Je cherche l'Acadie

(Written in 1999; 2003 supplement follows)

Barely five years ago I couldn't have told you anything about Acadie, despite having a graduate degree in history.

As a child, I knew my mother's grandmother was Matilda LeBlanc, and that she was "French Canadian."  I could never have known her personally, however, because she died in 1898, when my grandfather, Frederick W. Smith, was only three years old.  He knew some of the other members of her family, but I was never able to talk with him about it, because he died in 1961--several months before I was born.

How different from my experience of my father's family.  My paternal grandfather, Max Cork, died young (at age 55), but I was nine, and have many memories of him.  I was also able to know his father, my great-grandfather Joseph Cork, who died just two years before Max.  Joe lived in Marshall, IL, not far from where three prior generations of Corks are buried. I remember his white hair, his voice, the creases in his face.  I remember the house, and its smells and tastes: persimmon pudding and homemade peanut brittle and "Paw-paw's" grape wine.

I have no such memories of Matilda LeBlanc.  She died far from Acadie, at a young age, leaving children who could not remember her, and later generations who knew her only as a name on a family tree.

I think I share much in this way with other children of the Acadian exile.  Unlike our cousins et cousines in Louisiana or the Canadian Maritimes, we've had neither the French language nor a connection with a living Acadian community.  We have been cut off from our family, and have lost our identity as Acadians.

Making connections

In 1991, my mother wrote to the parish of Saint-Anselme, New Brunswick, to find info about Matilda.  The priest told her that all the registers had been transferred to the Centre d'études acadiennes at the University of Moncton.  She wrote to the staff genealogist, Stephen A. White, and on October 23, he replied:

Dear Mrs. Cork:

I have before me your letter of the 5th.

Your grandmother was baptized as Domithilde LeBlanc, Sept. 6, 1863, at Saint-Anselme, N.B.  She was three weeks old when she was baptized.  Her parents were Simon LeBlanc and Obéline Gautreau.

You may read the rest of the letter on another page.  It played a key role in setting us on the path toward making connection with our Acadian family.  Together with material from his Dictionnaire généalogique des familles acadiennes, White provided the documentation for the line of descent sketched in my LeBlanc ahnentafel.

In the years that followed, I took a couple of trips to New Brunswick, and longed for the day when I might be able to be free to explore my great-grandmother's homeland.  But since both those trips were spent at C.F.B. Gagetown with the Army, I was never able to venture far from the tanks.  

My wife's mother is from Nova Scotia, and as a child my wife had lived in Moncton, and I thought that, too, might provide occasion for making a trip.  But then we had kids, and moved from the northeast to California, and the possibility became more remote.

Then, in early 1998, I was looking for graphics for my web page, The Oak Tree.  I did an internet search for "oak" and "gif" and stumbled upon the web page for the Famille de LeBlanc, which included a family crest featuring the Evangeline Oak.  That page also mentioned that in 1999 there would be a Congrès Mondial Acadien in Louisiana, and that this would include a LeBlanc family reunion in the little town of Erath.  

The first Congrès Mondial Acadien was held in New Brunswick in 1994.  In 1997 my mother had gotten a copy of Monique LeBlanc's video about it called The Acadian Connection, so when I told her of my discovery that the next one would be in just another year, she decided that one way or another she was going to find a way to attend.

At the time, I was a campus minister at UC Santa Barbara.  I scoured the UCSB library for information about Acadie, and found books by Carl Brasseaux, René Babineau, Felix Voorhies and others.  For the first time, I began to grasp the breadth of the story, and in a sermon I preached on Holy Thursday I shared some of the excitement I felt (see Reflections in Exile) anticipating the reunion.

Meeting a new old family

That fall I moved to Houston, and in May, 1999, with my little brother Jason accompanying me, I took a day during Holy Week to make a pilgrimage of sorts to Louisiana to visit the LeBlanc cousins who would be hosting the reunion.  We met Relie LeBlanc at his pharmacy, and he called Presley LeBlanc; we then went to the Acadian Museum where we were shown around by Inez LeBlanc Vincent.

Jason and I also went to the Acadian Memorial in St. Martinville, where I was struck by the inscription on the base of the eternal flame: "A people without a past are a people without a future."  I was just beginning to discover that past, and I was thrilled to be able to share my excitement with Jason.

We picked up a copy of the program for the Congrès Mondial Acadien; it listed major ceremonies for the opening and closing, with dozens of cultural and academic events crammed into the two weeks in between, but the family reunion was the most important item on my agenda, and of most other participants.

The LeBlanc reunion was to be held in Erath, and as I had discovered from the web page, they had been hard at work for over a year planning the event.  They had a housing committee responsible for arranging housing with a local family if it was desired, and I quickly applied.  I contacted our hosts, and got no response.  As we got closer to the event, I tried again--and got an e-mail from them saying that they had moved to California!  I frantically contacted the committee members, who within two days had us lined up with another family.

