Je n'arrête pas.

A year ago.

Tody Rodriguez- Villain
Photo credit: Gwen Aucoin

Les Mardi Gras vient de tout partout,

Tout à l’entour, l’entour du moyeu.

Ҫa passe une fois par an demander la charité.

Quand même si c’est une patate, une patate, et des gratons.

“WAKE UP MARDI GRAS!”

Les Mardi Gras sont sur un grand voyage

Tout à l’entour, l’entour du moyeu.

Ҫa passe une fois par an demander la charité.

Quand même si c’est une poule maigre et trois ou quatre coton maïs.

“I SAID WAKE UP MARDI GRAS!”

Capitaine, capitaine voyage ton flag,

Allons chez l’autre voisin demander la charité

Vous autres venir nous joindre,

Vous autres venir nous joindre quais au gumbo ce soir.

“BETTER HAVE YOUR MASK AND COSTUME ON WHEN YOU WALK OUTTA THAT TENT!”

_____________________________________________________

The roar of the villains voice outside was ensued by a thick twine rope smashing the frozen rain fly. The ice went crashing and splintered into millions of shards. It sounded like rain but it was hail. Packpackpackpleeen. It was cold- so cold. It was cold the night before, it was cold when you woke up, and it was cold the rest of that day. That wet Louisiana cold that pierces every layer and chills you down to the bone. I unzipped the tent, put on my boots, and looked around. People walked in from the front following a path that was worn into the earth. These people were dressed in costumes from head to foot. Lofty, pointed cone shaped hats- capuchons. Mocking traditional nobility, clergy, and educated. Masks to conceal your identity made of wire mesh with accoutrements. Dressed in patchwork and fringe. Role reversal is a common play. Women pose as men, the poor as rich, humans as beasts. Mockery and parody, mockery and parody.

My krewe woke up in a rush and hastily dressed. I did not clothe right away and the villains looked at me as they passed. Every time they did I ducked behind the tent to hide. I peeked and they saw me.

“YOU BETTER HURRY UP CAUSE WE’RE COMING THAT WAY NEXT!”

His whip cracked like a thousand lightning strikes and it birthed a weird sense of fear within my mind.

“I need a beer. A beer... hopefully they aren't all frozen.”

I found a beer and opened it, sounded just like that crack of that whip. It’s the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday- Mardi Gras. Six-thirty in the morning. The sun would have peered through if it wasn't for the overcast clouds. Five layers of wool and my costume went over it all. I tied my hat tight but left my mask off. I walked to the road and the villains threatened to whip me.

"GET THAT MASK ON OR YOUR GONNA GET THE WHIP!"

Their whip snapped into the wet pavement.

I looked at them, dead in the eye with my chin held straight-

"I'm your queen."

"SHE'S THE QUEEN, DON'T WHIP HER!"

Both of their voices coward away as they came to the realization that I am immune, sort of speak, to the power that they held. "They are the enforcers. They make sure we [the runners] keep our masks on and participate." The Villains are a symbol of authority- an authority that the Mardi Gras can, and should, rebel against. They can choose to rebel or they can choose to lay down. But royalty can guide them, Mardi Gras royalty has a certain power over the villains. They can send them to whip people, they can request items for consumption- however they cannot protect. A villain named Toby came to my place of rest and said for me to meet them when I was ready. When I arrived to meet my villain guards, they all took a knee in respect of my presence. 

"THIS IS YOUR QUEEN! SHE HAS IMMUNITY FROM YOUR WRATH! YOU ARE THERE TO PROTECT HER AND TEND TO HER WISHES AND DEMANDS...THAT ARE WITHIN REASON."

Toby turned his head to look at me as he says that last bit. I chuckled and accepted his words.

"My queen, what can I call you?"

"Queen Zozo!"

I heard from the troop of seven- all winding their way up from their knees

"AH! Zozo!"

 "How lovely and simple!"

 "Queen Zozo!"

 "My Queen Zozo!"

Immediately after, the villains got up and came to coddle my desires. 

"Bebé, do you need anything? Can I get you anything? Some whiskey, no?"

"No, I do not need anything at the moment."

