Now you may think that the term “coon-ass” is an indelicate, derogatory name for the Cajun people, but they quickly describe themselves and everything they do using this word. The short woman ladling out the shrimp gumbo at the Cajun French Music Festival told us she had lived in Virginia for ten years before she demanded her husband get her “coon-ass” back to Louisiana. A jury-rigged piece of equipment might be called “coon-ass” engineering. Some people may consider it an ethic slur, but I use it with as much endearment and appreciation as the people who live here. I may not yet be an honorary Cajun “Coon-ass”, but I think I’ll get the hang of being one pretty soon. Maybe I have to eat some more gumbo...
From our perch in the upper rung of the Burton Coliseum in Lake Charles, Louisiana it looked like a tidal wave. We were at the Cajun French Music Association’s 21st Annual Food and Music Festival. People, young and old, would enter the large dance area whenever the band started playing and depending on the song the crowd would flow into the waltz, the many and varied couples moving nearly in unison counter clockwise around the floor, or into a lively two-step. When the song ended the crowd would quickly empty off the dance floor and into the general seating area as if the tide was going out. Each time a new song would begin, the crowd would file back in. This went on all day. Young men and old women danced together. Old men and young women danced together. Kids danced with other kids or adults. Teenaged boys in wranglers and cowboy hats danced with teenaged girls wearing dresses and sparkly tiaras. Parents two-stepped around the dance floor with their infants cradled in their arms. For hours this went on, through Joe Simon & the Louisiana Cajuns, to Lesa Cormier & The Sundown Playboys all the way through the “Swamp Pop” of Don Fontenot & les amis de la Louisiana. Except for the changing of the bands the music continued until 11:00 p.m. and the crowd ebbed and flowed throughout.
Janet and I were the only ones who seemingly did not dance. People would work the crowd looking for a new dance partner for each new song and we saw some unlikely pairings. There was a skinny guy who danced with a very tall and large woman dressed in pink and then the next song he twirled with a tall skinny woman. There was one short, stout fellow wearing an orange shirt and baseball cap who jerked and twittered throughout the day and night with a myriad of women, young and old. From eye level the dancing was an unusual sight. The dance floor was sectioned off from the rest of the arena by a fence covered by red, white and blue bunting. Because of this obstruction we could only see the top half of the couples and their bodies seemed to flow past us as if adrift on a river as we could not see their shuffling footsteps.
There was evidently a Queen of the Festival contest and a dance contest. There were several young women wearing spirited tiaras, and some wearing far too much makeup for their innocent ages, who danced throughout the festival. They danced with anyone who asked and also posed for pictures at the mere sight of a camera. We watched a man and woman who danced beautifully take home a huge trophy for their fluid movements. We watched young men of 18 or 20 teach girlfriends how to dance. We watched young men ask the frailest of older women to dance, though we did not believe they would survive the dance floor, but then gaped in amazement as they moved with such grace we were embarrassed to even try to get out there ourselves.
What we did do a lot of was eat…
We had one of everything. Boudin balls, sausage on a stick, crawfish etoufee, jambalaya, shrimp gumbo, red beans and rice, smoked cracklings… and homemade sweets. This event was a slice of Americana that few people would know of outside of this wonderful world. We had gotten a “taste” of it while going to the Crawfish Festival back home with the music and dancing and food, but this was by far a greater experience. Though we stuck out like sore thumbs; people eyed me up and down and commented often on my Aloha shirt; we were only met with gracious, friendly people proud of their world and very happy to share it with us. These people of Louisiana are good people.
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