonies, they adopted their own local codes.
More than two centuries later, the headscarf retains all its symbolic power. For Christchna, a facilitator who wears the maré tèt daily, it's not just an accessory. “I started wearing it when I was young. It’s a gesture that gives me confidence and empowerment,” she says.
According to her, each headscarf tells a story. “You can see a Black woman walking down the street with a maré tèt and think it’s just fashion. But behind it is a history of repression and, today, re-appropriation,” the facilitator explains. The attachment to the headscarf is both personal and cultural. It is an art she learned as a teenager and perfected by drawing inspiration from role models like Paola Maté, a Haitian entrepreneur she admires.
Weaving sisterhood around a headscarf
As the afternoon progresses, the collective energy wafting around the room is palpable. Participants settle in, open their bags, take out their headscarves, and discuss the colours, textures, and stories each fabric carries. The impatience is clear: each woman is eager to tie her own.
The workshop is held in French and English, and very quickly, something magical happens: despite the different languages, the participants understand each other without a word, through gestures, looks, and bursts of laughter.
“Once again, men want to dominate women,” one participant says from the back of the room. Laughter erupts. Another immediately replies, “They wanted to make them less beautiful, but now they are all you see... these women are even more magnificent.” The dialogue begins, with each person adding their own perspective and understanding. It is no longer just a workshop, but a true exchange.
The fabrics circulate from person to person, passing along laughter, anecdotes, and advice. Christchna shows three different ways to tie the headscarf. Each demonstration triggers applause, smiles, and compliments, transforming the workshop into a lively mini-fashion show. Soon, the entire room transforms into a living painting: each head wears a small crown, celebrating each woman's history, identity, and creativity.
The organization Femmes du monde in Côte-des-Neiges has managed to transform this cultural heritage into a real space for community education. “During our workshops, the goal isn't just to show how to tie a headscarf, but also to deconstruct systems of oppression and discuss everyone’s realities,” explains the co-coordinator.
Fashion as resistance
Some participants discover, through this headscarf, a history they had no idea existed. Jasmine, a participant from Saint-Vincent, remembers wearing it daily to protect herself from the sun when she worked as a market vendor. Charmed by the way Christchna tied her headscarf, she suggested creating the workshop. “I didn’t know the history behind the headscarf. Now, it makes me want to wear it every day,” she says with a smile.
For Christchna, the intention went far beyond a simple aesthetic exercise. “With this workshop, I wanted to show that fashion can be political and a way of surviving,” she explains. She adds that she is not an expert on this piece of fabric and that while women from many cultures wear it—often in different ways, as in West Africa—the workshop focuses on the history of the Americas.
For Natina, an Italian who has been living in Quebec for a long time, the headscarf brought back a childhood memory: “When I was 10, I was dressed in a traditional costume, and they put a headscarf on my head.” She smiles as she remembers this moment, then adds, “At first, I was hesitant to participate because it's not my culture. But the facilitator was so inclusive that I said to myself, ‘Why not?’”
The one she wore during the workshop was very different, but the experience brought her back to that intimate memory. Like an invisible thread connecting cultures, the headscarf travels through time and continents.
A haven of sisterhood in the heart of Côte-des-Neiges
For more than twenty years, Femmes du monde has offered women of all origins and communities a place to meet, share, and support each other. On the walls, photos and colourful posters tell the story of collective kitchens, language workshops, movie nights, and support groups.
But behind this busy schedule, the realities are often harsh. “Many participants face both precarious immigration status and domestic violence. These situations intersect and complicate the support we provide,” the organization explains. This is compounded by isolation and hidden homelessness, issues described with a seriousness that contrasts with the centre's vibrant energy.
According to the co-coordinator, Christchna Pierre, it is the intersectional and decolonial approach that sets the organization apart. “We provide support, we give them tools, but they are the ones who know what is right for them,” she emphasizes. From discussions about homelessness to inclusive citizenship projects, every activity aims to break isolation and empower the participants.
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