The rain started trickling down in a drizzle and I began my walk to where the runners flocked. My pace left the sounds of the villain whips flogging the ground with the chants of the Mardi Gras song-

Les Mardi Gras vient de tout partout,

Tout à l’entour, l’entour du moyeu.

Ҫa passe une fois par an demander la charité.

Quand même si c’est une patate, une patate, et des gratons.

Les Mardi Gras sont sur un grand voyage

Tout à l’entour, l’entour du moyeu.

Ҫa passe une fois par an demander la charité.

Quand même si c’est une poule maigre et trois ou quatre coton maïs.

Capitaine, capitaine voyage ton flag,

Allons chez l’autre voisin demander la charité

Vous autres venir nous joindre,

Vous autres venir nous joindre quais au gumbo ce soir.

Villains' congregation before they set off.

Photo credit: Cameron Mehl 

Courir de Mardi Gras- the Louisiana country Mardi Gras; The Mardi Gras Run. A tradition that was brought to the rural prairies of Louisiana through the exiles of Acadie, the exodus of my people. But pre-dates European medieval times. The day before Ash Wednesday they went begging for ingredients to make a gumbo. A flag bearing capitaine lead a band of revelers, some on foot, some on horseback. They dressed in rags and fringe, and went neighbor to neighbor- house to house. They played music, they sang, they danced, and they begged. Begged for a chicken to be thrown, corn cobs to be had, or rice to be given. We still beg, two hundred years later and we still beg for chicken and rice. This tradition is made up of imitation. But jokery with intent. Many theories of the "truest" reason of the Mardi Gras exist, but none can be or have been deemed exclusive. The essence of this tradition has purpose, the very root of our culture evolves around community. The trip around the town commences a begging ritual not only to attain a gumbo ingredient stockpile but also to inquire about the health and well-being of the back road inhabitants.

L'hiver est d'enfer.

Il y'a fois jours et nuits.

Mardi Gras nous sauve. 

Growing up I had always been aware of this 'event' if you will. I knew that it was a thing to be celebrated. I remember going to class dressed in a fringed shirt with bells attached with a pointed hat and a mask to match. I remember asking my teacher if I could give my classmates beads and doubloons. I understood this was a 'thing', but I didn't understand the concept of my peers not knowing what the hell I was doing and why. Those kids gave me eyes, they all made faces and laughed at me for going to school in a courir de mardi gras costume. But it was what I knew. It was and continues to be apart of my identity, this tradition runs in my blood. Whether I knew it or not, I seemed to have always felt it.

My courir de mardi gras costume from 16 years ago.

A year ago, I experienced the Faquetaigue Courir de Mardi Gras, hosted by none other than Joel and Kelli-Jones Savoy out in Eunice, Louisiana. It was a notable year, I grabbed the first annual lundi gras royalty contest, remaining Queen of Faquetaigue until the next one is crowned. The run itself was iced. I witnessed literal ice cycles form in bearded men, fringes were frozen in place on costumes. I spent this year on the Church Point Courir de Mardi Gras along side some of my best guy friends. That particular run is enduring all unto itself. There is no denying the fact that this tradition, as with most folk communities, is patriarchal. And most of these traditional chickens runs have remained so over the years and will continue to uphold that status of being strictly all-male runs. Church Point is no different. Knowing this, I was still determined to complete it equal with the male counterparts. History is as stated by the Saddle Tramp Riders Club...

Elton Richard first formally organized the Church Point Courir de Mardi Gras in 1961. Until that point individual groups of men would ride horse back through the country on Mardi Gras Day begging for ingredients,or money with which to buy ingredients, for a communal gumbo. The first organized courir included approximately 400 horsemen. Elton Richard of Church Point and Senator Paul Tate of Mamou decided that each town needed its own courir and they flipped a coin to decide which town would have its courir on Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras Day, or on the Sunday before Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras, the French term for Fat Tuesday, is held on the eve of the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday. The results of the toss determined that Mamou would conduct its courir on Mardi Gras Day and the Church Point courir would take place on the Sunday before Mardi Gras.
On Louisiana's Cajun Prairie northwest of Lafayette, the annual celebration before the beginning of Lent takes on a completely different form. The first Acadians brought "Le Courir de Mardi Gras" or the "Running of the Mardi Gras" to French Louisiana when they immigrated to the area in the 1750's. The custom of European peasants merrymaking before a period of fasting and penitence was handed to them from medieval times and was practiced by the Romans before then.
Traditionally, the rural Mardi Gras of today in Church Point is the same as it was in the old days of the early settlers. Men only can participate in the Courir (run). Tradition requires that all Mardi Gras be fully masked and costumed.
Le Capitaine (The Captain) heads the group and he and his co-capitaines must ride unmasked. The first Capitaine was the founder of the Church Point Mardi Gras. The Capitaine is allowed to retain his title year after year until he chooses to relinquish it and then hands it down to the man of his choice. Each year the Capitaine appoints his co-capitains for the run that year.

