Making Sense of Louisiana

It is a rare occasion, when one crosses a land border, that one knows with ones eyes that he has entered a new place.

Louisiana is such a place.

The Mississippi Coast had been beautifully built-up, with stately, sophisticated mansions poised along the coastal road. We crossed into Louisiana at the Pearl River Wildlife Management Area, and, after driving past hand-painted signs advertising swamp tours (guaranteed alligator sightings!) along the bumpy back country road, we emerged onto a series of bridges connecting tufts of land so small and flat and moist that I wasn’t sure they wouldn’t sink if I stepped my two feet out onto them.

Along these bayous, each ramshackle, brightly-colored home sat atop high pillars to elevate it from the flood waters that passed with assured regularity. Instead of address numbers, the homes, too, boasted hand-painted signs of equal brightness with the most creative, funky, and downright crude names. There was a definite holiday feel here and, between the sea views and the home names, our eyes and spirits were thoroughly entertained. 

Louisiana continued to unfold its scenery for our visual pleasure.  Pure-white ibises fishing alongside local fishermen on the side of the road; moss and vines growing on every inch of free space the trees could spare; and throughout, water, water everywhere.

It was clear we were in a unique place, and, US-visa-almost-running-out be damned, we were going to visit!

Our first stop was a plantation tour. We’d been driving along the Mississippi River road, trying fruitlessly to catch glimpses of its milk-chocolate water. This entire stretch of river, from Baton Rouge to New Orleans, had at one time been sugarcane plantations parcelled off into long, narrow strips, each plantation with a small tract of river access for ease of goods transport. It was incongruous to drive along this seemingly-innocent byway and imagine all the cruelty that had taken place here. We felt it was necessary to learn more – to viscerally grasp it, if but for a moment – so we forked out the $50 to visit one of the many plantation tours available.

We chose the Laura Plantation because our guide book said it was the only tour that didn’t skimp on details of the slave population. We opted for the French-speaking tour for Bruno’s sake (though I was secretly hoping to hear some Creole or Cajun French – it was just a young Parisian, hmpf!).

We were led to the main house, which was surrounded by those quintessentially southern live oak trees (which might be my new favorite tree!), and told that this was one of the few Creole plantations, meaning that its house was smaller, less ostentatious, and much more brightly-colored than the stereotypical plantation home.

Throughout most of the tour, we learned about the four generations of the proudly Creole Duparc family that lived in this home and ran the plantation in the early 19^th century. Though it was interesting to gain some historical insight into Louisiana life two hundred years ago, I felt that the slaves were only mentioned as incidental parts of the white family’s narrative. Near the end of the tour, we were led to a few remaining slave homes, where we were told about the financial worth of slaves (determined by their age, health, and how much of a “flight risk” they were) as well as what happened post slavery (the slaves often continued working for their previous masters, earning a pittance, which, after paying for room and board, often left them indebted to their employers). While we learned about the personal details of the Duparc family in gossip-like detail, we learned about slaves merely in the abstract. The tour felt like an opportunity lost to make amends.

We traveled on toward Lafayette – the heart of Cajun country. My family home is located in the heart of Acadia in Canada, so I was interested in learning more about the branch of Acadians that ended up in Louisiana. In particular, I wanted to hear their music and listen to their French. My research led me to La Poussière, an authentic Cajun dance hall in the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town of Breaux Bridge. Not only is Breaux an Acadian name I hear all the time in New Brunswick (though with a different spelling), but the Sunday afternoon music was perfect timing for our early-to-bed baby.

Alas, la Poussière was not to be. As a dance hall serving alcohol, they enforce a strict 18+ policy. We were already parked for the night at the municipal park in the nearby town of Parks. It turns out we had arrived on the night of Trunk or Treat, a new spin on Halloween where locals congregate with decorated car trunks and pass out candy to dressed-up children. Phoenix and I wandered around looking at the costumes and decorations as the entire town came together to celebrate. We were chatted up by quite a few locals (having a baby is a great ice-breaker!) and even met the mayor. The best part was to see the black and white population (which I’d put at about a 50/50 split) integrating so jovially. After the history we’d come face-to-face with at the Laura Plantation, that seemed like a miracle.

Anyway, while chatting with a few Parks locals, I was told about the nearby Vermilionville Historic Village (Vermilionville was the original name for Lafayette). They, too, offered Cajun music on Sunday afternoons, with a bonus of getting to visit a Cajun historic village. Perfect!

