Pour Chere Josephine

For Josephine-

She'll get it one day...

"She looks up at me

With clear blue eyes

Expecting an answer

For all her whys

Her hand rest in mine

Safe, secure, without doubt

The other held in habit

Fingers folded, thumb in mouth

I collect her tears

And share her sorrow

Guide her today

While planning tomorrow

What of tomorrow?

What is left?

What do I tell her

Of it's theft?"

___________________________________________________________________________________

"She knows nothing of

Our days of glory

The flight of yesterday

Is but a bedtime story

As a forgotten fable

I tell her of a day

A day long gone

But not so far away"

"It is not a tale

Of fairies and elves

From worn out poets

On dusty shelves"

"It is the story of us

Our people, this land

When existed a balance

Between nature and man"

"A time before industry

Swallowed it all

Prior to our parents

Taking the fall"

"Before interstates

And inter web travel

When the mysteries of youth

Would slowly unravel"

"Before greasy handed tycoons

Stole all of our shores

And pop corn politicians

Became two dollar whores"

"Before convenience became king

Making comfort his queen

And a fellow man's struggle

Goes sight unseen

It is way before our phones

Would make us all dumb

And networks for socializing

Turns neighborhoods numb

Before television and oil spills

Polluted these lands

And making fun of my accent

Meant the back of my hand"

"The day before language

Was beaten and taken

Ripped from a culture

Already forsaken

I say to her

Let us talk about a day

A day long gone

But not so far away"

"A day when children

Ran barefoot in the field

And help their parents

Harvests its daily yield"

"When good clothes were reserved

For Sunday at best

And a cousins hand-me-downs

Meant more, not less"

"No digital games

Or online friends

Just a bike, a brother

And a day with no end"

"We were pirates and poets

Artist and thieves

Drunk in our imagination

With dreams to believe"

"We picked our own eggs

And milked our own cows

While Moma's and Daddy's 

Stayed true to their vows"

"There were fences to build

And pastures to bail

Ya Moma could slap you

And not go to jail"

"Fathers were feared

But took care of their own

And dogs were fed

What was left on the bone"

"Chickens were plucked

Hogs were scraped

And no one cared

If it was filmed or taped"

"A grandmother's table

Was always full of food

And she'd slap you also

If she was in the mood"

"Our sugar was our own

Milled in Breaux Bridge and Cade

Before Uncle Sam cut cane

And called it free trade"

"All rice came from Crowley

Not overseas

Served with basin crawfish

Not Chinese"

"We drank coffee

And called it a visit

Talked about life

Not what was posted"

"Long summer walks

Through thought and time

Without digital pollution

To clutter the mind

We never missed a meal

Our bellies were full

We slept like rocks

And worked like mules

Everything we wanted or needed

It came from this land

But now... today

It's all from a can"

"It was basic needs

For simple times

When a slower pace

Created complex minds

She ask me 'Daddy-

Where is this day?

And if we go,

Can we just stay?'"

"'Beb, yesterday is lost

And today is decided

Though tomorrow is a choice

And you have been invited'"

"In her eyes I see hope

So clear and true

Just because we're lost

Doesn't mean we're through

So I tell her that this time

Might be another day

A day that is long gone

But not so far away"

_____________________________________________

-Words so delicately composed by Toby Rodriguez,

 for his sweet Josephine, daughter, five years of age-

___________________________________________________________________________________

Grand Coteau, Louisiana 

by way of

Breaux Bridge, Louisiana

7.8.2014

Pulet de Noël

Pulet de Noël

À l'élevage du poulet, à le regarder grandir,

Louons la vie il a vécu. Nous avons pris, nous a tué.

Le poulet va dans le gumbo pour le souper.