The morning started out rough, a cup of coffee and a link of boudin. 7 o'clock we head out to Church Point. Park, walk, walk, arrive. Trailers upon trailers of masked revelers, dozens of hooved legs waiting in line. Bowing heads, reins being tossed. I hear all of the horse bits being masticated. The participants looked at us as if we are some sort of foreigner in a territory that belongs to a particular people. For which we essentially were. This male dominated scene posed a threat to my senses, almost fear inducing. My stance striked an assured form. My back straightened with a slightly rounded shoulder, my hips moved inward, my legs held a proportionally balanced weight. I didn't dare throw a hip or purse a lip for fear of undoubted humiliation. It's funny now that I look back at that moment, I should have accepted the fact that I was obviously not welcomed. But that lone reason, that singular moment pushed my want further. I was setting off on a conquest. Because I knew, I knew the rules and regulations of this run. I knew what I was getting myself into and what could consequently happen if I disobeyed. Louisiana French women are traditionally identified with the ideal values of home, family, childrearing and order. Women are cross-culturally associated with passivity and submissiveness, compliance and obedience. Women traditionally play supportive parts which are more or less extensions of their domestic roles: they sew the Mardi Gras costumes, cook the gumbo served at the end of the run, applaud and dance with the maskers. They revel on the side, overlooking the aggression, rowdiness, and antics that that day of parody play elicits. They skirt around wearing gardes soleils and aprons with a needle and thread in their pocket to sew up any little tear that may happen. Mardi Gras runs have frequently been described in terms of male values and competences, as an initiation rite which defines manhood and a celebration of cowboy machismo. But with this tradition of role-reversal, where lies the intended subliminal statement of female empowerment? These contrasting values are intertwined in barbed wire and have been challenged since the break of WWII. Carolyn E. Ware writes

At least one oral account offers a description of women running Mardi Gras near Soileau during the early decades of the twentieth century (Courville 1992), but female Mardi Gras are primarily characteristic of the decades following World War II. During the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, women formed "ladies' runs" in at least six (and probably more) prairie Cajun communities. 

A woman Mardi Gras. Photo: Carolyn Ware.

The women Mardi Gras visit a house. Photo: Carolyn Ware.

It seemed instantaneous, from the point of arrival to when the Capitaine raised his flag and whipped it around and around. He chanted "ALLONS MARDI GRAS!" Shrieks and yells, and screams were emitted from the masqueraders. After the horses flooded the streets following the runners, I cloaked my facade and I left in a trotting state in pursue of a familiar silhouette. I galloped to find the trailer that hosted someone I knew. Nothing except a bottle of Irish Whiskey in hand, my costumed body and masked face to protect me. A backdrop of dimmed sunlight exposed by overcast clouds encompassed the already sweat dewed faces of the costumed runners. The faces became visible the closer I got to them. I found a krewe. Was it the krewe that included me? It wasn't, in all reality, because as many people as you may know en route, you will always be alone and on your own. Masked and costumed with fringes up to your neck, preserved anonymity is performed at its best. But I was able to find unmasked faces that resembles my friends. I offered them the remains of my Cajun coffee that got me started in a harsh manner. I was recognized by my guise, entire black with silver undertones with a plague doctor beak and a pirated hat, but applauded by my effort of disguise. I knew I was unwelcomed on the trailer itself, so I walked along the side. But walking did not allow an in time stride so I began a jogged pace. That was the only way to stay equal with my counterparts. Once the guys figured out I was female, they made me work to be able stay in the Mardi Gras. However, the Capitaines didn't take lightly to my presence. I tempted to invade, sort of speak, the trailer. I did manage to step foot and remain planted for a few minutes while I exchanged tongues. Then, a roar stilled my motions and discomposed my mind.