My mother flew into Houston in August, and on Friday, August 13, we drove over to Louisiana along Interstate 10.  We got off at Breaux Bridge and turned south, following highway 31 along the winding Bayou Teche, passing fields of sugar cane until we arrived in St. Martinville. Here's where Judge Felix Voorhies' adaptation of the Evangeline story reached its climax, with the separated lovers meeting under a spreading oak tree (with the woman discovering that her lover has since married).  The oak still stands on the bank of the bayou; in its shade tourists can often find a pair of Cajun musicians.  A block away is St. Martin of Tours church, in the center of a beautiful square, the presbyterie on one side, and the Petit Paris museum on the other.  Next to the church itself is the cemetery where Voorhies' "real" Evangeline, Emmeline Labiche, is allegedly buried alongside a statue of the fictional Evangeline, in the likeness of the star of the silent film version of the book, Dolores Del Rio.

On the side street behind the church, just up the bayou from the Evangeline Oak, is the Acadian Memorial.  The first floor is an open hall.  On one wall is a mural depicting the arrival of the Acadians in Louisiana; on the far left side stands a figure which I thought looked a lot like my mom.  She didn't see the resemblance, but when I looked at the directory, I saw that the figure was a LeBlanc. On the other wall, a bronze Wall of Names lists ships and passengers carrying the exiles to the Nouveau Acadie. 

We stood outside for a moment, reflecting on the eternal flame with the inscription I've already referred to: "Un peuple sans passé est un peuple sans futur" ("A people without a past are a people without a future"). Just then the clouds opened up for a summer downpour, and we headed back inside, upstairs, where there is a genealogy library.  They were showing a video of the silent film, Evangeline. 

With the inscription on the flame's base fresh in our minds, we saw the story of our past unfold.

We saw the soldiers give the order for the deportation.  We watched as men, women and children were herded to waiting ships.  An old man drops his violin, and is pushed along as it is trampled underfoot.  The tyrant does not care if children are separated from their parents; he has only to discharge his duty and remove these people from the land. 

The video was cut short when a man in the audience had a seizure.  We could not stay anyway, and went on our way to Erath.

The town of Erath has its own little Acadian Museum, with exhibits on both the expulsion, life in Louisiana, and previous Acadian reunions.  We took a quick look at it, and then stopped by the Café du Musée next door for something to drink--it was a typically hot, humid Louisiana afternoon.  As we sipped our sodas and enjoyed the band, Erath's most famous resident, D. L. Menard, stepped into the cafe.  The band begged him to join them in playing one of his best known songs, "La porte d'en arrière" ("The Back Door").   We'd see a lot of D. L. in the next couple of days.

It was time to connect with our hosts, and so I looked for a pay phone to call them.  I mentioned the confusion which resulted when we found out our initial hosts had moved.  Well, "good things come to those who wait"--and that was definitely true here.  I can't imagine wanting to have stayed with anyone else than Phil and Shelia, who bent over backwards to make us feel right at home.   We got acquainted over supper, and then headed back into town with them after dark for a "fais-do-do" (street dance).  As bands played and people milled about, we chatted, and were introduced to some of their extended family and friends, and began to meet some of the other people who had come for the reunion.  D. L. Menard played a set, but by far the best band was a group of teenagers from Canada -- unfortunately, for some reason they didn't get on the stage till midnight, and the crowd was starting to dwindle, but we huddled close together and cheered them when they were done.

Saturday was the main day of the LeBlanc reunion, and it was held outside at the Erath city park (photos). The program included performances of song and dance, speeches and presentations.   The guest of honor was the Governor General of Canada, Romeo LeBlanc.  Food and craft booths were set up throughout the park, and the community building held exhibits on local and Canadian attractions.  But one of the most popular attractions was genealogy; there were computers with genealogical databases inside, while University of Moncton genealogist Stephen White gave a talk about his new Dictionary of Acadian Genealogy and answered questions. 

To facilitate making connections, everyone had a name tag with space on the back to write your line of descent from Daniel LeBlanc. On the front, you placed a colored sticker indicating which of Daniel's children you were descended from. The idea was you look first for the same color of sticker, then compare lines. We found some fifth cousins from New Brunswick, some of whom still live in the parish of St. Anselme where my great-grandmother was baptized.  The closest relative was a woman whose great-grandmother was the sister of my mom's great-grandmother.

It's hard to describe the feeling that was in the air.  Though there was a lot of talk of genealogy, this was not a dry exercise in historical research--it was a way to make obvious what we could feel and see, that we are indeed family.  Some of the Canadians noticed clear family resemblance with their Louisiana cousins and were heard to remark again and again, "You don't look like Americans -- you look like our neighbors back home."  I'm a Connecticut Yankee, my great-grandmother was from New Brunswick, and we were in the heart of Cajun country--but we were one famille.

It was August, but we celebrated in Mardi Gras fashion, complete with a parade with various LeBlanc "krewes" on floats tossing beads and cups to laughs and shouts of "Throw me sumpin' mistah!" 