12.23.13
Breaux Bridge

We get into the truck, turn on the radio. KBON- the whole ride thru. Down the Breaux Bridge Highway onto Bridge Street Highway, keep going. A little past Catin's Grocery and Hardware Store. We're here. The night is old and it's cold. Louisiana cold. That wet, piercing chill. My pop puts the truck in park and flicks the radio off. The doors open with a creaaaek and are quickly slammed shut. "Aye, Country! We cuttin' some roosta's or what?" The wind whips at your cheeks and nips your nose. "Mais, yeah! That's why you came here!" My Uncle Ben suits up in his thick-lined jumpsuit in the middle of the carport. The illumination of the propane flames burning under the steal pot and the light from the porch back lit my uncle. A short, stout shadow stands. He's ready. My pop walks over the gravel and balances his weight on the two inch shoulder of the cemented land for a moment. He continues his stride- to the center table. He places a pair of leather work gloves and a knife down.
We're all ready.
Waiting.
Then I follow, follow the boys. My uncle, my pop, and my brother. Stepping down onto the crisp grass, we rustle through the fallen leaves to a shed on the edge of Nonc Ben's land. He opens the rusted tin doors just enough so he can comply within the slot. He jumps over his four-wheeler and reaches at the top shelf, grabs something and emerges through those rusted tin doors. His right hand grips an ax. That ax was Granpaw's ax. Granpaw Bennet Tally. "You'd see it around his camp and even in Cow Island," my pop remembers.
Again we rustle through the leaves and grass, walking a trail that is worn into the earth. To the coop- the chicken coop. Nonc Ben bends his knees and hunches over, "close the door behind me." He goes in. The hens voiced a few words. No resistance, no retaliation. Just acceptance. The swift movement of his arm seized the legs of the first rooster. It hangs, wings sprawled- just looking. "Here." My pop steps in and the bird is exchanged. Still hanging, wings still sprawled- still just looking. Again, another one taken. Two down, two to go. We walk to the other coop where the remaining roosters perch. This time the roosters sing, they croak and crow. All four are now hanging by our hands. Just waiting. The crisp grass crunches beneath my boots and the crinkled leaves part with every step forward I make. That walk seemed like an eternity. The wind lashes out and pierces my jacket down to the skin. Frissons. We stop next to a towering pine tree. A nail marks the spot, "hold it still." My pop's fingers intertwines with the legs and toes of the rooster- Nonc Ben stretches the neck and holds the head down against the bark with his left hand while his right grips Granpaw's ax and retracts it parallel to his ear. "I'd hate to miss." At that moment I blessed the creature and paid my respects. It's pertinent to know where your food comes from and to be grateful and thankful to the soul that is ceasing to exist to serve your very essence. A force drives the ax down, like a lion preying for meat. Down it goes, "Awwgh!" It didn't cut all the way through. A faint squawk is vocalized. Tout de suite, it starts flapping it's wings trying to fly away, to get away. Faster and faster it goes. Trying so hard, trying so hard to leave-to escape for haven. But it's just muscle memory. No longer can it think, no longer can it feel, no longer can it live. As it flaps the blood flows, down from the pith, down from the toes. It bleeds that vermilion blood. That blood of my people. Its motion slows, slower and slower... Ce fin.
We make our way to the cemented land, to the edge. Laid down are the four lifeless fowls, side by side. Those toes stick straight out and the wings too as if they were broken. Deep red caress those once white feathers.
The flames blaze under the steal pot causing the water to roar. The smell, get ready. Oh yai, that smell. "It's something you can't forget." Nonc Ben picks the rooster up and raises it high. It hovers above the scalding water, down it goes. Fully submerged just for a second. Just as quick as it went in, it came right out. It hangs, dripping water. The water drips over the pot, over the pot, over the cement, over the trashcan. It hangs over the trashcan. Nonc kneels and my pop squats. They start plucking. Feather after feather, they fall into the can underneath. The rooster is neked, completely bare. Skins.
Done.
Next one.
Next one.
Next one.
Done.

Qui ce ça?