"I'm not going to be nice! 

Get your beak and get the fuck off my Mardi Gras!" 

I assumed he was talking to me, the one who was wearing fringed leggings and silver tipped cowboy boots that obviously accentuated my back and bosom. I crissed my legs and swung ever so slightly with bent knees. He points to the stairs. My inebriated mind wanted to throw a défi. Une challenge. A challenge, to challenge that Capitaine that dare question my ability to stand with these men. But instead, I composed my psyche, curtsied and bowed my head, and walked to the end. I shoved past a pack of beasts, throwing elbows and shoulders to get through. I yelled at the Mardi Gras that stood complacently on the stairs.

"ALLEZ-Y MARDI GRAS! MOVE MARDI GRAS!"

Photo: Sarah Zaunbrecher

I jumped from the moving trailer onto the street, only to be gazed upon by the masked horse riders. Did I care that I was identified? No, because me being the stubborn bull I am, was not about to give up at the laughter of these boys. I continued trekking but was stopped by a shoulder grab of a hard-hatted man. He wasn't in costume, nor was he masked in any way. But by the tone of his voice, I knew exactly who it was. Monsieur Blake Thibodeaux, of Church Point. A friend of whom I've known in passing for the past year. He lifted my hat to slightly reveal my face. He had such a worried look on his face. He asked me "Are you okay? Do you know why they kicked you off? I told you to keep your hat on and to stay low." I interrupted his inquiries, "I understand the risks and consequences that come along with attempting to participate in this run as a female. I'm fine." He smiled and compared me to Rosa Parks, the one who defiantly remained sitting in a particular buss seat when the law told her to do otherwise. But strict laws pertaining to the uninvited females on these courirs are continued to be upheld every year.

"Popular author Harnett Kane, in his 1943 book The Bayous of Louisiana, wrote that the country Mardi Gras run is 'primarily for men and horses.' Its begging, singing, and riotous horseplay, he commented, 'has no place for the girls . . . although there is a happy fais-do-do [dance] in the evening.'" -Carolyn E. Ware  

The Cajun community has historically been a very closed Catholic society, particularly, in which girls did not have a great deal of behavioral leeway. Looking at the lyrical context of Cajun French songs, more often than not, they depict females in relation to their male correspondent. Being referred to as "unconventional" or "unavailable", girls are a melodic source of unhappiness, heartbreak, and are nevertheless a dangerous and a potential cause of misery to men. Cajun women evidently understood their domestic part; so don't get me wrong, many women enjoyed their supportive roles and accepted the fact that only men ran Mardi Gras and clearly grasped the "It wasn't a custom that we [girls] did run" concept. But eventually, though—maybe inevitably—some women decided that they too wanted to mask and run Mardi Gras. As possibly some have put it before-

"We wanted in on the fun, not just to work all the time."

Yes, females may be pretty, little, and fickle. Characterized as meek, frail, maybe even porcelain like. But such generalizations don't come without exception.

"Other women, though, are a match for any male Mardi Gras in their roughhousing. Some have said proudly, 'We're the chicken chasers . . .  [always] in the mud and the barbed wire.'"  -Carolyn E. Ware 

The challenging of superior authority is not a Joan of Arc seizure of power. I am not here to change the tradition. I masked as a rebellious figure to recount the maintenance of the tradition.
This is how I, along with a few others, participate in the preservation of our culture. The endeavor of objection. Mardi Gras, a day to revel and parade in masquerade and costumed bodies. A day to ride the play of beasts' antics, whom one is truly not. So why should I stand on the side and simply view a demonstration of 200 plus men make a trek of cultural importance on a day that evokes character transposition? That's not even a question for me to barter with.

A sixteen mile trail on foot,

a fifth of whiskey,
and a hanker of a thousand desires.

 J'ai challengé et je y'ai fini. 

Mais, je n'arrête pas. 

Merci.

   

Photo: Paul Kieu

Attaché au Sol Natal

"Très sédentaire parce que physiquement attaché au sol natal." 