We planned to go to mass at the Cathedral in Lafayette the next day, so we didn't stay for the family mass in the park.  Instead, our hosts took us to Mulatte's restaurant in Lafayette.  This is one of the most popular Cajun restaurants, as was evident by the line: we had to wait for an hour and a half (buses of Canadians were everywhere!).  The food and the entertainment were worth it--and the leisurely conversation with our hosts.  I got the combo plate, which included a frog leg -- I figured I'd try anything, but let me say here and now that it did not taste like chicken.  Give me jambalaya, crawfish, or boudin any day, but I'll pass on future servings of ouaouaron, s'il vous plaît.

The reunion activities continued Sunday morning at Acadian Village in Lafayette.  It's a collection of historic Acadian homes clustered around a bayou.  The manager, A. J. LeBlanc treated us to a "revival" (as it were) of the old "Hadacol Show" of "Cousin Dud" -- Dudley LeBlanc, state senator, French language activist, and patent medicine marketer.  D. L. Menard was there (and sang some more, his voice now growing pretty horse), and  joined us at our table for part of the afternoon.

Late in the afternoon we went to the closing mass of the Congrès at the cathedral in Lafayette. It was August 15, the Solemnity of the Assumption, the Acadian national feast.  We didn't start for the cathedral as early as I had hoped, and by the time we got there it was packed, and we had to stand at the back of the church for the entire mass.   Archbishop Ernest Legér of Moncton and Bishop Edward O'Donnell of Lafayette concelebrated. Though the mass was entirely in French, and my feet were sore, it was for me another high point.  The Catholic faith is an important part of Acadian identity.  It was that faith which was one of the reasons why the British did not trust our ancestors when they pleaded to be regarded as neutrals; and it was that same faith which helped them endure years of wandering in exile.  The mass concluded with the singing of Ave Maris Stella, the national anthem, a hymn of praise to Mary, Star of the Sea, who guides the storm-tossed to safe harbor.

That night was the spectacular closing concert at the Cajun Dome, Cri du Bayou. Some of the best bands in Cajun and Zydeco were present, including Bruce Daigrepont, Balfa Toujours, Geno Delafose, "Bois Sec" Ardoin, Beausoleil, and host Zachary Richard.  Waylon Thibodeaux sang the Congrès anthem which he wrote,  Si Longtemps Séparé, while conga lines waving Acadian flags snaked across the floor.  The LeBlanc family had a section to itself, and a couple sitting in front of us turned around and said, "I heard you're from Houston!"  I learned she had just started working at a Catholic retreat center that I've gone to several events at (we've seen each other several times since August).

On the next day, we hung out with our hosts a bit more, dragging out the good-byes as much as we could.  Shelia took us to Avery Island for a tour of the Tabasco factory, and on the way we stopped to see one of her cousins we had met Saturday.  

Around noon my mom and I said good-bye, and headed back to Houston, but not before a stop at Vermilionville, another collection of restored antique Acadian homes.  We ate lunch at the restaurant, and recognized Bruce Daigrepont sitting at the table next to us with his family.  It turned out everyone in the room had been at the concert, so he had a very cordial conversation with all the tables around him. 

Next to Vermilionville is the National Park Service's Jean Lafitte Acadian Cultural Center, which features exhibits as well as an excellent film about Le Grand Dérangement.  We got to talking to some of the other people in the gift shop, and as we started to go, Waylon Thibodeaux came in.  We chatted with him for a few minutes (and got him to sign our CD's of Si Longtemps Séparé).  Then we headed back to Houston.

Reflections

Four months after the Congrès, I read Clive Doucet's book, Notes from Exile: On Being Acadian (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart Inc., 1999).  Doucet's father was Acadian, his mother, English.  In the book, he tells of his own trip to the 1994 Congrès.  He had gone as a journalist, but when he was overwhelmed by the choices of activities at the Congrès, he found himself with a much simplified agenda of meeting people and sharing stories at the Doucet family reunion.  Doucet shares in this book the personal quest of coming to grips with his own identity as a member of the Acadian diaspora. He tells of some at that first Congrès who engaged in debates over who really is Acadian -- can one be Acadian if one lives outside of New Brunswick? They questioned how there could be a culture without language, custom, and common society. 

From the title of his book, it is clear Doucet doesn't share that view.  I don't either.  One of the things I got from the Congrès was a real sense of connection -- of family -- of Acadian identity. I'm still trying to process it -- and share it with my kids. My wife and children weren't able to go with me to the LeBlanc reunion, but at Christmas we're going over to Louisiana for a couple of days so I can introduce them to some of the family and to some of the sights, like the Acadian Memorial.  And five years from now, we hope to attend together the 2004 Congrès Mondial Acadien, in l'Acadie.

2003: My First Visit to Acadie

In July 2003 I was able to visit Nova Scotia and southeastern New Brunswick for the first time. Here are some pictures and reflections.