Tu Vas Savoir Quand...

You will know when.
Quand je suis revenue à ma terre natale, je suis tombée en amour. Avec quoi est-ce que tu es tombée en l’amour, tu vas demander. Je suis tombée en l’amour avec qui je suis. Mais, je ne me savais pas du tout. Mes parents sont de Pont Breaux, Louisiane et je suis née juste à l’ouest en Lac Charles. Quand j’avais quatre ans, ma famille est partie pour le nord avec mes deux grands frères et moi. Nous avons laissé nos racines. Pour quatorze ans, j’ai oublié qui j’étais. J’ai demandé et j’ai oublié. Je savais de la Louisiane comme un État. J’ai écrit des papiers de la Louisiane et j’ai fait des posters au sujet de la Louisiane. J’ai appris de l’histoire célèbre, mais je n’ai pas compris pourquoi mon grand-père a parlé une langue je ne savais pas. Je n’ai pas compris pourquoi mon père a cuisiné la fricassée de poule ou le gumbo aux poules et les saucisse quand il faisait froid dehors. Je n’ai pas compris pourquoi mes frères ont joué le ‘tit-fer. Je n’ai pas compris pourquoi mon frère a décidé de jouer de l'accordéon et je n’ai pas compris pourquoi mon père a joué de la guitare et a chanté les mots ‘Chick-a-lay, chick-a-lay poo mom you.’ Mais, en réalité, il a chanté dans une langue avec une histoire. 

Quand je suis revenue à la Louisiane pour le college, je me suis trouvé. J’ai lu des livres des histoires à mes personnes. J’ai écouté de la musique de la terre de l’Acadienne. J’ai appris du Grand Dérangement de dix-sept, cinquante-cinq. J’ai appris pourquoi la langue française est une langue deuxième en la Louisiane. La réalité de l'étouffement des Cadiens fait mon cœur mal, juste comme la chanson de J’ai Passe Devant ta Porte. Ils chantent “J’ai crié, bye-bye ma belle. Oh ye-yaille! Mon cœur fait mal!” Nous faisant tous les choses parce que nous sommes Cadiens. Nous sommes les survivants. Nous sommes les futures. Ce n’est pas juste une chanson, ce n’est pas un repas plus longtemps. Je danse, je cuisine, je joue du fiddle et je chante parce que je voudrais vivre ma culture. Je voudrais parler notre langue parce que la langue française est à part de mon sang. Je désire attacher plus profonde avec mon sol natal et les mots de la langue sont le chemin.

Mais, je suis une étudiant et j’étudie des autres cours que de français. Je travaille à me supporter, aussi. Avec l’aide de CODOFIL, je vais avoir les moyens à continuer mes études françaises. Je vais retourner à la Louisiane et je vais préserver notre culture avec la langue. Je vais utiliser la langue française pour mon travail à Vermilionville et KRVS Public Radio. Je veux parler avec les francophones quand ils demandent les questions en français et je veux parler avec les francophones en general. Je vais utiliser le français pour mes études, aussi, pour mes cours de français et mes cours de la musique traditionnelle. Enfin, je vais légeur la langue française à ma petite sœur, mon petit frère, et un jour mes enfants.

Une Lettre d'une Amie

1.30.2014

Composed by Kelli Landry

Lafayette, Louisiana

by way of

Pierre Part, Louisiana

_________________________________________________________________________________

Waking up to the sunlight. There’s something so human about waking with the birds. Free from man made devices; alarms that our bodies reject with our hands stamping down on it. But the morning sunlight. It’s gentle, subtle, loving, like my Ma when she used to softly shake me from my dreams when I was a child.

It’s early. Probably 8:30AM. I’m looking forward to this morning. We are fully equipped. Eggs, bacon, coffee, music. Waking up to a Freetown morning, there is a special anticipation.

My two friends, the lovely Zoë and Katie, live in what I call “the camp.” Wooden walls, wooden floors, 2 bedrooms, 1 bath, 3 cats, no wi-fi, no dishwasher, no TV, and a gas stove. We crawl out of our cocoons that we wrapped ourselves in from the night before. Zoë turns on the stove to heat the kettle. First things first for a Cajun girl. Coffee. Brewed in the French press. We wait. And wait. The kettle overflows.

“Shit.”
Zoë sees that it overflows. Grabs it off the stove, pours the coffee into the press. There’s something holy about fresh caffeine. Not even that it warms you or wakes you up. But sitting down with my friends, and soaking up every drop of peace.

We go to the kitchen, and both sinks are filled with dishes. I volunteer to wash, while Katie and Zo prepare for our morning meal.

“Old school or new school?” Zo asks both of us.

“Definitely old school.” Katie says. We all agree.
We wash dishes. The bacon fries. Egg shells are cracked. The cast iron heats up. Cleoma Breaux, D.L. Menard, Amede Ardoin, Iry Lejeune, The Balfa Brothers sing from Zo’s computer. Our old school.

There is silence amongst all of us. And this is where I can’t help but fall in love.

There was something about washing the dishes, hearing the tinkering in the kitchen, smelling the bacon fry, tasting the coffee, and hearing the cries of a Cajun people sing about love, heartbreak, the 2-step, front porches, ... listening to the fiddle, accordion, and guitar among others come together in friendship.

Every once in a while I’d look back, and take it all in. Seeing us not just as three women cooking breakfast together, but loving every step of the process, even in the little silence of the morning. There was no need for conversation at that moment. Just listening to the songs of our true home. What brings about a simpler time. With shotgun houses that were filled with what was necessary, with a meal made and shared among friends, with music that wasn’t made for money, but for the love of an existence that remains today still very much alive.
We sit down at the round table, with no reservations. Three friends sitting down as a family around a table with no edges. No one excluded, and I’m thinking about the Acadians. They hiked to the ends of the earth to be reunited with their relatives who were lost after the exile. What a passion to search for family of which we don’t choose, from who we are born crying into this world hoping to feel like we belong.

I’ve never felt more at home sitting down in this small spot in the world. Louisiana. Lafayette. Freetown. The camp. A round table. With people who I consider my family. Who, if ever separated, I would crawl through the soil to find again just so I can sit with them in silence during a gloomy morning listening to a Cajun song with our only concern of living unapologetically.

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