They say we come from stubborn, agricultural stock. Hard-headed and gruff. I've come to learn that my hand is calloused and my pith is rigid. My hips are thick and my feet are set. But they have to be, they had to be. The past has sentenced my way of living to manifest into what it is now. The endeavor of the Acadians is akin to the air I've breathed. The great upheaval of my common people, the estrangement of my brio from a soil I am meant to till. It is taught to these folk the history of their people, the reason why this culture exists. It’s a form of common knowledge- something I never acquired, a history I never knew. My life was lived unconsciously for nearly two decades before my mind provoked a self-awakening.

Upheaval, lifting or rising, forcing or throwing up, the root of major fray.

When my crown broke out, I was crying, wailing at the brim of my lungs because it hurt. It hurt to see the light, it hurt to feel the cold, it hurt to breathe the air. It hurt. To be taken from a place of such comfort and thrown into a state of uncertainty is eerie. There is no guide, no direction. No sure way to find the end. Wandering swallows any being that dare fall in, altering an ego into a wanderer. 1755 to 1762 was the course of the exodus. The Exile of the Acadians from Nova Scotia. The deportation of an entire culture because they refused to submit, they refused to take an oath of allegiance to the British government. The refusal to take that oath over many decades ended with Le Grand Dérangement. The cardinal of the expulsions began in 1755; it’s when Acadian homesteads were set ablaze, it’s when Acadian people were chained, it’s when the Acadian life was deprived of their livelihood. Ritual scalpings were done to captives, a blade running down the contour, tearing and ripping and spilling that vermilion blood. Bloodcurdling screams intertwined in the haze of the grey fog and the haze of the reddened earth. I can hear the children bellowing air from their lungs. I can see flames breach the heat weakened roofs. I can feel the torment that entices the rage. The history that I have come to know has given me an intimate relationship with the understanding of who I am, because of my predecessors. The pain of being raped of your identity, of your land, of your home, of your friends and family- I know all too well. The roots I set into the soil of Louisiana the day my mother separated my soul from her womb had been severed and ripped. Transplanted to a land so foreign to the south, into States that freeze, my roots froze. They tried to grow; they tried to heal, but that they did not do. The ones deported forcefully to an unfamiliar loam will never be satisfied, they never were. The thirteen colonies proved infertile for the alienated Acadians. Few were tolerated but most were detained, detained and malnourished. Imprisoned and impoverished, disease and starvation stricken- the Acadians are survivors. They were severed, they were ripped and cut. Taken from family, taken from land that they had come to know, come to love.

On July 11, 1764, the British government agreed to legally allow Acadians to return to their homeland. Many did, many went back. But they went back to nothing. An empty memory, just a façade of what once was. Their land was given away, their houses burned, their livestock slaughtered. Nothing was spared. Feet firm on the ground with only the hands of family and culture held- they wandered. I wandered with them.

Wandering- roaming or rambling, having no permanent residence, meandering or winding.

The Period of Wandering, a course of seventeen years in the history of the Acadians, derived the unforeseen settlement of Louisiana. It’s fathomable, completely. The Halifax band assumed a voyage from Nova Scotia to St. Domingue, it deviated into a route for Quebec through the Port of Orleans because of the words of maltreatment of French immigrants by authority. But they never made it to their desired destination. The bankrupt Spanish colony couldn’t offer any monetary support to the refugees once they made it to New Orleans, but instead offered permanent settlement. Into the wetlands and into the prairies they went. The Acadian sprawl along Bayou Teche was christened New Acadia, the place they've been looking for. A place so fertile with life, this is where they could continue their legacy. Be it with the waterways, the grand prairies, pine forests, or the marshes and swamps, they made this place their home. They brought with them their morals, language, music, culture and heritage and created the Cadien- Cajun. Je suis cadien. The tiny shards of my roots that managed to stay grounded stretched every time we made the voyage to this land. They grew with every visit, with every conversation, with every story told. My Louisiana rhizomes continued to grow and flourish underground while the roots I tried to plant elsewhere did not, they never bloomed. It wasn't until that self-awakening that I decided to unearth my longed for bedrock. I came back, I made it back. I found it. Under all that dirt, all that dirt and grime I found the rootstock that is mine, the rootstock that I am supposed to grow.  Natural soil, sol natal. To be attached to such again is breath taking, my vermilion blood is slowly making its way down to the core, down the course the roots paved hollow. The further down it flows, the higher the bud grows. Roots in bloom they are, roots in bloom they will be. Racines en fleurs. 