Alas, the Cajun music there was not really to be, either. First of all, it wasn’t Cajun music – it was Zydeco (I actually only learned this after the performance!), and secondly, it was way – way! – too loud for us to enter the dance hall with a baby. Bruno and I took turns peeking our heads in and observing the scene while the other stayed outside with Phoenix. What I saw were some serious cowboys doing some serious dancing! I mean, the whole shebang – cowboy hats, boots, and belts. We could have been in Texas. And there was no shyness to the dancing at all. The floor was packed, men twirling smiling women, and the whole body of dancers spinning counter-clockwise.

Again, I was impressed with the jovial mix of races. I’d expected only white people – Cajuns, as American Acadians, would logically be white. But, first of all, this was a zydeco band – explained to me as a slower, more bluesy Americana music – and secondly, race and culture in Louisiana is a thoroughly confused, muddled affair.

At the Laura Plantation, we’d learned about the term creole. During the time of the Duparc family, a Louisiana Creole person had to be three things – French-speaking, locally-born, and Catholic. Originally, the term was used casually in Louisiana, but by the time of the Laura Plantation, being creole was a rather bold political statement, an important distinction from the newly-arriving Americans. Créolité wasn’t determined along racial lines, and still isn’t, as it now loosely encompasses the descendents of those early creoles along with the Native Americans, Africans, and Cajuns that got thrown into the cultural mix.

Identifying Cajun-ness is equally muddled. While the term originally identified Acadians living in Louisiana, it’s now a broad cultural term that references both relatives of the Acadians and basically anyone else who wants to use the term.

The cultural melting pot of Louisiana is so melted it’s basically just a big, yummy, pureed soup. Even though I am Aristotelian in my love of categorization, I find that fact mostly beautiful. Except when it came to finding an actual Cajun person who could speak to me some Cajun French. I so badly wanted to hear Cajun French – probably because of my love of Chiac, the Acadian French.

We wandered around the Cajun village, visiting old homes that had been restored and transplanted here, and learning a little bit about the history and lifestyle of the first few generations of Cajuns. Though not nearly as well done, the historic village was reminiscent of Le Village Historique Acadien, and it was interesting to compare the lives of the Acadians and Cajun people. Many elements were similar – both peoples reaped their livelihoods from the earth, were deeply religious, were persecuted by the majority English population, and engaged in hobbies like hand-knitting, dying and sewing clothing. But it seemed to me that the Cajuns had fared better than the Acadians. They seemed less poor, with lives less bleak. Perhaps it was the weather, the wealth of the soil, or the economic opportunities available in Louisiana.

But perhaps that is also why their French culture was so diluted. In the entire village, I found only one old gentleman – Steve – who could speak a barely-passing French. I’d expected to struggle to understand the Cajun accent, but I hadn’t expected it to be because he spoke it with such an Anglophone tongue. For better or worse, it seemed the Cajuns had been swept up into the Louisiana world of the Creole.

A few quintessential Louisiana elements were notably missing from our visit. First of all, we didn’t see any alligators, though we did come face-to-face with plenty of giant mosquitoes. Secondly, we didn’t taste any Cajun food (anyone who has seen Phoenix eat understands why we don’t feel like venturing to a restaurant at the moment!).

More importantly, we didn’t visit New Orleans. (WHAT?!?) We were actually camped only about 40km from the French Quarter, and I’d been contemplating a visit. Truth be told, I was conflicted. RVs aren’t conducive to city visits, and I wasn’t sure how we would do justice to New Orleans on a day trip with a baby. (I’ve been known to turn down short trips to epic places – like Amsterdam – before in favor of doing it right at a later time).

In the end, my health decided things for me. I developed such a nasty flu that I was bedridden for two full days. I hadn’t been sick in over a year, so I took it as a sign – New Orleans wanted me to do it right.

So, mark my words, friends: I will be back to Louisiana one day. Maybe with a few girlfriends, or on a romantic adults’ only trip with Bruno. It will involve much late-night dancing in New Orleans, an alligator-filled swamp tour, and as much sampling of Cajun/Creole food (what’s the difference, anyway?) as a vegan can taste. Louisiana has been so confounding and confusing that my curiosity is officially peeked. Oh, Louisiana!