Monsieur Justin Léger
Photo credit: Madmoiselle Maggie Milke

Take the Scott exit, go until the first legitimate road to the left. Turn. The house with a line of cars parked in the front yard with the garage door open, you found it. Fiddle-plugged in. Accordion-plugged in. Guitar-plugged in. Bass-plugged in. Drums-miked. The jam lined the back wall. Plastic lawn chairs lined the other side, all filled with little white headed ladies and ole' grey haired men. In between stood a dance floor. Bare for only a moment. When a waltz was played, those little ole' ladies and those little ole' men got up and danced. Where I was, I was able to see the musicians, I was able to see the dancers. I was able to hear the music and I was able to hear the little ole' ladies and the little ole' men talk. They all talked in french, the old french. I listened carefully. It was amazing to think that all of these people have a history, all of them have a story. Some sort of story. Their ancestors survived and overcame this oppressive society. But all I could do was listen, I couldn't talk with them- I couldn't communicate. But my friends could, they did. Jamie Lynn and Jacques Boudreaux. The generational gap that was prevalent was bridged by the simple words of our cultural language. I grazed my eyes over the musicians again, my stare fixated on the fiddler. My eyes stayed on him, on that fingerboard, on that bow hold. The way he held it with his pinky finger under the screw and the rest gracefully placed on top of the stick. No tension, just comfort. He bowed with his forearm and wrist. Smooth-never a scratch. His left hand cradled the neck within the webbing beside his thumb. His left arm braced the body with a curved limb and an arched wrist. First, third, second, first. Back to third next string over, second, fourth. Chords. G to D. Grace it. C to G. He glances at the accordion player, he nods back. Fiddle ride. 

Qui ce ça?

Walter Mouton. 

 Now, Mr. Walter is legendary when it comes to dance hall music. Born in 1938 and responsible for putting together the first rendition of The Scott Playboys when he was 15, which included Rodney Miller, John Allen Guillot, and Leeman Prejean. In 1970 he and his band recorded "The Scott Playboys Special," his music is also heard on the sound track to the film J'ai êté au bal. The 1998 Festivals Acadiens et Créoles was dedicated in his honor. But his principle fame extends from his 35 year relationship with Breaux Bridge's La Poussière Club. Every Saturday he and his band performed. "I consider myself a dance band as (opposed) to an authentic Cajun band," Mouton told Dominck Cross for a 1998 article in the Baton Rouge Advocate.

After the fiddle ride, the accordion took it. As the bellows started to breathe heavier and louder, it pulled my attention away from the fiddle. The waves of the wailing notes grabbed my eyes. Right hand spread across the ten buttons. Left hand on the bass notes, the arm pushing and pulling. The accordion is the lung, it is the breath. The way is breathes. In, one pitch. Out, another. I always watch musicians and how they produce their art. Every one is different. Everyone has their own style, their own form. I make those observations and I notice those differences. When I look at the younger generations and their approach to the traditional music, many of which have those old tendencies, it is never completely lost. It is never completely gone. They know and understand the importance of preservation. Their culture, my culture, our culture and heritage. And to totally disregard the way of what once was would be disrespectful. We come from the people and the land of what once was. There is one younger gen in particular that has intrigued my mind. Mr. Justin Léger- a Church Point boy. I recorded him and his friends the other night, of which I posted. His lyrical tone, the way he articulates the traditional songs- the stories of our people. Watching him close his eyes while he sings. He feels. The pain and sorrow in the words. When he cries out, he hears. I hear. I feel, it penetrates my soul. It tears, my vermilion blood seeps out and melts my senses. It takes me back. Them damn prairie boys. It's there. The appreciation, the understanding. The knowledge of what once was, the history of his people's struggles. I want to know his story. 

À plus tard, 

Zoë Louise Huval

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

Mon Grand-Père Pawpaw LeBlanc

My Pawpaw with my mom ca. 1970

The first of many interviews avec mon grand-père. 

Récolte de la canne à sucre

 

Parks, Louisiana

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