Louisiane des Femmes

Cléoma Breaux Falcon
b. May 27, 1906
d. April 4, 1941

"Many.. were not only unconventional in their tendency toward single status but also in their 'assertive' or 'prickly' personalities. They did not live up to, or refused to remain confined by, the standards of decorous behavior defined for women of their day. In short, they were not 'ladylike.' They were described by their contemporaries as like 'vinegar' or  'fussy', gruff, indecorous, intimidating (for a woman). For those for whom there are no extant personal descriptions, their behavior indicates that they were willing to challenge accepted notions of propriety."

"It is hard not to admire their ingenuity and fortitude as they made a better place in the world for themselves, for their children, and very often for other women as well. Given the relative lack of power and opportunity for women, their actions were nothing short of astonishing. Faced with adversity or opportunity, they reinvented themselves, shedding convention and creating new roles for themselves and... for other women. In so doing, they stretched the definition of what it meant to be a Louisiana woman and also... the very concept of 'southern womanhood.'"

Louisiana Women Their Lives and Times. 
Edited by Janet Allured and Judith F. Gentry

Huit des Hommes

Louis Joseph Huval, my Papa Doc.

Bells of St. Bernard Church
Breaux Bridge, Louisiana

Sounds are what I remember from events. And when I heard these bells the other weekend a wealth of memories flooded my mind. Clack, clack, clack. The cowboy boots of 8 men walking on an asphalt road. Scult schee. The asphalt rocks grinding at those leather soles, their souls. Cantering behind the mule drawn cheriot vert hearing the paquet, paquet of the wooden spokes. These are Doc's chimes. They tell the story of the family.


À plus tard,

Zoë Louise Huval

Mon Grand-Père Pawpaw LeBlanc

My Pawpaw with my mom ca. 1970

The first of many interviews avec mon grand-père. 

le Conseil pour le développement du français en Louisiane

         

         French note cards are scattered around my living room floor accompanied by coffee stains, cajun lyrics, and french books. My notebook has scratched out words and scribbled over phrases along with dated conversations. Language is a beautiful thing. They say the Cajun-French that my great-grandparents and grandparents spoke won't ever be heard or articulated again. True, so very true. There wasn't enough speaking people, pride-less. It was looked down upon to speak french. Kids would be beaten in school for speaking the language, it became natural to fear it within this culture. French basically was banned from schools in 1912 when legislature passed an act allowing the Department of Education the power to select all books and curricula for public schools, 1913 is when the English language was stressed within the curriculum. 1921 is when the real shit happened, the Louisiana Constitution was changed so that all school proceedings had to be done in English, causing the public french usage to cease. So the kids of those generations would speak and learn English for public use but luckily some learned bits and pieces of french at home. Essentially it became a broken language and as the English-speaking generations grew the house french language was decreased. Every generation lost valuable knowledge of our language. But the reason I think language is beautiful is because it is always evolving, it is always taking a new form and becoming it's own entity. That's what my culture did. It took the the France french made it into Acadian French that eventually traveled its way to Louisiana to be Cajun-french. And it doesn't stop there. There are 48 parishes in this state of which about half speak french, a dialect of french. What you say in one town might mean a completely different thing once you cross the bayou. The Parisian francohones cock their head when they hear us say 'catin'. Traditionally our culture has used that word as a term of endearment to mean 'doll,dear,baby' but in France it is the opposite, they use it as a condescending word towards females, as in 'whore,tramp'. 
         Language equates to struggle, a struggle to achieve greatness and to end the cycle of poverty, a struggle to attain knowledge... or so we thought. We are paying the price, our french language was in such decline that it was threatened with eradication. James R. Domengeaux, former state legislature, began his crusade to restore french in Louisiana. Domengeaux traveled around Lafayette and neighboring parishes to gain support for his campaign to make Louisiana a bilingual state through French language education. By the spring of 1968, Domengeaux had gained enough interest from the public and support from officials to present his plan to the legislature. Legislators voted unanimously to create The Council for the Development of French in Louisiana, CODOFIL. The law empowered CODOFIL to "do any and all things necessary to accomplish the development, utilization, and preservation of the French language ... for the cultural, economic, and touristic benefit of the State.” 
         I know the struggle, I know the pain. The struggle of language. I knew it was apart of me, the French within my culture but I never had the opportunity to take advantage of education and learn it for myself. The want to speak the language, the longing to be intimate with my heritage always plagued me. It hit hard when my Papa Doc was on his death bed. His ole' friends would come in speaking to him, I didn't understand them. I wanted to, oh I so wanted to know. But all I could do was cry out of frustration, regret, and shame. So I started a little bit here and there. No formality to it, just do. When I turned diex-huit ans my birthday tattoo was going to be in honor of Doc. To be remembered, in french. I went about figuring it out on my own. Came up with 'être souvenu'. When I moved away for college, I landed in Lafayette, not knowing my life would turn into what it is now, not knowing it would be influenced heavily by music, culture, and language. So many people have inquired about my tattoo, and so many people have outed me and chastised me for it being wrong. "Not french, it doesn't conjugate to anything, it's just wrong." I heard it all, so much so, it really got to my head. I talked to my father about it. He leans over and looks me in the eyes, 
"Do you realize all those dumb asses were formally educated, they speak the romantic language of the country France. Do you know who our people are, who we are, who we come from?"
"Yes"
"Our people were beaten and flogged for speaking French, you know what they did? Created their own version of it. They started slurring words, cutting things out, making up new words and meanings. They established the base of français de cajun. From there some people stole horses and ran away to the prairie or took a pirogue and went down the bayou to set up camp. You know what they did? Continued it. That is why some parishes have their own dialect of cajun-french."
Now my pop didn't grow up speaking french, he didn't grow up immersed in a bilingual home even though both his parents spoke. His parents only spoke to each other in that St. Martin french. He maintains his thoughts,
"You know Irma [his mom] didn't teach any of her 14 children the french she spoke, you know why? Because she was afraid. She was afraid that she would teach us something wrong. You just have to do it. Don't think, just listen."
"But pop.."
"The next time someone tells you something about that, you look them in the eyes and say 'It's neg speak'. Fuck them, because they aren't you. They don't know you. Wear that sonofabitch with pride, do not hide it. It's the history of your struggle with the language, it's your story."

à plus tard,

  Zoë Louise Huval

Festivals Acadiens et Créoles

Cher, you make a good time? Mais, yeah. J'ai dansé aux Festival Acadiens et Creoles. Dust and mud. I was there. The music, the food, the art, the people. In 1974, CODOFIL presented the first Tribute to Cajun Music concert in Lafayette's Blackham Coliseum. As it grew it evolved into a whole weekend event located in Girard Park during October including the Acadiana Fair & Trade show and Bayou Food Festival.  The combination of these three events served as the basis for a co-op called Festivals Acadiens. Festivals Acadiens kicks off the fall festival season. Gulf Brew Fest and Blackpot Festival will also be happening this month. There are so many opportunities to engage with this culture. Festivals are a huge part of what we live for and what we are about. It's a celebration of heritage. Dancing to Steve Riley, Wayne Toups, The Pine Leaf Boys with a beer in your hand. Listening to the Magnolia Sisters play like the badasses they are, an all female cajun band, is inspiring. Hearing the young people present the bands in french. Man oh man, seeing DL Menard play! I never thought I would have had an opportunity like that, to see the "Cajun Hank Williams" perform. The fact that my friend told me "you are probably the youngest person voluntarily here" makes me appreciate this culture even more. Wilson Savoy said that he is glad to see so many young people at festival, young people dancing to the music, young people appreciating it. We need to take this time to talk with the older generations and to hear their stories about how it once was, so we will have a basis of how to live. I feel like preservation is imperative to the evolutionary understanding of our home, of this land, of these people. Bring your dancing shoes and don't wear anything nice because you'll end up kicking your shoes off to dance barefoot while smelling like beer and sweat. And when ya wake up sore and hoarse on Monday morning, you know you had a good time.